THE BRIDAL OF LLEWELYN.* "But then for her on the contrarie part Rose many advocates for her to plead : Then came Nobilitie of birth, that bread Great ruth through her misfortunes tragicke stoure; And lastly, Griefe did plead, and many teares forth poure." Oн, not beside the mountain stream, In nature's calm of loveliness; SPENCER. Where they have chased mirth's fleetest hours, Go, bid them life's one lesson glean From waning lights and withered flowers. But not one thought of this was traced There was a pause, the dance was o'er- The Fair mistress of the lay and lute?" "The Countess of Leicester (widow of Simon Montfort), who remained in a nunnery at Montargis, in France, sent her daughter to Wales, to marry the prince: and with her came her brother, Emeryke, and a goodly company. They were made prisoners, and brought to the king, who entertained the lady honourably, sending her brother to be kept prisoner in Corfe castle." Llwyd's History. Eleanor of Castile, wife of Edward I. None answered. In a niche apart, Shew'd that 'twas hers that name to bear; If sorrow e'er to form and face But when unveiled, you might have thought Unsought-unthwarted in her mood, That loneliness, most chill and drear, A change, more swift than e'er was wrought Came o'er her with that well known sound, With glowing cheek and throbbing breast, Past thoughts, past feelings, wildly rushed But tearless was thy wretchedness, "And thou didst weep, as in a dream, That vessel o'er the Loire's fair stream Yet went thy son, in warlike pride, "Are not thy tears more bitter now, Brought with some pilgrim's pious vow, If-oh such news are swift in flight! "Poor Emmerick! in some stern fort "Sweet brother, 'twas a weary doom "And yet, my brother, at this hour, And hear the deep-toned vesper bell "And there was One, whose glance of light Our Father's champion, clearly proved, "E'en now, perchance, the eagle-eyed Far, far across the ocean tide, In fond vain search for me; "He told us of the dark blue hills Its slumb'ring lakes, its gushing rills, And, oh! though France was dear before, "My heart, no chord of feeling owns, It ne'er may hear again; Long-long the hours have been, and yet With earnest gaze and ear intent, Like dewdrops on a raven's wing. And not in vain that lay was sang, The year following, the marriage was celebrated at Worcester, between Elinor, daughter to Symon Montfort, and Prince Llewelyn, where the king and queen, and most part of the nobility of England, were present.”– Llwyd's History. GLEANINGS, BY DEATH-BEDSIDES, OF THE RURAL DOCTOR. Tale the First. A FATHER TO THE LIFE. To the Editors of the Cambrian Quarterly Magazine. IN a former number of your Magazine (which, by the way, I am well pleased to see pronounced "an honour to Wales, and of essential service to the cause of literature in general," by an independent London Journal, *) I hinted that, notwithstanding the nauseousness of the medical profession, ("redolent" of mortality and rhubarb!) there is, perhaps, none that more easily introduces a stranger to the businesses and bosoms of men; and that, unromantic as may seem a doctor's visit to a sick room, many a romance of real life is revealed to him by glimpses, or in whole, where he might least have expected it, in the seclusion of a mountain farm, or the little " eventful history" of its humble family. Without more preface, I shall present your readers with some domestic incidents, thus thrown in my way, exhibiting the force of the passions in solitude, when undivided by worldly pursuits and concentrated on one object. There is a dreadful condition of the feelings, one, indeed, the most cruel that can distract the heart and mind of man, one that must be of no unfrequent occurrence; and yet, as far as I am acquainted with novels, has never been made the basis of one,―never yet filled a chapter in the biography of the human heart. This is the more surprising in an age when the most monstrous sources of excitement are eagerly resorted to, as if all natural were exhausted. Never having been much of a romance reader, however, I should hardly have ventured this last remark but for the acquiescence in it of a more experienced reader, as well as popular writer, the late William Hazlitt, that ill-used and ill-understood genius, who, after perusing the following narrative in a more expanded form, declared that he did not remember the conflict of passions it exhibits as a main feature in any fictitious work. Nor can I refrain from further quoting his opinion, (my solitary pleasure, I confess,) that "the pathos of it is, indeed, intense." Vanity, in such quotation, I hope * Vide the Atlas, July 22, of the present year. |