TO THE MEMORY OF

MRS. ROBERT GRAY.

1837.

ALL I e'er seek of poetry,

Is but to speak my feelings; Nought in my verse, alas! is found, But sorrowful revealings!

'Tis as the mirror where I view,

The ravage sad of years,

And all that once shone out so bright,

In ruin now appears.

How many friends of those I loved,
The source of so much pleasure,

Who in the casket of my heart,
Composed my proudest treasure-

How many dear ones have I seen,
Like snow-wreaths in the sun,
Melt in my tearful gaze away,

So soon their course was run!

And thou who latest left me! where
Such friend shall I now meet?
What eye with such unvarying love,
My tearful one will greet?

Thy mind did as the crystal show,
From guile and passion free;
Nor speck, nor shade of earthly taint,
Did mar its purity.

How many years thy counsel sage,
And converse sweet, combined
To cheer my hours, and shed their light
Upon my anxious mind!

And when thy speaking eye grew dim,
In death so nearly seal'd,

The firm kind pressure of the hand,
Thy faith, thy love reveal'd;

Faith in the promise we had read,
In holy writ together,

Love, which assured thy weeping friend,

We did not part for ever!

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF

THE MEETING OF WELSH BARDS AT ABERGAVENNY, 1837,

ON WHICH OCCASION A FESTIVAL WAS GIVEN AT LLANOVER

COURT, BY BENJAMIN HALL, ESQ. M. P.

66

DEDICATED TO GWENYNEN GWENT THE "BEE OF WALES.

COME, Sons of Song! strike loud the triple string,
Souls of the Bards arise, awake, and sing!
Bend o'er thy harps, but let no "lone blast" raise

66

Prophetic sounds" of coming ills! thy lays,

The “light of memory" around must fling,
The deeds of other times to view must bring;
Show how in feudal hall the harper stood,
Historian of the age! while in the flood
Of harmony sublime, and wild, he sung
The praise of heroes! and the high dome rung
With plaudits loud, which mocking echo there,
Gave back in sighs responsive from the fair,
Whose presence nerved the minstrel's arm with power,
Whose smiles threw radiance o'er the festive hour.

E'en now, as then, 'tis beauty fans the fire,

And woman wills the spark should ne'er expire
That warm'd the soul of bard with mystic flame,
Lighting each hero to immortal fame.

The "Gwenynen Gwent," of Llanover, the star
Of renovation, sheds its beams afar,
Rekindling in the patriot bardic race

The fire nor time nor tyrant could efface!
E'en Edward's self, the bard's most cruel foe,

Would scarcely now attempt the dastard blow,
Which he in coward policy once aim'd,

Against a race from earliest days so famed!
Strike then the harp! Ye need no wizard's spell

Of Merlin here, to bid the chorus swell;

The "Queen Bee" bids the guests, the feast is spread,

The bright o'erflowing cup with wine is red:

Then lend thine aid to this her patriot scheme,

And let her industry become thy theme;

She bids ye sing of mighty warriors past,

Whose spirits ride upon the wintry blast!
From clouds of mist, and fearful storm they bend,
And to the sound a pleased attention lend;
Sing, too, in praise of those who here this night
Revive the dawn of intellectual light,

And chiefly her, who, by her magic power,
Calls back to life the bards' most witching hour;
She who if ask'd in other lands to dwell,
Like Lord of Moysten (as the legends tell),
Would nobly answer to the enticing crew,
"I dwell among mine own," loved Wales, in you!
Strike loud the harp! the brimming cup fill high,
And let each gallant heart and fair one cry,
Health to the " Bee of Wales," and may she know
All the bright joys that heaven can bestow;
Of earthly trials should she have her part,

She'll find a home in every Welshman's heart.

TO PROFESSOR SCHNYDER,

ON RECEIVING SOME ENGLISH VERSES RHYMING IN 66 ATION."

1837.

YOUR talent for our English rhyme
Exhibited in this short time

Proves your "Cassandra" truth foretold
When, like that prophetess of old,
All unbelieved, she promised you
This progress, to your genius due.
I joy to find you are so zealous,
And yet my muse is somewhat jealous;
compilation

So I must try my

To match your muse in iteration,
And rival you in combination,

All for the honour of my nation;
Although I hold a lowly — station
In the fair nine's- hallucination,

And shall deceive your expectation
In this my rhyming-imitation.
My wits are in a-fermentation,

All lost in quick-evaporation,

Ere I can tell, in due rotation,

Of the late storm's tergiversation,

Which ought to bring deep hum'liation,

And gratitude for preservation.