My days were bright, my hours were gay,
Ere Cambria saw the sun of May;
That erst dispelled the winter's gloom,
And blest the world with love and bloom.
How heavy on this suffering land,
Almighty Father, falls thy hand;
Inflictive falls, as when of old,
The Saviour of the world was sold:
'Tis our's, in these disastrous times,
To suffer as if curst with crimes;
To see the ruin widely rage,
And havoc seize the locks of age;
While slaughtered vigour loads the earth,
And Vice, triumphant, treads on worth:
To Heaven, in vain, even Virtue calls,
The foe exults—my country falls!
O! Thou, decreed a world to save,
Where can I rest, but in the grave,
Where can I pass the hours of pain,
Forbid even sorrow's soothing strain;
Forbid by foes, whose breasts are steel,
To pour to heaven the pangs we feel.

Can bards who fill'd the rolls of fame,
Live but to hold an empty name;
Can I that long with grateful tongue,
Tregarnedd's warlike lord have sung,
Live, and in inglorious rest,
Behold my princely Chief deprest?
Like Dunawd's Bard, whose plaintive tongue
The woes of other times has sung;
So I, on recent sorrows dwell,
And sad, my country's troubles tell;
To me how glooms the cheerful day
That spreads around the sweets of May;
And June, gay Summer's pride and care,
But feeds the horrors of Despair;
Alas! if Gruffydd does not live,
What joy can varying seasons give?
What pleasure to the breast of pain?
The World itself—exists in vain!

There are—who hear, unmov'd, the strain,
By verse and virtue rous'd in vain,
Whose breasts resist the patriot glow,
Unnerved the arm, unstrung the bow;
Who crouch beneath the foe's controul,
And bear the lash that tears the soul;
Be their's, Depression's abject life,
But mine, the war's eventful strife!

Where is the hawk whose wings were spread,
Whose beak, with Saxon blood was red,
That proudly perch'd on triumph's car,
With England's Marches wag'd the war;
Our prowess prov'd, aveng'd our wrongs,
And tun'd to joy, unnumber'd tongues?

Where is the Sword of crimson hue,
That gleam'd upon the warrior's view?
A thousand feats record its strength,
And terror long shall tell its length;
And well th' indented edge will show,
To days unborn, its deathful blow.
Where's the red Lance that led the way,
When Gruffydd won the doubtful day,
That, torch-like, blazing in his hand,
To conquest led his Country's band;
When foes, invading, fought and fled,
And England's bravest blood was shed?
Heroic band—a people's pride,
That stem'd invasion's threat'ning tide,
That stay'd awhile, your Country's fall,
Illustrious Shades! on you I call;
As bending o'er the soil I weep,
Where now your peaceful spirits sleep,
Heavenly slumbers bless the brave,
And Cambria's tears bedew the grave;
With flowers, unfading, decks the sod,
And gives your happier souls to God!

Ye scenes, where still my footsteps tend,
Where still unweaned my wishes bend;
Ye domes, where now I pensive gaze,
Were bright, when beam'd the social blaze,
When Gruffydd, from a princely store,
Abundance to the banquet bore:
Ye storied walls, where Time shall trace
High Bryn Euryn's trophied race;
That rich in glory's proudest lore,
The deeds of other days restore:
Ye roofs that long responsive rung,
When Bards the trying conflict sung,
When Joy's exulting voice was high,
When songs of triumph reach'd the sky,
And horns from Hybla's sweetest stream
Were fill'd to Gruffydd's glorious name.
Alas! the poor no more repair,
His bounty and his smiles to share;
Heart-rending sighs to Heaven ascend;
They mourn, like me, their common friend:
Chill as the cells that hold the dead,
The festive halls where crowds were fed,
Where Gruffydd grac'd the frequent treat,
And led the stranger to his seat:
Like generous Nudd, in days of yore,
So Gruffydd gave—but gives no more!

Dismay and terror seized our foes,
When Arfon's towering eagle rose;
Achilles like, with helmet high,
And fury flashing in his eye,
As Urien bold, the battle's boast,
A nation's hope—his arm, an host;
He rush'd, as torrents roll along,
No flattery stains a Gwilym song;
It flows, like Avan's dulcet stream,
When brave Cadwallon fill'd the theme.
At length the fell, vindictive foe,
Has laid Dinorwig's lion low,
And now with haughty crest relates,
His happier, and our adverse fates;
While Cambria shrinks with boding fear,
And dreads the tale she's doom'd to hear;
To hear that Rhuddlan towers restrain
The man, by Virtue, rear'd to reign;
In chains, my chief, of graceful form,
Smiles at insult, braves their scorn,
And bleeding, crown'd with honour's wreath,
Awaits and courts the dart of death;
While now, on every breeze 'tis borne,
With every pang my breast is torn;
I sink to earth to hear his name,
With all that mans and warms my frame;
Yet Fame, to other times shall tell
How Gruffydd fought, how Gruffydd fell;
And ages yet to come shall hear,
As downward rolls the pitying tear!

Misfortunes throng on every side,
Fallen is Mona's strength and pride,
And lofty Arvon, Gwynedd's tower,
Falls, and feels, the unequal power;
Her sons by Saxon hosts assail'd,
At Rheon's ford have fought and fail'd;
In vain the phalanx firmly stood,
Till Rheon roll'd a tide of blood;
They fell, o'erwhelm'd a nation falls,
And Saxon power my Prince enthralls;
Oppression's plan at length succeeds,
At every pore my country bleeds;
No ray of hope pervades our woes,
No trait of mercy marks our foes;
And Britain's sons, in vain, are brave,
Immur'd within a living grave!

Affliction wild, with piercing cry,
And dark Despair, with downcast eye;
The manly Mind, that scorns to speak,
The indignant Heart, that swells to break;
All agonize my breast to close,
At once—existence and its woes!