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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 41 pages of information about Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century.

Slain is our leader, and he who has slain him,
   Prince of the foemen, will reign in his stead. 
Fallen our harp with the fall of Caradoc,
   Ay! let it fall as he fell and lay dead! 
Yet can I look on the field of the slaughter,
   God was not mocked, nor was freedom denied. 
Better than that ’twas to die—­there on Rhuddlan
   Better to sink in the free flowing tide.

The Steed of Dapple Grey.

Caradoc calls his warriors,
   And loud the bugles blow;
On rushed the brave Silurians,
   And fell beneath the foe. 
Back shrank his men retreating,
   But on her steed of dapple grey
   There rides the stately queen that way
Her spouse, Caradoc, meeting.

There’s tumult in the dingle,
   As sinks the sun o’erhead;
And many a stalwart hero
   Lies for his country dead. 
One host the waters cover,
   But on her steed of dapple grey
   There rides the stately queen that day
To seek her royal lover.

Then saw the Romans only
   A steed of dapple grey;
But saw the Britons riding
   Their stately queen that way. 
The bugles sound the rally! 
   The Britons backward turn—­to fight,
   The Romans backward reel—­in flight,
Before that last grim sally.

A Lullaby.

   Sleep, sleep, sleep! 
All nature now is steeping
Her sons in sleep,—­their eyelids close,
All living things in sweet repose
   Are sleeping, sleeping.

   Sleep, baby, sleep! 
Peace o’er thee watch be keeping,
If from my bosom thou art torn,
Low in the grave I’ll lie forlorn,
   Sleeping, ah, sleeping.

ISLWYN.

William Thomas was born April 3, 1832, and very early showed signs of poetic talent.  He published a volume of poems, ‘Caniadau Islwyn’ (Messrs. Hughes & Son, Wrexham), about 1867, some of the finest pieces in which, including “Thought” and “The Vision and Faculty Divine,” are extracted from a long poem “The Storm,” which has never yet been published.  A complete edition of his works is now in the press.  He died Nov. 20, 1878.

Night.

Come, Night, with all thy train
Of witnesses.  I love
The stars’ deep eloquence,
That with the morning hours
Grows mute again. 
Thy stillness cries to human sense,
“There is a God above,
And worlds more fair than ours.” 
The day is night which hides the stars from sight! 
Our night for day is given
To make more plain the path to heaven.

It is the Sun
That at its rising makes the infidel,
And all day long the world alone
Its tale can tell. 
Oh welcome, Night, that bid’st the world be still,
That through the stars eternity may speak. 
Too early, Dawn, too early dost thou wake: 
Too early climbest up the Eastern hill: 
Too early! stay:  so quiet is the Night,
And in her pensive breeze such sympathy,
She shows us suns that suffer no eclipse,
O’er which the grave’s dark shadow ne’er can lie. 
Nay! come not yet, O Dawn:  thy laughing lips,
Thy wanton glance, and frolic songs of glee,
The convocation of those holier spheres profane,
And when night vanishes, heaven is hid again.

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