PROPOSED FOR THE VASE PRESENTED TO SIR WATKIN WILLIAMS WYNN, BY THE NOBILITY AND GENTRY OF DENBIGHSHIRE. AT THE
CONCLUSION OF THE WAR IN 1815.
"ASK ye why around me twine
Tendrils of the Gascon vine?
Ask ye, why in martial pride,
Sculptured laurels deck my side,
Blended with that noble tree,
Badge of Albion's liberty?
Cambria me, for glory won
By the waves of broad Garonne,
Sends to greet her bravest son;
Proved beyond the western deep,
By rebel clans on Ulster's steep;
Proved, where first, on Gallia's plain,
The banish'd lily bloom'd again;
And proved where ancient bounty calls
The traveller to his father's halls!
Nor marvel, then, that round me twine
The oak, the laurel, and the vine:
For thus was Cambria wont to see
Her Hirlas-horn of victory :
'Nor Cambria e'er, in days of yore,
To worthier chief the Hirlas bore!"
EMIRS and Khâns in long array,
To Timour's council bent their way;
The lordly Tartar, vaunting high,
The Persian with dejected eye,
The vassal Russ, and, lured from far,
Circassia's mercenary war.
But one there came, uncall'd and last,
The spirit of the wintry blast!
He mark'd, while wrapt in mist he stood,
The purposed track of spoil and blood;
He mark'd, unmoved by mortal woe,
That old man's eye of swarthy glow;
That restless soul, whose single pride
Was cause enough that millions died;
He heard, he saw, till envy woke,
And thus the voice of thunder spoke :
"And hop'st thou thus, in pride unfurl'd,
To bear those banners through the world?
Can time nor space thy toils defy?
Oh king, thy fellow-demon I!
Servants of Death, alike we sweep
The wasted earth, or shrinking deep.
And on the land, and o'er the wave,
We the harvest of the grave.
But thickest then that harvest lies,
And wildest sorrows rend the skies,
In darker cloud the vultures sail,
And richer carnage taints the gale,
And few the mourners that remain
When winter leagues with Tamerlane!
But on, to work our lord's decree;
Then, tyrant, turn, and cope with me!
And learn, though far thy trophies shine,
How deadlier are my blasts than thine!
Nor cities burnt, nor blood of men,
Nor thine own pride shall warn thee then!
Forth to thy task! We meet again
On wild Chabanga's frozen plain! "
OH! green was the corn as I rode on my way,
And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May,
And dark was the sycamore's shade to behold,
And the oak's tender leaf was of emerald and gold.
The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud,
Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud;
From the soft vernal sky, to the soft grassy ground,
There was beauty above me, beneath, and around.
The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill,
And yet though it left me all dropping and chill,
I felt a new pleasure, as onward I sped,
Oh, such be life's journey, and such be our skill,
To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill;
Through sunshine and shower may our progress
And our tears add a charm to the prospect of Heaven!
ONE morning in the month of May
I wander'd o'er the hill;
Though nature all around was gay,
My heart was heavy still.
Can God, I thought, the good, the great,
These meaner creatures bless,
And yet deny our human state
The boon of happiness?
Tell me, ye woods, ye smiling plains,
Ye blessed birds around,
Where, in creation's wide domains,
Can perfect bliss be found?
The birds wild caroll'd over head,
The breeze around me blew,
And nature's awful chorus said,
No bliss for man she knew!
I question'd Love, whose early ray
So heavenly bright appears;
And Love, in answer, seem'd to say,
His light was dimm'd by tears.
I question'd Friendship-Friendship mourn'd,
And thus her answer gave:
The friends whom fortune had not turn'd
Were vanish'd in the grave!
I ask'd of Feeling,—if her skill
Could heal the wounded breast?
And found her sorrows streaming still,
For others' griefs distrest.
I ask'd if Vice could bliss bestow?
Vice boasted loud and well:
But, fading from her pallid brow,
The venom'd roses fell.
I question'd Virtue,-Virtue sigh'd,
No boon could she dispense;
Nor Virtue was her name, she cried,
But humble Penitence !
I question'd Death, the grisly shade
Relax'd his brow severe;
And, "I am Happiness," he said,
"If Virtue guides thee here!"
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