THE BRIDAL OF LLEWELYN.*

"But then for her on the contrarie part

Rose many advocates for her to plead :
First there came Pittie with full tender hart,
And with her joyned regard of Womanhead;

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,
And not within the forest dell,
Nor in the changeful cloud and gleam,
That ever on the blue hills dwell,-
No, never lead the light heart there
Your sad'ning maxims to impress,
A deeper, purer joy, 'twill share

In nature's calm of loveliness;
But if you fain would break the spell
That only round the young heart lies,
And all youth's bright aspirings quell,
And teach them to be sad and wise,
Wait till they find in pleasures train
The dazzled eye and wildered brain-
Then, while they linger on the scene

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
On the fair brows whose beauty graced,
With eyes that mocked their jewels' sheen,
The festal bower of England's queen.+

There was a pause, the dance was o'er-
The minstrelsy was heard no more.
"Oh for a song to cheer us now!"

The
gay Castilian cried," what, mute!
Elinor Montfort-where art thou,

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,
All cold and colourless and fair,
The maiden stood; nor look nor start

Shew'd that 'twas hers that name to bear;
Though eagerly the courtly crowd
Echoed their queen's demand aloud.

If sorrow e'er to form and face
Might lend a purer holier grace;
If e'er her hand so light did fall,
It marr'd no charm, but softened all,
Till loveliness became divine,
Elinor Montfort, it was thine;-
The long black lash, the drooping lid,
Too oft the orbs beneath them hid;

But when unveiled, you might have thought
Those mournful eyes had, gazing, caught
The summer heaven's midnight hue,
So dark, you scarce could name it-blue.

Unsought-unthwarted in her mood,
In silent loneliness she stood;

That loneliness, most chill and drear,
That feels most lone when crowds are near.
It seemed she knew or heeded there
No presence, save her own despair;
But when her harp a damsel brought,
And lightly touched a single chord,

A change, more swift than e'er was wrought
By fairy spell or magic wand,

Came o'er her with that well known sound,
And ev'ry fettered power unbound.

With glowing cheek and throbbing breast,
Her small hands on the strings she pressed,
And waked so sweet yet sad a tone,
'Twas like the night wind's passing moan;
She fixed her bright and troubled eye
Upon the moon, whose lustre streamed
From the small Gothic window nigh,
And on her flowing tresses beamed.

Past thoughts, past feelings, wildly rushed
On her full heart in stifling throng,
Till from her falt'ring lips they gushed
In one unbroken tide of song.

But tearless was thy wretchedness,
The day that made us fatherless.

"And thou didst weep, as in a dream,
When in the twilight grey

That vessel o'er the Loire's fair stream
Thy children bore away;

Yet went thy son, in warlike pride,
And I to be a warrior's bride.

"Are not thy tears more bitter now,
If, to thy convent home,

Brought with some pilgrim's pious vow,
These tidings cold become?

If-oh such news are swift in flight!
Their shadow has the speed of light.

"Poor Emmerick! in some stern fort
Thy tender limbs they bind;
And I, a captive, in a court,
'Mid kindred little kind.
I'd bless my fate, whate'er it be,
If only thou wert safe and free.

"Sweet brother, 'twas a weary doom
For one so young as thou,
Cheering a widow'd mother's gloom,
With thy unclouded brow,
And checking still thy wildest glee,
For one sad look, from her or me.

"And yet, my brother, at this hour,
How blithely wouldst thou stand
Once more, within my mother's bower,
In our own sunny land;

And hear the deep-toned vesper bell
Among its echoes ling'ring dwell.

"And there was One, whose glance of light
Broke on our tranquil dream,
Waking, in ripples brief and bright,
Our life's unvaried stream,

Our Father's champion, clearly proved,
Dearly our Father's orphans loved.

"E'en now, perchance, the eagle-eyed
From his own hills, may be

Far, far across the ocean tide,

In fond vain search for me;
He too must know the pang, the gird,
The sicken'd heart of hope deferred.

"He told us of the dark blue hills
That clasp his father-land,

Its slumb'ring lakes, its gushing rills,
Its wild and rocky strand;

And, oh! though France was dear before,
I love those unseen mountains more!

"My heart, no chord of feeling owns,
Save mem'ry's tangled chain;
My ear is aching for the tones

It ne'er may hear again;

Long-long the hours have been, and yet
They cannot teach me to forget."

With earnest gaze and ear intent,
The Queen had o'er the minstrel bent
As low, beside her harp, she kneeled,
Grief smother'd long, at once revealed;
Till, in her soft Castilian eyes
Unbidden tears were seen to rise,
And, from those full orbs, fast were shed
Upon the maiden's graceful head;
'Mid her dark tresses, glistening,

Like dewdrops on a raven's wing.

And not in vain that lay was sang,
And not in vain, the bright tears fell
That mercy from King Edward wrang,
As graver chroniclers may tell.
They tell how soon on Hafren's side,*
With regal pomp, and martial pride,
Llewelyn gained his plighted bride;
And warriors bade their discords cease,
And hail'd the gleam of promised peace
Such gleam, alas! as seldom cheers
The records of those by-gone years,
Those pages
dark with blood and tears.

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.