THE LAST OF THE CAMBRIANS.

Hark! on the breezes borne along,
Loudly sounds the warriors' song:
Swift it passes o'er the waves,
Resounding from the mountain caves;
While Snowdon's high and rocky shore
Reverberates the battle's roar.

Now all is hush'd, as silent night,
Save where the impetuous tide,
Gushing from the craggy height,

Thunders down the mountain's side:
Save where the rocks repeat the cry,
"We go to conquer or to die."

Now all is still; now hush'd that strain,

Never more to sound again;

While, beneath the mountain's gloom, Young Edward proudly shakes his plume; He bids his squadrons from afar

Mingle in the din of war.

Each felt, amid the mortal strife,

A momentary dread;

But ere another instant pass'd

Those craven thoughts were fled.
Lo, on the mountain's craggy side,
Glowing with his native pride,
Pride of his race, Llewellyn stands,
And urges on his patriot bands.

"Sons of Liberty, awake,

The English despots power to shake.
And shall the offspring of the brave
To foreign tyrants be a slave?
No-your battle blades unsheath-
Be to your country true :

That freedom to your sons bequeath,
Your sires bequeath'd to you :
And he who fears to meet the grave,
Let him live and die a slave.

"On Plinlimmon, from afar,

I saw the Genius of the war :
He bids us think of days of old,
Of those who in the grave are cold:
He couches now his purpled spear,
Lo, down the craggy height
Haggard death and giant fear

Ride onward to the fight:
Revengeful Hate and pale Despair
And Rout and Anguish follow there.

"Rush on, ye brave, at Glory's name ;
Kindle again your fathers' flame :
And let the English plunderers know
Our breasts with patriot valour glow.
But now the hour of fight is near,
The moon is waning fast ;
And, if the tyrant foe prevail,
Let this day be your last.

"Lo, what phantoms, bathed in gore, Stand upon yon rocky shore: Awaken'd from his icy trance,

Each spectre shakes his shadowy lance;
Their ancient fire within them glows,
They burn to meet their country's foes.
Lo, within yon gloomy cave 02%
The funeral feast is spread,

And through the caverns loud resounds
The war-song of the dead :

They sing the triumphs of the brave,
The warrior's death, the warrior's grave.

"Ere to morrow's sun be set,

Our kindred spirits will be met:

With them we'll weep o'er days of yore,
And drink to freedom, now no more;
Then on the billows, side by side,
To yonder camp we'll go ;

And riding on the night-wind's wings,
We'll flitter o'er the foe.

"Yonder rock is red with blood
Reflected in the foaming flood,
Yet redder still shall be that stream,
Redder still that rock shall gleam;
Ere to morrow's sun be low,

That sun itself with blood shall glow.
Many on that fatal field

Shall meet to meet no more;
Few among those foes shall live
To see their native shore.

Each hero in his war-cloak laid,
Shall grasp in death his broken blade.

"There, beneath that foaming deep,
Bound in adamantine sleep,
Ye'll moulder in your country's clay,
Nor shrink beneath the tyrant's sway;
Ye'll ne'er behold your country's fame
O'ershadow'd by eternal shame.

Rush on-rush on-the foe to meet,
doom ;

Nor tremble at your

The wave shall be your winding sheet,

The ocean's cave your tomb :

Beneath the surge of yonder sea

Your spirits will again be free."

WINANDERMERE.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

臀

Lost in the mighty ocean of matter that floods the newspaper pages, alas! how unlike that rivulet of text meandering through a meadow of margin in the novels of the day, I look to you, Mr. Bouverie, for rescue from my watery grave.

It is not among political debates, dreadful occurrences, or fashionable movements, that I am to be found, but among those little oblong compartments on the first side of the paper, commonly called Advertisements.

The existence of this valuable community is endangered, in spite of their emphatic fingers and grotesque faces, pointing and grinning their merits into notice. Merits, which the name of a Bish and Goodluck are alone sufficient to perpetuate. Amiable pair! whither would their prospective philanthropy have extended, had not premature fate closed for ever our positively penultimate peeps of Peru and Mexico.

But what inexhaustible stores, what long-withdrawing scenes of bliss and pleasure, glowing in all the luxuriant language and descriptive imagery of my brethren, still remain "for the inspection of the public." Secure of satisfaction among such varied resources, let the individual look to us for assistance, who may have lost his wife or his watch, who wishes to clean his coat, or clarify his complexion.

How many desirable residences, and terrestrial paradises remain unenjoyed, in spite of those two emphatic monosyllables "To Let," that so earnestly challenge our attention, and so successfully disdain compliance with

the tame rules of grammar. What quantities of happiness may be "purchased at a fair valuation;" what convenient premises and undisturbed tranquillity "may be entered upon immediately."

In vain do we assure our correspondents, that health and beauty are at our disposal, that they may be conveyed into the country packed in separate boxes; nay morethat they may be returned, if they fail to meet with approbation- the "Egis of Life" lies neglected on our counter, and much unappropriated immortality remains corked up in pint bottles.

Such pernicious prejudices could scarcely be credited, were we not convinced by the bilious complexions, and tedious coughs of next-door neighbours, who let our “occasional pills, and expectorating lozenges," so unaccountably slip through their fingers. Nay more— how many an obstinate old man commits felo de se at seventy-seven, from neglecting the "Balm of Gilead"; how many a full grown person is useless at a ball, for want of three lessons from a professor; monstrous beyond measure! Orpheus plays, but the brutes positively wo'nt dance.

In spite of the natural predisposition of mankind to be imposed upon, which has prevailed from the Phæa of Pisistratus, to the less romantic but equally flagrant impostures of the present day; to the proposed union of the Chalk and Cream, the Thames and Milk companies of the metropolis, a most dangerous principle is gradually gaining on the public mind. Men, Mr. Bouverie, are actually pretending to judge for themselves, and with unparalleled incredulity, refuse to believe every thing they are bid.