Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleep Over that wretch’s eyelids creep Who bears with wrong and shame. Make him to feel thy spirit high, And, like a hero, do or die, And smite the arm of tyranny, And lay its haunts aflame,-- Rather than peace which makes thee slave, Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive, Lay foul oppression in its grave No more the light to see! Then heavenward turn thy grateful gaze, And like the rolling thunder raise Thy triumph-song of joy and praise To God--that thou art free! _Edmund Osborne Jones._ CXXVII THE POETS OF WALES Dear Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring high Dwells genius basking in thy quiet air, And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare, And all wrapt round with fullest harmony Of streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly ’Neath Nature their fit foster-mother’s care, Thy children learn from infant hours to bear And work the will of God. Thy scenery So varied-wild, so strangely sweet and strong, Works on them and to music moulds their mind, Till flows their fancy in poetic rills. The voice of Nature breathes in every song; And we may read therein thy features kind, As in some tarn that nestles ’neath thy hills. Thy fragrant breezes wander through the maze Of all their songs as through a woodland reach; Their odes drop sweetness like the ripening peach In laden orchards on late summer days. Their work is Nature’s own--not theirs the praise By culture won which midnight studies teach; Sounds the loud cataract in their sonorous speech, And strikes the keynote of their tuneful lays. As to remotest ages in the past We trace thy joyous story, more and more Bards won high honour mid thy hills and vales. So, Cymru, while this world of ours shall last, And ocean echoing beat upon thy shore, May poets never cease to sing for Wales! _Edmund Osborne Jones._ III SCOTLAND RAMSAY CXXVIII FAREWELL TO LOCHABER Fareweel to Lochaber, fareweel to my Jean, Where heartsome wi’ her I ha’e mony days been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We’ll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed, they are a’ for my dear, And no’ for the dangers attending on weir; Though borne on rough seas to a far distant shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. Though hurricanes rage, and rise ev’ry wind, They’ll ne’er make a tempest like that in my mind; Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar, That’s naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me, my heart is sair pain’d; But by ease that’s inglorious no fame can be gained; And beauty and love’s the reward of the brave; And I maun deserve it before I can crave.