The man who loves the sound of harp, Of song, and ode, and all that’s dear, Where angels hold their blest abode, Will cherish all that’s cherish’d there. But he who loves not tune nor strain, Nature to him no love has given, You’ll see him while his days remain, Hateful both to earth and heaven. * * * * * Fair is yon harp, and sweet the song, That strays its tuneful strings along, And would not such a minstrel too, This heart to sweetest music woo? Sweet is the bird’s melodious lay In summer morn upon the spray. But from my Gweno sweeter far, The notes of friendship after war. * * * * * Woe to him, whose every bliss Centers in the burthen’d bowl; Of all burthens none like this, Sin’s sad burthen on the soul; Tis of craft and lies the seeker, Murder, theft, and wantonness, Weakens strong men, makes weak weaker, Shrewd men foolish, foolish--less. * * * * * Ah! what avails this golden coat, Or all the warblings of my throat, While I in durance pine? Give me again what nature gave, ’Tis all I ask, ’tis all I crave, Thee, Liberty divine! * * * * * To love his language in its pride, To love his land--tho’ all deride, Is a Welshman’s ev’ry care, And love those customs, good and old, Practised by our fathers bold. * * * * * We travel, and each town we pass Gives manners new, which we admire, We leave them, then o’er ocean toss’d Thro’ rough or smooth, to pleasure nigher, Still one thought remains behind, ’Tis home, sweet home, our hearts desire. * * * * * Wild in the woodlands, blithe and free, Dear to the bird is liberty; Dear to the babe to be caress’d, And fondled on his nurse’s breast, Oh! could I but explain to thee How dear is Merion’s land to me. * * * * * Low, ye hills, in ocean lie. That hide fair Merion from mine eye, One distant view, oh! let me take, Ere my longing heart shall break. * * * * * Another dress will nature wear Before again I see my fair; The smiling fields will flowers bring, And on the trees the birds will sing; But still one thing unchang’d shall be, That is, dear love, my heart for thee. The original Welsh of these and other translations, with several interesting particulars, especially the places of weekly harp-meetings and Pennillion-singing in London, may be found in Mr. Leathart’s agreeable compendium. * * * * * THE WINTER’S MORN.