While Cambria shrinks, with boding fear,
And dreads the tale, she's doom'd to hear,
To hear that Rhuddlan towers restrain,
The man, by Virtue, rear'd to reign ;
In chains, my chief, of graceful form,
Smiles at insult, braves their scorn,

And bleeding, crown'd with honour's wreath,
Awaits, and courts the dart of death;
While now, on every breeze 'tis borne,

With every pang my breast is torne;

the great hall, the hospitality of which, Gwilim Ddu so feelingly sings, and which was twenty-four yards long, are still ascertainable. One of the many favors bestowed upon Sir Gryffydd, by the King, was Dinorwig, and the continuation of this, and his other property, in his descendants, shows that Edward, in this instance, did not extend the rapacity of tyranny to its siezure, on the revolt of the proprietor. This division continued in that great and leading branch of his family, residing at Penrhyn and Cochwillan, till William Williams, Esq. transfered it to his third son, Thomas Williams, of Vaenol, ancestor to Sir William Williams, Bart. who, dying without issue, left his estates to King William, who granted them to Mr. Smith, Speaker of the House of Commons, in whose decendant Thomas Ashton Smith, Esq. of Vaenol, they now are.

I sink to earth, to hear his name,
With all that mans, and warms my frame;
Yet Fame, to other times shall tell,

How Griffith fought, how Griffith fell;
And ages yet to come, shall hear,
As downward rolls, the pitying tear!

Misfortunes throng on every side,
Fallen is Mona's strength and pride,
And lofty Arvon, Gwynedd's* tower,
Falls, and feels, the unequal power;
Her sons by Saxon hosts assail'd,
At Rheon's ford+t-have fought and fail'd;
In vain the phalanx firmly stood,
Till Rheon roll'd a tide of blood;
They fell, o'erwhelm'd a nation falls,
And Saxon power my Prince enthralls;
Oppression's plan, at length succeeds,
At every pore, my Country bleeds;
No ray of hope pervades our woes,

No trait of mercy, marks our foes;

* North Wales, the Venedotia of the Romans.

† A river in Carnarvonshire, now unknown, having probably changed its name,

And Britain's sons, in vain, are brave,
Immur'd within a living-grave!

Affliction wild, with piercing cry,
And dark Despair, with downeast eye;
The manly Mind, that scorns to speak,
The indignant Heart, that swells to break;
All agonize my breast to close,

At once-existence and its woes !

THE

CONTRAST,

SONNET,

Written on seeing a tall and corpulent Lady in a

Phaton and four, passing a short thin Woman,

with a Pitcher of Water on her Head,

a Basket of Potatoes in one Hand,

a Child in the other, and fol

lowed by Three more.

SONNET.

How widely different is life's varied way,
One leans on silken sophas from the birth,
Another, toiling, through its trying day,

Is, by incessant burthens, press'd to earth.

Wealth gayly rolls, on gaudy rapid wheels,
Or lightly ambles, on the graceful steed;
And flashing on the broad-way, seldom feels,
What humbler folk, in narrower paths, may need.

The Proud thus passing, with averted eyes,
May read where Inspiration's precepts glow;
That these are sometimes creeping to the skies,
While guilty greatness gallops but to woe.

And, patient toiler, loaded and depress'd,
Content may be an inmate in thy breast!