Or as the tender flower loves The sun in yonder sky, And wilt thou bid me live for thee Or wilt thou bid me die ? Now by Saint Curig's hand" she said, I will not bid thee die I bid thee banish vain regret To serve a purpose high. I bid thee draw thy father's sword And for the past atone I bid thee ride with Tudor's son To topple England's throne And at these words the broken man Arose a hero bold, Fit to have shone at Arthur's Court In Cambria's age of gold. THE RETURN By Jonathan Argoed Pugh. Who is she that idly stands "Neath Bronfoeled's outer wall While o'er autumn-tinted lands Sunset calm begins to fall ? Gaily snooded is her hair Golden as the flowering broom, On her cheeks unharmed by care Crimson roses are in bloom. She is lovely as a dream Young and glamorous is she, Fair Angharad, where's the knight Would not break a lance for thee ? Has she come to watch the maids Dancing in the corlan dell ? Has she come to wait the call Of Mynachlog's vesper bell ?