32 1HE NATIONALIST. poetry Zbc Gbrusb anb IHigbtinoale Zbe Swan. (From the Welsh of D of ydd ab Givilym). (From the Welsh of Dafydd ab Givilym ). At early dawn, this day, I heard The singing of a joyous bird, The singing of the bird of love— The motley-breasted thrush. Above My head was spread a woven screen Of hazel leaves, all fresh and green. A messenger of love was he From her who dwells beyond the Dee— A maiden sweet with locks of gold Had sent to me the minstrel bold. It was on holy ground I trrd, For there an ^altar to my God— An altar roofed with gold was raised, And there, my God, by bird was praised. The song that's ringing in the dell, Is but the sound of the chapel bell. This little minstrel of the bowers, Whose dress of interlacing flowers, Beneath the chasuble refined, Of the texture of the feathers of the wings of the .wind, Is but a priest of God whom she, Who dwells beyond the river Dee, Has sent. This fosterson of May First reads the lesson for the day. The wafer lifts—a leaflet green— When lo ! quite near at hand is seen, The comely form of another bird— And now the Nightingale is heard. This favourite songster of the dell, His comrade joins—the tinkling bell Of Mass is rung ; the Ho^t is raised As high as Heaven, and God is praised By both. Their chalices with love Are full, to Him who reigns above. Thou Swan, arrayed in lime-white vest, Art like a saintly Abbot drest In cassock white as snow ; but nay, Thy spotless robe, sweet bird of spray, Reminds me of the raiment fair That God's own angels love to wear. Thy stately mien upon the wave Bespeaks an occupation grave. No other stream was ever known To thee than this, which is thine own, O happy bird ! And God in heaven Two other gifts to thee has given :— Of those who angle in thy stream Thou art, of all, the king supreme. To be the king of all who take The fishes from thy native lake A priceless gift to me doth seem. And thou canst soar above thy stream, And thou canst place beneath thine eye The distant crowns of mountains high, And from thine airy perch canst trace The endless changes in the face Of Nature. And thy glance can sweep Th' untrodden pavement of the deep. Who counts the waves upon thy lake Can call and number every flake Of snow that falls in winter drear. And all those countless waves appear To be the steeds thou lov'st to ride Whilst angling in the flowing tide— Thy long fair neck is but a rod Wherewith to fish—a gift from God. When motionless at fountain head, Intent upon the streamlet's bed, Thou art a load of spray. And when The rugged billows of the glen Sustain thy form, thou seemst to wear A crystal corset rich and rare. A thousand lilies on thy breast Are spread. And what a gorgeous vest ! The fragrant blooms of eglantine With roses white and sweet combine, To fold thee in a mantle bright, And jerkin gay, sweet bird of light,