tion of a ford a little lower down, called Cefn Twm Bach, which they crossed, and by that means came between Llewellyn and his army. The only chance of safety now left was to secrete himself. But he was at length found in a narrow dingle, in which he lay concealed, three miles north of Buelt, and about five from his army; the place was afterwards called Cwm Llewellyn.

They cut off his head, and buried him near the spot; at some subsequent

period, a house was erected over his grave, which goes by the name of Cefn-y-Bedd, or the top of the grave.

Heroic Prince! when o'er Carnarvon waved
The crimson flag of conquest, mid the pomp
Of festal sports-when yon proud castle rung
To Edward's triumph-thy insulted head,
Gaze of vile crowds, stood on Augustus' tower,
With ivy wreath and silver diadem,
Adorn'd in mockery of Brutus old,

And Merlin's mystic verse.

Sotheby.

The following dirge written by his aged bard, Gryffith, the son of Ynad, is deeply embued with the grief felt by the people for the loss of the last and greatest of their leaders, and their favorite prince :

On every wind, o'er hill and glen, come sounds of woe and wailing,-
As erst on Camlan's plains were heard*,-of Britain's glory failing,—
And tears from every eye are poured, free as her mountain springs,
While Cambria's dying bard thus mourns her lord-her last of kings.
Llewellyn! oh, the loss of thee, it is the loss of all,-
Fallen! and horror chills my blood-I see my country fall.

Break heart, ere thoughts of my loved lord, and of his generous soul,
To madness goad my burning brain, nor hear his death-knell toll.
See, the majestic forests bow! with thee all nature bled,
The ocean heaved his oozy depths, the sun glared strange and red;
From out their spheres did planets start to us the day is doom,
And night, amidst these woods and wilds, enshrouds our living tomb.
Freedom and song alike expire-'would 'twere the end of all;
But vainly on a world of crime the wrath of heaven I call.

* The spot where the great Arthur was mortally wounded

There is no green spot in the waste, our anguished thoughts to rest;
No spot, midst our far mountain-homes, but foemen's foot hath prest.
Most wretched men, where shall ye flee to lay the wearied head?
Where fate-swift fate pursueth not, the sword and famine dread;
Proud Edward's wrath-and worse than wrath-the bondage of his will,
That tramples on your spirits bowed till vengeance hath its fill.†

+ In offering this hasty version from the Welch Chronicle, the author is sensible of having lost much of the power and beauty of the fine old lament; but he is happy in an occasion of referring all those interested in the subject to an original production contained in a little volume of poems by William Stanley Roscoe. It is entitled 'Llewellyn.'— (See Blackwood's Magazine for February, 1835.)

CHAPTER III.

CHESTER.

The crooked creekes and pretie brookes
That are amid the plaine;

The flowing tydes that spread the land,
And turne to sea againe;

The stately woods that like a hoope

Doe compasse all the vale;

The princely plots that stand in troope,

To beautifie the dale;

The rivers that doe daily runne,

As cleare as christall stone,

Shews that most pleasures under sunne

CARLEON had alone.

Worthiness of Wales.

THE Deva of the old Britons, and the Roman City of the Legions'-Chester-abounds in too many interesting associations to be passed over in silence. Justly proud of her ancient loyalty, her high-born families, and the unbroken spirit exhibited in all her vicissitudes, she is still more enviable, perhaps, for the quiet prosperity and dignified ease of these her later days. The extensive sweep of her once formidable and castellated walls proclaims her former greatness; and, at every step, the thoughtful stranger is reminded that he beholds a city of the past.'

Rising boldly above the Dee, its singular construction and angular streets attest its Roman origin; while altars, arms, statues,

*

* The old monkish authorities, particularly that of Ranulph, would lead us to infer the contrary, as it is quaintly expressed in the following curious rhymes :

The founder of this city as saith Polycronicon,

Was Leon Gaure, a mighty strong giant,
Who builded caves and dungeons many a one,
No goodly building, ne proper, ne pleasant.

But King Leir, a Britain fine and valiant,
Was founder of Chester by pleasant building
And was named Guerlier by the King.'