O'er my soul
Such varied scenes in vision roll,
Whether, O prince of bards, I see
The fire of Greece reviv'd in thee,
That like a deluge bursts away;
Or Taliesin tune the lay;
Or thou, wild Merlin, with thy song
Pour thy ungovern'd soul along;
Or those perchance of later age
More artful swell their measur'd rage,
Sweet bards whose love-taught numbers suit
Soft measures and the Lesbian lute;
Whether, Iolo, mirtle-crown'd,
Thy harp such amorous verse resound
As love's and beauty's prize hath won;
Or led by Gwilym's plaintive song,
I hear him teach his melting tale
In whispers to the grove and gale.
But since thy once harmonious shore
Resounds th' inspiring strain no more,
That snatch'd in fields of ancient date,
The palm from number, strength, and fate;
Since to thy grove no more belong
The sacred eulogies of song;
Since thou hast rued the waste of age,
And war, and Scolan's fiercer rage;--{76}
The spirit of renown expires,
The brave example of thy sires
Is lost; thy high heroic crest
Oblivion and inglorious rest
Have torn with rude rapacious hand;
And apathy usurps the land.
Lo! silent as the lapse of time
Sink to the earth thy towers sublime;
Where whilom harp'd the minstrel throng,
The night-owl pours her feral song:
For ever sinks blest Cambria's fame,
By ignorance, and sword, and flame
Laid with the dust, amidst her woes
The taunt of her ungenerous foes;
For ever sleeps her warlike praise,
Her wealth, dominion, language, lays.
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