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And here, while heavenly visions fill'd his eye,
He rais'd the strain of plaintive melody;
This fond idea consecrates the hour,
And more endears the calm secluded bower.
Sweet was the Cambrian harp in ancient time,
When tuneful bards awak'd the song sublime;
And minstrels caroll'd in the banner'd hall,
Where warlike trophies grac'd the lofty wall;
They sang the legends and traditions old,
The deeds of chivalry, and heroes bold.
Oh! Cambria, tho' thy sweetest bards are dead,
And fairies from thy lovely vales are fled;
Still in thy sons the musing mind may trace
The vestige of thy former simple race:
Some pious customs yet preserv'd with care,
Their humble village piety declare;
Ah! still they strew the fairest flowers and weep,
Where buried friends of sacred memory sleep.
The wandering harper, too, in plaintive lays,
Declares the glory of departed days;
And, Cambria, still upon thy fertile plains,
The power of hospitality remains.
Yet shall my muse the pleasing task resign,
Till riper judgement all her songs refine;
