Page:Felicia Hemans in The Literary Gazette 1821.pdf/13

Thou to the winds, at that proud call,
    Didst pour thine old, majestic strains,
As when they fir'd, in bower and hall,
    The Hearts that were not born for chains!

And deeply yet that music thrills!
    Yet lives there, in each pealing close,
Some memory of th' eternal hills,
    With their wild streams and glittering snows!

The hills, where Freedom's shrine of old,
    High midst the storm's dominion stood;
The streams, which proudly, as they roll'd,
    Bore to the Deep heroic blood;

The snows, in their unstained array,
    Bright o'er each Eagle-summit spread—
Oh! who shall view their haunts, and say
    That Inspiration thence hath fled?

It is not thus!—each mountain's brow
    Bears record of undying names!
How should your Sons forget to glow,
    Ye Mighty! with your quenchless flames?

It is not thus! in ever glen
    The soil with noble dust is blent;
Of fearless and of gifted Men
    The Land is one high monument!

And think ye not, her hills among,
    That still their Spirit brightly dwells?
Be thou immortal, Soul of Song!
    By Deva's waves, in Snowdon's dells!

Yes! midst those wilds, in days gone by,
    The deep wind swell'd with prophet-lore;
Scenes, mantled with sublimity!
    Still are ye sacred, as of yore.