And the green Land, whose every vale and glen
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men,
On all her hills awakening to rejoice,
Sent forth proud answers to her Children's voice!
For us, not ours the Festival to hold
'Midst the stone-circles, hallow'd thus of old;
Not where great Nature's majesty and might
First broke, all glorious, on our wondering sight; .
Not near the tombs where sleep our Free and Brave,
Not by the mountain-Llyn,§[1] the ocean-wave,
In these late days we meet!—dark Mona's shore,
Eryri’s ‖[2]cliffs resound with harps no more!
But, as the stream (tho' time or art may turn
The current, bursting from its cavern'd urn,
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,
From Alpine glens, and awful forest-bowers)
Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep,
Holds on its course, to mingle with the Deep;
Thus, tho' our paths be chang'd, still warm and free,
Land of the Bard! our Spirit flies to thee!
To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong,
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song!
Nor yield our souls one patriot feeling less
To the green memory of thy loveliness,
Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal'd from every height,
"In the sun's face, beneath the eye of Light."
Page:Felicia Hemans in The Literary Gazette 1822.pdf/5
