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THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.
Where met our bards of old—the glorious throng,
They of the mountain and the battle song?
They met–oh! not in kingly hall or bower,
But where wild Nature girt herself with power!
They met—where streams flash'd bright from rocky caves,
They met—where woods made moan o'er warrior's graves;
And where the torrent's rainbow-spray was cast,
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast,
And 'midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
The crested Roman, in his hour of pride:
And where the Carnedd*[1], on its lonely hill,
Bore silent record of the mighty still;
And where the Druid's ancient Cromlech†[2] frown'd,
And the oaks breath'd mysterious murmurs round.
There throng'd th' inspir'd of yore!—on plain or height,
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light,
And, baring unto heaven each noble head,
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread.
Well might their lays be lofty!—soaring thought,
From Nature's presence, tenfold Nature caught!
Well might bold Freedom's soul pervade the strains,
Which startled eagles from their lone domains;
And, like a breeze, in chainless rapture went
Up thro' the blue, majestic firmament!
Whence came the echoes to those numbers high?
—'Twas from the battle-fields of days gone by!
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest,
With their good swords, upon the mountain's breast;
And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow,
Sever'd, by cloud and storm, from all below;
