120
SNOWDON.
Still does the gift to thee belong
Of valour, beauty, and of song—
Still shall thy eagle ramparts stand—
The throne—the shield—the altar of our land!
THE CLOUDS.
IN IMITATION OF DAVYTH AP GWILYM.
Earth has its summer flow’rs
That bloom and pass away—
The sea is track’d with showers
Of light and snowy spray;
But neither flower nor foam can vie
With the bright hues of yonder sky!
Those clouds how beautiful they are!
Those rovers of the blast!
That in fantastic wreaths afar
O’er rock and mountain cast,
Seem like the tresses of the maid
That—(as she list’ning hung
O’er the lov’d harp her minstrel play’d,
The praise he oft had sung)—
Fell blending with the murm’ring strings—
Ah, me! in bright meanderings!
