XIII. The Church in Wales.
Why hast Thou broken down her hedges, that all they that go by pluck off her grapes?
Alas, Menevia! what of thee remains,
Primeval saintly Church? from Towy's flood
To Conway springs an ever-teeming brood
Of novelty, to claim thy true domains;
Religious Freedom, worse than Romish chains!
As in the stool where some huge oak once stood,
Some mountain bird now hides his sylvan food;
And lo! the ancient stock with wonder gains
A doubtful, new, and motley progeny,
Springing in mockery from her aged root,
With coral berries wild and show of fruit.
And here and there between th'ancestral shoot
Is seen, to emulate their pliancy,
Bowing to each wind as it passes by.
