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The Fate of Lewellyn

or, the Druid's Sacrifice. A Legendary Tale. In Two Parts. To which is added Carnbre', a Poem [by Richard Polwhele]

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“Son of Man, (the Genius said,)
“Listen with religious fear:
“Holy Druids here are laid:
“Bards of old lie buried here.

49

“Once, alass! the warbling shade
“Round the raptur'd mountain grew;
“Once the Hand of Nature spread
“Woods magnificent to view:
“Deep embosom'd in the gloom,
Contemplation walk'd serene;
Silence sat upon the tomb,
“Musing on the solemn scene:
Solitude, the Child of Ease,
“Smiling, charm'd the dear abode;
Gratitude, sweet Sire of Praise,
“Pour'd the wild note to his God:

50

Concord wav'd his myrtle wand,
“Mountain Freedom woo'd the breeze;
Health and Peace (celestial band)
“Smil'd amidst th'embowering trees:
“Oft, alass! when meekest Eve
“Fresh'ning dews benignly shed;
“When the soft elves joy to leave,
“Sportive, their luxuriant bed:
“When faint Summer fev'rish pow'r
“Blissful hails her modest reign;
“While to taste the fragrant bow'r,
“Toil forsakes the sultry plain:

51

“When the sweetly purling Springs
“Soothe the stillness of the vale;
“When the breeze, on fluttering wings,
“Whisp'ring fans the flowery dale:
“Oft the sacred harps around,
“Awful notes high-ecchoing flung;
“Pleas'd Religion heard the sound,
“While th'exulting mountain rung.
“Fill'd with rapture, every Swain
“Strait the solemn call obey'd;
“Free from Sin's malignant stain,
Virtue then the passions sway'd.

52

Desolation now appears!
Ruin holds these drear abodes:
“Now beneath the weight of years,
“Lo! the tottering Mountain nods.
“Once where Joy was wont to glow,
“Once where Musick breath'd delight;
“Sullen blasts of Horror blow!
“Croaks the baleful Bird of Night.
“Once where green Groves shadowy rose;
“Once where roll'd the silver wave;
“There the deadly Nightshade grows!—
“Hemlock hides the Druid grave!

53

“Once where Wisdom rear'd a seat,
“Hissing glides the speckled snake!
“Now in Friendship's lone retreat,
“Venom swells amidst the brake!
“Still Remembrance haunts the place,
“Ever shall she wander here:
“Oft adown her paly face,
“Gently flows the tender tear.
“Still she sees the Druid Train
“(Reverend Chorus) sweep the Lyre!
“Still she hears the thrilling strain;—
“Glows her heart with holy fire.

54

“Richly rob'd, the hoary Sage
“Still the mystick rites performs;
“Silver'd o'er his brow with age!
“Still his frame Devotion warms:
“Still, amid the gloomy glades,
Inspiration fires his breast;
Fancy marks the fleeting shades,
“Where the God his soul possest.
Melancholy, pondering Maid,
“O'er the wild waste loves to rove;
“Conscious where the Muses stray'd,
“Sadly waves th'ideal grove.—

55

“Yet my darken'd soul to chear,
Comfort sheds a glimmering ray;
“Still to one the Muse is dear!
“Still belov'd the soothing lay.
“Deeply sounds the solemn strain;
“Echoes loud the voice of Fame;
Cornwall views a bard again;
Truro boasts a Wolcot's Name!
 

The Author of the Genius of Britain.