 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
15
THE BRECON BEACONS.
O glorious sea of mountains in a storm,Joyously surging, and careering high
With angry crests flung up against the sky,
And billowy troughs between, that roll enorme
For miles of desolate grandeur scoop'd out deep,—
—Yet all congeal'd and magically asleep,
As on a sudden stopp'd to this fixt form
By ‘Peace, be still!’—Well may the filméd eye
Of Ignorance here behold in cloudy robe
The mythologic Arthur on his throne,
A Spiritual King, sublime, alone,
Marshalling tempests over half the globe,
Or, kindlier now by summer-zephyrs fann'd,
Blessing invisibly his ancient land!
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