Felicia Hemans in The Literary Gazette 1822/The Meeting of the Bards
The Literary Gazette, 1st June 1822
EISTEDDVOD
On the 22d of May the Anniversary of the Eisteddvod was observed in London; and in the Freemasons' Hall, in Queen Street.
THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.
Written by Mrs. Hemans, for this Congress.
Where met the Bards of old? the glorious throng,
They of the Mountain and the Battle song?
They met—Oh! not in Kingly Hall or Tower,
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 th' 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,"‡[3]
And, baring unto Heav'n 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 grandeur caught!
Well might bold Freedom's soul pervade the strains
Which startled Eagles from their lone domains!
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;
And the turf mounds, once girt by ruddy spears,
And the rock-altars of departed years!
Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar,
The winds a thousand wild responses bore,
And the green Land, whose every vale and glen
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men,
On all her hills awakening to rejoice,
Sent forth proud answers to her Children's voice!
For us, not ours the Festival to hold
'Midst the stone-circles, hallow'd thus of old;
Not where great Nature's majesty and might
First broke, all glorious, on our wondering sight; .
Not near the tombs where sleep our Free and Brave,
Not by the mountain-Llyn,§[4] the ocean-wave,
In these late days we meet!—dark Mona's shore,
Eryri’s ‖[5]cliffs resound with harps no more!
But, as the stream (tho' time or art may turn
The current, bursting from its cavern'd urn,
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,
From Alpine glens, and awful forest-bowers)
Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep,
Holds on its course, to mingle with the Deep;
Thus, tho' our paths be chang'd, still warm and free,
Land of the Bard! our Spirit flies to thee!
To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong,
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song!
Nor yield our souls one patriot feeling less
To the green memory of thy loveliness,
Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal'd from every height,
"In the sun's face, beneath the eye of Light."