As the bright procession wound
Yonder distant summits round,
Like a long mist wreath it past
Gently wafted by the blast—
As it drew in dazzling rank
Nearer—nearer—to thy bank—
In thy wild expanse it sank!
Sank—like snow-flakes in the sun
Softly—brightly—one by one!
Sank—like moonbeams on the sea
Sadly—sweetly—gleamily!
Oh, pure and bloodless as thy wave—
Ere morning o’er the mountains rose—
Was each fantastic mound and cave
That round thy billows blackly close.
At dawn the note of battle sounded—
Blithe from his couch each warrior bounded,
To guide his courser’s swelling form,
And arching neck, and eye of fire,
And godlike ecstasy of ire,
On the fierce children of the storm,
That dwell with axe and shield
On Ocean’s dreary field—
And pitch their winged tents
Amid the elements!
It was a beauteous sight at dawn,
When cheerily as to the chase
From each sequestered valley drawn,
And sylvan nook, and upland lawn,
Those fated youths of Gwyneth’s[1] race
Swept cloud-like down each rocky way,
As if to greet the new-born day,
- ↑ North Wales.
