Poetry Taken from The Edinburgh Magazine And Literary Miscellany June 1822/The Meeting of the Bards
THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.
Where met our bards of old—the glorious throng,
They of the mountain and the battle song?
They met–oh! not in kingly hall or bower,
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 the 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,
And, baring unto heaven 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 Nature caught!
Well might bold Freedom's soul pervade the strains,
Which startled eagles from their lone domains;
And, like a breeze, in chainless rapture went
Up thro' the blue, majestic firmament!
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 wandering sight;
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave,
Not by the Mountain Llyn*[3] , the ocean wave:
In these late days we meet!—dark Mona's shore,
Eryri's†[4] cliffs resound with harps no more!
But as the stream, (though 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, or shadowy forest bowers,)
Alike, in rushing strength or sunny sleep,
Holds on its course to mingle with the deep;
Thus, though 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!