O land of Druid and of Bard, Worthy of bearded Time’s regard, Quick-blooded, light-voiced, lyric Wales, Proud with mountains, rich with vales, And of such valour that in thee Was born a third of chivalry (And is to come again, they say, Blowing its trumpets into day, With sudden earthquake from the ground, And in the midst, great Arthur crown’d), I used to think of thee and thine As one of an old faded line Living in his hills apart, Whose pride I knew, but not his heart:-- But now that I have seen thy face, Thy fields, and ever youthful race, And women’s lips of rosiest word (So rich they open), and have heard The harp still leaping in thy halls, Quenchless as the waterfalls, I know thee full of pulse as strong As the sea’s more ancient song And of a sympathy as wide; And all this truth, and more beside, I should have known, had I but seen, O Flint, thy little shore; and been Where Truth and Dream walk, hand-in-hand, Bodryddan’s living Fairyland. _James Henry Leigh Hunt._ HEMANS CXXI THE HARP OF WALES Harp of the mountain-land! sound forth again As when the foaming Hirla’s horn was crown’d, And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain, And the bright mead at Owain’s feast went round: Wake with the spirit and the power of yore! Harp of the ancient hills! be heard once more! Thy tones are not to cease! The Roman came O’er the blue waters with his thousand oars: Through Mona’s oaks he sent the wasting flame; The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores: All gave their ashes to the wind and sea-- Ring out; thou harp! he could not silence thee. Thy tones are not to cease! The Saxon pass’d, His banners floated on Eryri’s gales; But thou wert heard above the trumpet’s blast, E’en when his towers rose loftiest o’er the vales! _Thine_ was the voice that cheer’d the brave and free; They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee. Those were dark years!--They saw the valiant fall, The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain’s board, The hearth left lonely in the ruin’d hall-- Yet power was _thine_--a gift in every chord! Call back that spirit to the days of peace, Thou noble harp! thy tones are not to cease! _Felicia Hemans._ CXXII PRINCE MADOG’S FAREWELL Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep? Too fair is the sight for a wand’rer whose way Lies far o’er the measureless paths of the deep. Fall shadows of twilight, and veil the green shore, That the heart of the mighty may waver no more!