Classic Poem

W HATE'ER beneath the arch of heaven
Of festive glee is found,
Whate'er of good — of blessings given
In other climes abound;
United here, I fondly tell
That Mirth with Meirion loves to dwell.

And thy rough aspiring rocks
Stern Winter wraps in snow,
And drives away thy fleecy flocks
To seek the vales below;
Yet here, the Cuckoo's earliest voice,
Delights to bid thy swains rejoice.

Not sweeter blooms the fragrant bean,
That leads the Bee to sip,
Nor yet more dear the milky stream,
That meets the infant lip;
Than thou, thy fertile vales and fields,
The matchless charms that Meirion yields.

Unsullied foam thy silver streams,
As down thy rocks they rush;
And loudly ring the glowing themes,
That cheer thy every bush;
Yet sweeter sing — the spotless Fair,
The girls that here engross my care.

Ye Youths in Pleasure's paths that range,
By no restraint confin'd,
That seek amid the charms of change,
The Maid that meets your mind;
'Tis vain! Ye roving swains return,
Or still with Passion's ardour burn.

Here, too, the Harp — sweet hoard of sound,
My Country's choice and care,
Still bids the voice of song abound —
Gives sordid thoughts to air:
And thus renewed, 'tis heaven to hear
The strains to Cambria's Offspring dear.

And when, with all that wealth can boast,
In other realms I roam,
Though Nature's kind, on every coast,
My heart is still at home;
To thee I come, from every clime,
Dear Meirion! all my soul is thine.