Classic Poem

IN THE GARDEN AT PENRHÔS, IN ANGLESEY ,

The Residence of Lady Stanley.

Dear , sweetest Eos, of the speckled breast,
High on the pliant bough, or grassy blade,
Or hopping gay, on beds by Flora drest,
Or rustling in the currant's humbler shade.

Oft have I heard thee hail the dawning day,
Delighted listen'd to thy matin theme;
As blaz'd on Arfon's top, the orient ray,
Or Evening, westward, led the lingering beam.

To cheer the hidden partner of thy heart,
As o'er her care the wings maternal bend;
Or teach thy infant brood th' enchanting art,
With all a parent's pride thy carols tend.

And pleasure riots in thy radiant eye,
As shrill in air the dulcet triumph floats;
How beats thy little heart, with raptures high,
When Stanley listens to thy grateful notes.

Still when her bounty brings the hoarded crumbs,
Where o'er thy nest the glossy ivy's curl'd;
Does Fancy hear thee chirrup sweet — " she comes
" With looks that wish the welfare of a world. "

By thee unheard the Raven's hated scream,
That wrung of yore the poet's boding breast;
When Superstition form'd the unborn theme
And gave, even Horror's self, a darker vest.

To thee unknown, lov'd warbler of the wood,
Though Mona's plaintive Muse the tale has told,
That here the margin of the briny flood
Was redden'd with the life of warriors bold.

That here fell Discord wav'd her banners high,
Saw kindred hands in kindred blood imbru'd;
While Cambria saw the conflict with a sigh,
As o'er the field her fallen sons were strew'd.

As o'er the field her slaughter'd offspring lay,
She heard in Sorrow's strains, her Periv tell,
That in the fury of that fatal day,
Her princely bard, her tuneful Howel fell.

A happier day, dear chorister is thine,
A grove unhaunted by the tread of Fear;
A little forest, free from Kites and crime,
When music only meets thy listening ear.

Save when the Demon of the boisterous North
Rush'd through the gloom of night with sullen roar,
Led from Destruction's den the Furies forth,
To roll his dying victims on the shore.

'Twas thine amid the raging of the storm,
To see thy Stanley disappoint the grave;
Tread the dread beach in Charity's mild form,
And bid her Penrhos ope' its doors to save.

And thine as playful in these flow'ry glades,
To hear the prayer ascend to Mercy's throne,
To hear from strangers shelter'd in these shades,
The grateful blessing breath'd in tongues unknown.

On high, shrill herald of the opening year,
The trembling branches feel thy fluttering wing;
Thy throbbing breast exults — and sweet and clear
Thou hail'st the hours of love-returning Spring

And now, proud leader of the feather'd throats,
Long may fair Penrhos with thy voice be blest;
A thousand warblers learn thy witching notes.
Unnumber'd songsters issue from thy nest.

Long may thy Stanley's gracious ear attend
The Muse's tuneful voice, thy tones of glee;
Bid for the world the mealy blade ascend,
The currant's juicy clusters swell for thee.

And though these groves may tempt the prowling boy,
Though all his eyes the braided foliage draw;
Here shall thy nestlings, and thy rising joy,
Be sacred from the truant's prying paw.

Nymphs of the woods that trip unseen along,
Whom still, when burns the noon, these shades can charm,
Who share alike the shelter and the song,
O guard his helpless group from every harm.

Protect them, Dryad Fair, or dread the day,
When angry Pan shall lay aside his flute;
Forbid the dance that bids your hours be gay,
And every throat that cheers the grove be mute.