The Vision of Taliesin
The honoured scene, by song's blest Sire approved,
The cliffs that heard him, and the meads he loved;
His dear Geirionydd, and the streams that throng,
To pour, on Arvon's vales, a flood of song;
Entranced I stood, the tuneful waters waved,
They wrote Taliesin, on the sands they laved;
The name repeated on the rippling shore,
The rocks are records, and the lake is lore;
Enchanting spot, with glowing eye I gazed,
The spark divine, through all my bosom blazed;
O'er ages past, the mental radiance ran,
When first, in Elphin's arms the strain began,
When listening Britain, on his accents hung,
And aged Llywarch's though herself but young.
Hush'd were on Cambria's tops, th' aspiring gales,
The humbler breezes breathing in the vales;
Even Zephyr's wings, that flutter in the glades,
Then lightly floated o'er unbending blades.
Hushed was the torrent's roar, the tinkling rill,
Even foaming Lligwy's thundering sounds were still;
And Conway's self, that heaves th' incessant sigh,
O'er Griffith's urn, looked on with dewy eye.
Hush'd were the herds, the flocks responsive low,
The bleating nations on the mountain's brow;
The buzzing millions that the sun-beams fill,
The birds of Heaven, and every voice was still;
Still was the world, while in the pause profound,
I trod with holy awe, that hallowed ground.
Amid cerulean gleams, by Angels led,
His sainted spirit hovered o'er my head;
His blest approach, a choir symphonious told,
Bright through my soul, his eye of rapture roll'd;
In spotless silver, song's blest Father came,
In vests of azure other sons of Fame;
The Muse's train, in other times inspired,
When Britain's race, to Cambrian rocks retired;
Their harps suspended, and the strain unsung,
While o'er their hoary heads, Oppression hung;
And those that since, beneath a milder power,
The pastoral pipe have held in happier hour;
When Concord bade the nations cease to bleed,
And led the voice that long was Honour's meed;
To give its modulations to the groves,
To sing the softer virtues and the loves;
And they who now the powers of song partake,
Whose words, untaught, in measur'd warblings break;
My tuneful Brothers, of the passing day,
Who pour, in Britain's infant voice, the lay:
To these he gave a Father's fondest smiles,
Then named, lamented, Burns the living Giles;
And he, who still with liberal hand explores,
The storied hoard, poetic page restores;
Unfolds the volumes, to his Country's view,
And bids her Chiefs and Sages breathe anew:
To him the Bard the kindest words addrest,
And clasp'd the generous patron to his breast;
Looked on the cliffs he loved with patriot fire,
The roll of ages held — his Country's Lyre;
And, as the Gift, with parent hand was given,
Struck on its dulcet chords, the strains of Heaven!
Then said, with Angel voice, " thy boon be this, "
And soar'd, to reassume, the Lyre of bliss.
Associates! sons of science and of song,
Now, as ye float the tide of time along;
Think, that while a transient world endures,
To live, perhaps, in lasting verse is your's;
Let then, since mundane trifles pass away,
The voice of Virtue lead th' instructing lay;
Still on the mind, impress one truth sublime,
That life has nothing in it worth a Crime.
So shall be your's, the dying Bard's blest lot,
To leave no stain that you may wish to blot;
So shall be your's, the sweetest notes of fame,
And ages, yet unborn shall boast your name;
Shall seek the spot, once by your presence blest,
Kneel on the soil, in which your relics rest;
Repeat the lasting line, the living lay,
And tell, to other times, your honoured Day.
The cliffs that heard him, and the meads he loved;
His dear Geirionydd, and the streams that throng,
To pour, on Arvon's vales, a flood of song;
Entranced I stood, the tuneful waters waved,
They wrote Taliesin, on the sands they laved;
The name repeated on the rippling shore,
The rocks are records, and the lake is lore;
Enchanting spot, with glowing eye I gazed,
The spark divine, through all my bosom blazed;
O'er ages past, the mental radiance ran,
When first, in Elphin's arms the strain began,
When listening Britain, on his accents hung,
And aged Llywarch's though herself but young.
Hush'd were on Cambria's tops, th' aspiring gales,
The humbler breezes breathing in the vales;
Even Zephyr's wings, that flutter in the glades,
Then lightly floated o'er unbending blades.
Hushed was the torrent's roar, the tinkling rill,
Even foaming Lligwy's thundering sounds were still;
And Conway's self, that heaves th' incessant sigh,
O'er Griffith's urn, looked on with dewy eye.
Hush'd were the herds, the flocks responsive low,
The bleating nations on the mountain's brow;
The buzzing millions that the sun-beams fill,
The birds of Heaven, and every voice was still;
Still was the world, while in the pause profound,
I trod with holy awe, that hallowed ground.
Amid cerulean gleams, by Angels led,
His sainted spirit hovered o'er my head;
His blest approach, a choir symphonious told,
Bright through my soul, his eye of rapture roll'd;
In spotless silver, song's blest Father came,
In vests of azure other sons of Fame;
The Muse's train, in other times inspired,
When Britain's race, to Cambrian rocks retired;
Their harps suspended, and the strain unsung,
While o'er their hoary heads, Oppression hung;
And those that since, beneath a milder power,
The pastoral pipe have held in happier hour;
When Concord bade the nations cease to bleed,
And led the voice that long was Honour's meed;
To give its modulations to the groves,
To sing the softer virtues and the loves;
And they who now the powers of song partake,
Whose words, untaught, in measur'd warblings break;
My tuneful Brothers, of the passing day,
Who pour, in Britain's infant voice, the lay:
To these he gave a Father's fondest smiles,
Then named, lamented, Burns the living Giles;
And he, who still with liberal hand explores,
The storied hoard, poetic page restores;
Unfolds the volumes, to his Country's view,
And bids her Chiefs and Sages breathe anew:
To him the Bard the kindest words addrest,
And clasp'd the generous patron to his breast;
Looked on the cliffs he loved with patriot fire,
The roll of ages held — his Country's Lyre;
And, as the Gift, with parent hand was given,
Struck on its dulcet chords, the strains of Heaven!
Then said, with Angel voice, " thy boon be this, "
And soar'd, to reassume, the Lyre of bliss.
Associates! sons of science and of song,
Now, as ye float the tide of time along;
Think, that while a transient world endures,
To live, perhaps, in lasting verse is your's;
Let then, since mundane trifles pass away,
The voice of Virtue lead th' instructing lay;
Still on the mind, impress one truth sublime,
That life has nothing in it worth a Crime.
So shall be your's, the dying Bard's blest lot,
To leave no stain that you may wish to blot;
So shall be your's, the sweetest notes of fame,
And ages, yet unborn shall boast your name;
Shall seek the spot, once by your presence blest,
Kneel on the soil, in which your relics rest;
Repeat the lasting line, the living lay,
And tell, to other times, your honoured Day.
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