THEIRS was no dream, O monarch hill, With heaven's own azure crowned! Who called thee -- what thou shalt be still, White Snowdon! -- holy ground. They fabled not, thy sons who told Of the dread power enshrined Within thy cloudy mantle's fold And on thy rushing wind! It shadowed o'er thy silent height, It filled thy chainless air, Deep thoughts of majesty and might Forever breathing there. Nor hath it fled! the awful spell Yet holds unbroken sway, As when on that wild rock it fell Where Merddin Emrys lay! Though from their stormy haunts of yore Thine eagles long have flown, As proud a flight the soul shall soar Yet from thy mountain-throne! Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams! And make the snows thy crest! The sunlight of immortal dreams Around thee still shall rest. Eryri! temple of the bard! And fortress of the free! Midst rocks which heroes died to guard, Their spirit dwells with thee! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GOOD COMPANY by KARLE WILSON BAKER A DEATH SCENE by EMILY JANE BRONTE AT HOME by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI TO THE DAISY (3) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE SODA-WATER SLOT-MACHINE by BELLA AKHMADULINA MOUNT PIERUS by ANTIPATER OF SIDON A MASQUE OF DEAD QUEENS by STANLEY E. BABB |