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DARKNESS surrounds us; seeking, we are lost
On Snowdon's wilds, amid Brigantian coves,
Or where the solitary shepherd roves
Along the plain of Sarum, by the ghost
Of Time and shadows of Tradition, crost;
And where the boatman of the Western Isles
Slackens his course-to mark those holy piles
Which yet survive on bleak Iona's coast.
Nor these, nor monuments of eldest name,
Nor Taliesin's unforgotten lays,

Nor characters of Greek or Roman fame,
To an unquestionable Source have led ;
Enough-if eyes, that sought the fountain-head
In vain, upon the growing Rill may gaze.



LAMENT! for Diocletian's fiery sword
Works busy as the lightning; but instinct
With malice ne'er to deadliest weapon linked
Which God's ethereal store-houses afford:


Against the Followers of the incarnate Lord

It rages;

-some are smitten in the field—

Some pierced to the heart through the ineffectual shield
Of sacred home;-with pomp are others gored
And dreadful respite. Thus was Alban tried,
England's first Martyr, whom no threats could shake;
Self-offered victim, for his friend he died,

And for the faith; nor shall his name forsake
That Hill, whose flowery platform seems to rise
By Nature decked for holiest sacrifice *.



As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain

Their cheerfulness, and busily retrim

Their nests, or chant a gratulating hymn
To the blue ether and bespangled plain;
Even So, in many a re-constructed fane,
Have the survivors of this Storm renewed
Their holy rites with vocal gratitude :
And solemn ceremonials they ordair
To celebrate their great deliverance;
Most feelingly instructed 'mid their fear-
That persecution, blind with rage extreme,

May not the less, through Heaven's mild countenance,
Even in her own despite, both feed and cheer;
For all things are less dreadful than they seem.

* See Note.



WATCH, and be firm! for, soul-subduing vice,
Heart-killing luxury, on your steps await.
Fair houses, baths, and banquets delicate,
And temples flashing, bright as polar ice,
Their radiance through the woods-may yet suffice
To sap your hardy virtue, and abate

Your love of Him upon whose forehead sate

The crown of thorns; whose life-blood flowed, the price
Of your redemption. Shun the insidious arts

That Rome provides, less dreading from her frown
Than from her wily praise, her peaceful gown,
Language, and letters;-these, though fondly viewed
As humanising graces, are but parts
And instruments of deadliest servitude!



THAT heresies should strike (if truth be scanned
Presumptuously) their roots both wide and deep,
Is natural as dreams to feverish sleep.
Lo! Discord at the altar dares to stand

Uplifting toward high Heaven her fiery brand,
A cherished Priestess of the new-baptized!
But chastisement shall follow peace despised.
The Pictish cloud darkens the enervate land
By Rome abandoned; vain are suppliant cries,
And prayers that would undo her forced farewell;
For she returns not.-Awed by her own knell,
She casts the Britons upon strange Allies

Soon to become more dreaded enemies
Than heartless misery called them to repel.



RISE!-they have risen: of brave Aneurin ask
How they have scourged old foes, perfidious friends:
The Spirit of Caractacus descends

Upon the Patriots, animates their task;-
Amazement runs before the towering casque
Of Arthur, bearing through the stormy field
The virgin sculptured on his Christian shield:-
Stretched in the sunny light of victory bask
The Host that followed Urien as he strode
O'er heaps of slain ;—from Cambrian wood and moss
Druids descend, auxiliars of the Cross;

Bards, nursed on blue Plinlimmon's still abode,
Rush on the fight, to harps preferring swords,

And everlasting deeds to burning words!



NOR wants the cause the panic-striking aid
Of hallelujahs* tost from hill to hill-
For instant victory. But Heaven's high will
Permits a second and a darker shade

Of Pagan night. Afflicted and dismayed,

The Relics of the sword flee to the mountains: O wretched Land! whose tears have flowed like fountains;

Whose arts and honours in the dust are laid

By men yet scarcely conscious of a care

For other monuments than those of Earth;

Who, as the fields and woods have given them birth,
Will build their savage fortunes only there;
Content, if foss, and barrow, and the girth
Of long-drawn rampart, witness what they were.



THE oppression of the tumult—wrath and scorn—
The tribulation-and the gleaming blades—
Such it the impetuous spirit that pervades


song of Taliesin ;-Ours shall mourn

* See Note.

+ See Note.

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