"Oh glorious youth," cried they,
"how early is thy excellence! Ere manhood has given nerve and vigour to
thy limbs, ere yet the flowing beard adorns thy gallant breast, nature
has unlocked to thee her hidden treasures, the Gods have enriched thee
with all the charms of poetry. Great art thou among the bards;
illustrious in wisdom, where they all are wise. Should gracious heaven
spare thy life, we will cease to weep the death of Hoel; we will lament
no longer the growing infirmities of Llewelyn."
While they yet spoke, a bard, who sat upon the right hand of the prince,
prepared to sweep the string. He was in the prime of manhood. His
shining locks flowed in rich abundance upon his strong and graceful
shoulders. His eye expressed more of flame than gaiety, more of
enthusiasm than imagination. His brow, though manly, and, as it should
seem, by nature erect, bore an appearance of solemn and contemplative.
He had ever been distinguished by an attachment to solitude, and a love
for those grand and tremendous objects of uncultivated nature with which
his country abounded. His were the hanging precipice, and the foaming
cataract. His ear drank in the voice of the tempest; he was rapt in
attention to the roaring thunder. When the contention of the elements
seemed to threaten the destruction of the universe, when Snowdon bowed
to its deepest base, it was then that his mind was most filled with
sublime meditation.
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