His lofty soul soared above the little war of
terrestrial objects, and rode expanded upon the wings of the winds. Yet
was the bard full of gentleness and sensibility; no breast was more
susceptible to the emotions of pity, no tongue was better skilled in the
soft and passionate touches of the melting and pathetic. He possessed a
key to unlock all the avenues of the heart.
Such was the bard, and this was the subject of his song. He told of a
dreadful famine, that laid waste the shores of the Menai. Heaven, not to
punish the shepherds, for, alas, what had these innocent shepherds done?
but in the mysterious wisdom of its ways, had denied the refreshing
shower, and the soft-descending dew. From the top of Penmaenmawr, as far
as the eye could reach, all was uniform and waste. The trees were
leafless, not one flower adorned the ground, not one tuft of verdure
appeared to relieve the weary eye. The brooks were dried up; their beds
only remained to tell the melancholy tale, Here once was water; the
tender lambs hastened to the accustomed brink, and lifted up their
innocent eyes with anguish and disappointment. The meadows no longer
afforded pasture of the cattle; the trees denied their fruits to man. In
this hour of calamity the Druids came forth from their secret cells, and
assembled upon the heights of Mona.
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