The fire was not extinguished
in his flaming eye; it had only attained that degree of chasteness and
solemnity, which had in it by so much the more, all that is majestic,
and all that is celestial. His looks held commerce with his native
skies. No vulgar passion ever visited his heaven-born mind. No vulgar
emotion ever deformed the godlike tranquility of his soul. He had but
one passion; it was the love of harmony. He was conscious only to one
emotion; it was reverence for the immortal Gods. He sat like the
anchorite upon the summit of Snowdon. The tempests raise the foaming
ocean into one scene of horror, but he beholds it unmoved. The rains
descend, the thunder roars, and the lightnings play beneath his feet.
Llewelyn struck the lyre, and the innumerable croud was noiseless and
silent as the chambers of death. They did not now wait for the pleasing
tale of a luxuriant imagination, or the pathetic and melting strain of
the mourner. They composed their spirits into the serenity of devotion.
They called together their innocent thoughts for the worship of heaven.
By anticipation their bosoms swelled with gratitude, and their hearts
dilated into praise.
The pious Llewelyn began his song from the rude and shapeless chaos.
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