And now the hoary
minstrel rose from the little eminence, beneath the aged oak, from whose
branches depended the ivy and the honeysuckle, on which the veneration
of the multitude had placed him. He came into the midst of the plain,
and the sons and the daughters of the fertile Clwyd pressed around him.
Fervently they kissed the hem of his garment; eagerly with their eyes
they sought to encounter the benign rays of his countenance. With the
dignity of a magistrate, and the tenderness of a father, he lifted his
aged arms, and poured upon them his mild benediction. "Children, I have
met your fathers, and your fathers fathers, beneath the hills of Ruthyn.
Such as they were, such are ye, and such ever may ye remain. The lily is
not more spotless, the rose and the violet do not boast a more fragrant
odour, than the incense of your prayers when it ascends to the footstool
of the Gods. Guileless and undesigning are you as the yearling lamb;
gentle and affectionate as the cooing dove. Qualities like these the
Gods behold with approbation; to qualities like these the Gods assign
their choicest blessings. My sons, there is a splendour that dazzles,
rather than enlightens; there is a heat that burns rather than
fructifies. Let not characters like these excite your ambition.
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