Уильям Мейсон (William Mason)

Mona

MONA on Snowdon calls:
Hear, thou king of mountains, hear;
Hark, she speaks from all her strings:
Hark, her loudest echo rings;
King of mountains, bend thine ear;
Send thy spirits, send them soon,
Now, when midnight and the moon
Meet upon thy front of snow;
See, their gold and ebon rod,
Where the sober sisters nod,
And greet in whispers sage and slow.
Snowdon, mark! ’t is magic’s hour,
Now the muttered spell hath power,—
Power to rend thy ribs of rock,
And burst thy base with thunder’s shock;
But to thee no ruder spell
Shall Mona use, than those that dwell
In music’s secret cells, and lie
Steeped in the stream of harmony.
Snowdon has heard the strain:
Hark, amid the wondering grove
Other harpings answer clear,
Other voices meet our ear,
Pinions flutter, shadows move,
Busy murmurs hum around,
Rustling vestments brush the ground;
Round and round and round they go,
Through the twilight, through the shade,
Mount the oak’s majestic head,
And gild the tufted mistletoe.
Cease, ye glittering race of light,
Close your wings, and check your flight;
Here, arranged in order due,
Spread your robes of saffron hue:
For lo! with more than mortal fire,
Mighty Mador strikes the lyre:
Hark! he sweeps the master-strings;
Listen all—

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