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Poem by William Wordsworth
Monastery of Old Bangor
THE OPPRESSION of the tumult, wrath and scorn, The tribulation, and the gleaming blades,Ч Such is the impetuous spirit that pervades The song of Taliesin; ours shall mourn The unarmed host who by their prayers would turn The sword from BangorТs walls, and guard the store Of aboriginal and Roman lore, And Christian monuments, that now must burn To senseless ashes. Mark! how all things swerve From their known course, or vanish like a dream; Another language spreads from coast to coast; Only perchance some melancholy stream And some indignant hills old names preserve, When laws and creeds and people all are lost!
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