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Poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
“Snowdon was held as sacred by the ancient Britons as Parnassus was by the Greeks and Ida by the Cretans. It is still said, that whosoever slept upon Snowdon would wake inspired, as much as if he had taken a nap on the hill of Apollo. The Welsh had always the strongest attachment to the tract of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition to their title, that of Lord of Snowdon.” — Pennant.
THEIRS was no dream, O monarch hill, With heaven’s own azure crowned! Who called thee—what thou shalt be still, White Snowdon!—holy ground. They fabled not, thy sons who told Of the dread power enshrined Within thy cloudy mantle’s fold And on thy rushing wind! It shadowed o’er thy silent height, It filled thy chainless air, Deep thoughts of majesty and might Forever breathing there. Nor hath it fled! the awful spell Yet holds unbroken sway, As when on that wild rock it fell Where Merddin Emrys lay. Though from their stormy haunts of yore Thine eagles long have flown, As proud a flight the soul shall soar Yet from thy mountain throne! Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams! And make the snows thy crest! The sunlight of immortal dreams Around thee still shall rest. Eryri! temple of the bard, And fortress of the free! Midst rocks which heroes died to guard, Their spirit dwells with thee!
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Felicia Dorothea Hemans's other poems:
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