III. 1.
Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead!
Rites thy brown oaks would never dare
Ev’n whisper to the idle air;
Rites that have chain’d old Ocean on his bed.
Shiver’d by thy piercing glance,
Pointless falls the hero’s lance.
Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,[[18]]
And blasts the laureate wreath of victory.
Hark, the bard’s soul inspires the vocal string!
At every pause dread Silence hovers o’er:
While murky Night sails round on raven-wing,
Deepening the tempest’s howl, the torrent’s roar;
Chas’d by the morn from Snowdon’s awful brow,
Where late she sate and scowl’d on the black wave below.