High burning over Clywyd Vale,
And reddening the mountain dew:
While the moon lingers frail,
High up in skies of blue.
Lovely and loved, O passionate land!
Dear Celtic land, unconquered still!
Thy mountain strength prevails:
Thy winds have all their will.
They have no care for meaner things;
They have no scorn for brooding dreams:
A spirit in them sings,
A light about them beams.
1887.
SORTES VIRGILIANAE.
To John Barlas.
Lord of the Golden Branch, Virgil! and Caesar's friend:
Leader of pilgrim Dante! Yes: things have their tears:
So sighed thy song, when down sad winds pierced to thine ears
Wandering and immemorial sorrows without end.
And things of death touch hearts, that die: Yes: but joys blend,
And glories, with our little life of human fears:
Rome reigns, and Caesar triumphs! Ah, the Golden Years,
The Golden Years return: this also the Gods send.
O men, who have endured an heavier burden yet!
Hear you not happy airs, and voices augural?
For you, in these last days by sure foreknowledge set,
Looms no Italian shore, bright and imperial?
Wounded and worn! What Virgil sang, doth God forget?
Virgil, the melancholy, the majestical.
1891.