For us, not ours the festival to hold,
Midst the stone circles hallow’d thus of old;
Not where great Nature’s majesty and might
First broke all glorious on our infant sight;
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave,
Not by the mountain-llyn,[254] the ocean-wave,
In these late days we meet—dark Mona’s shore,
Eryri’s[255] cliffs resound with harps no more!
But as the stream, (though time or art may turn
The current, bursting from its cavern’d urn,