Then midst the dying of all other sound,
When the soul hears thy distant voice profound,
Lone worshipping, and knows that through the night
’Twill worship still, then most its anthem-tone
Speaks to our being of the Eternal One,
Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might.
THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES.
O Cambrian river! with slow music gliding
By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin’d towers;
Now midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding,