What a fine sense of honour that child had!
June 22nd.—
Mona Inn.
Mona on Snowdon calls!
Hear, thou king of mountains, hear;
Hark, she speaks from all her strings
Hark, her loudest echo rings;
King of mountains, bend thine ear:
Send thy spirits, send them soon,
Now, when midnight and the moon
Meet upon thy front of snow:
See their gold and ebon rod,
Where the sober sisters nod,
And greet in whispers sage and slow.
Snowdon mark! ’tis magic’s hour;
Now the muttered spell hath power—
Power to rend thy ribs of rock,
And burst thy base with thunder’s shock;
But to thee no ruder spell
Shall Mona use, than those that dwell
In music’s secret cells, and lie
Steeped in the stream of harmony.
Caroline repeated these lines after we had ascended the new road from the Menai bridge, and were losing sight of the extensive view of Plas Newydd, the winding straits, and Snowdon proudly towering over the Caernarvon mountains.
“Well chosen lines,” said my aunt, “Mason’s Caractacus is always interesting, but particularly so in this once sacred island, where
—— with more than mortal fire
Mighty Mador smote the lyre.”
“Mason gives such a nice touch of mystery to these lines,” said Caroline, “that I almost feel the magic spell, and expect to see the mountains whiten with the slow-descending Druids.”
“I wish, uncle, that you would tell me something about the Druids; I am very fond of the history of those early times.”
“That, probably, arises from your love of fairy tales and fables, Bertha; for there is much fable, I believe, in all early history: but be that as it may, we may amuse ourselves with Druidical fable while we drive along this bare country:—now for your questions.”