“Their golden summits in the noontide ray,
Shone o’er the dark green deep, that roll’d between;
For domes, and pinnacles, and spires were seen
Peering above the sea.”
Or the legend of Thierna Na Oge, in Lough Neagh, in Ireland; for Moore has sung —
“On Lough Neagh’s banks, when the fisherman strays,
He sees the round towers of other days;”
and why may not we?
Who that has wandered among the dark mountains of Brecon, remembers not the blue pool of Lynsavaddon, and has not listened to the tales of the mountaineers, of the city over which to this day its waves are rolling? and in the beautiful vale of Eidournion, in Merioneth—but listen to a fragment of a romance of this valley, which from memory I quote: —
There was a proud and wealthy prince in Gwyneth, when the beautiful isle was under the rule of the Cymri. At his palace gate a voice was once heard echoing among the mountains these words: ‘Edivar a ddau’—Repentance will come. The prince demanded ‘When?’ and in the rolling thunder the voice was again heard, ‘At the third generation.’