ON Snowdon’s haughty brow I stood, | |
| And viewed afar old Menai’s flood; | |
| Carnarvon Castle, eagle-crowned, | |
| And all the beauteous prospect round; | |
| But soon each gay idea fled, | 5 |
| For Snowdon’s favorite bard was dead. | |
| Poor bard, accept one genuine tear, | |
| And read thy true eulogium here; | |
| Here in my heart, that rues the day | |
| Which stole Eryri’s pride away. | 10 |
| But, lo, where seen by Fancy’s eye | |
| His visionary form glides by; | |
| Pale, ghastly pale, that hollow cheek; | |
| That frantic look does more than speak, | |
| And tells a tale so full of woe, | 15 |
| My bosom swells, my eyes o’erflow. | |
| On Snowdon’s rocks, unhomed, unfed, | |
| The tempest howling round his head, | |
| Far from the haunts of men, alone, | |
| Unheard, unpitied, and unknown, | 20 |
| To want and to despair a prey, | |
| He pined and sighed his soul away. | |
| Ungrateful countrymen, your pride, | |
| Your glory, wanted bread, and died! | |
| Whilst ignorance and vice are fed, | 25 |
| Shall wit and genius droop their head? | |
| Shall fawning sycophants be paid | |
| For flattering fools, while thou art laid | |
| On thy sick-bed, the mountain heath, | |
| Waiting the slow approach of death, | 30 |
| Beneath inhospitable skies, | |
| Without a friend to close thine eyes? | |
| Thus shall the chief of bards expire, | |
| The master of the British lyre, | |
| And shall thy hapless relics rot, | 35 |
| Unwept, unhallowed, and forgot? | |
| No! while one grateful Muse remains, | |
| And Pity dwells on Cambria’s plains, | |
| Thy mournful story shall be told, | |
| And wept, till time itself grows old. | 40 |
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