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Her figure fwells! fhe foams, fhe raves!
Her figure fwells to more than mortal fize!
Streams of rapture roll along,
Silver notes afcend the fkies:
Wake, Echo, wake and catch the fong,
Oh catch it, ere it dies.
The Sybil speaks, the dream is o'er,
The holy harpings charm no more.
In vain fhe checks the God's controul;
His madding spirit fills her frame,
And moulds the features of her foul,
Breathing a prophetic flame.
The cavern frowns! its hundred mouths unclofe!
And, in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire flows.
Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead!
Rites thy brown oaks would never dare
Ev'n whisper to the idle air;
Rites that have chain'd old Ocean on his bed.
Shiver'd by thy piercing glance,
Pointless falls the hero's lance.
Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly, 17
And mars the laureate wreath of victory.
Hark, the bard's foul infpires the vocal ftring!
Chas'd by the morn from Snowdon's awful brow, Where late fhe fat and fcowl'd on the black wave below.
Lo, fteel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears!
The red-crofs fquadrons madly rage, 18
And mow thro' infancy and age;
Then kifs the facred duft and melt in tears.
Veiling from the eye of day,
Penance dreams her life away;
In cloister'd folitude she fits and fighs,
Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of fire.
R Westall, del.
To face Page 102
Published May 201793, by T. Cadell Strand.
In cloisterd solitude she sits & sighs. While from each shrine still small responses rise!!