II.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o’er old Conway’s foaming flood, Rob’d in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream’d, like a meteor, to the troubled air) And with a Master’s hand, and Prophet’s fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre, “Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert-cave, “Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath! “O’er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, “Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; “Vocal no more, since Cambria’s fatal day, “To high-born Hoel’s harp, or soft Llewellyn’s lay.