I stood on the spot where the famed Taliessin,
“The Prince of the Bards,” had his dwelling of old;
Sad thoughts on my memory, unbidden, were pressing,
Of hopes wildly thwarted, and friendships grown cold!
Eve was yielding to twilight; yet still richly glowing,
The deep skies reflected the sun that had fled;
And below me, in musical murmurs, were flowing
The bright purple waters of Llynn Geirionedd.
I looked on the mighty hills gathered around it,—
Like Titans they stood, with their cloud-girded brows;
And I thought of the minstrel whose genius had crowned it,
As I gazed on their summits of shadows and snows.
I called on his name who had roused from her slumbers
Sweet Echo, how oft, in her deep-hidden lair;
I asked, where, and oh where, breathes he now his wild numbers?
And the mountains around answered, where, and oh where?
Years have fleeted since then;—but in sickness and sadness,
As I muse on the hopes that once promised so fair,
I ask, where, and oh where, are those visions of gladness?
And my bosom's deep cell echoes, where, and oh where?