PURE as the early Morn, with pearly dews,
They pass into my Soul, these spreading views
Of our secluded Isle. What eerie-spell
Over the "Mist-gem" broods? Is't Ocean's swell-
His wild, fantastic moods-his ceaseless croon-
That waken Fancy from her sleep, and tune
Our Spirit to the harmonies that dwell
In the deep music of his mystic Shell?
Is it the Fairy-Wren* of Mona singing?
Peril of death, on all who hearken, bringing!
Tell me, ye Breezes, with low-wailing sigh,
And thou, encircling Sea (up-heaving high
Thy silver-crested wave, that seems to strain
Toward yonder Star-its halcyon rest to gain),
What Fay benign gave to this Isle its beam?
Its ever-changing charm of cloud and gleam?
The Hills their outline clear?-How soft they lie
On the flushed cheek of the enamoured Sky!
They melt into his golden floods of light;
Ah! drop not yet thy veil, thou envious Night!
*See following LEGEND,