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soon, as dissolved in ether gray, The woods, and the shores, and the Holms[136] steal away, And the long blue hills of Gwent. [132] This lyrical ballad is founded on a story connected with an old Welsh melody. I have placed the circumstance in the time of the Crusades. [133] Archbishop of Canterbury, who preached the Crusade in Wales. [134] Monmouthshire. [135] The Welsh tune is called the "Remembrance of Gwenlhian," the name of the woman. [136] Islands in the Bristol Channel. PART II. High on the hill, with moss o'ergrown, 1 A hermit chapel stood; It spoke the tale of seasons gone, And half-revealed its ivied stone. Amid the beechen wood. Here often, when the mountain trees 2 A leafy murmur made, Now still, now swaying to the breeze, (Sounds that the musing fancy please), The widowed mourner strayed. And many a morn she climbed the steep, 3 From whence she might behold, Where, 'neath the clouds, in shining sweep, And mingling with the mighty deep, The sea-broad Severn rolled. Her little boy beside her played, 4 With sea-shells in his hand; And sometimes, 'mid the bents delayed, And sometimes running onward, said, Oh, where is Holy Land! My child, she cried, my prattler dear! 5 And kissed his light-brown hair; Her eyelid glistened with a tear, And none but God above could hear, That hour, her secret prayer. As thus she nursed her secret woes, 6 Oft to the wind and rain She listened, at sad autumn's close, Whilst many a thronging shadow rose, Dark-glancing o'er her brain. Now lonely to the cloudy height 7 Of the steep hill she strays; Below, the raven wings his flight, And often on the screaming kite She sees the wild deer gaze. The clouds were gathered on its brow, 8 The warring winds were high; She heard a hollow voice, and now She lifts to heaven a secret vow, Whilst the king of the storm rides by. Seated on a craggy rock, 9 What aged man appears! There is no hind, no straggling
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