On Leaving London For Wales.

Hail to thee, Cambria! for the unfettered wind     Which from thy wilds even now methinks I feel,     Chasing the clouds that roll in wrath behind,     And tightening the soul's laxest nerves to steel;     True mountain Liberty alone may heal     The pain which Custom's obduracies bring,     And he who dares in fancy even to steal     One draught from Snowdon's ever sacred spring     Blots out the unholiest rede of worldly witnessing.     And shall that soul, to selfish peace resigned,     So soon forget the woe its fellows share?     Can Snowdon's Lethe from the free-born mind     So soon the page of injured penury tear?     Does this fine mass of human passion dare     To sleep, unhonouring the patriot's fall,     Or life's sweet load in quietude to bear     While millions famish even in Luxury's hall,     And Tyranny, high raised, stern lowers on all?     No, Cambria! never may thy matchless vales     A heart so false to hope and virtue shield;     Nor ever may thy spirit-breathing gales     Waft freshness to the slaves who dare to yield.     For me!...the weapon that I burn to wield     I seek amid thy rocks to ruin hurled,     That Reason's flag may over Freedom's field,     Symbol of bloodless victory, wave unfurled,     A meteor-sign of love effulgent o'er the world.     ...     Do thou, wild Cambria, calm each struggling thought;     Cast thy sweet veil of rocks and woods between,     That by the soul to indignation wrought     Mountains and dells be mingled with the scene;     Let me forever be what I have been,     But not forever at my needy door     Let Misery linger speechless, pale and lean;     I am the friend of the unfriended poor, -     Let me not madly stain their righteous cause in gore.