Classic Poem

With insolent conceit of taste,
I swore on Briton Ferry's hill,
" No other charms my love should waste,
Enchantment there its cup should fill. "

But soon the Nymphs of Dinevawr
Around me danc'd with Beauty's chain,
Commenc'd the Rival's jealous war,
And bound me to their smiling reign.

Then Hafod's Muse entranc'd my love,
Secluded in her arms I lay,
Explor'd with her the pathless grove,
And caught her glittering vision's ray.

But Gressford Loves the heart have bound:
Endearment there is Beauty's pride ;
Grace with a Shepherd's wreath is crown'd,
And Fancy's wand is Nature's guide.

The Pilgrims here shall rest their feet,
The labour of their love endear;
Nor more shall Realms their fancy cheat:
The Temple 's found, the worship 's here.