Pen-Y-Van

THE Mountain is a Giant's head,
A Giant's arms around are spread,
Before him clouds obedient sail,
His feet command the distant vale;
The ruin'd arch, the nodding tower,
With awful contrast hail his power;
The roaring floods that storms impell
With loud acclaim his triumph swell.
But where is the congenial Man ,
A part of this majestic plan?
In sloth immers'd, or drench'd with ale
(The morning's prayer, the night's regale),
At Mischief's call, as keen as light,
His tongue to rail, his arms to fight;
But foe to enterprizing merit,
And stung by genius, truth, or spirit,
Inflam'd with Passion's brutal fire
To mad revenge, or fierce desire,
Of appetite he makes his throne,
Alike to rape and murder prone,
And, while the Law his actions brave,
The savage will's distemper'd slave.
Oh, give me upon Sarum's plain
The humble scene, but Man to reign;
The Waste as abject as you will,
If Man the Giant's part can fill.
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