Imogen | Page 9

prime of manhood. His
shining locks flowed in rich abundance upon his strong and graceful
shoulders. His eye expressed more of flame than gaiety, more of
enthusiasm than imagination. His brow, though manly, and, as it should
seem, by nature erect, bore an appearance of solemn and contemplative.
He had ever been distinguished by an attachment to solitude, and a love
for those grand and tremendous objects of uncultivated nature with

which his country abounded. His were the hanging precipice, and the
foaming cataract. His ear drank in the voice of the tempest; he was rapt
in attention to the roaring thunder. When the contention of the elements
seemed to threaten the destruction of the universe, when Snowdon
bowed to its deepest base, it was then that his mind was most filled
with sublime meditation. His lofty soul soared above the little war of
terrestrial objects, and rode expanded upon the wings of the winds. Yet
was the bard full of gentleness and sensibility; no breast was more
susceptible to the emotions of pity, no tongue was better skilled in the
soft and passionate touches of the melting and pathetic. He possessed a
key to unlock all the avenues of the heart.
Such was the bard, and this was the subject of his song. He told of a
dreadful famine, that laid waste the shores of the Menai. Heaven, not to
punish the shepherds, for, alas, what had these innocent shepherds done?
but in the mysterious wisdom of its ways, had denied the refreshing
shower, and the soft-descending dew. From the top of Penmaenmawr,
as far as the eye could reach, all was uniform and waste. The trees were
leafless, not one flower adorned the ground, not one tuft of verdure
appeared to relieve the weary eye. The brooks were dried up; their beds
only remained to tell the melancholy tale, Here once was water; the
tender lambs hastened to the accustomed brink, and lifted up their
innocent eyes with anguish and disappointment. The meadows no
longer afforded pasture of the cattle; the trees denied their fruits to man.
In this hour of calamity the Druids came forth from their secret cells,
and assembled upon the heights of Mona. This convention of the
servants of the Gods, though intended to relieve the general distress, for
a moment increased it. The shepherds anticipated the fatal decree; they
knew that at times like this the blood of a human victim was
accustomed to be shed upon the altars of heaven. Every swain trembled
for himself or his friend; every parent feared to be bereaved of the staff
of his age. And now the holy priest had cast the lots in the mysterious
urn; and the lot fell upon the generous Arthur. Arthur was beloved by
all the shepherds that dwelt upon the margin of the main; the praise of
Arthur sat upon the lips of all that knew him. But what served
principally to enhance the distress, was the attachment there existed
between him and the beauteous Evelina. Mild was the breast of Evelina,
unused to encounter the harshness of opposition, or the chilly hand and

forbidding countenance of adversity. From twenty shepherds she had
chosen the gallant Arthur, to reward his pure and constant love. Long
had they been decreed to make each other happy. No parent opposed
himself to their virtuous desires; the blessing of heaven awaited them
from the hand of the sacred Druid. But in the general calamity of their
country they had no heart to rejoice; they could not insult over the
misery of all around them. "Soon, oh soon," cried the impatient
shepherd, "may the wrath of heaven be overpast! Extend, all-merciful
divinity, thy benign influence to the shores of Arvon! Once more may
the rustling of the shower refresh our longing ears! Once more may our
eyes be gladdened with the pearly, orient dew! May the fields be
clothed afresh in cheerful green! May the flowers enamel the verdant
mead! May the brooks again brawl along their pebbly bed! And may
man and beast rejoice together!" Ah, short-sighted, unapprehensive
shepherd! thou dost not know the misfortune that is reserved for thyself;
thou dost not know, that thou shalt not live to behold those smiling
scenes which thy imagination forestallest; thou dost not see the dart of
immature and relentless death that is suspended over thee. Think, O ye
swains, what was the universal astonishment and pity, when the awful
voice of the Druid proclaimed the decree of heaven! Terror sat upon
every other countenance, tears started into every other eye; but the
mien of Arthur was placid and serene. He came forward from the
throng; his eyes glistened with the fire of patriotism. "Hear me, my
countrymen," cried he, "for you I am willing to die. What