solemnity, which had in it by so much the more, all that is majestic,
and all that is celestial. His looks held commerce with his native
skies. No vulgar passion ever visited his heaven-born mind. No vulgar
emotion ever deformed the godlike tranquility of his soul. He had but
one passion; it was the love of harmony. He was conscious only to one
emotion; it was reverence for the immortal Gods. He sat like the
anchorite upon the summit of Snowdon. The tempests raise the foaming
ocean into one scene of horror, but he beholds it unmoved. The rains
descend, the thunder roars, and the lightnings play beneath his feet.

Llewelyn struck the lyre, and the innumerable croud was noiseless and
silent as the chambers of death. They did not now wait for the pleasing
tale of a luxuriant imagination, or the pathetic and melting strain of
the mourner. They composed their spirits into the serenity of devotion.
They called together their innocent thoughts for the worship of heaven.
By anticipation their bosoms swelled with gratitude, and their hearts
dilated into praise.

The pious Llewelyn began his song from the rude and shapeless chaos. He
magnified the almighty word that spoke it into form. He sung of the
loose and fenny soil which gradually acquired firmness and density. The
immeasurable, eternal caverns of the ocean were scooped. The waters
rushed along, and fell with resounding, foamy violence to the depth
below. The sun shone forth from his chamber in the east, and the earth
wondered at the object, and smiled beneath his beams. Suddenly the
whole face of it was adorned with a verdant, undulating robe. The purple
violet and the yellow crocus bestrewed the ground. The stately oak
reared its branchy head, and the trees and shrubs burst from the surface
of the earth. Impregnated by power divine, the soil was prolific in
other fruits than these. The clods appeared to be informed with a