Thy soften’d bosom now relents,
Of all its cruelty repents,
Gives to remorse the fervent sigh,—
Sweet pity’s tear bedews thine eye.
Now love lights up its hallow’d fire,
Melts all thy heart with chaste desire:
Whilst in thy soul new feelings burn,
O! Morvyth, to thy bard return;
One tender look will cure his pain,
Will bid him rise to life again,
A life like that of saints above,
Ecstatic joy, and endless love.
those times, esteemed so very meritorious, as to occasion the following proverbial rhyme in Welsh:—
Dôs i Rufain wnwaith, ag i Fynyw ddwywaith,
A’r un elw cryno a gai di yma ae yno.
And in Latin:—
Roma semel quantum, bis dat Menevia tantum.
Would haughty popes your senses bubble,
And once to Rome your steps entice,
’Tis quite as well, and saves some trouble,
Go visit old Saint Taffy twice.
