But here was a note sweet and soft as that, and yet
charged with a richness no blackcap's song had ever borne, because no
blackcap has ever felt the joys and sorrows of a young human soul.
The voice was singing in a language which seemed strange to me then,
but has been familiar enough since:
Bore o'r cymwl aur,
Eryri oedd dy gaer.
Bren o wyllt a gwar,
Gwawr ysbrydau.[Footnote]
[Footnote: Morning of the golden cloud,
Eryrl was thy castle,
King of the wild and tame,
Glory of the spirits of air!]
[Eryri--the Place of Eagles, i.e. Snowdon.]
Intense curiosity now made me suddenly forget my troubles. I
scrambled back through the trees not tar from that spot and looked
around. There, sitting upon a grassy grave, beneath one of the
windows of the church, was a little girl, somewhat younger than
myself apparently. With her head bent back she was gazing up at the
sky and singing, while one of her little hands was pointing to a tiny
cloud that hovered like a golden feather over her head.
Pages:
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45