Bard Of The Fleece, Whose Skilful Genius Made That Work A Living Landscape Fair And Bright; Nor Hallowed Less With Musical Delight Than Those Soft Scenes Through Which Thy Childhood Strayed, Those Southern Tracts Of Cambria, "Deep Embayed, With Green Hills Fenced, With Ocean'S Murmur Lulled;" Though Hasty Fame Hath Many A Chaplet Culled For Worthless Brows, While In The Pensive Shade Of Cold Neglect She Leaves Thy Head Ungraced, Yet Pure And Powerful Minds, Hearts Meek And Still, A Grateful Few, Shall Love Thy Modest Lay, Long As The Shepherd'S Bleating Flock Shall Stray O'Er Naked Snowdon'S Wide Aerial Waste; Long As The Thrush Shall Pipe On Grongar Hill!