When Horace wak'd his lyric strains,

Fair Tibur was his theme,

Or soft Tarentum's vine-clad plains, 

And rich Galesus' stream.

 

But had th' immortal Poet shone

In this our clime and age,

Llangollen's matchless vale alone

Had grac'd the classic page.

 

Here Deva, now with foaming flood,

Now with soft limpid tide,

Winds 'midst the rocks and pendent wood

That deck the mountain's side;

 

And mark, how beauteous, ev'n in years,

'Midst pastures ever green,

It's antique spires fam'd Crucis rears

To crown the sylvan scene!

 

But say, can lifeless objects please

A taste or soul refin'd

Like chasten'd wit, unstudied ease,

And harmony of mind?

 

These nobler sources of delight

Can lasting charms impart

To scenes that play before the sight,

But cannot touch the heart.

 

'Tis then your fame, accomplish'd Pair!

The same your virtues give,

That makes Llangollen truly fair,

And bids its beauties live.