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old bald rock and rugged stones, That peer and totter o’er the dell, And murmur forth unearthly tones Like some base witch that casts a spell, Babble more wildly after rain Than seven-locked Merddin the insane! As that loquacious summit near I watched for Morvyth to appear, By those delusive tones betrayed, Our footsteps far asunder strayed; Like old Hu Gadarn’s oxen twain , I called to her—and she to me— But still, with wicked mimickry, That traitor answered us again; And to the softest tones I sighed, He still perfidiously replied: And thus we failed, “my golden glaive,” To meet beside the mountain cave.