And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest
With their good swords, upon the mountain's breast;
And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow,
Sever'd, by cloud and storm, from all below;
And the turf-mounds*[1], once girt by ruddy spears,
And the rock-altars of departed years.
Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar,
The winds a thousand wild responses bore;
And the green land, whose every vale and glen
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men,
On all her hills awakening to rejoice,
Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice.
For us, not ours the festival to hold,
Midst the stone-circles, hallow'd thus of old;
Not where great Nature's majesty and might
First broke, all-glorious, on our infant sight;
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave,
Not by the mountain-llyn†[2], the ocean wave,
In these late days we meet! —dark Mona's shore,
Eryri's‡[3] cliffs resound with harps no more!
