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No! by our wrongs, and by our blood, We leave it pure and free— Though hush'd awhile, that sounding flood Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be.

We leave it midst our country's woe, The birth-right of her breast— We leave it as we leave the snow Bright and eternal on * Eryri's crest.

We leave it with our fame to dwell Upon our children's breath. Our voice in theirs thro' time shall swell— The Bard hath gifts of prophecy from death.

He dies—but yet the mountains stand, Yet sweeps the torrent's tide; And this is yet † Aneurin's land— Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!