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Alight, the depths revealing, hath o'er my spirit pass'd, A rushing sound from days to be, swells fitful in the blast, And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue, To which the harp of Mona's woods by Freedom’s hand was strung.

Green island of the mighty!* I see thine ancient race Driven from their fathers' realm, to make the rocks their dwelling-place! I see from Uthyr's† kingdom the sceptre pass away, And many a line of bards and chiefs, and princely men decay. But long as Arvon's mountains shall lift their sovereign forms, And wear the crown to which is given dominion o'er the storms,