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Though from their stormy haunts of yore, Thine eagles long have flown,* As proud a flight the soul shall soar, Yet, from thy mountain-throne!

Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams! And make the snows thy crest! The sunlight of immortal dreams Around thee still shall rest.

Eryri! temple of the bard! And fortress of the free! 'Midst rocks which heroes died to guard, Their spirit dwells with thee!