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Rh If aught that’s earthly can impart A poet’s ecstasy of heart, ’Tis thy enchanted rocks and scaurs, And peaks that mingle with the stars, And headlong torrents bounding by As from some fountain in the sky— And golden clouds at random driven— And dim lakes buried in the heaven— And bright glens cloven in thy brow As if by some enchanter’s plough! Oh! who could sleep one single night, Unearthly Snowdon, on thy height, Without in feeling more belonging To the red stars around him thronging! Well might the bards of freedom seek, At midnight, on thy glimm’ring peak, That pure and hallowed inspiration That strung the bow and nerved the hand A thousand times in Cambria’s land, Which wrung from tyranny’s command The Cambrian soil and nation! King of the mountains, though the pride Of all thy giant oaks is faded, (Some to the hearth, some to the tide,) And thou art all unshaded, Save by the wandering clouds that weave Their fleeting canopy at eve— Still art thou all that can inspire The patriot’s love, the poet’s lyre—