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was no dream, O monarch hill, With heaven's own azure crown'd! Who call'd thee—what thou shalt be still, White Snowdon!—holy ground.

They fabled not, thy sons who told Of the dread power enshrined Within thy cloudy mantle's fold, And on thy rushing wind!

It shadow'd o'er thy silent height, It fill'd thy chainless air, Deep thoughts of majesty and might For ever breathing there.

Nor hath it fled! the awful spell Yet holds unbroken sway, As when on that wild rock it fell Where Merddin Emrys lay!2

Though from their stormy haunts of yore Thine eagles long have flown,3 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!