A VOICE from time departed yet floats thy hills among,

O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin, sung:

“The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soul,

The clouds which mantle things unseen away before me roll,

A light the depths revealing hath o’er my spirit passed,

A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful in the blast,

And tells me that forever 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,

So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue

To which the harp of Mona’s woods by freedom’s hand was strung!”