The Britons (Y Brython)

When on the mountain's lofty brow

Above the clouds in air I tread,

Or hear the torrent rush be-low,

Within the forest shade:

Thoughts of the past, and forms sublime,

Glide through the waste on viewless wings;

I hear a Bard of ancient time,

Sweep o'er his silver strings.

Soft flows his melancholy strain,

He sings of heroes, long since gone,

Who fell on the embattled plain;

With time their fame is flown.

But dear to Britons be the ground,

Where valour fought for glory's meed;

And sweet the plaintive notes shall sound

That mourn the mighty dead.