Say, does the spirit of some warrior bard,
With unseen form, float on the misty air,
As if intent thy sacred heights to guard?
Or does he breathe his mournful murmurs there,
As if returned to earth, once more to dwell
On the dear spot he ever lov'd so well.

Perhaps some Druid form, in awful guise,
With words of wond'rous import, there may range,
Making aloud mysterious sacrifice,
With gestures incommunicably strange,
Praying to the gods he worshipped, to restore
His dear lov'd Cymru to her days of yore.

Or does thy harp, oh, Hoel! sound its strings,
With chords of fire proclaim thy country's praise;
And he of "Flowing Song's" wild murmurings
Breathe forth the music of his warrior lays;
And Davydd, Caradoc--a glorious band--
Tune their wild harps to praise their mountain land?

Thou stand'st immovable, and firmly fixed
As Cambria's sons in battle, when they met
The Roman legions, and their weapons mixed,
And clash'd as bravely as they can do yet.
The Saxon, Dane, and Norman, knew them well,
And found them--as they are--invincible!

Majestic Snowdon! proudly dost thou stand,