THEIRS was no dream, O monarch hill,

  With heaven’s own azure crowned!

Who called 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 shadowed o’er thy silent height,

  It filled thy chainless air,

Deep thoughts of majesty and might

  Forever 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.

 

Though from their stormy haunts of yore

  Thine eagles long have flown,

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!

 

 

“Snowdon was held as sacred by the ancient Britons as Parnassus was by the Greeks and Ida by the Cretans. It is still said, that whosoever slept upon Snowdon would wake inspired, as much as if he had taken a nap on the hill of Apollo. The Welsh had always the strongest attachment to the tract of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition to their title, that of Lord of Snowdon.”—Pennant.