On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o’er old Conway’s foaming ﬂood, Robed in the sable garb of woe
With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair
Stream’d like a meteor to the troubled air) And with a master’s hand and prophet’s ﬁre Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:
‘Hark, how each giant oak and desert cave Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath!
O’er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe:
Vocal no more, since Cambria’s fatal day,
To high-born Hoel’s harp, or soft Llewellyn’s lay.