Ffynh 1N

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.