A voice from time departed,
Yet floats thy hills among;
Oh, Cambria! thus the prophet bard,
Thy Taliesin sung,
The path of unborn ages,
Is traced upon my soul,
The clouds which mantle things unseen
Away before me roll.
A light the depths revealing,
Hath o'er my spirit pass'd.
A rushing sound from days to be,
Swells fitful on the blast
And tell me that forever
Shall live the lofty tongue,
To which the harp of Mona's words,
By Freedom's hand was strung.

Green Island of the mighty,
I see thine ancient race,
Driv'n from their fathers' realm,
To make the rocks their dwelling place.
I see from Uthyr's kingdom,
The sceptre pass away,
And many a line of bards and chiefs,
And princely men decay.
But long as Arvon's mountains
Shall lift their sov'reign forms,
And wear the crowns to which is giv'n
Dominion o'er the storms,
So long their empire sharing,
Shall live the lofty tongue,
To which the harp of Mona's words,
By Freedom's hand was strung.