The beam of the lamp from its summit is o’er,

The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more!

The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still,

The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill!

Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene,

Nor let e’en an echo recall what hath been!

The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare,

No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there!

Oh! where are the warriors who circled its board?

—The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour’d!