Theirs was no dream, O monarch hill,
With heaven’s own azure crown’d!
Who call’d 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 shadow’d o’er thy silent height,
It fill’d thy chainless air,