Thine is the charm, suspending care,
The heavenly swell, the dying close,
The cadence melting into air,
That lulls each passion to repose;
While transport, lost in silence near,
Breathes all her language in a tear.
Exult, O Cambria!—now no more
With sighs thy slaughter’d bards deplore:
What though Plinlimmon’s misty brow
And Mona’s woods be silent now,