“Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath!
“O’er thee, oh 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.
III.
“Cold is Cadwallo’s tongue,
“That hush’d the stormy main:
“Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
“Mountains, ye mourn in vain