King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow
Thou rearest in the clouds, as if to mock
The littleness of human things below;
The tempest cannot harm thee, and the shock
Of the deep thunder falls upon thy head
As the light footfalls of an infant’s tread.
The livid lightning’s all destroying flame
Has flashed upon thee harmlessly, the rage
Of savage storms have left thee still the same;
Thou art imperishable! Age after age
Thou hast endured; aye, and for evermore
Thy form shall be as changeless as before.
The works of man shall perish and decay,
Cities shall crumble down to dust, and all
Their “gorgeous palaces” shall pass away;
Even their lofty monuments shall fall;
And a few scattered stones be all to tell
The place where once they stood,—where since they fell!
Yet, even time has not the power to shiver
One single fragment from thee; thou shalt be
A monument that shall exist for ever!
While the vast world endures in its immensity,
The eternal snows that gather on thy brow
Shall diadem thy crest, as they do now.
Thy head is wrapt in mists, yet still thou gleam’st,
At intervals, from out the clouds, that are
A glorious canopy, in which thou seem’st
To shroud thy many beauties; now afar
Thou glitterest in the sun, and dost unfold
Thy giant form, in robes of burning gold.
And, when the red day dawned upon thee, oh! how bright
Thy mighty form appeared! a thousand dies
Shed o’er thee all the brilliance of their light,
Catching their hues from the o’er-arching skies,
That seemed to play around thee, like a dress
Sporting around some form of loveliness.
And when the silver moonbeams on thee threw
Their calm and tranquil light, thou seem’st to be
A thing so wildly beautiful to view,
So wrapt in strange unearthly mystery,
That the mind feels an awful sense of fear
When gazing on thy form, so wild and drear.
The poet loves to gaze upon thee when
No living soul is near, and all are gone
Wooing their couches for soft sleep; for then
The poet feels that he is least alone,—
Holding communion with the mighty dead,
Whose viewless shadows flit around thy head.
Say, does the spirit of some warrior bard,
With unseen form, float on the misty air,
As if intent thy sacred heights to guard?
Or does he breathe his mournful murmurs there,
As if returned to earth, once more to dwell
On the dear spot he ever lov’d so well.
Perhaps some Druid form, in awful guise,
With words of wond’rous import, there may range,
Making aloud mysterious sacrifice,
With gestures incommunicably strange,
Praying to the gods he worshipped, to restore
His dear lov’d Cymru to her days of yore.