Who shar'd its bright draught in the days which are fled!
Tho' cold on their mountains the valiant repose,
Their lot shall be lovely—renown to the dead!
While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung,
While regal ERYRI[3] with snow shall be crown'd—
So long by the bard shall their battles be sung,
And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound:
The free winds of Cambria shall swell with their name,
And OWAIN's rich HIRLAS be fill'd to their fame!"