Of Mona, where thou lov’st to rove,
List’ning the echoes of thy Druid quire;
The ling’ring sounds that yet respire
Waked by the breezes of the Western main;
And bring some high and solemn strain,
Such as was heard that solemn day
When Rome’s dread Eagle stoop’d to prey
On Mona’s free-born sons, while Liberty
Struck on the magic harp her dying song.—
Dealing vengeance on her foes,