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 st
ll 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.

Or does thy harp, oh, Hoel! sound its strings,

With chords of fire proclaim thy country's praise;

And he of "Flowing Song's" wild murmurings

Breathe forth the music of his warrior lays;

And Davydd, Caradoc--a glorious band--

Tune their wild harps to praise their mountain land?

Thou stand'st immovable, and firmly fixed

As Cambria's sons in battle, when they met

The Roman legions, and their weapons mixed,

And clash'd as bravely as they can do yet.

The Saxon, Dane, and Norman, knew them well,

And found them--as they are--invincible!

Majestic Snowdon! proudly dost thou stand,

Like a tall giant ready for the fray,

The guardian bulwark of thy mountain land;

Old as the world thou art! As I survey

Thy lofty altitude, strange feelings rise,

Of the unutterable mind's wild sympathies.

Thou hast seen many changes, yet hast stood

Unaltered to the last, remained the same

Even in the wildness of thy solitude,

Even in thy savage grandeur; and thy name

Acts as a spell on Cambria's sons, that brings

Their heart's best blood to flow in rapid springs.

And must I be the only one to sing

Thy dear loved name? and must the task be mine,

To the insensate mind thy name to bring?

Oh! how I grieve to think, when songs divine

Have echoed to thy praises night and day,

I can but offer thee so poor a lay.