Welsh
I. The S ONG OF H EROES .
Of Hoel, high and glorious, raise the paean,
Bards, with hoary hair, like streaming meteor!
Strike the harp, in martial symphony!
Close the strain in sadness!
The deeds of other days, worthy heroes,
Bright as holy Heaven, fair as vernal flowers,
Strong as mountain wolves, lions too in fight,
Mild as April showers, in their peaceful days,
Ruling righteously, conquering nobly, —
Such, alas! are seen no more.
No more shall hero's arm wield the falchion
High-born Hoel bore to victory.
Rust has dimmed it; time has tarnished it: —
Breathe us tones of sorrow!
II.
Aloft resounds Llewellyn's horn;
Sharp rings its blast, like note of scorn;
From Snowdon's peaks it rolls at morn,
O'er Gwynedd proudly swelling.
Its echoes bound from crag and scar,
And, borne by mountain winds afar,
They call the Cambrian youth to war, —
The Saxon's death-peal knelling.
Like lightning's flash on lake or stream,
The sword of Rhydderch darts its gleam.
None, but its own unconquered lord,
Can bear in fight that magic sword.
Who else dares draw it from its sheath,
Finds in its wasting flame his death.
In Rhydderch's strong right-hand, it waves,
A meteor, o'er yon Saxon slaves.
Such Rhydderch's sword, Llewellyn's horn,
Far-flashing, proudly swelling.
II. The B ARD'S S ONG .
Hark! yonder swells a music,
Full, yet distant; as from Heaven,
Flows it through the air.
Bards! wake ye, and in chorus
Tune your harps, and raise your voices, —
Welcome here the song!
Hail, heroes, bards and sages,
Princely Hoel, high Cadwallon!
Night veils us, but around us
Heaven is opened, and its music
Lifts us to its halls!
III. The S ONG OF V ICTORY .
Shout, shout for victory!
Raise high the paean!
Strong arms have conquered, —
Strong hearts impelled them.
Bright hymns shall welcome us,
Loved arms embrace us,
Fond blessings follow us
Home to our halls.
Full is our triumph;
Home now is rescued:
Sun-bright our victory;
Stain cannot dim it.
But for the fallen
Breathe now the requiem!
Glad songs should bear them
High to their heaven.
Shout, shout for victory!
Low lies the invader:
Heaven still protects us,
Shields hearth and altar.
Bards, tune your symphonies!
Swell full your chorus!
Bright deeds to other days
Flow on your songs.
Loud rings the paean, —
Youth fondly listens;
Hearts so inspirited
Pant high for glory.
Soft tones of sorrow
Breathe for the fallen, —
Welcome as incense,
Rise to the stars.
IV. The R ISING OF THE L ARK .
See! Morning breaks,
And pours its light
O'er yonder height,
And, dewy bright,
Young Day awakes.
I mount and sing,
On quivering wing,
And bear to heaven
My joyous song.
In midway air,
As flitting star,
'Mid golden beams
I float along;
While far below
In dawn's first glow,
The woods attune
Their vocal throng.
Thus lost in light,
With sudden fall,
From Heaven's high hall,
At love's sweet call,
I drop my flight;
Then mount again.
The eye in vain
Can trace me,
As I sweep on high;
But still the ear
Can ever hear
My clear notes
Falling from the sky,
As if in bush,
At evening's hush,
The nightingale
Close warbled by.
Sing, joyous lark!
My heart with thee
Mounts light and free,
High liberty
Its shining mark.
Still heavenward fly!
With thee, on high,
My spirit speeds
From earth afar; —
On airy wings,
Aloft it springs,
To dwell 'mid light
Of sun and star; —
Full-voiced and strong,
It pours its song,
Like hymn that greets
The victor's car.
Of Hoel, high and glorious, raise the paean,
Bards, with hoary hair, like streaming meteor!
Strike the harp, in martial symphony!
Close the strain in sadness!
The deeds of other days, worthy heroes,
Bright as holy Heaven, fair as vernal flowers,
Strong as mountain wolves, lions too in fight,
Mild as April showers, in their peaceful days,
Ruling righteously, conquering nobly, —
Such, alas! are seen no more.
No more shall hero's arm wield the falchion
High-born Hoel bore to victory.
Rust has dimmed it; time has tarnished it: —
Breathe us tones of sorrow!
II.
Aloft resounds Llewellyn's horn;
Sharp rings its blast, like note of scorn;
From Snowdon's peaks it rolls at morn,
O'er Gwynedd proudly swelling.
Its echoes bound from crag and scar,
And, borne by mountain winds afar,
They call the Cambrian youth to war, —
The Saxon's death-peal knelling.
Like lightning's flash on lake or stream,
The sword of Rhydderch darts its gleam.
None, but its own unconquered lord,
Can bear in fight that magic sword.
Who else dares draw it from its sheath,
Finds in its wasting flame his death.
In Rhydderch's strong right-hand, it waves,
A meteor, o'er yon Saxon slaves.
Such Rhydderch's sword, Llewellyn's horn,
Far-flashing, proudly swelling.
II. The B ARD'S S ONG .
Hark! yonder swells a music,
Full, yet distant; as from Heaven,
Flows it through the air.
Bards! wake ye, and in chorus
Tune your harps, and raise your voices, —
Welcome here the song!
Hail, heroes, bards and sages,
Princely Hoel, high Cadwallon!
Night veils us, but around us
Heaven is opened, and its music
Lifts us to its halls!
III. The S ONG OF V ICTORY .
Shout, shout for victory!
Raise high the paean!
Strong arms have conquered, —
Strong hearts impelled them.
Bright hymns shall welcome us,
Loved arms embrace us,
Fond blessings follow us
Home to our halls.
Full is our triumph;
Home now is rescued:
Sun-bright our victory;
Stain cannot dim it.
But for the fallen
Breathe now the requiem!
Glad songs should bear them
High to their heaven.
Shout, shout for victory!
Low lies the invader:
Heaven still protects us,
Shields hearth and altar.
Bards, tune your symphonies!
Swell full your chorus!
Bright deeds to other days
Flow on your songs.
Loud rings the paean, —
Youth fondly listens;
Hearts so inspirited
Pant high for glory.
Soft tones of sorrow
Breathe for the fallen, —
Welcome as incense,
Rise to the stars.
IV. The R ISING OF THE L ARK .
See! Morning breaks,
And pours its light
O'er yonder height,
And, dewy bright,
Young Day awakes.
I mount and sing,
On quivering wing,
And bear to heaven
My joyous song.
In midway air,
As flitting star,
'Mid golden beams
I float along;
While far below
In dawn's first glow,
The woods attune
Their vocal throng.
Thus lost in light,
With sudden fall,
From Heaven's high hall,
At love's sweet call,
I drop my flight;
Then mount again.
The eye in vain
Can trace me,
As I sweep on high;
But still the ear
Can ever hear
My clear notes
Falling from the sky,
As if in bush,
At evening's hush,
The nightingale
Close warbled by.
Sing, joyous lark!
My heart with thee
Mounts light and free,
High liberty
Its shining mark.
Still heavenward fly!
With thee, on high,
My spirit speeds
From earth afar; —
On airy wings,
Aloft it springs,
To dwell 'mid light
Of sun and star; —
Full-voiced and strong,
It pours its song,
Like hymn that greets
The victor's car.
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