Chapter I

Dear Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring high Dwells Genius, basking on thy quiet air, And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare, And all wrapt round with fullest harmony Of streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly 'Neath Nature their fit foster mother's care, Thy children learn from infant hours to bear And work the will of God. Thy scenery So varied-wild, so strangely sweet and strong, Works on them and to music moulds their mind, Till flows their fancy in poetic rills. The voice of Nature breathes in every song And we may read therein thy features kind As in some tarn that nestles 'neath thy hills.