JONES
See, see where royal Snowdon rearsHer hoary head above her peersTo cry that Wales is free!O hills which guard our liberties,With outstretched arms to where you riseIn all your pride, I turn my eyesAnd echo, ‘Wales is free!’O’er giant Idris’ lofty seat,O’er Berwyn and Plynlimon greatAnd hills which round them lower meet,Blow winds of liberty.And like the breezes high and strong,Which through the cloudwrack sweep along,Each dweller in this land of songIs free, is free, is free!Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleepOver that wretch’s eyelids creepWho bears with wrong and shame.Make him to feel thy spirit high,And, like a hero, do or die,And smite the arm of tyranny,And lay its haunts aflame,—Rather than peace which makes thee slave,Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive,Lay foul oppression in its graveNo more the light to see!Then heavenward turn thy grateful gaze,And like the rolling thunder raiseThy triumph-song of joy and praiseTo God—that thou art free!Edmund Osborne Jones.
See, see where royal Snowdon rearsHer hoary head above her peersTo cry that Wales is free!O hills which guard our liberties,With outstretched arms to where you riseIn all your pride, I turn my eyesAnd echo, ‘Wales is free!’O’er giant Idris’ lofty seat,O’er Berwyn and Plynlimon greatAnd hills which round them lower meet,Blow winds of liberty.And like the breezes high and strong,Which through the cloudwrack sweep along,Each dweller in this land of songIs free, is free, is free!Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleepOver that wretch’s eyelids creepWho bears with wrong and shame.Make him to feel thy spirit high,And, like a hero, do or die,And smite the arm of tyranny,And lay its haunts aflame,—Rather than peace which makes thee slave,Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive,Lay foul oppression in its graveNo more the light to see!Then heavenward turn thy grateful gaze,And like the rolling thunder raiseThy triumph-song of joy and praiseTo God—that thou art free!Edmund Osborne Jones.
See, see where royal Snowdon rearsHer hoary head above her peersTo cry that Wales is free!O hills which guard our liberties,With outstretched arms to where you riseIn all your pride, I turn my eyesAnd echo, ‘Wales is free!’O’er giant Idris’ lofty seat,O’er Berwyn and Plynlimon greatAnd hills which round them lower meet,Blow winds of liberty.And like the breezes high and strong,Which through the cloudwrack sweep along,Each dweller in this land of songIs free, is free, is free!
Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleepOver that wretch’s eyelids creepWho bears with wrong and shame.Make him to feel thy spirit high,And, like a hero, do or die,And smite the arm of tyranny,And lay its haunts aflame,—Rather than peace which makes thee slave,Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive,Lay foul oppression in its graveNo more the light to see!Then heavenward turn thy grateful gaze,And like the rolling thunder raiseThy triumph-song of joy and praiseTo God—that thou art free!
Edmund Osborne Jones.
Dear Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring highDwells genius basking in thy quiet air,And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare,And all wrapt round with fullest harmonyOf streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly’Neath Nature their fit foster-mother’s care,Thy children learn from infant hours to bearAnd work the will of God. Thy scenerySo 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.Thy fragrant breezes wander through the mazeOf all their songs as through a woodland reach;Their odes drop sweetness like the ripening peachIn laden orchards on late summer days.Their work is Nature’s own—not theirs the praiseBy culture won which midnight studies teach;Sounds the loud cataract in their sonorous speech,And strikes the keynote of their tuneful lays.As to remotest ages in the pastWe trace thy joyous story, more and moreBards won high honour mid thy hills and vales.So, Cymru, while this world of ours shall last,And ocean echoing beat upon thy shore,May poets never cease to sing for Wales!Edmund Osborne Jones.
Dear Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring highDwells genius basking in thy quiet air,And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare,And all wrapt round with fullest harmonyOf streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly’Neath Nature their fit foster-mother’s care,Thy children learn from infant hours to bearAnd work the will of God. Thy scenerySo 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.Thy fragrant breezes wander through the mazeOf all their songs as through a woodland reach;Their odes drop sweetness like the ripening peachIn laden orchards on late summer days.Their work is Nature’s own—not theirs the praiseBy culture won which midnight studies teach;Sounds the loud cataract in their sonorous speech,And strikes the keynote of their tuneful lays.As to remotest ages in the pastWe trace thy joyous story, more and moreBards won high honour mid thy hills and vales.So, Cymru, while this world of ours shall last,And ocean echoing beat upon thy shore,May poets never cease to sing for Wales!Edmund Osborne Jones.
Dear Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring highDwells genius basking in thy quiet air,And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare,And all wrapt round with fullest harmonyOf streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly’Neath Nature their fit foster-mother’s care,Thy children learn from infant hours to bearAnd work the will of God. Thy scenerySo 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.
Thy fragrant breezes wander through the mazeOf all their songs as through a woodland reach;Their odes drop sweetness like the ripening peachIn laden orchards on late summer days.Their work is Nature’s own—not theirs the praiseBy culture won which midnight studies teach;Sounds the loud cataract in their sonorous speech,And strikes the keynote of their tuneful lays.As to remotest ages in the pastWe trace thy joyous story, more and moreBards won high honour mid thy hills and vales.So, Cymru, while this world of ours shall last,And ocean echoing beat upon thy shore,May poets never cease to sing for Wales!
Edmund Osborne Jones.