_To Arthur Clutton-Brock._
In purple heather is my sleep
On Moel Fammau: far below,
The springing rivulets leap,
The firs wave to and fro.
This morn, the sun on Bala Lake
Broke out behind me: morrow morn
Near Rhual I shall wake,
Before the sun is born;
High burning over Clywyd Vale,
And reddening the mountain dew:
While the moon lingers frail,
High up in skies of blue.
Lovely and loved, O passionate land!
Dear Celtic land, unconquered still!
Thy mountain strength prevails:
Thy winds have all their will.
They have no care for meaner things;
They have no scorn for brooding dreams:
A spirit in them sings,
A light about them beams.
1887.