Llewellyn
Like the weird echo of a hunting horn,
His name still lingers in his native hills,
The wild winds chant it to the mountain ash —
It glides along the murmurs of the rills.
The high cold pride of Snowdoun marked his face.
He fought — aye, died, but gained a deathless fame,
For still the harp-winds and the poet-rills
Chant to the hills he loved his echo-name!
His name still lingers in his native hills,
The wild winds chant it to the mountain ash —
It glides along the murmurs of the rills.
The high cold pride of Snowdoun marked his face.
He fought — aye, died, but gained a deathless fame,
For still the harp-winds and the poet-rills
Chant to the hills he loved his echo-name!
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