Classic Poem

To Powys throng — ye Sons of song,
Your princely Patron meet;
There Cambria's DAY — so glad and gay,
With grateful voices greet;
Again renew — like Britons true,
The rites of other days,
Let Britain tell — how sweet, how well,
Ye pour the notes of praise.

To share the treat, the good and great
United HAIL us here;
In H ERBERT'S choice — the infant voice
Of Britain ever dear ;
The earliest lays — in ancient days,
Were heard on Cambria's tongue;
May Heaven decree it so to be —
T ILL T IME'S LAST STRAINS ARE SUNG .

In days of yore — on Severn's shore,
Incessant Discord dwelt;
And either side — the alternate tide,
Defeat — or triumph felt;
O'er bloodless plains — now Ceres reigns,
And showers her sheafs of gold;
To bounteous Heaven — let praise be given,
Till the last day be told.

Our choral strains — shall fill the plains,
And Breiddin high shall hear;
Our torrent's roar to Ocean's shore,
Shall waft them loud and clear;
They too shall tell — Dear theme — how well,
Our Chief adorns his place:
B'it hence our prayer — that Heaven's high care,
Be H ERBERT'S honor'd race.