When on the mountain's lofty brow
Above the clouds in air I tread,
Or hear the torrent rush be-low,
Within the forest shade:
Thoughts of the past, and forms sublime,
Glide through the waste on viewless wings;
I hear a Bard of ancient time,
Sweep o'er his silver strings.

Soft flows his melancholy strain,
He sings of heroes, long since gone,
Who fell on the embattled plain;
With time their fame is flown.
But dear to Britons be the ground,
Where valour fought for glory's meed;
And sweet the plaintive notes shall sound
That mourn the mighty dead.