Their Lord they will praise,
Their language they will keep,
Their land they will lose
Except wild Wales.
So sings an ancient poet of Wales--generally
alleged to be Taliesin. On whatever lonesome
peak he stood, a companion of clouds and storms
and far-off dawns, he heard the prayer, and knew
the hope of a nation. Wild Wales is still their
home; its ancient speech is still their own. The
praise of God has been in the land since early
Christian days: it has been often subdued, sometimes
almost an exile music, but never quite lost.
To-day more than ever the best song of the land is
the song of God: and the prophetic words haunt
its valleys and hills like an immortal echo--'Their
God they will praise.'