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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.'

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