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Wales PoetryThe Faithful Maiden
At the dawning of day on a morning in May, When the bi...
Song Of The Foster-son, Love
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu...
Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the batt...
Farewell To Wales
The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; ...
The Fairy's Song
"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE. ...
To The Lark
"Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the...
The Poor Man's Grave
'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ...
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h...
The Rose Of The Glen
Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or c...
Old Morgan And His Wife
Hus.--Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs, Their cry is ...
O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo...
By The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma
The Lord Of Clas
The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and...
The Mountain Galloway
My tried and trusty mountain steed, Of Aberteivi's hardy...
The Holly Grove
Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed ...
Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Address To Morfydd After She Married His Rival
Too long I've loved the fickle maid, My love is turned to ...
Short Is The Life Of Man
Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a t...
Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like...
That Had Been Converted Into A May-pole In The Town Of Llanidloes, In Montgomeryshire
Ah! birch tree, with the verdant locks, And reckless min...
My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...
An Ode On The Death Of Hoel
Category: The Patriotic.
of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and distinguished
himself at the battle of Cattraeth, fought between the Welsh and Saxons,
in or about the year 560, but was disastrous to the former and especially
to the bard, who was there taken prisoner, and kept for several years in
confinement. He composed his principal poem, the Gododin, upon the
battle of Cattraeth. This is the oldest Welsh poem extant, and is full
of boldness, force, and martial fire. It has been translated into
English by the Rev. John Williams, (ab Ithel,) and published by the
Messrs. Rees, of Llandovery. The bard died, according to tradition, from
the blow of an assassin before the close of the sixth century.]
Had I but the torrent's might,
With headlong rage, and wild affright,
Upon Deira's squadrons hurl'd,
To rush and sweep them from the world!
Too, too secure in youthful pride,
By them my friend, my Hoel, dy'd,
Great Cian's son; of Madoc old,
He ask'd no heaps of hoarded gold;
Alone in Nature's wealth array'd
He asked and had the lovely maid.
To Cattraeth's vale, in glitt'ring row,
Twice two hundred warriors go;
Ev'ry warrior's manly neck
Chains of regal honour deck,
Wreath'd in many a golden link:
From the golden cup they drink
Nectar that the bees produce,
Or the grape's ecstatic juice.
Flush'd with mirth and hope they burn,
But none from Cattraeth's vale return,
Save Aeron brave and Conan strong,
(Bursting through the bloody throng,)
And I, the meanest of them all,
That live to weep and sing their fall.
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