Wales Poetry

The Rose Of Llan Meilen
Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever i...

The Sick Man's Dream
Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste...

Short Is The Life Of Man
Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a t...

The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd
All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden m...

The Withered Leaf
Dry the leaf above the stubble, Soon 'twill fall into ...

Dafydd Ap Gwilym To The White Gull
Bird that dwellest in the spray, Far from mountain woods a...

My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...

The World And The Sea: A Comparison
Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it ...

The Mountain Galloway
My tried and trusty mountain steed, Of Aberteivi's hardy...

The Ewe
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles...

Taliesin's Prophecy
A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among,...

My Father-land
Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, str...

The Day Of Judgment
was a native of Anglesea, and entered the Welsh Church...

The Immovable Covenant
the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist ...

The Rose Of The Glen
Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or c...

The Death Of Owain
Lo! the youth, in mind a man, Daring in the battle's v...

The Grove Of Broom
The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in go...

Walter Sele
O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo...

To The Spring
Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatte...

The Lord Of Clas
The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and...

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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Previous: Ode To Cambria

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