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Wales Poetry

The Battle Of Gwenystrad
contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appe...

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

The Eisteddfod,
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h...

The Flowers Of Spring
beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ...

The Shipwreck
a Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet....

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

Translated By The Rev William Evans
God doth withhold no good from those Who meekly fear him ...

The Hall Of Cynddylan
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for th...

The Poor Man's Grave
'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ...

My Native Cot
The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mo...

Song To Arvon
by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of Eng...

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

Song Of The Foster-son, Love
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu...

Childe Harold
"Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, Thy name is gone, t...

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

The Banks Of The Dee
One morning in May, when soft breezes were blowing O'er...

Ode To Cambria
Cambria, I love thy genius bold; Thy dreadful rites, and...

An Address To The Summer
of Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire, and was born about ...

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

The Faithful Maiden
At the dawning of day on a morning in May, When the bi...



Farewell To Wales






Category: The Patriotic.

The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear;
Farewell; and a blessing be with thee, Greenland;
In thy halls, thy hearths, in thy pure mountain air,
On the strings of the harp and the minstrel's free hand;
From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,
Whilst I leave thee, O land of my home and my dead.

I bless thee; yet not for the beauty which dwells
In the heart of thy hills, in the waves of thy shore;
And not for the memory set deep in thy dells
Of the bard and the warrior, the mighty of yore;
And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled,
Greenland, Poetland of my home and my dead.

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat,
Where e'er a low hamlet smiles, under thy skies,
For thy peasant hearths burping the stranger to greet,
For the soul that looks forth from thy children's bright eyes,
May the blessing, like sunshine, around thee be spread,
Greenland of my childhood, my home and my dead.





Next: The Castles Of Wales

Previous: The Monarchy Of Britain



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