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Wales Poetry

The Golden Goblet, In Imitation Of Gothe
There was a king in Mon, {62} A true lover to his grave; ...

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

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

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

To May
the following and several other poems in this collection. ...

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 ...

An Ode On The Death Of Hoel
of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and d...

Glan Geirionydd
. One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the shor...

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

The Holly Grove
Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed ...

By The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma
...

An Ode To The Thunder
his bardic name of Dafydd Ionawr, was born in the year 1...

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

To The Daisy
Oh, flower meek and modest That blooms of all the soonest,...

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

To The Nightingale
river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the...

Tribanau
Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: "The followin...

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

The Cuckoo's Tale
Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the...

The Fairy's Song
"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE. ...



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.





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