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Wales Poetry

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

The Praise And Commendation Of A Good Woman
As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit a...

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

To The Lark
"Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the...

Woman
Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc...

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

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

The Lament Op Llywarch Hen
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing ...

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

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

The Mother To Her Child After Its Father's Death
My gentle child, thou dost not know Why still on thee ...

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

Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the batt...

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

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

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

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

The Monarchy Of Britain
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers h...

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

Twenty Third Psalm
My shepherd is the Lord above, Who ne'er will suffer me to...



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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