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Wales Poetry

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

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

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

The Vengeance Of Owain {96}
Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and ...

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

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

The Deluge
* * * * * Whether to the east or west You go, wondr...

Pennillion
Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh g...

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...

Concerning The Divine Providence
...

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

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

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 Legend Of Trwst Llywelyn
Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battl...

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

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

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



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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