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Wales Poetry

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

Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...

The Dawn
Streaking the mantle of deep night The rays of light ...

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

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

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

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

The Lily And The Rose
Once I saw two flowers blossom In a garden 'neath the h...

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

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

The Circling Of The Mead Horns
Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn: Natural is mead...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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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