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Wales PoetryThe Lily And The Rose
Once I saw two flowers blossom In a garden 'neath the h...
The Immovable Covenant
the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist ...
The World And The Sea: A Comparison
Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it ...
The Hall Of Cynddylan
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for th...
Under The Orchard Tree
Under the deep-laden boughs of the orchard Walks a maid...
The Grove Of Broom
The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in go...
The Praise And Commendation Of A Good Woman
As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit a...
The Death Of Owain
Lo! the youth, in mind a man, Daring in the battle's v...
Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like...
Song Of The Foster-son, Love
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu...
An Ode To The Thunder
his bardic name of Dafydd Ionawr, was born in the year 1...
O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo...
The Circling Of The Mead Horns
Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn: Natural is mead...
The Rose Of Llan Meilen
Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever i...
The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd
All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden m...
Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh g...
An Ode On The Death Of Hoel
of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and d...
Farewell To Wales
The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; ...
To The Daisy
Oh, flower meek and modest That blooms of all the soonest,...
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles...
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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