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Wales Poetry

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

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

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

Concerning The Divine Providence
...

Under The Orchard Tree
Under the deep-laden boughs of the orchard Walks a maid...

Gwilym Glyn And Ruth Of Dyffryn
In the depth of yonder valley, Where the fields are bright...

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 ...

To The Spring
Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatte...

The Eisteddfod,
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h...

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

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

Ode To Cambria
Cambria, I love thy genius bold; Thy dreadful rites, and...

The Death Of Owain
Lo! the youth, in mind a man, Daring in the battle's v...

The Grove Of Broom
The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in go...

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

Sad Died The Maiden
Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish s...

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

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

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

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



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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