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Wales Poetry

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

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

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

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

The Swan
Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like...

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

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

Roderic's Lament
Farewell every mountain To memory dear, Each streamlet...

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

The Shipwreck
a Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet....

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

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

The Day Of Judgment
was a native of Anglesea, and entered the Welsh Church...

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

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

May And November
Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for...

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

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



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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