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Wales Poetry

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

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

The Mountain Galloway
My tried and trusty mountain steed, Of Aberteivi's hardy...

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

Snowdon
King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow Thou reares...

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

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

Twenty Third Psalm
My shepherd is the Lord above, Who ne'er will suffer me to...

Translated By The Rev William Evans
God doth withhold no good from those Who meekly fear him ...

The Immovable Covenant
the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist ...

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

Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the batt...

The Battle Of Gwenystrad
contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appe...

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

The Farmer's Prayer
poems of the "Good Vicar Prichard of Llandovery" would be ...

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

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

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

Old Morgan And His Wife
Hus.--Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs, Their cry is ...

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



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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