Informational.ca| Informational.ca | Privacy |
| Home - Collection of Stories - Famous Stories - Short Stories - Wales Poetry |
Wales PoetryRoderic's LamentFarewell every mountain To memory dear, Each streamlet... Under The Orchard Tree Under the deep-laden boughs of the orchard Walks a maid... The Eisteddfod, Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h... The Song Of The Fisherman's Wife Restless wave! be still and quiet, Do not heed the win... Old Morgan And His Wife Hus.--Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs, Their cry is ... An Address To The Summer of Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire, and was born about ... Concerning The Divine Providence ... The Ewe So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles... Translated By The Rev William Evans God doth withhold no good from those Who meekly fear him ... The Dawn Streaking the mantle of deep night The rays of light ... The Vengeance Of Owain {96} Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and ... The Banks Of The Dee One morning in May, when soft breezes were blowing O'er... To May the following and several other poems in this collection. ... The Swan Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like... Pennillion Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh g... My Father-land Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, str... Walter Sele O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo... The Immovable Covenant the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist ... By The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma ... Song Of The Foster-son, Love I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu... |
Farewell To WalesCategory: 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
Viewed 436 |
||||||||||||||||||||
