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Wales Poetry

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

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

That Had Been Converted Into A May-pole In The Town Of Llanidloes, In Montgomeryshire
Ah! birch tree, with the verdant locks, And reckless min...

The Flowers Of Spring
beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ...

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

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

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

The Withered Leaf
Dry the leaf above the stubble, Soon 'twill fall into ...

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

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

From The Hymns Of The Rev William Williams, Pantycelyn
he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish of...

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

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

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

My Father-land
Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, str...

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

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

To The Lark
"Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the...

The Ewe
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles...

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



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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