StoriesPoetry.com Home Collection of Stories Famous Stories Short Stories Wales Poetry Yiddish Tales

Wales Poetry

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

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

The Rose Of Llan Meilen
Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever i...

The Lament Op Llywarch Hen
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing ...

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

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

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

Farewell To Wales
The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; ...

The Castles Of Wales
Ye fortresses grey and gigantic I see on the hills of...

By The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma
...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Woman
Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc...

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





Next: The Castles Of Wales

Previous: The Monarchy Of Britain



Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
ADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 3854