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Wales PoetryThe Circling Of The Mead HornsFill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn: Natural is mead... The Lament Op Llywarch Hen The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing ... An Ode On The Death Of Hoel of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and d... The Battle Of Gwenystrad contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appe... Song To Arvon by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of Eng... My Father-land Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, str... The Cuckoo's Tale Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the... Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Address To Morfydd After She Married His Rival Too long I've loved the fickle maid, My love is turned to ... The Hall Of Cynddylan The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for th... Sad Died The Maiden Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish s... Concerning The Divine Providence ... Tribanau Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: "The followin... The Monarchy Of Britain Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers h... Short Is The Life Of Man Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a t... Pennillion Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh g... The Lord Of Clas The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and... From The Hymns Of The Rev William Williams, Pantycelyn he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish of... Song Of The Foster-son, Love I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu... The Rose Of The Glen Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or c... A Bridal Song Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, While the flowers are... |
May And NovemberCategory: The Sentimental. Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for thy wild band of choristers weaves; Proud knight, that subduest with glory and power, Each glen into verdure, to joy every bower; That makest the wilderness laugh and rejoice, In the chains of thy love, in thy cuckoo's shrill voice; That fillest the heart of the lover with glee, And bringest my Morfydd's dear image to me. Alas! that dark Winter thy mansions should blight, With his chill mottled show'rs, and his flickering light, His moon that gleams wanly through snows falling fast, His pale mist that floats on the wings of the blast: With the voice of each river more fearfully loud-- Every torrent all foam, and the heaven all cloud! Alas! that stern Winter has power to divide Each lover from hope--from the poet his bride. Next: The Cuckoo's Tale Previous: The Swan
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