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Wales Poetry

An Ode On The Death Of Hoel
of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and d...

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

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

The Legend Of Trwst Llywelyn
Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battl...

The Poor Man's Grave
'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ...

Tribanau
Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: "The followin...

The Holly Grove
Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed ...

The Golden Goblet, In Imitation Of Gothe
There was a king in Mon, {62} A true lover to his grave; ...

Glan Geirionydd
. One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the shor...

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

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

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

The Monarchy Of Britain
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers h...

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

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

Concerning The Divine Providence
...

Short Is The Life Of Man
Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a t...

To May
the following and several other poems in this collection. ...

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

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



My Native Land






Category: The Patriotic.

My soul is sad, my spirit fails,
And sickness in my heart prevails,
Whilst chill'd with grief, it mourns and wails
For my old Native Land.

Gold and wine have power to please,
And Summer's pure and gentle breeze,--
But ye are dearer far than these,
Hills of my Native Land.

Lovely to see the sun arise,
Breaking forth from eastern skies;
But oh! far lovelier in my eyes
Would be my Native Land.

As pants the hart for valley dew,
As bleats the lambkin for the ewe,
Thus I lament and long to view
My ancient Native Land.

What, what are delicacies, say,
And large possessions, what are they?
What the wide world and all its sway
Out of my Native Land?

O should I king of India be,
Might Europe to me bend the knee,
Such honours should be nought to me
Far from my Native Land.

In what delightful country strays
Each gentle friend of youthful days?
Where dwelleth all I love or praise?
O! in my Native Land.

Where are the fields and gardens fair
Where once I sported free as air,
Without despondency or care?
O! in my Native Land.

Where is each path and still retreat
Where I with song held converse sweet
With true poetic fire replete?
O! in my Native Land.

Where do the merry maidens move,
Who purely live and truly love--
Whose words do not deceitful prove?
O! in my Native Land.

And where on earth that friendly place,
Where each presents a brother's face,
Where frowns or anger ne'er debase!
O! 'tis my Native Land.

And O! where dwells that dearest one
My first affections fix'd upon,
Dying with grief that I am gone?
O! in my Native Land.

Where do they food to strangers give?
Where kindly, liberally relieve?
Where unsophisticated live?
O! in my Native Land.

Where are the guileless rites retain'd,
And customs of our sires maintain'd?
Where has the ancient Welsh remain'd?
O! in my Native Land.

Where is the harp of sweetest string?
Where are songs read in bardic ring?
Genius and inspiration sing
Within my Native Land.

Once Zion's sons their harps unstrung,
On Babylonian willows hung,
And mute their songs--with sorrow wrung,
They mourn'd their Native Land.

Captives, the Babylonians cry,
Awake Judaean melody,--
There is no music they reply,
Out of our Native Land.

And thus when I in misery
Beseech my muse to visit me,
She echo's--there's no hope for thee
Out of thy Native Land.

A bard how dull in Indian groves,
Distant from the land he loves!
The muse to melody ne'er moves
Far from her Native Land.

Day and night I ceaseless groan
Among these foreigners, alone;
Yet not for fame or gold I moan,
But for my Native Land.

Oft to the rocky heights I haste,
And gaze intent, while tears flow fast,
Over old ocean's troubled waste,
Towards my Native Land.

Then breaks my heart with grief to see
The mountain waves o'erspread the sea,
Which widely separates from me
My charming Native Land.

To see the boiling ocean near,
Whose waves as if they joy'd appear,
Rolling betwixt me and my dear
Enchanting Native Land.

O had I wings! to cure my pain
I'd flee across the widening main,
To view the extensive vales again
Of my dear Native Land.

There I would lay me down secure,
And cheerfully my wants endure:
The wealth of worlds could not allure
Me from my Native Land.





Next: Ode To Cambria

Previous: My Father-land



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