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Wales Poetry

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

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

Walter Sele
O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo...

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

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

Gwilym Glyn And Ruth Of Dyffryn
In the depth of yonder valley, Where the fields are bright...

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

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

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

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

The Battle Of Gwenystrad
contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appe...

Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...

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

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

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

The Shipwreck
a Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet....

My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...

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

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

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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