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

Wales Poetry

A Bridal Song
Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, While the flowers are...

The Sick Man's Dream
Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste...

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

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

To The Nightingale
river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the...

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

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

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

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

The World And The Sea: A Comparison
Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it ...

The Faithful Maiden
At the dawning of day on a morning in May, When the bi...

An Address To The Summer
of Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire, and was born about ...

The Praise And Commendation Of A Good Woman
As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit a...

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

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

Dafydd Ap Gwilym To The White Gull
Bird that dwellest in the spray, Far from mountain woods a...

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

Taliesin's Prophecy
A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among,...

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

Concerning The Divine Providence
...



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



Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
ADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 2045