| BY GEORGE L. RUFFIN GEORGE L. RUFFIN (1834-1885) the first Negro judge to be appointed in Massachusetts, graduated in Law from Harvard, 1869. He served in the legislature of Massachusetts two terms, and in the Boston Council two terms. [N... Read more of Crispus Attucks at Martin Luther King.ca | InformationalPrivacy |
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Wales PoetryThe Shipwrecka Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet.... My Native Cot The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mo... To The Lark "Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the... Song Of The Foster-son, Love I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu... A Bridal Song Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, While the flowers are... The Rose Of Llan Meilen Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever i... Song To Arvon by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of Eng... Woman Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc... The Rose Of The Glen Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or c... Roderic's Lament Farewell every mountain To memory dear, Each streamlet... The Monarchy Of Britain Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers h... The Deluge * * * * * Whether to the east or west You go, wondr... By The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma ... The Fairy's Song "Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE. ... From The Hymns Of The Rev William Williams, Pantycelyn he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish of... Childe Harold "Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, Thy name is gone, t... The Flowers Of Spring beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ... The Sick Man's Dream Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste... The Ewe So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles... The Farmer's Prayer poems of the "Good Vicar Prichard of Llandovery" would be ... |
My Native LandCategory: 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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