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Wales Poetry

The Song Of The Fisherman's Wife
Restless wave! be still and quiet, Do not heed the win...

The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd
All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden m...

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

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

The Swan
Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like...

The Mountain Galloway
My tried and trusty mountain steed, Of Aberteivi's hardy...

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

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

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

The Rose Of The Glen
Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or c...

An Ode To The Thunder
his bardic name of Dafydd Ionawr, was born in the year 1...

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

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

The Eisteddfod,
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h...

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

Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the batt...

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

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



Ode To Cambria






Category: The Patriotic.

Cambria, I love thy genius bold;
Thy dreadful rites, and Druids old;
Thy bards who struck the sounding strings,
And wak'd the warlike souls of kings;
Those kings who, prodigal of breath,
Rush'd furious to the fields of death;
Thy maids for peerless beauty crown'd,
In songs of ancient fame renown'd,
Pure as the gem of Arvon's caves,
Bright as the foam of Menai's waves,
With sunny locks and jetty eyes,
Of valour's deeds the glorious prize,
Who tam'd to love's refin'd delight
Those chiefs invincible in fight.
Thy sparkling horns I next recall
In many a hospitable hall
Circling with haste, whose boundless mirth
To many an amorous lay gave birth,
And many a present to the fair,
And many a deed of bold despair.
I love thy harps with well-rank'd strings,
Heard in the stately halls of kings,
Whose sounds had magic to bestow
Or sunny joy, or dusky woe.
I love thy fair Silurian vales
Fann'd by Sabrina's temperate gales,
That fir'd the Roman to engage
The scythed cars of Arvirage.
Oft to the visionary skies
I see thy ancient genius rise,
Who mounts the chariot of the wind,
And leaves our mortal steeds behind;
And while to rouse the drooping land
He strikes the harp with glowing hand,
Light spirits with aerial wings
Dance upon the trembling strings.
Oh, lead me thou in strains sublime
Thy sacred hill of oaks to climb,
To haunt thy old poetic streams,
And sport in fiction's fairy dreams,
There let the rover fancy free,
And breathe the soul of poesy!
To think upon thy ravish'd crown,
Thy warlike deeds of old renown;
Thy valiant sons at Maelor slain, {75a}
The stubborn fight of Bangor's plain, {75b}
A thousand banners waving high
Where bold Tal Moelvre meets the sky! {75c}

Nor seldom, Cambria, I explore
Thy treasures of poetic store,
And mingle with thy tuneful throng,
And range thy realms of ancient song,
That like thy mountains, huge and high,
Lifts its broad forehead to the sky;
Whence Druids fanes of fabling time,
And ruin'd castles frown sublime,
Down whose dark sides torn rocks resound,
Eternal tempests whirling round;
With many a pleasant vale between,
Where Nature smiles attir'd in green,
Where Innocence in cottage warm
Is shelter'd from the passing storm,
Stretch'd on the banks of lulling streams
Where fancy lies indulging dreams,
Where shepherds tend their fleecy train,
Where echoes oft the pleading strain
Of rural lovers. O'er my soul
Such varied scenes in vision roll,
Whether, O prince of bards, I see
The fire of Greece reviv'd in thee,
That like a deluge bursts away;
Or Taliesin tune the lay;
Or thou, wild Merlin, with thy song
Pour thy ungovern'd soul along;
Or those perchance of later age
More artful swell their measur'd rage,
Sweet bards whose love-taught numbers suit
Soft measures and the Lesbian lute;
Whether, Iolo, mirtle-crown'd,
Thy harp such amorous verse resound
As love's and beauty's prize hath won;
Or led by Gwilym's plaintive song,
I hear him teach his melting tale
In whispers to the grove and gale.

But since thy once harmonious shore
Resounds th' inspiring strain no more,
That snatch'd in fields of ancient date,
The palm from number, strength, and fate;
Since to thy grove no more belong
The sacred eulogies of song;
Since thou hast rued the waste of age,
And war, and Scolan's fiercer rage;--{76}
The spirit of renown expires,
The brave example of thy sires
Is lost; thy high heroic crest
Oblivion and inglorious rest
Have torn with rude rapacious hand;
And apathy usurps the land.
Lo! silent as the lapse of time
Sink to the earth thy towers sublime;
Where whilom harp'd the minstrel throng,
The night-owl pours her feral song:
For ever sinks blest Cambria's fame,
By ignorance, and sword, and flame
Laid with the dust, amidst her woes
The taunt of her ungenerous foes;
For ever sleeps her warlike praise,
Her wealth, dominion, language, lays.





Next: An Ode On The Death Of Hoel

Previous: My Native Land



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