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Wales Poetry

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

The Castles Of Wales
Ye fortresses grey and gigantic I see on the hills of...

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

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

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

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,...

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

The Lord Of Clas
The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and...

Childe Harold
"Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, Thy name is gone, t...

The Cuckoo's Tale
Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the...

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

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

Song Of The Foster-son, Love
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu...

May And November
Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for...

Song To Arvon
by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of Eng...

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

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

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



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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