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Wales Poetry

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

The Dawn
Streaking the mantle of deep night The rays of light ...

To The Spring
Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatte...

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

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

That Had Been Converted Into A May-pole In The Town Of Llanidloes, In Montgomeryshire
Ah! birch tree, with the verdant locks, And reckless min...

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

The Lily And The Rose
Once I saw two flowers blossom In a garden 'neath the h...

The Farmer's Prayer
poems of the "Good Vicar Prichard of Llandovery" would be ...

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

By The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma

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

The Death Of Owain
Lo! the youth, in mind a man, Daring in the battle's v...

Glan Geirionydd
. One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the shor...

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

The Grove Of Broom
The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in go...

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

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

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

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


Category: The Sublime.

King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow
Thou rearest in the clouds, as if to mock
The littleness of human things below;
The tempest cannot harm thee, and the shock
Of the deep thunder falls upon thy head
As the light footfalls of an infant's tread.

The livid lightning's all destroying flame
Has flashed upon thee harmlessly, the rage
Of savage storms have left thee still the same;
Thou art imperishable! Age after age
Thou hast endured; aye, and for evermore
Thy form shall be as changeless as before.

The works of man shall perish and decay,
Cities shall crumble down to dust, and all
Their "gorgeous palaces" shall pass away;
Even their lofty monuments shall fall;
And a few scattered stones be all to tell
The place where once they stood,--where since they fell!

Yet, even time has not the power to shiver
One single fragment from thee; thou shalt be
A monument that shall exist for ever!
While the vast world endures in its immensity,
The eternal snows that gather on thy brow
Shall diadem thy crest, as they do now.

Thy head is wrapt in mists, yet still thou gleam'st,
At intervals, from out the clouds, that are
A glorious canopy, in which thou seem'st
To shroud thy many beauties; now afar
Thou glitterest in the sun, and dost unfold
Thy giant form, in robes of burning gold.

And, when the red day dawned upon thee, oh! how bright
Thy mighty form appeared! a thousand dies
Shed o'er thee all the brilliance of their light,
Catching their hues from the o'er-arching skies,
That seemed to play around thee, like a dress
Sporting around some form of loveliness.

And when the silver moonbeams on thee threw
Their calm and tranquil light, thou seem'st to be
A thing so wildly beautiful to view,
So wrapt in strange unearthly mystery,
That the mind feels an awful sense of fear
When gazing on thy form, so wild and drear.

The poet loves to gaze upon thee when
No living soul is near, and all are gone
Wooing their couches for soft sleep; for then
The poet feels that he is _least_ alone,--
Holding communion with the mighty dead,
Whose viewless shadows flit around thy head.

Say, does the spirit of some warrior bard,
With unseen form, float on the misty air,
As if intent thy sacred heights to guard?
Or does he breathe his mournful murmurs there,
As if returned to earth, once more to dwell
On the dear spot he ever lov'd so well.

Perhaps some Druid form, in awful guise,
With words of wond'rous import, there may range,
Making aloud mysterious sacrifice,
With gestures incommunicably strange,
Praying to the gods he worshipped, to restore
His dear lov'd Cymru to her days of yore.

Or does thy harp, oh, Hoel! sound its strings,
With chords of fire proclaim thy country's praise;
And he of "Flowing Song's" wild murmurings
Breathe forth the music of his warrior lays;
And Davydd, Caradoc--a glorious band--
Tune their wild harps to praise their mountain land?

Thou stand'st immovable, and firmly fixed
As Cambria's sons in battle, when they met
The Roman legions, and their weapons mixed,
And clash'd as bravely as they can do yet.
The Saxon, Dane, and Norman, knew them well,
And found them--as they are--invincible!

Majestic Snowdon! proudly dost thou stand,
Like a tall giant ready for the fray,
The guardian bulwark of thy mountain land;
Old as the world thou art! As I survey
Thy lofty altitude, strange feelings rise,
Of the unutterable mind's wild sympathies.

Thou hast seen many changes, yet hast stood
Unaltered to the last, remained the same
Even in the wildness of thy solitude,
Even in thy savage grandeur; and thy name
Acts as a spell on Cambria's sons, that brings
Their heart's best blood to flow in rapid springs.

And must I be the only one to sing
Thy dear loved name? and must the task be mine,
To the insensate mind thy name to bring?
Oh! how I grieve to think, when songs divine
Have echoed to thy praises night and day,
I can but offer thee so poor a lay.

Next: The Day Of Judgment

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