Wales PoetryBy The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h...
Gwilym Glyn And Ruth Of Dyffryn
In the depth of yonder valley, Where the fields are bright...
The Immovable Covenant
the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist ...
Translated By The Rev William Evans
God doth withhold no good from those Who meekly fear him ...
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 Lord Of Clas
The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and...
The Holly Grove
Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed ...
The Monarchy Of Britain
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers h...
The Praise And Commendation Of A Good Woman
As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit a...
To The Lark
"Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the...
The Poor Man's Grave
'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ...
Sad Died The Maiden
Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish s...
My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...
The Rose Of Llan Meilen
Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever i...
The Lily And The Rose
Once I saw two flowers blossom In a garden 'neath the h...
Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...
To The Daisy
Oh, flower meek and modest That blooms of all the soonest,...
The Sick Man's Dream
Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste...
The Rose Of The Glen
Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or c...
Song Of The Foster-son, Love
Category: The Humorous.
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love,
From one endued with beauty from above.
To bring him up with fond and _tender_ care--
Was an obligation from my fair.--
And for the guileless, beaming star's sweet sake
Him to my bosom did I kindly take,
Him warmly cherished and with joy caress'd,
Like Philomela in the parent breast!
Thus on my breast, and sipping from my cup,
With food and nurture did I bring him up;
He grew a winged stripling, plump and fair,
And yet he filled and fills my soul with care!
Foster-son, indeed, a rebel has become,
Morose, insubordinate and glum,
A peevish, wayward, wanton, wicked swain:
To strive against the darts of love is vain.
And now with his ruthless, vengeful bow,
He points it at me and shoots high and low.
Ah! whither shall I from his anger flee;
Where from his darts and wily snares be free?
All fickle is the foster-son, indeed;
He leads me on to the flowery mead,
When all is peace and harmony around
He wrings my ears with doleful sound.
And woe betide if e'er he sees one dare
A single word exchange with the fair,
He forthwith casts his vengeance like a dart,
And thrusts his pointed dagger through my heart.
One day, when feeling somewhat brisk and strong
On summer-morn, I strolled the meads along,
A curious thought upon my mind did flash
That I would try this foster-boy to thrash.
With this intent I straightway armed myself,
My oaken cudgel drew to chase the elf;
When lo! the elf felt not the slightest stroke,
But in return the tendrils of my heart he broke!
I am father to a foster-son
Most cruel since this earth began to run:
Oh, thousand times how sorely have I said,
"The fates may take him, foster'd on my bread."
Then must I live in sorrow evermore
No hope to cheer my spirit as of yore?
And is despair, dark, sullen, on my heart
To plant its talons with a fatal dart?
No, there yet will beam a brilliant day
To chase these lurid, murky clouds away!
Arise, sweet soul, thy sorrows cast away,
Blow off thy cares, like ocean's shifting spray.
There is a blushing rose that blooms unseen
In yonder valley decked with leaflets green,
'Twill healthy heart, tho' shatter'd and forlorn,
Like scented balm from distant Gilead borne.
'Tis there my darling Dora makes her home;
'Tis there my wand'ring glances fondly roam;
'Tis there my star of beauty mildly shines;
'Tis there the chain of life my soul entwines.
'Tis there where kind maternal fondness dwells,
And sister gentleness the bosom swells,
'Tis there where now the lovely lily grows
Beside the purling brook that ever flows.
There's one, and only one to cheer my soul,
To heal my anguish, and my grief control;
'Tis she who did the foster-boy impart
To nestle deeply in my restless heart.
And if, indeed, the fair one will not pay
For time and nurture, anguish and delay,
Unless a guerdon in her smiles I see
Then must I from her arms for ever flee.
Previous: Old Morgan And His Wife