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Wales PoetryThe Song Of The Fisherman's Wife
Restless wave! be still and quiet, Do not heed the win...
The Mother To Her Child After Its Father's Death
My gentle child, thou dost not know Why still on thee ...
The Banks Of The Dee
One morning in May, when soft breezes were blowing O'er...
Song Of The Foster-son, Love
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu...
The Rose Of The Glen
Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or c...
. One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the shor...
Translated By The Rev William Evans
God doth withhold no good from those Who meekly fear him ...
The World And The Sea: A Comparison
Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it ...
Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like...
a Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet....
The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd
All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden m...
King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow Thou reares...
A Bridal Song
Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, While the flowers are...
The Death Of Owain
Lo! the youth, in mind a man, Daring in the battle's v...
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles...
Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the batt...
* * * * * Whether to the east or west You go, wondr...
Old Morgan And His Wife
Hus.--Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs, Their cry is ...
May And November
Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for...
To The Daisy
Oh, flower meek and modest That blooms of all the soonest,...
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.
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