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Wales Poetry

Old Morgan And His Wife
Hus.--Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs, Their cry is ...

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

My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...

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

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 Vengeance Of Owain {96}
Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and ...

The Battle Of Gwenystrad
contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appe...

The Lament Op Llywarch Hen
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing ...

The Praise And Commendation Of A Good Woman
As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit a...

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

The Golden Goblet, In Imitation Of Gothe
There was a king in Mon, {62} A true lover to his grave; ...

Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh g...

The Flowers Of Spring
beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ...

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

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

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

An Address To The Summer
of Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire, and was born about ...

Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...

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

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

That Had Been Converted Into A May-pole In The Town Of Llanidloes, In Montgomeryshire

Category: The Sentimental.

Ah! birch tree, with the verdant locks,
And reckless mind--long hast thou been
A wand'rer from thy native rocks;
With canopy of tissue green,
And stem that 'mid the sylvan scene
A sceptre of the forest stood--
Thou art a traitress to the wood!
How oft, in May's short nights of old,
To my love-messenger and me
Thou didst a couch of leaves unfold!
Thou wert a house of melody,--
Proud music soared from every bough;
Ah! those who loved thee sorrow now!
Thy living branches teemed and rang
With every song the woodlands know,
And every woodland flow'ret sprang
To life--thy spreading tent below.
Proud guardian of the public way,
Such wert thou, while thou didst obey
The counsel of my beauteous bride--
And in thy native grove reside!
But now thy stem is mute and dark,
No more by lady's reverence cheered;
Rent from its trunk, torn from its park,
The luckless tree again is reared--
(Small sign of honour or of grace!)
To mark the parish market-place!
Long as St. Idloes' town shall be
A patroness of poesy--
Long as its hospitality
The bard shall freely entertain,
My birch! thy lofty stature shall remain!

Next: The Holly Grove

Previous: The Grove Of Broom

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