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Wales Poetry

Woman
Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc...

The Holly Grove
Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed ...

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

The Song Of The Fisherman's Wife
Restless wave! be still and quiet, Do not heed the win...

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

To May
the following and several other poems in this collection. ...

The Eisteddfod,
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h...

My Native Cot
The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mo...

The Ewe
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles...

Roderic's Lament
Farewell every mountain To memory dear, Each streamlet...

To The Lark
"Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the...

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

Under The Orchard Tree
Under the deep-laden boughs of the orchard Walks a maid...

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fairy's Song
"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE. ...



The Ewe






Category: The Sentimental.

So artless art thou, gentle ewe!
Thy aspect kindles feeling;
And every bosom doth bedew,
Each true affection stealing.

Thou hast no weapon of aught kind
Against thy foes to combat;
No horn or hoof the dog to wound
That worries thee so steadfast.

No, nought hast thou but feeble flight,
Therein thy only refuge;
And every cur within thy sight
Is swifter since the deluge.

And when thy lambkin weak doth fail,
Tho' often called to follow,
Thy best protection to the frail
Wilt give through death or sorrow.

Against the ground her foot will beat,
Devoutly pure her purpose;
Full many a time the sight thus meet
Brought tears to me in billows.

But if wise nature did not give
To her sharp tooth or weapon,
She compensation doth receive
From human aid and reason.

She justly has from man support
'Gainst wounds and tribulation;
And has the means without distort
To yield him retribution.

Yea, of more value is her gift
Than priceless mines of silver
Or gold which from the depth they lift
Through India's distant border.

To man she gives protection strong
From winds and tempests howling,
From pelting rain, and snow-drifts long,
When storms above are beating.

The mantle warm o'er us the night
Throughout the dismal shadows;
What makes our hearts so free and light?
What but the sheep so precious!

Then let us not the Ewe forget
When winter bleak doth hover;
When rains descend--and we safe set--
Let us be grateful to her.

Her cloak to us is comfort great
When by the ditch she trembles;
Let us then give her the best beat
For her abode and rambles.





Next: The Song Of The Fisherman's Wife
Previous: The Faithful Maiden




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