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| Was born of Jewish parents of the tribe of Levi. He is supposed to have been converted to christianity by Peter, whom he served as an amanuensis, and under whose inspection he wrote his gospel in the Greek language. Mark was dragged to pieces b... Read more of St Mark at Martyrs.ca | Informational Privacy |
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Wales PoetryWomanGentle 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 EweCategory: 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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