Informational Site NetworkInformational Site Network
Privacy
 
Home - Collection of Stories - Famous Stories - Short Stories - Wales Poetry - Yiddish Tales

Wales Poetry

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

Gwilym Glyn And Ruth Of Dyffryn
In the depth of yonder valley, Where the fields are bright...

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

The Shipwreck
a Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet....

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

Concerning The Divine Providence
...

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

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...

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

Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the batt...

Sad Died The Maiden
Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish s...

The Immovable Covenant
the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist ...

To The Spring
Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatte...

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

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

Translated By The Rev William Evans
God doth withhold no good from those Who meekly fear him ...

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

Farewell To Wales
The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; ...

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



The Lament Op Llywarch Hen






Category: The Patriotic.

The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing
With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom;
But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing,
The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb!

Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding,
Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave?
Why smile the waste flow'rs, my sad footsteps surrounding?
My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!

Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing,
As on to the fields of your glory you trod!
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing,
Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod!

I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding,
Which rouses ye not, oh, my lovely, my brave!
When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding,
I turn from heav'n's light, for it smiles on your grave!





Next: The Hall Of Cynddylan

Previous: Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan



Add to del.icio.us Add to Reddit Add to Digg Add to Del.icio.us Add to Google Add to Twitter Add to Stumble Upon
Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
SHAREADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 1906


Untitled Document