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Wales Poetry

The Swan
Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like...

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

King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow Thou reares...

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

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

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

A Bridal Song
Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, While the flowers are...

By The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma

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

The Mother To Her Child After Its Father's Death
My gentle child, thou dost not know Why still on thee ...

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

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

Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Address To Morfydd After She Married His Rival
Too long I've loved the fickle maid, My love is turned to ...

Translations From Miscellaneous Welsh Hymns
Had I but the wings of a dove, To regions afar I'd repa...

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

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

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

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

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

The Lord Of Clas
The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and...

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!

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