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Wales PoetryTo Maythe following and several other poems in this collection. ... 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 Holly Grove Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed ... The Grove Of Broom The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in go... The Swan Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like... Concerning The Divine Providence ... An Ode On The Death Of Hoel of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and d... Under The Orchard Tree Under the deep-laden boughs of the orchard Walks a maid... The Praise And Commendation Of A Good Woman As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit a... Song Of The Foster-son, Love I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu... Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire, Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o... An Address To The Summer of Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire, and was born about ... The Legend Of Trwst Llywelyn Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battl... The World And The Sea: A Comparison Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it ... The Hall Of Cynddylan The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for th... May And November Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for... Twenty Third Psalm My shepherd is the Lord above, Who ne'er will suffer me to... Woman Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc... Snowdon King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow Thou reares... Walter Sele O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo... |
The Lament Op Llywarch HenCategory: 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
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