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Wales PoetryThe Rose Of Llan Meilen
Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever i...
The Death Of Owain
Lo! the youth, in mind a man, Daring in the battle's v...
The Flowers Of Spring
beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ...
The Fairy's Song
"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE. ...
To The Daisy
Oh, flower meek and modest That blooms of all the soonest,...
The Cuckoo's Tale
Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the...
Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the batt...
A Bridal Song
Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, While the flowers are...
The Farmer's Prayer
poems of the "Good Vicar Prichard of Llandovery" would be ...
Concerning The Divine Providence
Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...
* * * * * Whether to the east or west You go, wondr...
The Withered Leaf
Dry the leaf above the stubble, Soon 'twill fall into ...
Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like...
The Legend Of Trwst Llywelyn
Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battl...
Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc...
An Address To The Summer
of Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire, and was born about ...
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h...
Sad Died The Maiden
Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish s...
The Battle Of Gwenystrad
contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appe...
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
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