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Wales PoetryThe Grove Of Broom
The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in go...
O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo...
The Sick Man's Dream
Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste...
The Monarchy Of Britain
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers h...
Dafydd Ap Gwilym To The White Gull
Bird that dwellest in the spray, Far from mountain woods a...
the following and several other poems in this collection. ...
The Lord Of Clas
The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and...
Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc...
Sad Died The Maiden
Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish s...
"Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, Thy name is gone, t...
Concerning The Divine Providence
Streaking the mantle of deep night The rays of light ...
The Farmer's Prayer
poems of the "Good Vicar Prichard of Llandovery" would be ...
Gwilym Glyn And Ruth Of Dyffryn
In the depth of yonder valley, Where the fields are bright...
* * * * * Whether to the east or west You go, wondr...
King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow Thou reares...
A Bridal Song
Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, While the flowers are...
The Withered Leaf
Dry the leaf above the stubble, Soon 'twill fall into ...
An Ode On The Death Of Hoel
of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and d...
My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...
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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