|
| Home - Collection of Stories - Famous Stories - Short Stories - Wales Poetry - Yiddish Tales |
Wales PoetryTo 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 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
Viewed 1906 |
||||||||||||||||||||
