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Wales PoetryFarewell To Wales
The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; ...
The Lily And The Rose
Once I saw two flowers blossom In a garden 'neath the h...
Sad Died The Maiden
Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish s...
The Poor Man's Grave
'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ...
Twenty Third Psalm
My shepherd is the Lord above, Who ne'er will suffer me to...
An Address To The Summer
of Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire, and was born about ...
An Ode On The Death Of Hoel
of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and d...
The Hall Of Cynddylan
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for th...
The Monarchy Of Britain
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers h...
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...
Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, str...
Song To Arvon
by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of Eng...
Short Is The Life Of Man
Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a t...
King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow Thou reares...
A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among,...
From The Hymns Of The Rev William Williams, Pantycelyn
he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish of...
The Legend Of Trwst Llywelyn
Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battl...
The Song Of The Fisherman's Wife
Restless wave! be still and quiet, Do not heed the win...
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles...
. One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the shor...
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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