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Wales PoetryThe Grove Of BroomThe girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in go... Walter Sele 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... To May 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... Woman 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... Childe Harold "Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, Thy name is gone, t... Concerning The Divine Providence ... The Dawn 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... The Deluge * * * * * Whether to the east or west You go, wondr... Snowdon 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 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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