VIEW THE MOBILE VERSION of www.storiespoetry.com Informational Site Network Informational
Privacy
Home - Collection of Stories - Famous Stories - Short Stories - Wales Poetry - Yiddish Tales

Wales Poetry

An Ode On The Death Of Hoel
of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and d...

Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Address To Morfydd After She Married His Rival
Too long I've loved the fickle maid, My love is turned to ...

The World And The Sea: A Comparison
Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it ...

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...

The Fairy's Song
"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE. ...

My Native Cot
The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mo...

The Hall Of Cynddylan
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for th...

The Legend Of Trwst Llywelyn
Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battl...

Twenty Third Psalm
My shepherd is the Lord above, Who ne'er will suffer me to...

The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd
All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden m...

Woman
Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc...

The Deluge
* * * * * Whether to the east or west You go, wondr...

The Immovable Covenant
the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist ...

Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the batt...

The Circling Of The Mead Horns
Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn: Natural is mead...

The Mountain Galloway
My tried and trusty mountain steed, Of Aberteivi's hardy...

The Death Of Owain
Lo! the youth, in mind a man, Daring in the battle's v...

The Dawn
Streaking the mantle of deep night The rays of light ...

The Poor Man's Grave
'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ...

To The Daisy
Oh, flower meek and modest That blooms of all the soonest,...



The Lord Of Clas






Category: The Sentimental.

The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone,
Over plain and sedgy moor;
The glare of his bridle bit has shone
On the heights of wild Benmore.

Why does he stay away from hound?
Nor urge the fervid chase?
Where is the shrill blast of his bugle sound?
And the bloom of his radiant face?

The Lord of Clas has found other game
Than the buck and timid roe;
His heart is warm'd by other flame,
His eyes with love-light glow.

On the mountain side a damsel he met
Collecting flowers wild;
Her eyes like diamonds were set,
And modest as a child.

Fair was her face, and lovely to see
Her form of slender mould,
Her dark hair waved in tresses free
On shoulders arch and bold.

The Lord of Clas did blush and sigh
When the lovely maid he saw;
He stoutly tried to pass her by;
His bridle rein did draw.

But his heart quick flutter'd in his breast,
The rein fell from his hand,
In accents weak the maid address'd,
While trembling did he stand.

"Fair lady, may I ask your name?
And what your purpose here?
From what bright homestead far you came?
And is your guardian near?"

Answer'd the maid with haughty mien,
That show'd her high estate:
"I know not, sir, why you should glean
Such knowledge as you prate.

I ask'd not your name, or whence you came?
Nor on you deign'd a look;
Wherefore should you my wrath inflame,
By taking me to book?"

The chieftain high was now subdu'd,
And lower'd was his crest;
With deep humility imbued
The maid he thus address'd:

"My lady fair, your beauteous mien
My heart has deep impress'd;
Altho' I hear the chase so keen,
My thoughts with you do rest.

I did essay to pass your charms,
And spurr'd my steed to flight,
But your dazzling beauty numb'd my arms,
And chain'd me to your sight.

If I may humbly crave your love,
I'll tell you my degree:
I am the Lord of yonder grove
And of this mountain free.

These broad lands will your dowry be,
If you my suit receive,
And ye shall urge the chase with me
From morn to winter eve."

The maid's reply was firm, yet bland,
And in a calmer mood:
"I thank you, sir, for your offer'd hand,
With dowry large and good.

I thank you for all your praises fair,
And for your gallant grace;
Had we but met an earlier year
I might be Lady Clas.

Behold this ring on my finger worn--
A token of plighted love;
Lo, he who plac'd it there this morn
Sits on yon cairn above."

The chieftain look'd to the lonely cairn
And saw the Knight of Lleyn!
Like mountain deer he flew o'er the sarn,
And there no more was seen!





Next: The Rose Of The Glen

Previous: Gwilym Glyn And Ruth Of Dyffryn



Add to del.icio.us Add to Reddit Add to Digg Add to Del.icio.us Add to Google Add to Twitter Add to Stumble Upon
Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
SHAREADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 3080


Untitled Document