Wales Poetry

Ode To Cambria
Cambria, I love thy genius bold; Thy dreadful rites, and...

The Eisteddfod,
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h...

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

The Shipwreck
a Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet....

May And November
Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for...

The Flowers Of Spring
beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ...

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

Taliesin's Prophecy
A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among,...

The Monarchy Of Britain
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers h...

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

Translations From Miscellaneous Welsh Hymns
Had I but the wings of a dove, To regions afar I'd repa...

Dafydd Ap Gwilym To The White Gull
Bird that dwellest in the spray, Far from mountain woods a...

The Battle Of Gwenystrad
contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appe...

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

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

The Golden Goblet, In Imitation Of Gothe
There was a king in Mon, {62} A true lover to his grave; ...

The Sick Man's Dream
Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste...

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

The Cuckoo's Tale
Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the...

Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...

The Poor Man's Grave

Category: The Sentimental.

'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches,
Rears a mound its verdant head,
As if to receive the riches
Which the dew of heaven doth spread;
Many a foot doth inconsiderate
Tread upon the humble pile,
And doth crush the turf so ornate:--
That's the Poor Man's Grave the while.

The paid servants of the Union
Followed mute his last remains,
Piling the earth in fast confusion,
Without sigh, or tear or pains;
After anguish and privation,
Here at last his troubles cease,
Quiet refuge from oppression
Is the Poor Man's Grave of peace.

The tombstone rude with two initials,
Carved upon its smoother side,
By a helpmate of his trials,
Is now split and sunder'd wide;
And when comes the Easter Sunday,
There is neither friend nor kin
To bestow green leaves or nosegay
On the Poor Man's Grave within.

Nor doth the muse above his ashes
Sing a dirge or mourn his end,
And ere long time's wasting gashes
Will the mound in furrows rend:
Level with the earth all traces,
Hide him in oblivion deep;
Yet, for this, God's angel watches,
O'er the Poor Man's Grave doth weep.





Next: The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd
Previous: The World And The Sea: A Comparison

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