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Wales Poetry

The Withered Leaf
Dry the leaf above the stubble, Soon 'twill fall into ...

To The Nightingale
river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the...

The Rose Of The Glen
Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or c...

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

To May
the following and several other poems in this collection. ...

Song Of The Foster-son, Love
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu...

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

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...

King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow Thou reares...

The Holly Grove
Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed ...

Farewell To Wales
The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; ...

Sad Died The Maiden
Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish s...

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

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

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

Glan Geirionydd
. One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the shor...

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

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

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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