Wales PoetryThe Eisteddfod,
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h...
Song To Arvon
by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of Eng...
Translations From Miscellaneous Welsh Hymns
Had I but the wings of a dove, To regions afar I'd repa...
The Hall Of Cynddylan
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for th...
The Farmer's Prayer
poems of the "Good Vicar Prichard of Llandovery" would be ...
Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, str...
a Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet....
The Day Of Judgment
was a native of Anglesea, and entered the Welsh Church...
Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: "The followin...
The Flowers Of Spring
beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ...
The Praise And Commendation Of A Good Woman
As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit a...
A Bridal Song
Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, While the flowers are...
My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...
The Lord Of Clas
The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and...
The Cuckoo's Tale
Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the...
The Sick Man's Dream
Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste...
A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among,...
Streaking the mantle of deep night The rays of light ...
Short Is The Life Of Man
Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a t...
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles...
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.
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