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Wales Poetry

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

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

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

To The Spring
Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatte...

The Lament Op Llywarch Hen
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing ...

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

An Address To The Summer
of Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire, and was born about ...

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 ...

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

From The Hymns Of The Rev William Williams, Pantycelyn
he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish of...

My Father-land
Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, str...

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

My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...

The Farmer's Prayer
poems of the "Good Vicar Prichard of Llandovery" would be ...

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

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

The Day Of Judgment
was a native of Anglesea, and entered the Welsh Church...

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

The Lily And The Rose
Once I saw two flowers blossom In a garden 'neath the h...

The Sick Man's Dream

Category: The Beautiful.

Dans le solitaire bourgade,
Revant a ses maux tristement,
Languissait un pauvre malade,
D'un long mal qui va consumant.--MILLEVOYE.

It was a dream, a pleasant dream, that o'er my spirit came,
When faint beneath the lime-trees' shade I flung my weary frame:
I stood upon a mountain's brow, above the haunts of men,
And, far beneath me, smiling, lay my lovely native glen.

I watch'd the silv'ry Severn glide, reflecting rock and tree,
A gentle pilgrim, bound to pay her homage to the sea;
And waking many a treasured thought, that slumb'ring long had lain:
Some mountain minstrel's harp poured forth a well remember'd strain.

I rais'd my voice in thankfulness, and vowed no more to roam,
Or leave my heart's abiding-place, my beauteous mountain home.
Alas! how different was the scene that met my waking glance!
It fell upon the fertile plains, the sunny hills of France.

The Garonne's fair and glassy wave rolls onward in its pride;
It cannot quench my burning thirst for thee, my native tide;
And, for the harp that bless'd my dream with mem'ries from afar,
I only hear yon peasant maid, who strikes the light guitar:
The merry stranger mocks at griefs he does not understand,
He cannot--he has never seen my own fair mountain land.

They said Consumption's ruthless eye had mark'd me for her prey:
They bade me seek in foreign climes her wasting hand to stay;
They told me of an altered form, an eye grown ghastly bright,
And called the crimson on my cheek the spoiler's hectic blight.

Oh! if the mountain heather pined amidst the heaven's own dew,
Think ye the parterre's wasting heat its freshness could renew?
And thus, 'mid shady glens and streams, was my young life begun,
And now, my frame exhausted sinks beneath this southern sun.

I feel, I feel, they told me true; my breath grows faint and weak,
And, brighter still, this crimson spot is glowing on my cheek;
My hour of life is well nigh past, too fleetly runs the sand:
Oh! must I die so far from thee, my dear lov'd mountain land?

Next: The Fairy's Song

Previous: The Golden Goblet, In Imitation Of Gothe

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