Wales Poetry

The Lord Of Clas
The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and...

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

The Mother To Her Child After Its Father's Death
My gentle child, thou dost not know Why still on thee ...

The Ewe
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles...

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

Walter Sele
O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo...

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

Tribanau
Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: "The followin...

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...

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

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

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

To The Lark
"Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the...

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

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

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

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

Childe Harold
"Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, Thy name is gone, t...

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

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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