Sings.ca - Download the EBook Children Songs
InformationalPrivacy
|
Sings.ca - Download the EBook Children Songs | Informational Privacy |
| Home - Collection of Stories - Famous Stories - Short Stories - Wales Poetry - Yiddish Tales |
Wales PoetryBy The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma... The Rose Of Llan Meilen Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever i... 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 Swan Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like... The Day Of Judgment was a native of Anglesea, and entered the Welsh Church... Translated By The Rev William Evans God doth withhold no good from those Who meekly fear him ... Twenty Third Psalm My shepherd is the Lord above, Who ne'er will suffer me to... The Poor Man's Grave 'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ... Woman Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc... 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 ... To The Daisy Oh, flower meek and modest That blooms of all the soonest,... My Native Cot The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mo... Glan Geirionydd . One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the shor... The Monarchy Of Britain Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers h... The Grove Of Broom The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in go... The Eisteddfod, Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h... The Golden Goblet, In Imitation Of Gothe There was a king in Mon, {62} A true lover to his grave; ... To The Nightingale river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the... The Vengeance Of Owain {96} Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and ... |
The Sick Man's DreamCategory: 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
Viewed 421 |
||||||||||||||||||||
