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Wales Poetry

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

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

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

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

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

The Hall Of Cynddylan
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for th...

Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the batt...

The Dawn
Streaking the mantle of deep night The rays of light ...

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

The Castles Of Wales
Ye fortresses grey and gigantic I see on the hills of...

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

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

My Native Cot
The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mo...

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

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

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

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

The World And The Sea: A Comparison
Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it ...

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

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

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

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