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Wales Poetry

The Vengeance Of Owain {96}
Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and ...

An Ode On The Death Of Hoel
of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and d...

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

Gwilym Glyn And Ruth Of Dyffryn
In the depth of yonder valley, Where the fields are bright...

To May
the following and several other poems in this collection. ...

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

The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd
All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden m...

The Golden Goblet, In Imitation Of Gothe
There was a king in Mon, {62} A true lover to his grave; ...

Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...

The Fairy's Song
"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE. ...

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

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

Song To Arvon
by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of Eng...

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

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...

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

Old Morgan And His Wife
Hus.--Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs, Their cry is ...

The Song Of The Fisherman's Wife
Restless wave! be still and quiet, Do not heed the win...

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



The Song Of The Fisherman's Wife






Category: The Sentimental.

Restless wave! be still and quiet,
Do not heed the wind and freshet,
Nature wide is now fast sleeping,
Why art thou so live and stirring?
All commotion now is ending,
Why not thou thy constant rolling?

Rest thou sea! upon thy bosom
Is one from whom my thoughts are seldom,
Not his lot it is to idle,
But to work while he is able;
Be kind to him, ocean billow!
Sleep upon thy sandy pillow!

Wherefore should'st thou still be swelling?
Why not cease thy restless heaving?
There's no wind to stir the bushes,
And all still the mountain breezes:
Be thou calm until the morning
When he'll shelter in the offing.

* * * * *

Deaf art thou to my entreaty,
Ocean vast! and without mercy.
I will turn to Him who rules thee,
And can still thy fiercest eddy:
Take Thou him to Thy protection
Keep him from the wave's destruction!





Next: The Withered Leaf

Previous: The Ewe



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