My Native Land

My soul is sad, my spirit fails,

And sickness in my heart prevails,

Whilst chill'd with grief, it mourns and wails

For my old Native Land.

Gold and wine have power to please,

And Summer's pure and gentle breeze,--

But ye are dearer far than these,

Hills of my Native Land.

Lovely to see the sun arise,

Breaking forth from eastern skies;

But oh! far lovelier in my eyes

Would be my Native Land.

As pants the hart for valley dew,

As bleats the lambkin for the ewe,

Thus I lament and long to view

My ancient Native Land.

What, what are delicacies, say,

And large possessions, what are they?

What the wide world and all its sway

Out of my Native Land?

O should I king of India be,

Might Europe to me bend the knee,

Such honours should be nought to me

Far from my Native Land.

In what delightful country strays

Each gentle friend of youthful days?

Where dwelleth all I love or praise?

O! in my Native Land.

Where are the fields and gardens fair

Where once I sported free as air,

Without despondency or care?

O! in my Native Land.

Where is each path and still retreat

Where I with song held converse sweet

With true poetic fire replete?

O! in my Native Land.

Where do the merry maidens move,

Who purely live and truly love--

Whose words do not deceitful prove?

O! in my Native Land.

And where on earth that friendly place,

Where each presents a brother's face,

Where frowns or anger ne'er debase!

O! 'tis my Native Land.

And O! where dwells that dearest one

My first affections fix'd upon,

Dying with grief that I am gone?

O! in my Native Land.

Where do they food to strangers give?

Where kindly, liberally relieve?

Where unsophisticated live?

O! in my Native Land.

Where are the guileless rites retain'd,

And customs of our sires maintain'd?

Where has the ancient Welsh remain'd?

O! in my Native Land.

Where is the harp of sweetest string?

Where are songs read in bardic ring?

Genius and inspiration sing

Within my Native Land.

Once Zion's sons their harps unstrung,

On Babylonian willows hung,

And mute their songs--with sorrow wrung,

They mourn'd their Native Land.

Captives, the Babylonians cry,

Awake Judaean melody,--

There is no music they reply,

Out of our Native Land.

And thus when I in misery

Beseech my muse to visit me,

She echo's--there's no hope for thee

Out of thy Native Land.

A bard how dull in Indian groves,

Distant from the land he loves!

The muse to melody ne'er moves

Far from her Native Land.

Day and night I ceaseless groan

Among these foreigners, alone;

Yet not for fame or gold I moan,

But for my Native Land.

Oft to the rocky heights I haste,

And gaze intent, while tears flow fast,

Over old ocean's troubled waste,

Towards my Native Land.

Then breaks my heart with grief to see

The mountain waves o'erspread the sea,

Which widely separates from me

My charming Native Land.

To see the boiling ocean near,

Whose waves as if they joy'd appear,

Rolling betwixt me and my dear

Enchanting Native Land.

O had I wings! to cure my pain

I'd flee across the widening main,

To view the extensive vales again

Of my dear Native Land.

There I would lay me down secure,

And cheerfully my wants endure:

The wealth of worlds could not allure

Me from my Native Land.