Song Of The Foster-son, Love
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love,
From one endued with beauty from above.
To bring him up with fond and _tender_ care--
Was an obligation from my fair.--
And for the guileless, beaming star's sweet sake
Him to my bosom did I kindly take,
Him warmly cherished and with joy caress'd,
Like Philomela in the parent breast!
Thus on my breast, and sipping from my cup
With food and nurture did I bring him up;
He grew a winged stripling, plump and fair,
And yet he filled and fills my soul with care!
Foster-son, indeed, a rebel has become,
Morose, insubordinate and glum,
A peevish, wayward, wanton, wicked swain:
To strive against the darts of love is vain.
And now with his ruthless, vengeful bow,
He points it at me and shoots high and low.
Ah! whither shall I from his anger flee;
Where from his darts and wily snares be free?
All fickle is the foster-son, indeed;
He leads me on to the flowery mead,
When all is peace and harmony around
He wrings my ears with doleful sound.
And woe betide if e'er he sees one dare
A single word exchange with the fair,
He forthwith casts his vengeance like a dart,
And thrusts his pointed dagger through my heart.
One day, when feeling somewhat brisk and strong
On summer-morn, I strolled the meads along,
A curious thought upon my mind did flash
That I would try this foster-boy to thrash.
With this intent I straightway armed myself,
My oaken cudgel drew to chase the elf;
When lo! the elf felt not the slightest stroke,
But in return the tendrils of my heart he broke!
I am father to a foster-son
Most cruel since this earth began to run:
Oh, thousand times how sorely have I said,
"The fates may take him, foster'd on my bread."
Then must I live in sorrow evermore
No hope to cheer my spirit as of yore?
And is despair, dark, sullen, on my heart
To plant its talons with a fatal dart?
No, there yet will beam a brilliant day
To chase these lurid, murky clouds away!
Arise, sweet soul, thy sorrows cast away,
Blow off thy cares, like ocean's shifting spray.
There is a blushing rose that blooms unseen
In yonder valley decked with leaflets green,
'Twill healthy heart, tho' shatter'd and forlorn,
Like scented balm from distant Gilead borne.
'Tis there my darling Dora makes her home;
'Tis there my wand'ring glances fondly roam;
'Tis there my star of beauty mildly shines;
'Tis there the chain of life my soul entwines.
'Tis there where kind maternal fondness dwells,
And sister gentleness the bosom swells,
'Tis there where now the lovely lily grows
Beside the purling brook that ever flows.
There's one, and only one to cheer my soul,
To heal my anguish, and my grief control;
'Tis she who did the foster-boy impart
To nestle deeply in my restless heart.
And if, indeed, the fair one will not pay
For time and nurture, anguish and delay,
Unless a guerdon in her smiles I see
Then must I from her arms for ever flee.
More
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A Bridal Song
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of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and distinguished himself at the battle of Cattraeth, fought between the Welsh and Saxons, in or about the year 560, but was disastrous to the former and especially to the bard, who was there t... An Ode To The Thunder
his bardic name of Dafydd Ionawr, was born in the year 1751 at Glanmorfa, near Towyn, Merionethshire, and died in 1827. He was educated at Ystradmeurig Grammar School, with a view to entering the Welsh Church, but his academic career was cut s... By The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma
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The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; and a blessing be with thee, Greenland; In thy halls, thy hearths, in thy pure mountain air, On the strings of the harp and the minstrel's free hand; From the love of my soul with my tears... From The Hymns Of The Rev William Williams, Pantycelyn
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The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mountain side, The stream which flowed beside the door Adown the mossy slope doth glide; The holly tree that hid one end Is shaken by the moaning wind, Like as it was in days of yore... My Native Land
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I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endued with beauty from above. To bring him up with fond and _tender_ care-- Was an obligation from my fair.-- And for the guileless, beaming star's sweet sake Him to my bosom did I kindly ... Song To Arvon
by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of England, better known by his bardic name of _Ieuan Glan Geirionydd_. He was born in 1795 at a freehold of his father, situate on the banks of the river Geirionydd, in Carnarvonshire, and die... Taliesin's Prophecy
A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among, O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung, The path of unborn ages is trac'd upon my soul, The clouds, which mantle things unseen, away before me roll. A light, the depths re... That Had Been Converted Into A May-pole In The Town Of Llanidloes, In Montgomeryshire
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All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden mien!" I have loved beyond belief, Many a day to love and grief For her sake have been a prey, Who has on the moon's array! Pledged my truth from youth will now To the girl of glossy bro... The Battle Of Gwenystrad
contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appears to have been a native of Cardiganshire, for we find him at an early age living at the court of Gwyddno, a petty king of Cantre y Gwaelod, who appointed him his chief bard and tutor to ... The Castles Of Wales
Ye fortresses grey and gigantic I see on the hills of my land, To my mind ye appear terrific, When I muse on your ruins so grand; Your walls were a shelter the strongest From the enemies' countless array, When they spilt with the blo... The Circling Of The Mead Horns
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Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the tidings of summer thy bright pinions roam-- The summer that thickens with foliage the glade, And lures to the woodland the poet and maid. Sweet as "sack," gentle bird, is thy beautiful vo... The Dawn
Streaking the mantle of deep night The rays of light arise, Delightful day--shed by the sun-- Breaks forth from eastern skies, He--in his course o'er oceans vast And distant lands--returns Firm to his purpose, true his way, He na... The Day Of Judgment
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* * * * * Whether to the east or west You go, wondrous through all Are the myriad clouds; Dense and grim they appear-- Black and fierce the firmament, Dark and horrid is all. A ray of light's not seen, But light'ning white and flashy, ... The Eisteddfod,
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be heard this day In music's witching strain! Wide let her ancient "soul of song," The echo of its notes prolong, O'er valley, hill, and plain! Minstrels! awake your harps aloud, Bid ... The Ewe
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At the dawning of day on a morning in May, When the birds through the forests were skipping so gay; While crossing the churchyard of a parish remote, In a district of Cambria, whose name I don't note: I saw a fair maiden so rich in attire, ... The Farmer's Prayer
poems of the "Good Vicar Prichard of Llandovery" would be incomplete. This excellent man was born at Llandovery, in Carmarthenshire, in the year 1579, and died there in 1644. After a collegiate course in Oxford he was inducted to the Vicarage of... The Flowers Of Spring
beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation is made, was an eloquent minister of the Baptist Church in Wales, and died on the 20th day of January, 1873, at the age of 54 years, at Beaufort, in Monmouthshire, leaving a widow and seve... The Golden Goblet, In Imitation Of Gothe
There was a king in Mon, {62} A true lover to his grave; To whom in death his lady A golden goblet gave. When Christmas bowls were circling, And all was joy and cheer, He passed that goblet from him With a kiss and with a tear. ... The Grove Of Broom
The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in golden dress, No longer dares to give her plight To meet the bard at dawn or night! To the blythe moon he may not bear The maid, whose cheeks the daylight wear-- She fears to answer to his... The Hall Of Cynddylan
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for the grave has extinguished its light; The beam of its lamp from the summit is o'er, The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more! The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still, The s... The Holly Grove
Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed bower! In front of all the forest Thy coral-loaded branches tower. Thou shrine of love, whose depth defies The axe--the tempest of the skies; Whose boughs in winter's frost display The ... The Immovable Covenant
the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist Church, and was possessed of extensive learning, and a highly critical taste. After officiating as Minister at a Church in Swansea and other places, he finally settled at Builth, where he... The Lament Op Llywarch Hen
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Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battle, against the Saxons, and his three sisters came down here to meet him; and, when they heard him coming, they said, "It is Trwst Llywelyn," (the sound of Llywelyn,) and the place has been... The Lily And The Rose
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Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers had breath'd the free air of your clime! All that its eagles beheld in their flight Was yours from the deep to each storm-mantled height! Though from your race that proud birthright be torn... The Mother To Her Child After Its Father's Death
My gentle child, thou dost not know Why still on thee I am gazing so, And trace in meditation deep Thy features fair in silent sleep. Thy mien, my babe, so full of grace, Reminds me of thy father's face; Although he rests beneath the tree... The Mountain Galloway
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'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound its verdant head, As if to receive the riches Which the dew of heaven doth spread; Many a foot doth inconsiderate Tread upon the humble pile, And doth crush the turf so ornate:-- ... The Praise And Commendation Of A Good Woman
As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit and selfishness is full-- As a good name exceeds the best perfume, And richest balms that from the Indies come. A virtuous, cheerful, and obliging wife Is better far than all the pomp of... The Rose Of Llan Meilen
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Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or cottage wherein I may live, Altho' I can't boast of high blood or degree, Than all these my sweet Rose is dearer to me. The lambs on the mountain are frisky and gay, The birds in the for...