The Poetry of Wales

by Unknown

FAREWELL TO WALES.

By Mrs. Hemans.

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 it is shed,
Whilst I leave thee, O land of my home and my dead.

I bless thee; yet not for the beauty which dwells
In the heart of thy hills, in the waves of thy shore;
And not for the memory set deep in thy dells
Of the bard and the warrior, the mighty of yore;
And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled,
Greenland, Poetland of my home and my dead.

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat,
Where e’er a low hamlet smiles, under thy skies,
For thy peasant hearths burping the stranger to greet,
For the soul that looks forth from thy children’s bright eyes,
May the blessing, like sunshine, around thee be spread,
Greenland of my childhood, my home and my dead.

THE CASTLES OF WALES.

By Rev. Daniel Evans, B.D.

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 blood of the bravest,
Your sides in our ancestors’ day.

Around you the war-horse was neighing,
And pranced his rich trappings to feel,
While through you were frightfully gleaming
Bright lances and spears of steel;
The fruits of the rich-laden harvest,
Were ruthlessly trod by the foe,
And the thunder of battle was loudest,
To herald its message of woe.

While viewing your dilapidation,
My memory kindles with joy,
To think that the foes of our nation,
No longer these valleys destroy;
By sowing his fields in the winter,
In hope of a rich harvest-home,
The husbandman now feels no terror
Of war with its havoc to come.

When I look at the sheep as they shelter
In safety beneath your rude walls,
Where erst the dread agents of slaughter
Fell’d thousands, nor heeded their calls;

The hillock where crossed the sharp spears
Now shadows the ewe and its lamb,
While seeing the peace of these years,
My heart is with gratitude warm.

Ye towers that saw the wild ravens,
And the eagles with hunger impell’d,
Exultingly gorge ’mid your ruins.
On corpses of men which they held;
How sweet for you now ’tis to hear
The shepherd, so peaceful and meek,
Tune his reed with a melody clear,
While his flock in you shelter do seek.

Upon your battlements sitting,
To view the bright landscape below,
My heart becomes sad when remembering
That silent in death is the foe,
And the friends who bravely did combat,
And raised your grey towers so steep,
Declaring their life-blood should stagnate,
Ere ever in chains they would weep.

When I think of their purpose so pure,
The tear must fast trickle from me,
Their hearts did Providence allure
To their country, and her did they free;
We now live beneath a meek power,
And feel the full blessings of peace,
While on us abundantly shower,
The mercies of Heaven with increase.

THE EISTEDDFOD,

By Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson. [{91}]

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 Cambria’s nobles hither crowd,
Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud,
Nor shall the call be vain!

Let gen’rous wine around be pour’d!
To many a chief in mem’ry stored,
Of Cambria’s ancient day!
Sons of the mountain and the flood,
Who shed for her their dearest blood,
Nor own’d a conqueror’s sway!
Be they extolled in music’s strain,
Remembered, when the cup we drain,
And let their deeds revive again
In ev’ry minstrel’s lay!

’Tis now the feast of soul and song!
As roll the festive hours along,
Here wealth and pow’r combine
With beauty’s smiles, (a rich reward,)
To cheer the rugged mountain bard,
And honour Cambria’s line!
Then, minstrels! wake your harps aloud,
Behold her nobles hither crowd,
Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud,
Like gems around they shine!

LLYWARCH HEN’S LAMENT ON CYNDDYLAN.

[Llywarch Hen, warrior and poet, was the contemporary of Aneurin and Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the battle of Cattraeth, where he witnessed the fall of three of his sons, and in the endless wars of that period. He had twenty four sons, all of whom were slain in battle in the bard’s lifetime. He retired for refuge to the Court of Cynddylan, then Prince of Powys, at Pengwern, now Shrewsbury. The Saxons at length drove Cynddylan from Pengwern, and the bard retired to Llanfor, near Bala, in Merionethshire, where he died at the long age of 150 years. Hence the appellation hen, or the aged. Twelve poems of this bard remain, but all are imbued with the melancholy of the poet’s life.]

Cynddylan’s hearth is dark to-night,
Cynddylan’s halls are lone;
War’s fire has revell’d o’er their might,
And still’d their minstrel’s tone;
And I am left to chant apart
One murmur of a broken heart!

Pengwern’s blue spears are gleamless now,
Her revelry is still;
The sword has blanched his chieftain’s brow,
Her fearless sons are chill:
And pagan feet to dust have trod
The blue-robed messengers of God. [{92}]

Cynddylan’s shield, Cynddylan’s pride,
The wandering snows are shading,
One palace pillar stands to guide
The woodbine’s verdant braiding;
And I am left, from all apart,
The minstrel of the broken heart!

THE LAMENT OP LLYWARCH HEN.

By Mrs. Hemans.

The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing
With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom;
But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing,
The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb!

Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding,
Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave?
Why smile the waste flow’rs, my sad footsteps surrounding?
My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!

Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing,
As on to the fields of your glory you trod!
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing,
Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod!

I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding,
Which rouses ye not, oh, my lovely, my brave!
When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding,
I turn from heav’n’s light, for it smiles on your grave!