MORRIS
After dead centuries,Neglect, derision, scorn,And secular miseries,At last our Cymric race again is born,Opens again its heavy sleep-worn eyes,And fronts a brighter morn.Shall then our souls forget,Dazzled by visions of our Wales to Be,The Wales that Was, the Wales undying yet,The old heroic Cymric chivalry?Nay! one we are, indeed,With that dim Britain of our distant sires;Still the same love the patriot’s bosom fires;With the same wounds our loyal spirits bleed;The heroes of the past are living stillBy each sequestered vale, and cloud-compelling hill.Dear heart that wast so strongTo guide the storm of battle year by year,Last of our Cymric Princes! dauntless King!Whose brave soul knew not fear!Thou from Eryri’s summits, swooping downLike some swift eagle, o’er the affrighted townAnd frowning Norman castles hovering,Onward didst bear the flag of Victory;And oft the proud invader dravest backIn ruin from thy country’s bounds, and farDidst roll from her the refluent wave of war,Till, ’neath the swelling flood,The low fat Lloegrian plains were sunk in blood.I see thee when thy lonely widowed heartGrew weary of its pain,In one last desperate onset vainHurl thyself on thy country’s deadly foes;From north to south the swift rebellion sped,The castles fell, the land arose;Wales reared once more her weary war-worn headThrough triumph and defeat, a chequered sum,Till the sure end should come,The traitorous ambush, and the murderous spear;Still ’mid the cloistered glories of Cwmhir,I hear the chants sung for the kingly dead,While Cambria mourned thy dear dishonoured head.Strong son of Wales! thy fateNot without tears, our Cymric memories keep;Our faithful, unforgetting natures weepThe ancestral fallen Great.Not with the stalwart armAfter our age-long peace,We serve her now, nor keen uplifted sword,But with the written or the spoken wordWould fain her power increase;The Light we strive to spreadIs Knowledge, and its powerComes not from captured town or leaguered tower.A closer brotherhoodUnites the Cymric and the Anglian blood,Yet separate, side by side they dwell, not one,Distinct till Time be done.But we who in that peaceful victoryOur faith, our hope repose,With grateful hearts, Llewelyn, think of theeWho fought’st our country’s foes;Whose generous hand was open to rewardThe dauntless patriot bard,Who loved’st the arts of peace, yet knew’st through lifeOnly incessant strife;Who ne’er like old Iorwerth’s happier son,Didst rest from battles won,But strovest for us still, and not in vain;Since from that ancient pain,After six centuries, Wales of thy loveFeels through her veins new patriot currents move,And from thy ashes, like the Phœnix springsSkyward on soaring wings,And fronts, grown stronger for the days that were,Whatever Fortune, ’neath God’s infinite air,Fate and the Years prepare!Sir Lewis Morris.
After dead centuries,Neglect, derision, scorn,And secular miseries,At last our Cymric race again is born,Opens again its heavy sleep-worn eyes,And fronts a brighter morn.Shall then our souls forget,Dazzled by visions of our Wales to Be,The Wales that Was, the Wales undying yet,The old heroic Cymric chivalry?Nay! one we are, indeed,With that dim Britain of our distant sires;Still the same love the patriot’s bosom fires;With the same wounds our loyal spirits bleed;The heroes of the past are living stillBy each sequestered vale, and cloud-compelling hill.Dear heart that wast so strongTo guide the storm of battle year by year,Last of our Cymric Princes! dauntless King!Whose brave soul knew not fear!Thou from Eryri’s summits, swooping downLike some swift eagle, o’er the affrighted townAnd frowning Norman castles hovering,Onward didst bear the flag of Victory;And oft the proud invader dravest backIn ruin from thy country’s bounds, and farDidst roll from her the refluent wave of war,Till, ’neath the swelling flood,The low fat Lloegrian plains were sunk in blood.I see thee when thy lonely widowed heartGrew weary of its pain,In one last desperate onset vainHurl thyself on thy country’s deadly foes;From north to south the swift rebellion sped,The castles fell, the land arose;Wales reared once more her weary war-worn headThrough triumph and defeat, a chequered sum,Till the sure end should come,The traitorous ambush, and the murderous spear;Still ’mid the cloistered glories of Cwmhir,I hear the chants sung for the kingly dead,While Cambria mourned thy dear dishonoured head.Strong son of Wales! thy fateNot without tears, our Cymric memories keep;Our faithful, unforgetting natures weepThe ancestral fallen Great.Not with the stalwart armAfter our age-long peace,We serve her now, nor keen uplifted sword,But with the written or the spoken wordWould fain her power increase;The Light we strive to spreadIs Knowledge, and its powerComes not from captured town or leaguered tower.A closer brotherhoodUnites the Cymric and the Anglian blood,Yet separate, side by side they dwell, not one,Distinct till Time be done.But we who in that peaceful victoryOur faith, our hope repose,With grateful hearts, Llewelyn, think of theeWho fought’st our country’s foes;Whose generous hand was open to rewardThe dauntless patriot bard,Who loved’st the arts of peace, yet knew’st through lifeOnly incessant strife;Who ne’er like old Iorwerth’s happier son,Didst rest from battles won,But strovest for us still, and not in vain;Since from that ancient pain,After six centuries, Wales of thy loveFeels through her veins new patriot currents move,And from thy ashes, like the Phœnix springsSkyward on soaring wings,And fronts, grown stronger for the days that were,Whatever Fortune, ’neath God’s infinite air,Fate and the Years prepare!Sir Lewis Morris.
After dead centuries,Neglect, derision, scorn,And secular miseries,At last our Cymric race again is born,Opens again its heavy sleep-worn eyes,And fronts a brighter morn.Shall then our souls forget,Dazzled by visions of our Wales to Be,The Wales that Was, the Wales undying yet,The old heroic Cymric chivalry?Nay! one we are, indeed,With that dim Britain of our distant sires;Still the same love the patriot’s bosom fires;With the same wounds our loyal spirits bleed;The heroes of the past are living stillBy each sequestered vale, and cloud-compelling hill.
Dear heart that wast so strongTo guide the storm of battle year by year,Last of our Cymric Princes! dauntless King!Whose brave soul knew not fear!Thou from Eryri’s summits, swooping downLike some swift eagle, o’er the affrighted townAnd frowning Norman castles hovering,Onward didst bear the flag of Victory;And oft the proud invader dravest backIn ruin from thy country’s bounds, and farDidst roll from her the refluent wave of war,Till, ’neath the swelling flood,The low fat Lloegrian plains were sunk in blood.
I see thee when thy lonely widowed heartGrew weary of its pain,In one last desperate onset vainHurl thyself on thy country’s deadly foes;From north to south the swift rebellion sped,The castles fell, the land arose;Wales reared once more her weary war-worn headThrough triumph and defeat, a chequered sum,Till the sure end should come,The traitorous ambush, and the murderous spear;Still ’mid the cloistered glories of Cwmhir,I hear the chants sung for the kingly dead,While Cambria mourned thy dear dishonoured head.
Strong son of Wales! thy fateNot without tears, our Cymric memories keep;Our faithful, unforgetting natures weepThe ancestral fallen Great.Not with the stalwart armAfter our age-long peace,We serve her now, nor keen uplifted sword,But with the written or the spoken wordWould fain her power increase;The Light we strive to spreadIs Knowledge, and its powerComes not from captured town or leaguered tower.A closer brotherhoodUnites the Cymric and the Anglian blood,Yet separate, side by side they dwell, not one,Distinct till Time be done.
But we who in that peaceful victoryOur faith, our hope repose,With grateful hearts, Llewelyn, think of theeWho fought’st our country’s foes;Whose generous hand was open to rewardThe dauntless patriot bard,Who loved’st the arts of peace, yet knew’st through lifeOnly incessant strife;Who ne’er like old Iorwerth’s happier son,Didst rest from battles won,But strovest for us still, and not in vain;Since from that ancient pain,After six centuries, Wales of thy loveFeels through her veins new patriot currents move,And from thy ashes, like the Phœnix springsSkyward on soaring wings,And fronts, grown stronger for the days that were,Whatever Fortune, ’neath God’s infinite air,Fate and the Years prepare!
Sir Lewis Morris.