By: Alan Belth
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;
p. 90The 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.
MY FATHER-LAND.
Land of the Cymry! thou art still,
In rock and valley, stream and hill,
As wild and grand;
As thou hast been in days of yore,
As thou hast ever been before,
As thou shalt be for evermore,
My Father-land!
Where are the bards, like thine, who’ve sung
The warrior’s praise? the harp hath strung,
With mighty hand?
Made chords of magic sound arise,
That flung their echoes through the skies,
And gained the fame that never dies,
My Father-land?
And where are warriors like thine own,
Who in the battle’s front have shown
So firm a stand?
Who fought against the Romans’ skill,
“The conquerors of the world,” until
They found thou wert “invincible,”
My Father-land?
And where are hills like thine, or where
Are vales so sweet, or scenes so fair,
Such praise command?
There towering
Or Cader Idris, dreary sight,
And lonely Clwyd? Oh! how bright,
My Father-land!
Oh! how I love thee, though I mourn
That cold neglect should on thee turn,
Thy name to brand;
And oft the scalding tear will start
Raining its dew-drops from the heart,
To think how far we are apart,
My Father-land.
And when my days are almost done,
And, faltering on, I’ve nearly run
Life’s dreary sand;
Still, still my fainting breath shall be
Bestowed upon thy memory,
My soul shall wing its way to thee,
My Father-land!
