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alliteration Bardic bards beauty blest bliss Briton Cambrian CANTO Carmarthen town cause cheer choir Cywydd dare deem Doctor Johnson doth dread Dunciad e'en e'er ears Eisteddvod England's English Englyn eyes fair fame feel fools gainst Gethin gifted give glee Glendowr Gwynedd harp harpist Harry Harry Vaughan hath hear heard heart heav'n hope Iolo judge keep knew land look lov'd mind Muse native ne'er neath never nought o'er old Welsh once poem poetry poets praise pride prize proof proud prove Richard Jones Roundhead saith Saxon score seem'd shame Shane shew sight sing singers song soon soul speech strain style sung sweet tell thee there's things thou thought thro tongue tune twas twill voice Wales Welsh Welshmen what's Whilst who'd wish words youth
Page 92 - Tis the voice of the sluggard ; I heard him complain, " You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again." As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. "A little more sleep, and a little more slumber...
Page 20 - Would dare the realms of science high explore. Ye hopes of Cambria, do not this forget; — When learned Burgess with our lolo met — (The mitred Bishop with the poor Welsh bard) Burgess best knew why Bishops might regard That man their equal, him whose wealth of mind Was dug from heaps where school-apes nothing find. And as he eyed the bard in his full size — Him, whom...
Page 77 - Makes me impatient— scan me the reports Of our assizes, and when that you've done, Prove what we have by English converse won. Ah! how they strove who filled the famed Blue Books On us to turn John Bull's astonished looks: How England's Journalists with jibe on jibe, Each in his turn showed up the godless tribe, Deep wallowing in the sins that felt no shame So near the race that blushed those sins to blame!
Page 133 - And oft the landlord whose small farm's high price is So shameful, knows of Welsh, no, not one jot? If Welshmen have a fault, 'tis that their slices Of their right's loaf to a mere crumb is brought; And but infers at last, the English tongue Alone can save our skins from English wrong.
Page 132 - But Harry, being of rank, was never taught The melodies that owned his native land; He little knew what lays with genius fraught In Ivor's days had cheered the festive band; Ap Gwilym's fervid strains had never caught His ear, and had they, such to understand, He like the rest of Cambria's well-taught gentry Deemed the distinction of some bygone century.
Page 131 - Of the disgrace, the mem'ry he did harass So much acquired, that what he understood Of Troy's hot contests oft could rouse his blood. And though the humming of dead languages Was what his mind did with disgust oft move, — Yet, when he met mellifluous passages...
Page 15 - If from dead languages snch juice ye suck Must not a Cymro caper at his luck; When in this Cambria's classic verse he tastes From flower and stem, and roots that which outlasts (For aught ye know) the scents Arabia wastes?
Page 95 - Whatever opinions we may have of the comparative merits of the dramatic writings of the ancients, or of the moderns, it appears to me that the model adopted by the Bard of Nant was the very best to suit his own country in the age in which he lived.