Chapter CXXVII: The Poets of Wales

Dear Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring high
Dwells genius basking in thy quiet air,
And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare,
And all wrapt round with fullest harmony
Of streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly
’Neath Nature their fit foster-mother’s care,
Thy children learn from infant hours to bear
And work the will of God. Thy scenery
So varied-wild, so strangely sweet and strong,
Works on them and to music moulds their mind,
Till flows their fancy in poetic rills.
The voice of Nature breathes in every song;
And we may read therein thy features kind,
As in some tarn that nestles ’neath thy hills.

Thy fragrant breezes wander through the maze
Of all their songs as through a woodland reach;
Their odes drop sweetness like the ripening peach
In laden orchards on late summer days.
Their work is Nature’s own--not theirs the praise
By culture won which midnight studies teach;
Sounds the loud cataract in their sonorous speech,
And strikes the keynote of their tuneful lays.
As to remotest ages in the past
We trace thy joyous story, more and more
Bards won high honour mid thy hills and vales.
So, Cymru, while this world of ours shall last,
And ocean echoing beat upon thy shore,
May poets never cease to sing for Wales!

_Edmund Osborne Jones._