Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO MY MOTHERLAND, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO MY MOTHERLAND, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Dear motherland, forgive me, if too long
Last Line: And leave my country naught, not even a name.
Subject(s): Wales; Welshmen; Welshwomen


DEAR motherland, forgive me, if too long
I hold the halting tribute of my song;
Letting my wayward fancy idly roam
Far, far from thee, my early home.
There are some things too near,
Too infinitely dear
For speech; the old ancestral hearth,
The hills, the vales that saw our birth,
Are hallowed deep within the reverent breast:
And who of these keeps silence, he is best.

Yet would not I appear,
Who have known many a brighter land and sea
Since first my boyish footsteps went from thee,
The less to hold thee dear;
Or lose in newer beauties the immense
First love for thee, O birth-land, which fulfils
My inmost heart and soul, --
Love for thy smiling and sequestered vales,
Love for thy winding streams which sparkling roll
Through thy rich fields, dear Wales,
From long perspectives of thy folded hills.

Ay! these are sacred, all;
I cannot sing of them, too near they are,
What if from out thy dark yews, gazing far,
I sat and sang, Llangunnor! of the vale
Through which fair Towy winds her lingering fall,
Gliding by Dynevor's wood-crowned steep,
And, alternating swift with deep,
By park and tower a living thing
Of loveliness meandering;
And traced her flowing, onward still,
By Grongar dear to rhyme, or Drysllwyn's castled hill,
Till the fresh upward tides prevail,
Which stay her stream and bring the sea-borne sail,
And the broad river rolls majestic down
Beneath the gray walls of my native town.

Would not my fancy quickly stray
To thee, sea-girt St. David's, far away,
A minster on the deep; or, further still,
To you, grand mountains, which the stranger knows:
Eryri throned amid the clouds and snows,
The dark lakes, the wild passes of the north;
Or Cader, a stern sentinel looking forth
Over the boisterous main; or thee, dear Isle
Not lovely, yet which canst my thought beguile --
Mona, from whose fresh wind-swept pastures came
My grandsire, bard and patriot, like in name
Whose verse his countrymen still love to sing
At bidding-feast or rustic junketing?

Ah, no! too near for song, and ye too near,
My brethren of the ancient race and tongue;
The bardic measures deep, the sweet songs sung
At congresses, which fan the sacred fire
Which did of old your ancestors inspire;
The simple worship sternly pure,
The faith unquestioning and sure,
Which doth the priest despise and his dark ways,
And riseth best to fullest praise
Beneath some humble roof-tree, rude and bare,
Or through the mountains' unpolluted air;
Who know not violence nor blood,
And who, if sometimes ye decline from good,
Sin the soft sins which gentler spirits move,
Which warmer Fancy breeds, and too much love.

I may not sing of you,
Or tell my love -- others there are who will,
Who haply bear not yet a love so true
As that my soul doth fill --
If to applause it lead, or gain, or fame;
Better than this it were to bear the pain
Which comes to higher spirits when they know
They fire in other souls no answering glow;
Love those who love me not again,
And leave my country naught, not even a name.





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