HERE in this place of Peace we make his grave, Tranquil, alone, Only Llyn Tegid sobs with constant wave, The low winds moan. Here as the silent mountains stand around Salem, the blest, Comes no faint murmur of contentious sound To break his rest. For this was he whom happy, favouring Fate, In manhood's bloom, Called to high service of the grateful State, And then -- the Tomb. Child of the people, ever proud to keep The ancient tongue, The stern strong Faith, the bardic measures deep, The old hymns sung. The Tiller's lot he knew, borne down, distrest, With none to teach, The God-sent gifts by ignorance represt Fired his swift speech. Blossom and fruit of that new Dawn of gold, That happier Spring, Whither our Wales, with lofty hope grown bold Spreads her glad wing. Ah! deem it not that he was called from toil, To rest too soon, Escaping from life's sad year's blight and soil, While yet 'twas June. Whatever is is best, His will be done, We dare not weep; Not all His work is wrought beneath the Sun Who giveth sleep. Sing, sing in faith your hymns! Give thanks! Rejoice! "Ac yn ei fedd." Let the dead hear his country's grateful voice, "Duw rho dy hedd." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BIRDS OF VIETNAM by HAYDEN CARRUTH CLEAR AND COLDER; BOSTON COMMON by ROBERT FROST THE GREAT HUNT by CARL SANDBURG |