Like the sea as it plays on a dangerous rock
   Is the spirit that now is in motion,
Around me are men who at Heaven make mock,
   And I’m but a drop in the ocean. 
My feet are oft hasting the broad path along
   But while on the precipice straying
I am saved by the message so tender, so strong,
   “You know what my heart, dear, is saying.”

’Sin not’—­in the skies though this sentence I read,
   In letters of fire engraven,
Though roared the loud thunder in accents of dread,
   ‘Transgress not the laws of high Heaven,’
Though slowed the swift lightning to one solid flame,
   My feet from ungodliness staying,
Far stronger the words from my mother which came,
   “You know what my heart, dear, is saying.”

Mountain Rill.

Mountain rill, that darkling, sparkling,
   Winds and wanders down the hill,
’Mid the rushes, whispering, murmuring,
   Oh that I were like the rill!

Mountain ling, whose flower and fragrance
   Sorest longing to me bring
To be ever on the mountains—­
   Oh that I were like the ling!

Mountain bird, whose joyous singing
   On the wholesome breeze is heard,
Flitting hither, flitting thither—­
   Oh that I were like the bird!

Mountain child am I, and lonely
   Far from home my song I sing;
But my heart is on the mountain
   With the birds amid the ling.

Llewelyn’s Grave.

The earth has sunk low on the grave of Llewelyn,
   The rainpools lie o’er it unruffled and still;
The moon at her rising, the sun at his setting,
   Blush red as they look o’er the slope of the hill. 
O Cymru, my land, dost know of this ill? 
   And where is the patriot hiding his face? 
The tears of the cloudwrack know well where he lieth,
   The birds of the mountain can tell of the place.

By chance comes a Welshman and carelessly gazes,
   Where fell the last hero who fought for his sake;
The breezes are moaning, the earth is complaining,
   That the heart of old Cymru is feeble and weak. 
’Tis aliens only their pilgrimage make
   Where low lies our prince by the side of his glaive. 
Thank God for the tears which are falling from heaven,
   And the grass that grows green by the edge of the grave.

The Strand of Rhuddlan.

Frowned the dark heavens on the cause of the righteous,
   Bondage has swept our free warriors away,
Vain were our prayers as our dreams had been baseless,
   Sword of the foeman has carried the day. 
Hid be thy strand ’neath the snows everlasting,
   Frozen the waters that over thee break! 
Come to defend, O thou God of all mercies,
   Cause of the righteous and home of the weak.