Classic Poem

D AVYTH AP G WILYM .

The wall-flower grows on Rhosyr walls,
Where Morvyth's roses grew below,
When Davyth sung: the cock-thrush calls, —
The clear sweet note he used to know.

The morning laughs with minstrelsy,
The blackbird's matin-bell is rung
From the top-branches of yon tree,
Whose age was youth when Davyth sung.

His spirit cannot all be gone
From this green place he used to roam;
Where all he loved so still lives on —
Save Morvyth's roses in their bloom.

The birches drape their silvery sheen,
The oak-trees entertain the Day
With a more splendid pomp of green,
For the green leafage of his lay.

The trees are greener; and the birds
But now a rarer matin rung.
The soul of such undying words
Still haunts the place where Davyth sung.