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When the sun is sinking low--
You shall see day's radiant monarch
Falling bloodstained 'neath the foe.
Dark and darker yet
Grow day's cerements wet,
Creeps a haze across the main,
Mounts the moon on high,
Eve climbs up the sky,
Lamps of God to light again.

Change and permanence.

Still the mountains with us stay,
Still the winds across them roar,
Still is heard at dawn of day
Song of shepherd as of yore.
Still the countless daisies grow
On the hills, beneath the rocks,
But new swains, strange shepherds now
On our mountains feed their flocks.

Cymru's customs day by day
Change with changing fortune's wheel,
Friends of youth have passed away,
Strangers now their places fill;
After many a stormy day
Alun Mabon's dead and gone,
But the old tongue still holds sway,
And the dear old airs live on.

Homewards

From day to day, the golden sun
His chariot ne'er restraineth,
From night to night the pale white moon
Now waxeth and now waneth,
From hour to hour the bright stars turn
In distances unending,
And all the mighty works of God,
Are ever homeward tending.

The tiny streamlet on the hill
Its wandering way pursueth,
The mighty river far below
Adown the valley floweth,
The winds roam ever in the sky,
The clouds are onward driving,
And towards some quiet shore--at home
The raging sea is striving.

Daybreak.

Yonder on fair Snowdon's height,
Ere breaks the light,
Stars that through the darkness swim
Are sinking in the distance dim.

See! the day its spears hath hurled
From the Eastern world;
And each shaft is flaming red
As though the night had dying bled.

Matin song of skylark gay
Proclaims the day;
Fled the dragons of the dark
And quenched the firefly's glimmering spark.

White its head now Snowdon rears,
The sun appears!
Day and brightness, lo, he brings
To pauper's cot and hall of kings.

The White Stone.

Though far from my poor, feeble hand,
My country's harp of gold,
Though far from that dear home I stand,
Where it was played of old,
My mother tongue hath yet a spell
And inward voice, which bids me tell
My tale in song that Wales loves well,
Whatever aliens hold.

A tiny streamlet wandering strayed
Beneath our garden wall,
Where one of my forefathers made
A mimic waterfall.
Above the spot the willows weep,
Wher