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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/15165-h.zip b/15165-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fc6315f --- /dev/null +++ b/15165-h.zip diff --git a/15165-h/15165-h.htm b/15165-h/15165-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eacc4c0 --- /dev/null +++ b/15165-h/15165-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2160 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century, by Edmund O. Jones</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century, by +Edmund O. Jones + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century + +Author: Edmund O. Jones + +Release Date: February 25, 2005 [eBook #15165] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WELSH LYRICS OF THE NINETEENTH +CENTURY*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<h1>Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century<br /> +Selected and Translated by Edmund O. Jones<br /> +[First Series]</h1> +<p>LONDON: Simpkin, Marshall & Co., Limited<br /> +BANGOR: Javis & Foster, Lorne House<br /> +MDCCCXCVI</p> +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> +<p>DEDICATION</p> +<p>PREFACE</p> +<p>ALUN</p> +<p>i. The Fisherman’s Wife<br /> +ii. Dolly<br /> +iii. Tintern Abbey<br /> +iv. The Nightingale</p> +<p>IEUAN GLAN GEIRIONYDD</p> +<p>i. Morfa Rhuddlan<br /> +ii. The Shepherd of Cwmdyli<br /> +iii. Why should we weep</p> +<p>GLASYNYS</p> +<p>Blodeuwedd and Hywel</p> +<p>IOAN EMLYN</p> +<p>The Pauper’s Grave</p> +<p>TREBOR MAI</p> +<p>i. The Shepherd’s Love<br /> +ii. Baby</p> +<p>CALEDFRYN</p> +<p>The Cuckoo</p> +<p>GWILYM MARLES</p> +<p>i. New Year Thoughts<br /> +ii. Who in this new God’s acre</p> +<p>IEUAN GWYNEDD</p> +<p>i. The Cottages of Wales<br /> +ii. Go and dig a grave</p> +<p>CEIRIOG</p> +<p>i. Songs of Wales<br /> +ii. Myfanwy<br /> +iii. Liberty<br /> +iv. Climb the hillside<br /> +v. Change and Permanence<br /> +vi. Homewards<br /> +vii. Daybreak<br /> +viii. The White Stone<br /> +ix. The Traitors of Wales<br /> +x. A Mother’s Message<br /> +xi. Mountain Rill<br /> +xii. Llewelyn’s Grave<br /> +xiii. Rhuddlan Strand<br /> +xiv. The Steed of Dapple Grey<br /> +xv. A Lullaby</p> +<p>ISLWYN</p> +<p>i. Night<br /> +ii. The Vision and the Faculty Divine<br /> +iii. Thought<br /> +iv. The Variety of Wales<br /> +v. The Sick Minister<br /> +vi. Life like the Heavens<br /> +vii. The Poets of Wales<br /> +viii. The Lighthouse</p> +<p>MYNYDDOG</p> +<p>i. When comes my Gwen<br /> +ii. A Nocturne<br /> +iii. Come to the Boat, Love<br /> +iv. At the foot of the Stairs</p> +<p>OSSIAN GWENT</p> +<p>i. The Lark<br /> +ii. The Bible<br /> +iii. The Lake<br /> +iv. A Morning Greeting</p> +<p>ROBERT OWEN</p> +<p>i. De profundis<br /> +ii. A Prayer</p> +<h2>TO MY MOTHER.</h2> +<p>They flout me as half-English—a disgrace<br /> +For which scarce all your virtues can atone,<br /> +Mother, in whom I find no flaw but one,<br /> +That you are Saxon!—but this fault of race<br /> +Fell not on me nor yet, I fear, your grace<br /> +Of English speech, else had more smoothly run<br /> +These echoes of Welsh Lyrics, and your son<br /> +Need not have flinched before the critic’s face.<br /> +Such as they are, from your far Yorkshire home<br /> +Perchance they may in fancy bid you come,<br /> +Pondering past memories, to my native land,<br /> +Once more to see fair Mawddach from the bridge,<br /> +To mark how Cader rises, ridge on ridge,<br /> +Or, where Llanaber guards our dead, to stand.</p> +<p><i>July</i>, 1896.</p> +<h2>PREFACE.</h2> +<p>The words “First Series” which appear on the Title Page +are intended to show, firstly, that I do not at all consider the present +collection in any sense a representative anthology of the Welsh Lyrics +of the Century, and secondly, that if this effort meets with approval, +I hope to bring out two or three further instalments, one of them, if +possible, being from poems written in the “<i>mesurau</i> <i>caethion</i>.” +My aim, in fact, is to publish by degrees a collection of translations +which might eventually be gathered together in a single volume (with +a general introduction and critical notices on each author) so as to +form a more or less adequate anthology of our nineteenth century poets. +“So runs my dream”: whether it can ever be realized depends +of course in a great measure on the reception this first series meets +with. That it has many serious defects I well know, nor can I +attempt to disarm criticism by pointing out the immense difficulties +which confront the man who tries to put Welsh poetry into English rhyme, +especially when that man has never written a line of English verse before. +But I should be most grateful to readers for any hints or suggestions, +by which the faults and imperfections of the present volume may be avoided +in a second series. I have retained the metres of the originals +with but trifling variations, except in those cases where there was +nothing specially characteristic to make this desirable (as <i>e</i>.<i>g</i>., +in the case of Islwyn, where I have thrown some of my translations into +sonnet form) or where—as in the Song of the Fisherman’s +Wife—the metre, even if it could be reproduced, would not in English +harmonise with the meaning. I ought perhaps to ask pardon beforehand +for the audacity with which I have treated Ieuan Glan Geirionydd’s +famous “Morfa Rhuddlan.”</p> +<p>I very gratefully acknowledge the courtesy of the owners of copyright, +especially Messrs. Hughes & Son, Wrexham, Mr. O. M. Edwards, and +Mr. James Lewis, New Quay (to whom my translation of the “Pauper’s +Grave” belongs).</p> +<p>My most cordial thanks are also due to Mr. W. Lewis Jones, Lecturer +in English at the University College of North Wales, who though an entire +stranger has given me his valuable assistance and advice in seeing these +pages through the press.</p> +<p>EDMUND O. JONES.<br /> +VICARAGE, LLANIDLOES,<br /> +July 23, 1896.</p> +<h2>ALUN.</h2> +<p>John Blackwell (Alun), was born of very poor parents at Mold in 1797. +Beginning life as a shoe-maker, his successes at the Eisteddfods of +Ruthin and Mold in 1823 attracted the attention of the gentry of the +neighbourhood, and a fund was formed to send him to the University. +He took his degree from Jesus College, Oxford, in 1828, and died rector +of Manordeifi 1840. His works were published under the title of +“Ceinion Alun,” in 1851 (Isaac Clarke, Ruthin), and his +poems were re-published in 1879, by Mr. Isaac Foulkes of Liverpool, +in the “Cyfres y Ceinion.”</p> +<h3>Song of the Fisherman’s Wife.</h3> +<p>Hush, restless wave! and landward gently creeping,<br /> + No longer sullen break;<br /> +All nature now is still and softly sleeping,<br /> + And why art thou awake?<br /> +The busy din of earth will soon be o’er,<br /> +Rest thee, oh rest upon thy sandy shore.</p> +<p>Peace, restless sea; e’en now my heart’s best treasure<br /> + Thou bearest on thy breast;<br /> +On thee he spends a life that knows no leisure<br /> + A scanty wage to wrest.<br /> +Be kind, O sea, whose limits boundless are,<br /> +And rest, oh rest, upon thy sandy bar.</p> +<p>Ah, cease to murmur: stay thy waves from warring,<br /> + And bid thy steeds be still;<br /> +Why should’st thou rage, when not a breeze is stirring<br /> + The treetops on the hill?<br /> +To sheltered haven bring my husband’s bark<br /> +Ere yet the shadows fall and night grows dark.</p> +<p>Full well may women weep, we wives and daughters<br /> + Whose men are on the deep;<br /> +But who can tell our anguish when thy waters<br /> + In stormy anger leap?<br /> +Be gentle to him, sea, and rage no more,<br /> +But rest, oh rest, upon thy sandy shore.</p> +<p>Thou heedest not, O sea without compassion,<br /> + But ravenest for thy prey;<br /> +I turn to One who can control thy passion,<br /> + And wildest waves allay;<br /> +And He will take my loved one ’neath His care,<br /> +And make thee rest upon thy sandy bar.</p> +<h3>An Idyll.</h3> +<p>DEWI.</p> +<p>Do you know—have you seen—my sweet Dolly,<br /> +Who pastures her flocks on Eryri?<br /> + Her eyes like a dart,<br /> + Have pierced my heart,<br /> +Oh, sweeter than honey is Dolly.</p> +<p>HYWEL.</p> +<p>Oh, yes, I know well your sweet Dolly,<br /> +Whose cot’s at the foot of Eryri,<br /> + No tongue upon earth<br /> + Can tell of her worth,<br /> +So lovely, so winning is Dolly.</p> +<p>For tender and bashful is Dolly,<br /> +Not fairer nor purer the lily,<br /> + No name under heaven<br /> + So fitly is given<br /> +For the harpist to sing of as Dolly.</p> +<p>DEWI.</p> +<p>Not tender, not tender to Dewi!<br /> +No maiden so cruel as Dolly!<br /> + With many a tear<br /> + I beseech her to hear,<br /> +But deaf to my wooing is Dolly.</p> +<p>I have done all I could for her pleasing,<br /> +I have gathered her goats for the milking,<br /> + ’Twas surely no sin,<br /> + If I hoped I might win,<br /> +Sweet kisses in payment from Dolly.</p> +<p>Her breast’s like the snowflakes when falling,<br /> +So white—and so cold to my pleading.<br /> + My heart will soon break<br /> + For very love’s sake,<br /> +So cold, so bewitching is Dolly.</p> +<p>Three wishes, no more, I would utter—<br /> +God bless my sweet Dolly for ever,<br /> + May I gaze on her face<br /> + Till I finish life’s race,<br /> +Then die—in the arms of my Dolly.</p> +<h3>Tintern Abbey</h3> +<p>Here how many a heart hath broken,<br /> + Closed how many a dying eye,<br /> +Here how many in God’s acre,<br /> + E’en their names forgotten, lie!<br /> +Here how oft for lauds or vespers<br /> + Down the glen the bell hath rung,<br /> +In these walls how many an ave,<br /> + Creed, and pater have been sung.</p> +<p>On the timeworn pavement yonder,<br /> + Even now I seem to see,<br /> +At the shrine where once he worshipped,<br /> + Some old saint on bended knee;<br /> +Seems to rise the smoke of incense,<br /> + In a column faint and dim,<br /> +Still the organ through the rafters<br /> + Seems to peal the vesper hymn.</p> +<p>But where once the anthem sounded,<br /> + Silence now her dwelling finds,<br /> +And the church from porch to chancel<br /> + Knows no music but the wind’s;<br /> +Perish so all superstition!<br /> + Let the world the Truth obey,<br /> +Long may Peace and Love increasing,<br /> + O’er our fatherland hold sway.</p> +<h3>The Nightingale.</h3> +<p>When night first spreads her sable wings,<br /> + All earthly things to darken,<br /> +The woodland choir grows mute and still,<br /> + To thy sweet trill to hearken;<br /> +Though ’gainst thy breast there lies a thorn,<br /> + And thou woeworn art bleeding,<br /> +Yet, till the bright day dawns again,<br /> + Thou singest, pain unheeding.</p> +<p>And like to thee the helpmeet fair,<br /> + Her true-love’s rarest treasure,<br /> +When ’neath the clouds the sun has fled,<br /> + And hope is dead and pleasure,<br /> +When all the friends of daylight flee,<br /> + Most faithfully she clingeth,<br /> +And through the night of pain and wrong,<br /> + Her sweetest song she singeth.</p> +<p>Though ’neath the blight of sorrow’s smart,<br /> + Her woman’s heart oft faileth,<br /> +She moaneth not but with fond wiles<br /> + Her pain in smiles she veileth;<br /> +So sings she through the live-long night,<br /> + Till hope’s bright light appeareth,<br /> +Which glittering like a radiant eye,<br /> + Through dawn’s shy lashes peereth.</p> +<h2>IEUAN GLAN GEIRIONYDD.</h2> +<p>Evan Evans was born at Trefriw in 1795, his father being, or having +been, a shipwright. He, like Alun, was of Nonconformist parentage, +and like him, attracted attention by his successes at this or that Eisteddfod. +He went to S. Bees, and was ordained in 1826. He died January +21, 1855, without having obtained preferment in his own country, until +within a few months of his death. His poetical works were published +under the title of “Geirionydd” (Isaac Clarke, Ruthin). +As is too often the case with books published in Wales, the title page +bears no date.</p> +<h3>The Strand of Rhuddlan.</h3> +<p>I.</p> +<p>Low sinks the sun to rest<br /> +Over the lofty crest<br /> + Of dim Eryri;<br /> +Now over moor and dale<br /> +Night spreads her darkening veil,<br /> +While from the rustling trees<br /> +Softly the evening breeze<br /> + Dieth and fleeteth;<br /> +Fainter upon mine ear<br /> +Falls from the ocean near,<br /> + Its murmur weary;<br /> +Only within my breast,<br /> +Tossing in strange unrest,<br /> + Loud my heart beateth;<br /> +Beateth with rage and pain,<br /> +Beateth as once again<br /> + I muse and ponder<br /> +On that accursèd hour,<br /> +When ’neath the Saxon power,<br /> +Welshmen who freedom sought,<br /> +Fell as they bravely fought,<br /> + On Rhuddlan yonder.</p> +<p>II.</p> +<p>See, through the gathering gloom<br /> +Dimly there seems to loom<br /> + The sheen of targes;<br /> +Hark, with a swift rebound,<br /> +Loudly the weapons sound<br /> + Upon them falling;<br /> +While from each rattling string<br /> +Death-dealing arrows ring,<br /> + Hissing and sighing;<br /> +Trembles the bloodstained plain,<br /> +Trembles and rings again,<br /> + Beneath the charges;<br /> +But through the deafening roar,<br /> +And moans of those who sore<br /> + Wounded are lying,<br /> +Rises Caradog’s cry,<br /> +Rises to heaven on high,<br /> + His warriors calling—<br /> +“Welshmen! we ne’er will sell<br /> +Country we love so well!<br /> +Turn we the foe to flight,<br /> +Or let the moon this night<br /> +Find all our warriors bold<br /> +On Rhuddlan stark and cold,<br /> + For Cymru dying.”</p> +<p>III.</p> +<p>Hearing his high behest,<br /> +Swells every Briton’s breast,<br /> +Red as their lance in rest<br /> + Their faces glowing;<br /> +See, through the Saxon band,<br /> +Many a strong right hand<br /> +Once and again strikes home,<br /> +As in their might they come,<br /> + A broad lane mowing.<br /> +Britons from far and near<br /> +Loud raise their voice in prayer,<br /> +“In this our hour of need<br /> +To Thee, O God, we plead,<br /> + Send help from heaven!<br /> +Guard now our fatherland,<br /> +Strengthen each Briton’s hand,<br /> +And now on Rhuddlan’s strand<br /> + Be victory given.”</p> +<p>IV.</p> +<p>Ah! through my trembling heart<br /> +Pierce, like a bitter dart,<br /> + Anguish and terror;<br /> +Hark to the foemen’s vaunt,<br /> +Boasting and bitter taunt<br /> + Of Saxon warrior.<br /> +Nay, do not triumph so,<br /> +Do not rejoice as though<br /> + Your deeds were glorious;<br /> +Not your own valour brave,<br /> +Numbers, not courage, have<br /> + Made you victorious.<br /> +Those who on every side,<br /> +Have marked the battle’s tide,<br /> +Praying for Cymru’s arms,<br /> +Filled now with wild alarms,<br /> + The heights are scaling.<br /> +Old men and children flee,<br /> +As in amaze they see,<br /> +Their chosen warriors yield,<br /> +On Rhuddlan’s bloody field,<br /> + The foe prevailing.</p> +<p>V.</p> +<p>Mountain and lonely dell,<br /> +Dingle and rock and fell,<br /> + Echo with wailing;<br /> +E’en Snowdon’s slopes on high<br /> +Ring with the bitter cry,<br /> + All unavailing!<br /> +Cymru’s great heart is now<br /> +Bleeding with bitter woe—<br /> +Woe for her children dead,<br /> +Woe for her glory fled,<br /> + And fallen nation;<br /> +On great Caradog’s hall<br /> +Anguish and terror fall,<br /> + Loud lamentation;<br /> +“Weep for our warrior slain,<br /> +Ne’er shall we see again,<br /> + Our mighty captain.”<br /> +Rises the harpist old,<br /> +Calls for his harp of gold,<br /> +Sweeps through its mournful strings,<br /> +And loud the music rings,<br /> + The dirge of Rhuddlan.</p> +<h3>The Shepherd of Cwmdyli.</h3> +<p>Cloke of mist hath passed away,<br /> + Sweetheart mine,<br /> +Which has veiled the heights all day,<br /> + Sweetheart mine,<br /> +See, the sun shines clear and bright,<br /> +Gilding all the hills with light,<br /> +To the arbour let us go,<br /> + Closely clinging, sweetheart mine.</p> +<p>Listen! from the rocks on high,<br /> + Sweetheart mine,<br /> +Echo mocks the cuckoo’s cry,<br /> + Sweetheart mine,<br /> +From each hillock low the steers,<br /> +Bleat of lambs falls on our ears,<br /> +In the bushes, sweet and low,<br /> + Birds are singing, sweetheart mine.</p> +<p>But Cwmdyli soon will be,<br /> + Sweetheart mine,<br /> +Lone and drear, bereft of thee,<br /> + Sweetheart mine,<br /> +I shall hear thy voice no more,<br /> +Never see thee cross the moor,<br /> +With thy pail at morn or eve<br /> + Tripping gaily, sweetheart mine.</p> +<p>’Mid the city’s din be true,<br /> + Sweetheart mine.<br /> +When new lovers come to woo,<br /> + Sweetheart mine,<br /> +Oh, remember one who’ll be,<br /> +Ever filled with thoughts of thee.<br /> +In Cwmdyli lone I’ll grieve<br /> + For thee daily, sweetheart mine.</p> +<h3>Why should we Weep?</h3> +<p>Why should we weep for those we love,<br /> + Who in the faith of Christ have died?<br /> +Set free from bonds of sin and pain,<br /> + They are living still—the other side.</p> +<p>From wave to wave they once were tossed<br /> + On this world’s sea, by storm and tide:<br /> +Within the haven calm and still<br /> + They are resting now—the other side.</p> +<p>When gloomy Jordan roared and swelled,<br /> + The great High Priest was there to guide,<br /> +And safe above the stormy waves<br /> + He bore them—to the other side.</p> +<p>What though their bodies in the earth<br /> + We laid to wait the Judgment-tide?<br /> +Themselves are fled—they are not there<br /> + But living still—the other side.</p> +<p>The winds that murmur o’er their graves,<br /> + To us who still on earth abide,<br /> +Bring echoes faint of that sweet song<br /> + They ever sing—the other side.</p> +<p>What though in spite of rain and dew<br /> + The lilies on their grave have died?<br /> +The palms they bear can never fade<br /> + Nor wither—on the other side.</p> +<p>May we not dream they feel with us<br /> + When we by various ills are tried,<br /> +That when we triumph over sin,<br /> + They triumph too—the other side?</p> +<p>May we not hope that more and more<br /> + The day for which we long have sighed<br /> +They long for too—that we with them<br /> + May praise the Lamb—the other side?</p> +<p>And when we reach fair Sion’s hill,<br /> + Where angel hosts in bliss abide,<br /> +Shall we not clasp the hands of those<br /> + Whom once we lost—the other side?</p> +<p>Then ever with them we shall dwell<br /> + By grief untouched, by sin untried,<br /> +And join with them in that sweet song<br /> + That never ends—the other side.</p> +<p>But friendship there shall purer be,<br /> + No love betrayed, no vows denied;<br /> +Nor pain nor death shall part us more<br /> + From those we love—the other side!</p> +<h2>GLASYNYS.</h2> +<p>Owen Wyn Jones was born near Carnarvon, March 4th, 1828. His +father was a quarryman, and the future poet followed the same calling +till his love for literature became too strong for him. He was +ordained deacon in 1860, and held curacies in Anglesey and Monmouthshire. +He died at Towyn, April 4, 1870. His works are unpublished, but +Mr. O. M. Edwards promises us an edition, which will be not the least +among the invaluable services he has rendered to Welsh literature.</p> +<h3>Blodeuwedd and Hywel.</h3> +<p>Oh how sweet on fair spring morning, ’neath its cloke of hoarfrost +peering,<br /> +’Tis to see the tiny blossom with its smile the earth adorning,<br /> + Oh yes ’tis sweet, oh yes ’tis sweet.<br /> +But the smiles of Hywel slender, and the kindness of his bearing, <br /> +When my ice-bound heart he’s thawing with his honeyed kisses tender,<br /> + Are sweeter far a thousand times, oh sweeter far.</p> +<p>Sweet the violet on the swelling bank when first it shyly bloweth,<br /> +Pale and wan but cheerly smiling on its lonely sheltered dwelling,<br /> + That is sweet, oh that is sweet.<br /> +But the sight of Hywel coming, sweeter is than flower that groweth,<br /> +On his cheeks a rarer beauty, near the fold at hour of gloaming,<br /> + Sweeter is a thousand times, oh sweeter far.</p> +<p>Laughing ever in the sunlight, primrose brakes the hillside cover,<br /> +April breezes stir the petals till they smile e’en in the twilight;<br /> + They are sweet, oh they are sweet.<br /> +So in spite of opposition, true and constant is my lover,<br /> +Ne’er a moment he forgets me, in the night of persecution,<br /> + Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine.</p> +<p>Sweet the countless daisies flecking grass-green glade and meadow +dewy,<br /> +Like some rare and precious jewels nature’s verdant garments decking,<br /> + They are sweet, oh they are sweet.<br /> +But the eyes of Hywel glowing, ’neath his forehead broad and ruddy,<br /> +When the tears—love’s best enchantment—fill them full +to over-flowing,<br /> + Are sweeter far a thousand times, oh, sweeter far.</p> +<p>Roses white and lilies tender, marigolds and all sweet posies<br /> +Scenting all the air together, fair are they in summer weather,<br /> + O lilies white, O roses fair!<br /> +But like every summer blossom, lilies fade and so do roses,<br /> +There’s one flower that fadeth never, bloom of love will last +for ever,<br /> + Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine.</p> +<p>Leafy beech in verdant hollow—mighty oak with branches hoary,<br /> +Sycamores—all proudly wearing autumn garb of russet yellow,<br /> + These are fair, oh these are fair.<br /> +But when darling Hywel’s near me, what care I for woodland glory?<br /> +Fairer far than all the greenwood is my sweetheart’s face to cheer +me,<br /> + Fairer far a thousand times, oh fairer far.</p> +<p>Sweet the song of thrushes filling all the air with shake and quiver,<br /> +While the feathered songsters, vying each with each, their songs are +trilling,<br /> + Sweet the sound, oh sweet the sound.<br /> +But to me my love’s caressing words and looks are sweeter ever,<br /> +Would this moment I were near him, and my lips to his were pressing,<br /> + Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine.</p> +<p>God in heaven be Thou his sentry. Guard him from the tempests +wintry,<br /> +Sheep and shepherd ever tending—such my prayer to heaven ascending,<br /> + O hear my cry and guard my love.<br /> +Loving Saviour, stay beside us; let Thy Holy Spirit guide us,<br /> +Keep our feet from rock and mire, till within Thy heavenly choir,<br /> + We shall rest with Thee above.</p> +<h2>IOAN EMLYN.</h2> +<p>John Jones was born at Newcastle Emlyn in 1818, and apprenticed to +a watchmaker at Crickhowel. He did a good deal of journalistic +work and entered the Baptist ministry in 1853. After holding various +charges in South Wales, he died Jan., 1873. His fame rests almost +entirely on lyric, “The Pauper’s Grave,” which is +one of the most popular in the language.</p> +<h3>The Pauper’s Grave.</h3> +<p>Lo! a grassy mound, where lowers<br /> + Branching wide a sombre yew,<br /> +Rises as to catch the showers,<br /> + Jewelled showers, of heaven-sent dew.<br /> +Many a one with foot unheeding,<br /> + Tramples down its verdure brave,<br /> +Hurrying onward, careless treading,—<br /> + It is but a pauper’s grave.</p> +<p>Workhouse hirelings from the Union<br /> + Bore him to his last, lone bed,<br /> +“Dust to dust,” that sad communion<br /> + Woke no grief, no tear was shed.<br /> +Worn by woes and life’s denials,<br /> + Only rest he now would crave:<br /> +Quiet haven from all trials<br /> + To the pauper is his grave.</p> +<p>E’en the rough-hewn stone is broken,<br /> + Where some rude, untutored hand<br /> +Carved two letters, as a token<br /> + Of their boyhood’s scattered band,<br /> +And when bright Palm Sunday neareth,<br /> + When the dead remembrance crave,<br /> +Friend nor brother garland beareth<br /> + For the pauper’s squalid grave.</p> +<p>Not for him the Muse which weepeth,<br /> + Carved in marble rich and rare;<br /> +Even now time’s ploughshare creepeth<br /> + Through the grass which groweth there.<br /> +O’er the place where he is sleeping<br /> + Soon will roll oblivion’s wave:<br /> +Still God’s angel will be keeping<br /> + Ward above the pauper’s grave.</p> +<h2>TREBOR MAI.</h2> +<p>Robert Williams was born May 25, 1830, and followed his father’s +trade as a tailor. He published two small volumes in his lifetime, +“Fy Noswyl” in 1861, and “Y Geninen” in 1869. +The contents of these with large additions were published after his +death—which took place August 5, 1877—under the title of +“Gwaith Barddonol Trebor Mai” (Isaac Ffoulkes, Liverpool, +1883).</p> +<h3>The Shepherd’s Love.</h3> +<p>Adown Llewelyn’s Cairn there creep<br /> + Cloud shadows in the failing light,<br /> +From far off dingles flock the sheep<br /> + To seek their shelter for the night.<br /> +My dog about me as of yore<br /> + Plays seek and fetch as we go home;<br /> +But, Ellen, why dost thou no more<br /> + To meet me in the gloaming come?</p> +<p>The heart I gave thee free from thorn<br /> + Why seek to wound with coldness, sweet?<br /> +If lasts thine anger and thy scorn<br /> + Death’s coming I will gladly greet.<br /> +Yet if to lose thee be my fate<br /> + My life I cannot all regret,<br /> +To see thy face doth compensate<br /> + Though weary storms await me yet.</p> +<p>Across thy memory’s golden gate<br /> + Let not my faithlessness appear,<br /> +Nor think upon my failings great,<br /> + Forget them—for I love thee, dear.<br /> +But if of good I aught have done,<br /> + Oh that with eyes of kindness mark,<br /> +And let it shine—as when the sun<br /> + Spreads wings of gold to chase the dark.</p> +<p>Thou rulest all my phantasy<br /> + With thy fair face and eyes divine,<br /> +The form, which in my sleep I see<br /> + Mid dreamland’s mazy fields, is thine.<br /> +Oh if thy sweet companionship<br /> + I may not win, nor call thee wife—<br /> +Then all my future let me sleep,<br /> + And one long dream be all my life.</p> +<h3>Baby.</h3> +<p>His cradle’s his castle, and dainty his fare,<br /> +And all the world crowds just to see him lie there.<br /> +Whole volumes of rapture around him are heard,<br /> +But he keeps his counsel and says not a word.</p> +<p>His mother while hushing her baby to rest<br /> +Foretells for him all that can make a man blest.<br /> +But still he lies silent—his pride is not stirred<br /> +For all her fond visions, he says not a word.</p> +<p>His father feigns anger and swears that his son<br /> +Is cross and ill-tempered, and scolds him in fun<br /> +But though he speaks loud and demands to be heard<br /> +For threats as for praises, he says not a word.</p> +<p>A glance at the strange world around him he throws—<br /> +Whence came he? He knows not—nor whither he goes.<br /> +Vague memories of angels within him are stirred,<br /> +Too deep for mere speech—so he says not a word.</p> +<p>Yet answer there comes and as clear as can be,<br /> +In his eyes bright and sparkling his soul you can see.<br /> +To all that is said of him, all that is heard<br /> +He looks his reply, though he says not a word.</p> +<h2>CALEDFRYN.</h2> +<p>William Williams was born at Denbigh February 6th, 1801. A +weaver by trade, he showed signs of fitness for the ministry, was sent +to Rotherham College, and was ordained minister of the Independent body +at Llanerchymedd in 1829. He died at Groeswen, Glamorganshire, +March 29, 1869. He published a volume of his poems in 1856, “Caniadau +Caledfryn.”</p> +<h3>The Cuckoo.</h3> +<p>Dear playmate of the verdant spring,<br /> + We greet thee and rejoice,<br /> +Nature with leaves thy pathway decks,<br /> + The woodlands need thy voice.</p> +<p>No sooner come the daisies fair<br /> + To fleck the meadows green,<br /> +Than thy untrammelled notes are heard<br /> + Rising the brakes between.</p> +<p>Hast thou some star in yonder heights<br /> + To guide thee on thy way,<br /> +And warn thee of the changing years<br /> + And seasons, day by day?</p> +<p>Fair visitant, the time of flowers,<br /> + We welcome now with thee,<br /> +When all the birds’ unnumbered choir<br /> + Warbles from every tree.</p> +<p>The schoolboy on his truant quest<br /> + For flowers, wandering by,<br /> +Leaps as he hears thy welcome note<br /> + And echoes back thy cry.</p> +<p>To visit other lands afar<br /> + Thou soon wilt flying be;<br /> +Thou hast another spring than ours<br /> + To cheerly welcome thee.</p> +<p>For thee the hedgerows aye are green,<br /> + Thy skies are always clear,<br /> +There is no sorrow in thy song,<br /> + Nor winter in thy year!</p> +<h2>GWILYM MARLES.</h2> +<p>William Thomas was born in Carmarthenshire, 1834. After graduating +at the University of Glasgow, he entered the Unitarian ministry. +He died December 11th, 1879. He seems to have published one volume +of poetry in 1859, but most of his works are still in MS. Judging +from the specimens given in the “Llenor” No. 3 (July, 1895), +their publication would be a real service to Welsh literature.</p> +<h3>New Year Thoughts.</h3> +<p>As to the dying year I bade farewell,<br /> +Within my hands she left a mantle dark,<br /> + Whereon mine eyes did mark<br /> +Loved names I scarce for blinding tears could read;<br /> +But from its folds fresh blushing flow’rets fell<br /> +Of that fair spring-tide I had mourned as dead.</p> +<p>And now her youngest sister draweth nigh,<br /> +’Neath modest starlight and with noiseless feet,<br /> + Whom thousands flock to greet—<br /> +Thousands of every age, who fain would know,<br /> +As in her face each peereth wistfully,<br /> +What fate she bringeth—happiness or woe?</p> +<p>She answereth not, but pointeth silently<br /> +To where far off the hidden future lies,<br /> + All dark to mortal eyes,<br /> +Save where, from out the gloom, faint stars appear.<br /> +She will not linger—haste and thou shalt see<br /> +From chaos order as thou drawest near.</p> +<h3>Who in this new God’s acre?</h3> +<p>Who in this new God’s acre first shall rest?<br /> +Or gallant youth, or baby from the breast?<br /> +Or age, beneath it’s crown of snow-white hair?<br /> +Or queen of smiles and charms, some maiden fair?<br /> +Time only can the answer give—and God,<br /> +Who first shall lie beneath the upturned sod.</p> +<p>It matters not; whom e’er death first may reap<br /> +Here in a Father’s arms shall quiet sleep,<br /> +The tender flowers shall grow above his head<br /> +And drink the dews that fall upon his bed.<br /> +The silent grave is safe from foolish sneer<br /> +And persecutor’s rage is baffled here.</p> +<p>Who <i>first</i> shall rest here? Ah! the days soon come,<br /> +When all the love of many a village home<br /> +Shall centre round this spot, where kith and kin<br /> +Are laid to rest, this virgin soil within.<br /> +From far and near men by the graves shall stand<br /> +Of friends who rest within the Better Land.</p> +<p>Who first shall rest here? God o’er all doth reign,<br /> +The life He gave us we must give again.<br /> +Our chiefest duty here to work and strive<br /> +To His great glory while we are alive,<br /> +And He some resting place will then provide,<br /> +Or far from town or by the Cletwr’s tide.</p> +<h2>IEUAN GWYNEDD.</h2> +<p>Evan Jones was born near Dolgelley, September 20th, 1820. He +was ordained to the Independent ministry in 1845. Always weakly, +he found a pastoral charge too great a strain on his health, and he +devoted himself to literary pursuits, but he died Feb. 23, 1852, having +in his short life served his country well. His Life and Works +were published in 1876, “Hanes Bywyd a Gweithiau Barddonol Ieuan +Gwynedd” (Hughes & Son, Wrexham).</p> +<h3>The Cottages of Wales.</h3> +<p>Fair cottages of Cymru, with walls of gleaming white,<br /> +Whose smoke curls round the valley and up the mountain height;<br /> +The bees hum ’neath the gable or sheltering garden wall,<br /> +While all around grow flowers, red rose and lily tall.</p> +<p>Oh lowly cots of Cymru, blest, yea, thrice blest are ye!<br /> +Ye know not this world’s greatness nor earthly dignity;<br /> +Yet dwell within you ever, the love and peaceful rest<br /> +Which fly from hall and palace of those the world holds blest.</p> +<p>Oh lovely cots of Cymru, that smile beside the rill,<br /> +Your rooms the children gladden, as flowers your gardens fill;<br /> +Their eyes are bright and sparkling, like water in the sun,<br /> +Their cheeks are like the roses, red rose and white in one.</p> +<p>Grey cottages of Cymru, that nestle ’mid the leaves,<br /> +No marble walls surround you, straw thatched your lowly eaves,<br /> +Yet thither many an angel in love delights to come,<br /> +And watch in joy and gladness the heirs of his bright home.</p> +<p>O quiet cots of Cymru, far from the city’s din,<br /> +Your peace no tumult troubles, no discord enters in;<br /> +No sound breaks on your stillness but merry children’s cry,<br /> +Or murmur of the rustling leaves or brook that babbles by.</p> +<p>O pleasant cots of Cymru, within, at dawn’s first rays,<br /> +As in the wood around them, are heard glad hymns of praise,<br /> +And early in the morning the birds and goodwife sing<br /> +Their matin song of gratitude to God, their Lord and King.</p> +<p>Dear cottages of Cymru, what country holds their peer?<br /> +Long may they stand unshaken, nor ill their hearths draw near!<br /> +God keep, as fair and fragrant as on the hills and dales<br /> +The flowers which smile and blossom, the cottages of Wales.</p> +<h3>Go and Dig a Grave for me.</h3> +<p>Go and dig a grave for me,<br /> + This is but a world of woe:<br /> +Vanish all the joys of life,<br /> + Like the clouds which come and go:<br /> + And the weary finds no rest<br /> + Save within the grave’s cold breast.</p> +<p>Go and dig a grave for me,<br /> + Weary pilgrim here am I,<br /> +Through life’s dark and stormy ways<br /> + Wandering with a mournful cry.<br /> + Nought to clasp to my poor breast<br /> + Save the staff whereon I rest.</p> +<p>Go and dig a grave for me,<br /> + ’Neath some green and shady tree,<br /> +Where the kindly breeze will make<br /> + Mournful music over me.<br /> + Oh how pleasant ’twill be there<br /> + For the weak, lone wanderer!</p> +<p>Go and dig a grave for me,<br /> + For my journey’s nearly o’er;<br /> +Of life’s sweets I’ve freely drunk,<br /> + Of its wormwood even more.<br /> + Now to earth farewell I cry—<br /> + Weak and faint, I long to die.</p> +<p>Go and dig a grave for me<br /> + All life’s pleasures now are past;<br /> +Memories of the joys that were<br /> + Darker shadows round me cast.<br /> + Through death’s portals I will fly<br /> + Far to peaceful worlds on high.</p> +<p>Go and dig a grave for me,<br /> + Though my dwelling will be dark;<br /> +Needs not for this mortal frame<br /> + Stone or sign its place to mark.<br /> + There ’twill rest till stars shall fall<br /> + At the last great trumpet call.</p> +<p>Go and dig a grave for me,<br /> + Broken is my life’s frail thread;<br /> +Hasten, dig for me a grave,<br /> + Draweth near the stranger dread.<br /> + Low, ay low my head be bent,<br /> + Till the heavens in twain are rent.</p> +<p>Go and dig a grave for me,<br /> + I can stay no longer here,<br /> +Fare you well—my weak heart faints<br /> + ’Neath the dark king’s fatal spear.<br /> + I am ready for the grave—<br /> + Christ receive me, help and save!</p> +<h2>CEIRIOG.</h2> +<p>John Ceiriog Hughes was born September 25, 1832. He was for +many years clerk in the Goods Station, London Road, Manchester, and +was afterwards stationmaster on the Cambrian Line at Llanidloes, Towyn +and Caersws successively. He died at Caersws April 23rd, 1887. +He published during his lifetime ‘Oriau’r Hwyr,’ 1860; +‘Oriau’r Bore,’ 1862; ‘Cant o Ganeuon,’ +1863; ‘Y Bardd a’r Cerddor,’ 1863; ‘Oriau Ereill,’ +1868; and ‘Oriau’r Haf,’ 1870. These are now +published by Messrs. Hughes and Son, Wrexham, and ought to be in the +possession of every Welshman, and of everyone desirous of learning Welsh. +A posthumous volume was published in 1888, ‘Oriau Olaf’ +(Isaac Foulkes, Liverpool).</p> +<h3>Songs of Wales.</h3> +<p>Songs of Wales live in our ears<br /> +Through the swiftly passing years;<br /> +Moaning stormwinds as they blow<br /> +Murmur songs of long ago;<br /> +Voices of our dead ones dear<br /> +In our country’s airs we hear.</p> +<p>Whispering leaves in every grove<br /> +Murmur low the songs we love,<br /> +Sings the sea ’neath roaring gales<br /> +Snatches of the songs of Wales,<br /> +And to Kymric ears they sound<br /> +Through creation all around.</p> +<h3>Myfanwy.</h3> +<p>Myfanwy! thy fair face is seen<br /> + In primrose and clover and rose,<br /> +In the sunshine, unsullied, serene,<br /> + And the starlight’s untroubled repose.<br /> +When rises fair Venus on high,<br /> + And shines ’twixt the heaven and the sea,<br /> +She is loved by the earth and the sky,<br /> +But thou art, Myfanwy, far brighter, far fairer to me,<br /> + A thousand times fairer to me.</p> +<p>Would I were the breezes that blow<br /> + Through the gardens and walks of thy home,<br /> +To murmur my love as I go<br /> + And play with thy locks as I roam!<br /> +For changeful the breezes and bleak—<br /> + Now balmy, now chilly they blow—<br /> +Yet they, love, are kissing thy cheek,<br /> +O heart of my heart, not changeful my love towards thee—<br /> + Eternal my love towards thee!</p> +<h3>Liberty.</h3> +<p>See, see where royal Snowdon rears<br /> +Her hoary head above her peers<br /> + To cry that Wales is free!<br /> +O hills which guard our liberties,<br /> +With outstretched arms to where you rise<br /> +In all your pride, I turn my eyes<br /> + And echo, “Wales is free!”<br /> +O’er Giant Idris’ lofty seat,<br /> +O’er Berwyn and Plynlimon great<br /> +And hills which round them lower meet,<br /> + Blow winds of liberty.<br /> +And like the breezes high and strong,<br /> +Which through the cloudwrack sweep along<br /> +Each dweller in this land of song<br /> + Is free, is free, is free!</p> +<p>Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleep<br /> +Over that wretch’s eyelids creep<br /> + Who bears with wrong and shame.<br /> +Make him to feel thy spirit high,<br /> +And like a hero do or die,<br /> +And smite the arm of tyranny,<br /> + And lay its haunts aflame.<br /> +Rather than peace which makes thee slave,<br /> +Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive,<br /> +Lay foul oppression in its grave,<br /> + No more the light to see.<br /> +Then heavenward turn thy grateful gaze<br /> +And like the rolling thunder raise<br /> +Thy triumph song of joy and praise<br /> + To God—that thou art free!</p> +<h3>Climb the hillside.</h3> +<p>Climb the hillside in the morning—<br /> + When the radiant dawn is seen<br /> +Blushing shyly on the mountains<br /> + Like a maiden of thirteen.<br /> + “Quench the lamps of right,<br /> + Fill the earth with light<br /> + Wander o’er the +lofty hills,<br /> + Fringe each brightening fold<br /> + Of the clouds with gold,”<br /> + This the hest shy dawn +fulfils.</p> +<p>Climb the hillside in the evening<br /> + When the sun is sinking low—<br /> +You shall see day’s radiant monarch<br /> + Falling bloodstained ’neath the foe.<br /> + Dark and darker yet<br /> + Grow day’s cerements wet,<br /> + Creeps a haze across +the main,<br /> + Mounts the moon on high,<br /> + Eve climbs up the sky,<br /> + Lamps of God to light +again.</p> +<h3>Change and permanence.</h3> +<p>Still the mountains with us stay,<br /> + Still the winds across them roar,<br /> +Still is heard at dawn of day<br /> + Song of shepherd as of yore.<br /> +Still the countless daisies grow<br /> + On the hills, beneath the rocks,<br /> +But new swains, strange shepherds now<br /> + On our mountains feed their flocks.</p> +<p>Cymru’s customs day by day<br /> + Change with changing fortune’s wheel,<br /> +Friends of youth have passed away,<br /> + Strangers now their places fill;<br /> +After many a stormy day<br /> + Alun Mabon’s dead and gone,<br /> +But the old tongue still holds sway,<br /> + And the dear old airs live on.</p> +<h3>Homewards</h3> +<p>From day to day, the golden sun<br /> + His chariot ne’er restraineth,<br /> +From night to night the pale white moon<br /> + Now waxeth and now waneth,<br /> +From hour to hour the bright stars turn<br /> + In distances unending,<br /> +And all the mighty works of God,<br /> + Are ever homeward tending.</p> +<p>The tiny streamlet on the hill<br /> + Its wandering way pursueth,<br /> +The mighty river far below<br /> + Adown the valley floweth,<br /> +The winds roam ever in the sky,<br /> + The clouds are onward driving,<br /> +And towards some quiet shore—at home<br /> + The raging sea is striving.</p> +<h3>Daybreak.</h3> +<p>Yonder on fair Snowdon’s height,<br /> + Ere breaks the light,<br /> +Stars that through the darkness swim<br /> +Are sinking in the distance dim.</p> +<p>See! the day its spears hath hurled<br /> + From the Eastern world;<br /> +And each shaft is flaming red<br /> +As though the night had dying bled.</p> +<p>Matin song of skylark gay<br /> + Proclaims the day;<br /> +Fled the dragons of the dark<br /> +And quenched the firefly’s glimmering spark.</p> +<p>White its head now Snowdon rears,<br /> + The sun appears!<br /> +Day and brightness, lo, he brings<br /> +To pauper’s cot and hall of kings.</p> +<h3>The White Stone.</h3> +<p>Though far from my poor, feeble hand,<br /> + My country’s harp of gold,<br /> +Though far from that dear home I stand,<br /> + Where it was played of old,<br /> +My mother tongue hath yet a spell<br /> +And inward voice, which bids me tell<br /> +My tale in song that Wales loves well,<br /> + Whatever aliens hold.</p> +<p>A tiny streamlet wandering strayed<br /> + Beneath our garden wall,<br /> +Where one of my forefathers made<br /> + A mimic waterfall.<br /> +Above the spot the willows weep,<br /> +Where down its height the water poured,<br /> +And on the bank beside the deep<br /> + Fair apple trees keep ward.</p> +<p>Across the pool where fell the spate<br /> + A bridge of wood was thrown;<br /> +And marble-like, to bear its weight,<br /> + There stood a big white stone.<br /> +Here all my boyhood’s hours sped by,<br /> +Here would I sit contentedly,<br /> +And on this stone as happy I<br /> + As king upon his throne!</p> +<p>Where’er in this wide world I be,<br /> + Where’er I yet may roam,<br /> +The great white stone I ever see,<br /> + And hear the stream at home.<br /> +And when to strangers I confess<br /> +That in my dreams I thither fly,<br /> +They pardon me, for all men bless<br /> + Each childish memory.</p> +<p>Far off, far off are childhood’s days,<br /> + And starry as the sky,<br /> +Nor lives the man but loves to raise<br /> + His head with wistful eye<br /> +Towards the days that are no more:<br /> +And as I turn towards that shore,<br /> +For me one star burns evermore—<br /> + My childhood’s dear white stone.</p> +<h3>The Traitors of Wales.</h3> +<p>You know the fate of Caractacus,<br /> +A name immortal for each of us,<br /> +Before whose face Rome’s legions dread<br /> +For nine long years in terror fled.</p> +<p>How to Brigantum’s town one day,<br /> +All unattended, he took his way,<br /> +And to the fair queen’s palace came—<br /> +Cartismandua was her name.</p> +<p>Then cried the queen, “For many a year<br /> +To me and mine thou hast been dear:<br /> +Safe mayest thou dwell in this my land,”<br /> +And she kissed the scars on his strong right hand.</p> +<p>Then, with her own white royal hand,<br /> +She losed his hauberk’s metal band,<br /> +And in her fairest chamber laid<br /> +His bow of steel and his flashing blade.</p> +<p>With dainties quickly the board is laid,<br /> +And mead—the sweetest ever made,<br /> +Beaming with joy is every face,<br /> +And mirth and feasting fill the place.</p> +<p>The royal harpist sweeps the strings,<br /> +And brave Caradoc’s deeds he sings,<br /> +His foes deriding, and most of all<br /> +Ostorius, the Roman general.</p> +<p>But evening fell—that fatal night<br /> +That darkened all our nation’s light:<br /> +In sleep his head Caradoc laid,<br /> +And woke—a captive, bound, betrayed.</p> +<p>Aregwedd <a name="citation66"></a><a href="#footnote66">{66}</a> +she, of winsome smile,<br /> +Who broke the strength of Britain’s Isle,<br /> +And gave the Samson of our land<br /> +Delilah-like to the Roman’s hand.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>A triad of triads, yea, thrice three score,<br /> +Of traitors our land has borne and more,<br /> +And traitors many within the sound<br /> +Of the Western sea may yet be found.</p> +<p>If e’er from love or hate you try<br /> +To trace a Welshman’s pedigree,<br /> +There is a book—for you ’tis meant,<br /> +A bluebook of high Parliament.</p> +<p>For in this book incorporate<br /> +A thousand facts, brought up to date,<br /> +Prove that each father, mother, son,<br /> +In Wales is baseborn—every one!</p> +<p>It further shows there’s scarce a wight<br /> +In all wild Wales knows how to write!<br /> +That none of those who only talk<br /> +Their native tongue know cheese from chalk.</p> +<p>That ‘Eisteddfodau’ Welshman teach<br /> +To spurn the thrice blest English speech:<br /> +Welsh books—there are none, save what quacks<br /> +Sell the poor churls as almanacks.</p> +<p>That therefore that most grievous sin<br /> +Yclept Dissent is rife therein;<br /> +But if ‘the English’ were more prized,<br /> +Wales might some day be—civilized!</p> +<p>Ring out, O bells—proclaim our glee<br /> +That a real nation we yet may be,<br /> +When English blessings reach us here—<br /> +Mountains of beef and floods of beer!</p> +<p>Fraud and treason garbed as grace<br /> +In the Blue Book find a place,<br /> +And in the ‘Triads of Treachery’<br /> +Let these ‘Three Spies’ remembered be.</p> +<h3>A Mother’s Message.</h3> +<p>Her visit was ended and back to her home<br /> + Far away my dear mother was going;<br /> +But now that the hour for parting was come<br /> + With sorrow her heart was o’erflowing.<br /> +Oh pale grew her cheeks and fast fell her tears,<br /> + Her faltering counsels delaying,<br /> +Then low fell these words on my listening ears,<br /> + “You know what my heart, dear, is saying.”</p> +<p>Not a word of the devil, his plans and his wiles,<br /> + His lies and his love of deceiving,<br /> +Not a word of the world with its follies and smiles<br /> + She said when her son she was leaving.<br /> +I know on my journey she wished me all bliss,<br /> + I know that for me she was praying,<br /> +But all that I heard her lips utter was this,<br /> + “You know what my heart, dear, is saying.”</p> +<p>Like the sea as it plays on a dangerous rock<br /> + Is the spirit that now is in motion,<br /> +Around me are men who at Heaven make mock,<br /> + And I’m but a drop in the ocean.<br /> +My feet are oft hasting the broad path along<br /> + But while on the precipice straying<br /> +I am saved by the message so tender, so strong,<br /> + “You know what my heart, dear, is saying.”</p> +<p>‘Sin not’—in the skies though this sentence I read,<br /> + In letters of fire engraven,<br /> +Though roared the loud thunder in accents of dread,<br /> + ‘Transgress not the laws of high Heaven,’<br /> +Though slowed the swift lightning to one solid flame,<br /> + My feet from ungodliness staying,<br /> +Far stronger the words from my mother which came,<br /> + “You know what my heart, dear, is saying.”</p> +<h3>Mountain Rill.</h3> +<p>Mountain rill, that darkling, sparkling,<br /> + Winds and wanders down the hill,<br /> +’Mid the rushes, whispering, murmuring,<br /> + Oh that I were like the rill!</p> +<p>Mountain ling, whose flower and fragrance<br /> + Sorest longing to me bring<br /> +To be ever on the mountains—<br /> + Oh that I were like the ling!</p> +<p>Mountain bird, whose joyous singing<br /> + On the wholesome breeze is heard,<br /> +Flitting hither, flitting thither—<br /> + Oh that I were like the bird!</p> +<p>Mountain child am I, and lonely<br /> + Far from home my song I sing;<br /> +But my heart is on the mountain<br /> + With the birds amid the ling.</p> +<h3>Llewelyn’s Grave.</h3> +<p>The earth has sunk low on the grave of Llewelyn,<br /> + The rainpools lie o’er it unruffled and still;<br /> +The moon at her rising, the sun at his setting,<br /> + Blush red as they look o’er the slope of the hill.<br /> +O Cymru, my land, dost know of this ill?<br /> + And where is the patriot hiding his face?<br /> +The tears of the cloudwrack know well where he lieth,<br /> + The birds of the mountain can tell of the place.</p> +<p>By chance comes a Welshman and carelessly gazes,<br /> + Where fell the last hero who fought for his sake;<br /> +The breezes are moaning, the earth is complaining,<br /> + That the heart of old Cymru is feeble and weak.<br /> +’Tis aliens only their pilgrimage make<br /> + Where low lies our prince by the side of his glaive.<br /> +Thank God for the tears which are falling from heaven,<br /> + And the grass that grows green by the edge of the grave.</p> +<h3>The Strand of Rhuddlan.</h3> +<p>Frowned the dark heavens on the cause of the righteous,<br /> + Bondage has swept our free warriors away,<br /> +Vain were our prayers as our dreams had been baseless,<br /> + Sword of the foeman has carried the day.<br /> +Hid be thy strand ’neath the snows everlasting,<br /> + Frozen the waters that over thee break!<br /> +Come to defend, O thou God of all mercies,<br /> + Cause of the righteous and home of the weak.</p> +<p>Slain is our leader, and he who has slain him,<br /> + Prince of the foemen, will reign in his stead.<br /> +Fallen our harp with the fall of Caradoc,<br /> + Ay! let it fall as he fell and lay dead!<br /> +Yet can I look on the field of the slaughter,<br /> + God was not mocked, nor was freedom denied.<br /> +Better than that ’twas to die—there on Rhuddlan<br /> + Better to sink in the free flowing tide.</p> +<h3>The Steed of Dapple Grey.</h3> +<p>Caradoc calls his warriors,<br /> + And loud the bugles blow;<br /> +On rushed the brave Silurians,<br /> + And fell beneath the foe.<br /> +Back shrank his men retreating,<br /> + But on her steed of dapple grey<br /> + There rides the stately queen that way<br /> +Her spouse, Caradoc, meeting.</p> +<p>There’s tumult in the dingle,<br /> + As sinks the sun o’erhead;<br /> +And many a stalwart hero<br /> + Lies for his country dead.<br /> +One host the waters cover,<br /> + But on her steed of dapple grey<br /> + There rides the stately queen that day<br /> +To seek her royal lover.</p> +<p>Then saw the Romans only<br /> + A steed of dapple grey;<br /> +But saw the Britons riding<br /> + Their stately queen that way.<br /> +The bugles sound the rally!<br /> + The Britons backward turn—to fight,<br /> + The Romans backward reel—in flight,<br /> +Before that last grim sally.</p> +<h3>A Lullaby.</h3> +<p> Sleep, sleep, sleep!<br /> +All nature now is steeping<br /> +Her sons in sleep,—their eyelids close,<br /> +All living things in sweet repose<br /> + Are sleeping, sleeping.</p> +<p> Sleep, baby, sleep!<br /> +Peace o’er thee watch be keeping,<br /> +If from my bosom thou art torn,<br /> +Low in the grave I’ll lie forlorn,<br /> + Sleeping, ah, sleeping.</p> +<h2>ISLWYN.</h2> +<p>William Thomas was born April 3, 1832, and very early showed signs +of poetic talent. He published a volume of poems, ‘Caniadau +Islwyn’ (Messrs. Hughes & Son, Wrexham), about 1867, some +of the finest pieces in which, including “Thought” and “The +Vision and Faculty Divine,” are extracted from a long poem “The +Storm,” which has never yet been published. A complete edition +of his works is now in the press. He died Nov. 20, 1878.</p> +<h3>Night.</h3> +<p>Come, Night, with all thy train<br /> +Of witnesses. I love<br /> +The stars’ deep eloquence,<br /> +That with the morning hours<br /> +Grows mute again.<br /> +Thy stillness cries to human sense,<br /> +“There is a God above,<br /> +And worlds more fair than ours.”<br /> +The day is night which hides the stars from sight!<br /> +Our night for day is given<br /> +To make more plain the path to heaven.</p> +<p>It is the Sun<br /> +That at its rising makes the infidel,<br /> +And all day long the world alone<br /> +Its tale can tell.<br /> +Oh welcome, Night, that bid’st the world be still,<br /> +That through the stars eternity may speak.<br /> +Too early, Dawn, too early dost thou wake:<br /> +Too early climbest up the Eastern hill:<br /> +Too early! stay: so quiet is the Night,<br /> +And in her pensive breeze such sympathy,<br /> +She shows us suns that suffer no eclipse,<br /> +O’er which the grave’s dark shadow ne’er can lie.<br /> +Nay! come not yet, O Dawn: thy laughing lips,<br /> +Thy wanton glance, and frolic songs of glee,<br /> +The convocation of those holier spheres profane,<br /> +And when night vanishes, heaven is hid again.</p> +<p>Come, balmy Night! O peaceful hours,<br /> +When on its axis sleeps the untiring wheel,<br /> +And from this loud-voiced world of ours<br /> +No taint of earth can on the breezes steal.</p> +<p>The weary sailor, when time’s tempests rage,<br /> +Joys when he sees, on the far shores of heaven,<br /> +The fiery line of stars, as beacons given<br /> +To guide him to the eternal anchorage.</p> +<h3>The Vision and the Faculty Divine.</h3> +<p> When it will, it comes,<br /> + Like the rain or the bow<br /> + Or the nightingale’s lay<br /> + By the lake below:<br /> +As free from restraint as the seraph that roams<br /> +O’er the ebbing waves of the dying day,<br /> +When the reddening west, ’twixt the sun and the sea,<br /> +Seems to open the door of eternity.</p> +<p> When it will, it comes,<br /> + Like the stars that are driven<br /> + O’er the cloudwrack riven.<br /> +When it will—to the world it owes no debt,<br /> +No times, no seasons for it are set.<br /> +When it will—like all that belongs to heaven.</p> +<p> Not so the sea<br /> +That hath its laws and rules and door:<br /> + Whose ebb and whose flow<br /> +In the ears of men beat evermore,<br /> + Like time’s great pendulum to and fro.<br /> +And the time of whose visits is known long before<br /> +As it rolls to the moment from shore to shore.</p> +<p> Not so the sun,<br /> + Time’s fountain and head,<br /> +Whose shadows to hours and minutes creep,<br /> +As into their fold the gathering sheep.<br /> +The Alps, in their garb of eternal snow—<br /> +So far from the world they grow white with dread—<br /> + The moment know<br /> +When from the East’s ever darkening sea<br /> +He will rise—the image of Deity.<br /> +And the birds, the same moment awaking, blow<br /> +The world’s great trumpet that men may know<br /> + That night hath fled,<br /> +And day is risen again from the dead.</p> +<p> Like the rainbow it comes—<br /> +As the sign of the covenant made long ago<br /> +’Twixt Godhood and thought, when, abating its flow,<br /> +The sea of eternity brought into sight<br /> +Time’s far distant mountains, and safe on their height<br /> +There rested, by God to humanity brought,<br /> +The Ark of eternal, immutable Thought!</p> +<h3>Thought.</h3> +<p>We are not certain that the mighty soul<br /> +Doth err, when far above the narrow groove<br /> +In which man walks from childhood to the grave<br /> +It rises, murmuring things unutterable,<br /> +And spurns as lies the outward forms of sense,<br /> +And, like a shooting star, enfranchised seeks<br /> +The spaces of eternity.</p> +<p> Hath not<br /> +The soul a hidden story of its own,<br /> +A tide of mysteries breaking on a far<br /> +And distant shore, where memory was lost<br /> +Amid the mighty ruins of a world<br /> +Or worlds now vanished?</p> +<p> Are the stars o’erhead<br /> +Things as divine and glorious as poesy<br /> +Is wont to sing? Is’t not some power in us,<br /> +Some memory of a yet diviner world<br /> +And things illumined by the light of God<br /> +That dowers the stars with beauty, gives them strength<br /> +And grandeur? ’Tis in us the stars have being,<br /> +And poesy’s self is but the memory<br /> +Of things that have been or the seer’s glance<br /> +At things that shall be—a future and a past<br /> +Both greater than the present.</p> +<p> Who hath not<br /> +Within him felt some long forgotten world<br /> +Sweep through the corner of his former self,<br /> +Or touch some jutting peak of memory?<br /> +Or can we prove a poet’s imaginings<br /> +Are not the remnants of a higher life,<br /> +A thousand times more glorious, lying hid<br /> +Within the deepest sea of his great soul,<br /> +Till comes the all-searching breath of poesy<br /> +To bid them rise? Oh hail, all hail the hour<br /> +When God reveals Himself, and like the sun<br /> +Illumines every epoch of our being,<br /> +And through them all the Spirit’s path shines clear<br /> +From God, through Nature, back to God again.</p> +<h3>The Variety of Wales.</h3> +<p>Oh where with such variety<br /> + Her charms doth nature pour,<br /> +Or beauties lavish as on thee,<br /> + Thou world in miniature?<br /> +Now stern and frowning she appears,<br /> +Anon her smile most radiant wears.</p> +<p>Between the hills which upward soar<br /> + Fair valleys lie afar,<br /> +Where wakes no wind, no torrents roar<br /> + Our perfect peace to mar,<br /> +And many a mere to human eyes<br /> +Reflects the Peace of Paradise.</p> +<p>As ramparts high thy mountains rise<br /> + Against the wind and rain,<br /> +To break the strength of wintry skies<br /> + And rush of storms restrain.<br /> +And safe beneath them smiling spreads<br /> +The green expanse of fertile meads.</p> +<p>Though thou art little, dearest Wales,<br /> + Though strait thy limits are,<br /> +Upon thy mountains and thy vales<br /> + Are beauties rich and rare:<br /> +Thy bounds are narrowed, but to me<br /> +Sufficient thy variety.</p> +<h3>The Sick Minister.</h3> +<p>Even now my brethren preach the word,<br /> + While here I helpless lie;<br /> +How the thought frets me like a cord—<br /> + Their work and my infirmity.</p> +<p>Their every effort, Father, crown with power,<br /> + And all their utterance with Thy unction dower.<br /> +And unto me, here in my house, be given<br /> + Patient submission to the will of Heaven.</p> +<p>Time was, I thought one Sabbath’s rest would be—<br /> + One Sabbath’s rest with nought of toil to tire—<br /> +Like some fair island in a stormtoss’d sea,<br /> + Or pause in music of the eternal choir.</p> +<p>But it is with my heart on this fair morn,<br /> + As with the reaper on a summer’s day,<br /> +Who hears the sickle sweeping through the corn,<br /> + And he for weakness needs at home must stay.</p> +<p>’Twixt us and men, us and the world’s wild din,<br /> + The Sabbath is a day of rest;<br /> +But betwixt us and God—because of sin—<br /> + A day of labour to each earnest breast.</p> +<p>And think not, till thou lie beneath the sod,<br /> + Preacher of Peace, there can be rest for thee,<br /> +Time is the week-tide of the sons of God,<br /> + Their Sabbath is—Eternity.</p> +<h3>Life, like the Heavens.</h3> +<p>Life, like the heavens, doth endless worlds contain;<br /> + Each day’s a world where good or ill holds sway:<br /> + For through life’s spacious vistas as we stray<br /> +Hour after hour we sow with varying grain.<br /> +Sown even to the wayside, down the plane<br /> + Of Time thus passes every flying day—<br /> + Never, till Time’s brief seasons fade away<br /> +Into Eternity, to rise again.<br /> +But ’neath the ripening rays of righteous fate,<br /> +To blade and ear the seed grows silently,<br /> +’Gainst that great day whose reapers angels are:<br /> +When all Time’s hours before the Throne laid bare,<br /> +World heaped on world, shall for the sickle wait<br /> +Of endless death—or immortality.</p> +<h3>The Poets of Wales.</h3> +<p>I.</p> +<p>Dear Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring high<br /> + Dwells Genius, basking on thy quiet air,<br /> + And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare,<br /> +And all wrapt round with fullest harmony<br /> +Of streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly<br /> + ’Neath Nature their fit foster mother’s care,<br /> + Thy children learn from infant hours to bear<br /> +And work the will of God. Thy scenery<br /> +So varied-wild, so strangely sweet and strong,<br /> +Works on them and to music moulds their mind,<br /> +Till flows their fancy in poetic rills.<br /> +The voice of Nature breathes in every song<br /> +And we may read therein thy features kind<br /> +As in some tarn that nestles ’neath thy hills.</p> +<p>II.</p> +<p>Thy fragrant breezes wander through the maze<br /> + Of all their songs as through a woodland reach:<br /> + Their odes drop sweetness like the ripening peach<br /> +In laden orchards on late summer days.<br /> +Their work is Nature’s own—not theirs the praise<br /> + By culture won which midnight studies teach.<br /> + Sounds the loud cataract in their sonorous speech,<br /> +And strikes the keynote of their tuneful lays.<br /> +As to remotest ages in the past<br /> +We trace thy joyous story, more and more<br /> +Bards won high honour mid thy hills and vales.<br /> +So, Cymru, while this world of ours shall last,<br /> +And Ocean echoing beat upon thy shore,<br /> +May poets never cease to sing for Wales!</p> +<h3>The Lighthouse.</h3> +<p>When night first spread her curtain o’er the deep,<br /> + Firm based beneath the waves the lighthouse tower<br /> + Rose to the clouds, and mariners once more<br /> +Blest the bright gleam that o’er them ward would keep.<br /> +When rose the moon, the sea lay all asleep,<br /> + It’s dreaming waves enfolded by the shore:<br /> + And founded on the rock, of iron its door,<br /> +The beacon flashed its light across the deep.<br /> +Then rose the storm and lashed the waves until<br /> +They roared like wounded lions, and there raved<br /> +The elemental forces, shock on shock:<br /> +And all the great sea’s batteries worked their will<br /> +That never more should ship through it be saved.<br /> +The rising sun looked out and saw—the Rock.</p> +<h2>MYNYDDOG.</h2> +<p>Richard Davies was born at Llanbrynmair, January 10th, 1833, and +was brought up as a farmer, but latterly, at any rate, devoted himself +almost entirely to literary and eisteddfodic pursuits. He published +in 1866 “Caneuon Mynyddog,” in 1870 “Yr Ail Gynnyg,” +and in 1877 “Y Trydydd Cynnyg,” which may be obtained separately +or in one volume from Messrs. Hughes & Son, Wrexham. He died +at Cemmaes, July 14th, 1877.</p> +<h3>When comes my Gwen.</h3> +<p>When comes my Gwen,<br /> +More glorious then<br /> +The sun in heaven appeareth;<br /> +And summer’s self<br /> +To meet this elf<br /> +A smile more radiant weareth.</p> +<p>When comes my love,<br /> +The moon above<br /> +Shines bright and ever brighter;<br /> +And all the black<br /> +And sullen wrack<br /> +Grows in a moment lighter.</p> +<p>When comes my queen,<br /> +The treetops green<br /> +Bow down to earth to greet her;<br /> +And tempests high<br /> +That rend the sky<br /> +Disperse, ashamed to meet her.</p> +<p>When comes my sweet<br /> +Her love to greet,<br /> +My cares and sorrows vanish;<br /> +For on her face<br /> +Rests heavenly grace,<br /> +Which troubles all doth banish.</p> +<p>When comes my dear,<br /> +The darkness drear<br /> +’Twixt God and me is riven;<br /> +Her loving eyes<br /> +Reveal the skies<br /> +And point the way to heaven.</p> +<h3>A Nocturne.</h3> +<p>The mournful eve, a weary moan upraising,<br /> + Low lays her head adown in honeyed sleep;<br /> +And flame-enshrouded all the hills are praising<br /> + The God who ward o’er man doth keep:<br /> + On high the cloudwrack sailing<br /> + Its golden skirts is trailing;<br /> +Floats sound of summer song the evening airs along:<br /> + Says the light<br /> + Breeze, “Good night.”</p> +<p>The tiny flowers, with silvery dewdrops dripping,<br /> + Before the queen of night bow one and all,<br /> +Who shod with feathery sandals satin-soft comes tripping<br /> + To hide the world beneath her shadowy pall;<br /> + From many a quiet hearth<br /> + Over the darkling earth<br /> +Is borne along the sound of song:<br /> + Says the light<br /> + Breeze, “Good night.”</p> +<h3>Come to the Boat, Love.</h3> +<p>Come to the boat, love,<br /> + Come let us row,<br /> +So all the day, love,<br /> + Floating we’ll go.<br /> +Low sinks the sun, love,<br /> + Crimson the sky,<br /> +See the pale moon, love,<br /> + Rises on high.</p> +<p>Now through the sky, love,<br /> + Stars of the night,<br /> +O’er thy fair head, love,<br /> + Smiling shine bright.<br /> +But they are dim, love,<br /> + By the true light,<br /> +Which in thine eyes, love,<br /> + Burns day and night.</p> +<p>Deep in the wood, love,<br /> + Curtained with shade,<br /> +Birds to the sun, love,<br /> + Sing serenade.<br /> +Faint is their song, love,<br /> + Nought to mine ear,<br /> +When from thy lips, love,<br /> + Sweet words I hear.</p> +<p>Gaze on the tide, love,<br /> + Sleeping at rest,<br /> +Mirrored thy face, love,<br /> + See on its breast.<br /> +So in my heart, love,<br /> + Carved is thy mien,<br /> +Where thou shalt reign, love,<br /> + Throned as my queen.</p> +<h3>At the foot of the Stairs.</h3> +<p>Maidenlike, love’s question waiving,<br /> + Nought she said,<br /> +While I stood my answer craving,<br /> + Half afraid.<br /> +Coldly she with hand extended,<br /> + Said, “Good night,”<br /> +And ere well the words were ended,<br /> + Took to flight<br /> +Past me, deep obeisance making.<br /> + Well she knew<br /> +She with her my heart was taking<br /> + Torn in two.</p> +<p>At the stairway’s foot half dreaming<br /> + Still I stayed;<br /> +From my heart my love poured streaming<br /> + Towards the maid.<br /> +For one blissful moment standing<br /> + Paused she there;<br /> +Fell the lamplight from the landing<br /> + On her hair,<br /> +And her eyes, like starlight sparkling,<br /> + Clear were seen,<br /> +But, alas! the staircase darkling<br /> + Lay between.</p> +<p>Down the staircase through the gloaming,<br /> + Smiled she then,<br /> +As though heaven itself were coming<br /> + Down to men!<br /> +Raised her hand and from her tresses<br /> + Plucked a rose<br /> +Which amid her locks’ caresses,<br /> + Found repose,<br /> +Breathed upon it love’s own dower,<br /> + Kisses sweet,<br /> +And for answer dropped the flower<br /> + At my feet.</p> +<h2>OSSIAN GWENT.</h2> +<p>John Davies was born at Cardigan in 1834, and died April 24, 1892. +He was, I believe, a carpenter by trade. He published one little +volume, “Caniadau Ossian Gwent” (Hughes & Son, Wrexham), +but he left a large mass of unpublished matter. No one of our +poets is simpler or purer, or writes so lovingly of birds and flowers.</p> +<h3>The Lark.</h3> +<p>Oh hark!<br /> + With fluttering wing and dewy breast,<br /> + Soars upward like a spirit strong,<br /> + From reedy nest,<br /> + The gentle lark,<br /> + To tune on high his matin song.</p> +<p>Alway<br /> + A nameless charm flows from thy lay,<br /> + Melodious bird!<br /> + Whose music heard<br /> + Drives care and sorrow far away.</p> +<p>Beneath,<br /> + The sleeping world lies still as death;<br /> + Above, we hear thee singing clear,<br /> + ’Mid’st morning rays,<br /> + Unsullied praise,<br /> + Which speaks of peace to mortal ear.</p> +<p>How free<br /> + And blithesome is thy joyous flight!<br /> + In floods of sunshine sparkling bright,<br /> + From skies serene<br /> + Thy song unseen<br /> + Angelic music seems to me.</p> +<h3>The Bible.</h3> +<p>Like stars beside the sun,<br /> + So by this book<br /> + Earth’s volumes look:<br /> +Their glory fades before its light,<br /> +For on its leaves the splendour bright<br /> + Of God’s own face hath shone.</p> +<p>’Tis like some fair seashell—<br /> + Bend down thine ear<br /> + And thou shalt hear<br /> +The river on the golden strand<br /> +And sound of harps in that fair land—<br /> + Or wail of souls in hell!</p> +<h3>The Lake.</h3> +<p>Oh fair the glade where dewy primrose bloweth,<br /> + And fair the quiet slope of hillside clear,<br /> + Which, girdled with the sheen<br /> + Of glorious summer green,<br /> +Its smiling face like some tall seraph showeth,<br /> + And in its sunlit lap the modest mere.</p> +<p>O lake most lovely, ringed about with flowers<br /> + And girt around its marge with nodding reeds;<br /> + Like guardian angels o’er<br /> + The circle of its shore<br /> +Great trees their branches spread, whose leafy bowers<br /> + Wave gently ’neath the wind that onward speeds.</p> +<p>Here, too, on meadows green which dewy glisten<br /> + Cluster sweet violets nodding ’neath the breeze,<br /> + And coronals of light<br /> + With golden splendour bright<br /> +Their fragile heads adorn, which seem to listen<br /> + To merry birds that sing amid the trees.</p> +<p>O happy spot! I fain would linger ever<br /> + About thy honeyed stillness, mere benign.<br /> + Of gazing on thy face I weary never,<br /> + As fair and full of grace<br /> +As slumbering infant’s face,<br /> + Or angel features which yet purer shine.</p> +<p>Thy crystal depth with music strange resoundeth,<br /> + Heard but by those to whom pure souls are given;<br /> + For unto all on earth<br /> + Who win the second birth,<br /> +The whole round world with hidden strings resoundeth,<br /> + Which endless praise distil to God in heaven.</p> +<h3>A Morning Greeting.</h3> +<p>Arise, my beloved! the birds’ merry chorus<br /> + Is heard ’mid the bourgeoning buds of the wold<br /> +Which smiles on the breast of the valley, while o’er us<br /> + The sun tips the dewladen branches with gold.<br /> +There comes from the meadows the scent of the clover,<br /> + The banks are all hidden by daisies from sight,<br /> +Each nook with bright yellow the primroses cover,<br /> + The trees in the orchards are curtained with white.</p> +<p>O rouse thee, my darling! come look at the swallow<br /> + Which over the dingle is flying at will;<br /> +And hark to the song of the thrush in the hollow,<br /> + And cuckoo’s clear cry on the side of the hill.<br /> +On high in the heavens the glad lark is trilling<br /> + The song which he lays at the footstool of morn;<br /> +My heart with strange gladness his music is thrilling,<br /> + As down from the sky by the breezes ’tis borne.</p> +<p>Arise, my beloved! the lambs are all springing<br /> + In frolic enjoyment the meadows among;<br /> +The stream through the valley its glad song is singing,<br /> + And the young day laughs lightly its waters along.<br /> +A robe of bright azure the clear sky is wearing<br /> + And bathed are the mountains in myriads of rays,<br /> +The woodland its harp for the noon is preparing<br /> + And hark, from its strings bursts a torrent of praise.</p> +<p>O rouse thee, my darling! Come, let us be going,<br /> + So soft is the breeze and so fragrant the air,<br /> +New health and new strength through our veins will be flowing,<br /> + And sorrow will vanish and sadness and care!<br /> +O banish the charms with which sloth would ensnare us,<br /> + Far purer the joy in the sunshine that lurks,<br /> +All nature her pinions is spreading to bear us,<br /> + And show us her Maker, revealed in His works.</p> +<h2>ROBERT OWEN.</h2> +<p>Robert Owen was born near Barmouth March 30th, 1858. The son +of a farmer, he was fortunate in attracting the attention of a French +gentleman who had taken up his residence in the village and who taught +him French, German and Italian. He qualified as a teacher, but +the seeds of consumption shewed themselves early, and he sailed, in +1879, for Australia, only to die near Harrow, Victoria, Oct. 23, 1885. +His works have never yet been published—if, indeed, he wrote much. +The <i>Llenor</i>, No. 5 (January 1896), has an interesting article +on him.</p> +<h3>De Profundis.</h3> +<p>Strait, strait and narrow is the vale!<br /> + Behind me riseth to the skies<br /> +What I have been: in front, but dim,<br /> + What I shall be all shrouded lies,<br /> +All shrouded by the curtain dark<br /> + Of mists which from the river rise.<br /> +Above, the clouds hide from mine eyes<br /> + The hosts of heaven.</p> +<p>Strait, strait and barren is the vale!<br /> + For here no tender primrose blows,<br /> +Nor daisy with its simple charm,<br /> + Nor from the yews which round me close<br /> +Comes song of thrush—but dismal shriek<br /> + Of deathbird, scattering as it goes<br /> +The stillness deep—and pales my cheek<br /> + With awe unspeakable.</p> +<p>Strait, strait and lonely is the vale!<br /> + Only from far falls on my ear<br /> +The murmur of the world I loved,<br /> + But death’s dark torrent roareth near.<br /> +Now ’neath my feet the path I tread<br /> + Crumbling gives way, and filled with dread<br /> +Into the waves below I hear<br /> + The fragments falling.</p> +<p>Strait, strait and hopeless is the vale!<br /> + Nor can I evermore regain<br /> +The days of happiness and health<br /> + Which once I knew, days free from pain,<br /> +Nor move a foot from where I stand,<br /> + And backward eyes of longing strain<br /> +A moment—ere I leave the land<br /> + And brave those waters.</p> +<p>Yet strait tho’ be the vale and dim,<br /> + And though the skies are dark and drear,<br /> +And though the mountains everywhere<br /> + Rise steep and rugged round me here<br /> +To bar me out from life! there lives<br /> + One Star which shineth bright and clear<br /> +From out the sky and comfort gives<br /> + To soothe my sadness.</p> +<h3>A Prayer.</h3> +<p>O my God, my Friend, my Father,<br /> +Thou who knowest all the secrets<br /> +Of man’s heart and all his failings—<br /> +O forgive me for forgetting<br /> +All thy loving care towards me,<br /> +Evil child and disobedient,<br /> +And for setting up an idol<br /> +All of earth within thy temple.<br /> +And receive from hands unworthy<br /> +As a sacrifice accepted<br /> +On Thine altar, Lord a bruiséd<br /> +Contrite heart that ever suffers<br /> +Daily pangs of disappointment<br /> +Even than death itself more bitter.<br /> +Take the one love of a lifetime,<br /> +All the hopeless love and passion<br /> +Dedicated to another<br /> +Who with me Thy place had taken,<br /> +As if they to Thee were rendered.<br /> +Count it, Father, as sufficient<br /> +Chastening, that I must abandon<br /> +All my hopes my love of winning,<br /> +All I have of kin and country,<br /> +All the comforts health bestoweth,<br /> +And across the sea go seeking<br /> +All alone a grave ’mid strangers.<br /> +O, my God—for I have suffered,<br /> +Grant at last Thy peace, Thy blessing.</p> +<h2>Footnotes:</h2> +<p><a name="footnote66"></a><a href="#citation66">{66}</a> Aregwedd—the +Welsh for Cartismandua.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WELSH LYRICS OF THE NINETEENTH</p> +<pre> +CENTURY*** + + +***** This file should be named 15165-h.htm or 15165-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/1/6/15165 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century + +Author: Edmund O. Jones + +Release Date: February 25, 2005 [eBook #15165] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WELSH LYRICS OF THE NINETEENTH +CENTURY*** + + + + +Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century +Selected and Translated by Edmund O. Jones +[First Series] + + +LONDON: Simpkin, Marshall & Co., Limited +BANGOR: Javis & Foster, Lorne House +MDCCCXCVI + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +DEDICATION + +PREFACE + +ALUN + +i. The Fisherman's Wife +ii. Dolly +iii. Tintern Abbey +iv. The Nightingale + +IEUAN GLAN GEIRIONYDD + +i. Morfa Rhuddlan +ii. The Shepherd of Cwmdyli +iii. Why should we weep + +GLASYNYS + +Blodeuwedd and Hywel + +IOAN EMLYN + +The Pauper's Grave + +TREBOR MAI + +i. The Shepherd's Love +ii. Baby + +CALEDFRYN + +The Cuckoo + +GWILYM MARLES + +i. New Year Thoughts +ii. Who in this new God's acre + +IEUAN GWYNEDD + +i. The Cottages of Wales +ii. Go and dig a grave + +CEIRIOG + +i. Songs of Wales +ii. Myfanwy +iii. Liberty +iv. Climb the hillside +v. Change and Permanence +vi. Homewards +vii. Daybreak +viii. The White Stone +ix. The Traitors of Wales +x. A Mother's Message +xi. Mountain Rill +xii. Llewelyn's Grave +xiii. Rhuddlan Strand +xiv. The Steed of Dapple Grey +xv. A Lullaby + +ISLWYN + +i. Night +ii. The Vision and the Faculty Divine +iii. Thought +iv. The Variety of Wales +v. The Sick Minister +vi. Life like the Heavens +vii. The Poets of Wales +viii. The Lighthouse + +MYNYDDOG + +i. When comes my Gwen +ii. A Nocturne +iii. Come to the Boat, Love +iv. At the foot of the Stairs + +OSSIAN GWENT + +i. The Lark +ii. The Bible +iii. The Lake +iv. A Morning Greeting + +ROBERT OWEN + +i. De profundis +ii. A Prayer + + + + +TO MY MOTHER. + + +They flout me as half-English--a disgrace +For which scarce all your virtues can atone, +Mother, in whom I find no flaw but one, +That you are Saxon!--but this fault of race +Fell not on me nor yet, I fear, your grace +Of English speech, else had more smoothly run +These echoes of Welsh Lyrics, and your son +Need not have flinched before the critic's face. +Such as they are, from your far Yorkshire home +Perchance they may in fancy bid you come, +Pondering past memories, to my native land, +Once more to see fair Mawddach from the bridge, +To mark how Cader rises, ridge on ridge, +Or, where Llanaber guards our dead, to stand. + +_July_, 1896. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +The words "First Series" which appear on the Title Page are intended to +show, firstly, that I do not at all consider the present collection in +any sense a representative anthology of the Welsh Lyrics of the Century, +and secondly, that if this effort meets with approval, I hope to bring +out two or three further instalments, one of them, if possible, being +from poems written in the "_mesurau caethion_." My aim, in fact, is to +publish by degrees a collection of translations which might eventually be +gathered together in a single volume (with a general introduction and +critical notices on each author) so as to form a more or less adequate +anthology of our nineteenth century poets. "So runs my dream": whether +it can ever be realized depends of course in a great measure on the +reception this first series meets with. That it has many serious defects +I well know, nor can I attempt to disarm criticism by pointing out the +immense difficulties which confront the man who tries to put Welsh poetry +into English rhyme, especially when that man has never written a line of +English verse before. But I should be most grateful to readers for any +hints or suggestions, by which the faults and imperfections of the +present volume may be avoided in a second series. I have retained the +metres of the originals with but trifling variations, except in those +cases where there was nothing specially characteristic to make this +desirable (as _e.g._, in the case of Islwyn, where I have thrown some +of my translations into sonnet form) or where--as in the Song of the +Fisherman's Wife--the metre, even if it could be reproduced, would not in +English harmonise with the meaning. I ought perhaps to ask pardon +beforehand for the audacity with which I have treated Ieuan Glan +Geirionydd's famous "Morfa Rhuddlan." + +I very gratefully acknowledge the courtesy of the owners of copyright, +especially Messrs. Hughes & Son, Wrexham, Mr. O. M. Edwards, and Mr. +James Lewis, New Quay (to whom my translation of the "Pauper's Grave" +belongs). + +My most cordial thanks are also due to Mr. W. Lewis Jones, Lecturer in +English at the University College of North Wales, who though an entire +stranger has given me his valuable assistance and advice in seeing these +pages through the press. + +EDMUND O. JONES. +VICARAGE, LLANIDLOES, +July 23, 1896. + + + + +ALUN. + + +John Blackwell (Alun), was born of very poor parents at Mold in 1797. +Beginning life as a shoe-maker, his successes at the Eisteddfods of +Ruthin and Mold in 1823 attracted the attention of the gentry of the +neighbourhood, and a fund was formed to send him to the University. He +took his degree from Jesus College, Oxford, in 1828, and died rector of +Manordeifi 1840. His works were published under the title of "Ceinion +Alun," in 1851 (Isaac Clarke, Ruthin), and his poems were re-published in +1879, by Mr. Isaac Foulkes of Liverpool, in the "Cyfres y Ceinion." + + + +Song of the Fisherman's Wife. + + +Hush, restless wave! and landward gently creeping, + No longer sullen break; +All nature now is still and softly sleeping, + And why art thou awake? +The busy din of earth will soon be o'er, +Rest thee, oh rest upon thy sandy shore. + +Peace, restless sea; e'en now my heart's best treasure + Thou bearest on thy breast; +On thee he spends a life that knows no leisure + A scanty wage to wrest. +Be kind, O sea, whose limits boundless are, +And rest, oh rest, upon thy sandy bar. + +Ah, cease to murmur: stay thy waves from warring, + And bid thy steeds be still; +Why should'st thou rage, when not a breeze is stirring + The treetops on the hill? +To sheltered haven bring my husband's bark +Ere yet the shadows fall and night grows dark. + +Full well may women weep, we wives and daughters + Whose men are on the deep; +But who can tell our anguish when thy waters + In stormy anger leap? +Be gentle to him, sea, and rage no more, +But rest, oh rest, upon thy sandy shore. + +Thou heedest not, O sea without compassion, + But ravenest for thy prey; +I turn to One who can control thy passion, + And wildest waves allay; +And He will take my loved one 'neath His care, +And make thee rest upon thy sandy bar. + + + +An Idyll. + + +DEWI. + +Do you know--have you seen--my sweet Dolly, +Who pastures her flocks on Eryri? + Her eyes like a dart, + Have pierced my heart, +Oh, sweeter than honey is Dolly. + +HYWEL. + +Oh, yes, I know well your sweet Dolly, +Whose cot's at the foot of Eryri, + No tongue upon earth + Can tell of her worth, +So lovely, so winning is Dolly. + +For tender and bashful is Dolly, +Not fairer nor purer the lily, + No name under heaven + So fitly is given +For the harpist to sing of as Dolly. + +DEWI. + +Not tender, not tender to Dewi! +No maiden so cruel as Dolly! + With many a tear + I beseech her to hear, +But deaf to my wooing is Dolly. + +I have done all I could for her pleasing, +I have gathered her goats for the milking, + 'Twas surely no sin, + If I hoped I might win, +Sweet kisses in payment from Dolly. + +Her breast's like the snowflakes when falling, +So white--and so cold to my pleading. + My heart will soon break + For very love's sake, +So cold, so bewitching is Dolly. + +Three wishes, no more, I would utter-- +God bless my sweet Dolly for ever, + May I gaze on her face + Till I finish life's race, +Then die--in the arms of my Dolly. + + + +Tintern Abbey + + +Here how many a heart hath broken, + Closed how many a dying eye, +Here how many in God's acre, + E'en their names forgotten, lie! +Here how oft for lauds or vespers + Down the glen the bell hath rung, +In these walls how many an ave, + Creed, and pater have been sung. + +On the timeworn pavement yonder, + Even now I seem to see, +At the shrine where once he worshipped, + Some old saint on bended knee; +Seems to rise the smoke of incense, + In a column faint and dim, +Still the organ through the rafters + Seems to peal the vesper hymn. + +But where once the anthem sounded, + Silence now her dwelling finds, +And the church from porch to chancel + Knows no music but the wind's; +Perish so all superstition! + Let the world the Truth obey, +Long may Peace and Love increasing, + O'er our fatherland hold sway. + + + +The Nightingale. + + +When night first spreads her sable wings, + All earthly things to darken, +The woodland choir grows mute and still, + To thy sweet trill to hearken; +Though 'gainst thy breast there lies a thorn, + And thou woeworn art bleeding, +Yet, till the bright day dawns again, + Thou singest, pain unheeding. + +And like to thee the helpmeet fair, + Her true-love's rarest treasure, +When 'neath the clouds the sun has fled, + And hope is dead and pleasure, +When all the friends of daylight flee, + Most faithfully she clingeth, +And through the night of pain and wrong, + Her sweetest song she singeth. + +Though 'neath the blight of sorrow's smart, + Her woman's heart oft faileth, +She moaneth not but with fond wiles + Her pain in smiles she veileth; +So sings she through the live-long night, + Till hope's bright light appeareth, +Which glittering like a radiant eye, + Through dawn's shy lashes peereth. + + + + +IEUAN GLAN GEIRIONYDD. + + +Evan Evans was born at Trefriw in 1795, his father being, or having been, +a shipwright. He, like Alun, was of Nonconformist parentage, and like +him, attracted attention by his successes at this or that Eisteddfod. He +went to S. Bees, and was ordained in 1826. He died January 21, 1855, +without having obtained preferment in his own country, until within a few +months of his death. His poetical works were published under the title +of "Geirionydd" (Isaac Clarke, Ruthin). As is too often the case with +books published in Wales, the title page bears no date. + + + +The Strand of Rhuddlan. + + +I. + +Low sinks the sun to rest +Over the lofty crest + Of dim Eryri; +Now over moor and dale +Night spreads her darkening veil, +While from the rustling trees +Softly the evening breeze + Dieth and fleeteth; +Fainter upon mine ear +Falls from the ocean near, + Its murmur weary; +Only within my breast, +Tossing in strange unrest, + Loud my heart beateth; +Beateth with rage and pain, +Beateth as once again + I muse and ponder +On that accursed hour, +When 'neath the Saxon power, +Welshmen who freedom sought, +Fell as they bravely fought, + On Rhuddlan yonder. + +II. + +See, through the gathering gloom +Dimly there seems to loom + The sheen of targes; +Hark, with a swift rebound, +Loudly the weapons sound + Upon them falling; +While from each rattling string +Death-dealing arrows ring, + Hissing and sighing; +Trembles the bloodstained plain, +Trembles and rings again, + Beneath the charges; +But through the deafening roar, +And moans of those who sore + Wounded are lying, +Rises Caradog's cry, +Rises to heaven on high, + His warriors calling-- +"Welshmen! we ne'er will sell +Country we love so well! +Turn we the foe to flight, +Or let the moon this night +Find all our warriors bold +On Rhuddlan stark and cold, + For Cymru dying." + +III. + +Hearing his high behest, +Swells every Briton's breast, +Red as their lance in rest + Their faces glowing; +See, through the Saxon band, +Many a strong right hand +Once and again strikes home, +As in their might they come, + A broad lane mowing. +Britons from far and near +Loud raise their voice in prayer, +"In this our hour of need +To Thee, O God, we plead, + Send help from heaven! +Guard now our fatherland, +Strengthen each Briton's hand, +And now on Rhuddlan's strand + Be victory given." + +IV. + +Ah! through my trembling heart +Pierce, like a bitter dart, + Anguish and terror; +Hark to the foemen's vaunt, +Boasting and bitter taunt + Of Saxon warrior. +Nay, do not triumph so, +Do not rejoice as though + Your deeds were glorious; +Not your own valour brave, +Numbers, not courage, have + Made you victorious. +Those who on every side, +Have marked the battle's tide, +Praying for Cymru's arms, +Filled now with wild alarms, + The heights are scaling. +Old men and children flee, +As in amaze they see, +Their chosen warriors yield, +On Rhuddlan's bloody field, + The foe prevailing. + +V. + +Mountain and lonely dell, +Dingle and rock and fell, + Echo with wailing; +E'en Snowdon's slopes on high +Ring with the bitter cry, + All unavailing! +Cymru's great heart is now +Bleeding with bitter woe-- +Woe for her children dead, +Woe for her glory fled, + And fallen nation; +On great Caradog's hall +Anguish and terror fall, + Loud lamentation; +"Weep for our warrior slain, +Ne'er shall we see again, + Our mighty captain." +Rises the harpist old, +Calls for his harp of gold, +Sweeps through its mournful strings, +And loud the music rings, + The dirge of Rhuddlan. + + + +The Shepherd of Cwmdyli. + + +Cloke of mist hath passed away, + Sweetheart mine, +Which has veiled the heights all day, + Sweetheart mine, +See, the sun shines clear and bright, +Gilding all the hills with light, +To the arbour let us go, + Closely clinging, sweetheart mine. + +Listen! from the rocks on high, + Sweetheart mine, +Echo mocks the cuckoo's cry, + Sweetheart mine, +From each hillock low the steers, +Bleat of lambs falls on our ears, +In the bushes, sweet and low, + Birds are singing, sweetheart mine. + +But Cwmdyli soon will be, + Sweetheart mine, +Lone and drear, bereft of thee, + Sweetheart mine, +I shall hear thy voice no more, +Never see thee cross the moor, +With thy pail at morn or eve + Tripping gaily, sweetheart mine. + +'Mid the city's din be true, + Sweetheart mine. +When new lovers come to woo, + Sweetheart mine, +Oh, remember one who'll be, +Ever filled with thoughts of thee. +In Cwmdyli lone I'll grieve + For thee daily, sweetheart mine. + + + +Why should we Weep? + + +Why should we weep for those we love, + Who in the faith of Christ have died? +Set free from bonds of sin and pain, + They are living still--the other side. + +From wave to wave they once were tossed + On this world's sea, by storm and tide: +Within the haven calm and still + They are resting now--the other side. + +When gloomy Jordan roared and swelled, + The great High Priest was there to guide, +And safe above the stormy waves + He bore them--to the other side. + +What though their bodies in the earth + We laid to wait the Judgment-tide? +Themselves are fled--they are not there + But living still--the other side. + +The winds that murmur o'er their graves, + To us who still on earth abide, +Bring echoes faint of that sweet song + They ever sing--the other side. + +What though in spite of rain and dew + The lilies on their grave have died? +The palms they bear can never fade + Nor wither--on the other side. + +May we not dream they feel with us + When we by various ills are tried, +That when we triumph over sin, + They triumph too--the other side? + +May we not hope that more and more + The day for which we long have sighed +They long for too--that we with them + May praise the Lamb--the other side? + +And when we reach fair Sion's hill, + Where angel hosts in bliss abide, +Shall we not clasp the hands of those + Whom once we lost--the other side? + +Then ever with them we shall dwell + By grief untouched, by sin untried, +And join with them in that sweet song + That never ends--the other side. + +But friendship there shall purer be, + No love betrayed, no vows denied; +Nor pain nor death shall part us more + From those we love--the other side! + + + + +GLASYNYS. + + +Owen Wyn Jones was born near Carnarvon, March 4th, 1828. His father was +a quarryman, and the future poet followed the same calling till his love +for literature became too strong for him. He was ordained deacon in +1860, and held curacies in Anglesey and Monmouthshire. He died at Towyn, +April 4, 1870. His works are unpublished, but Mr. O. M. Edwards promises +us an edition, which will be not the least among the invaluable services +he has rendered to Welsh literature. + + + +Blodeuwedd and Hywel. + + +Oh how sweet on fair spring morning, 'neath its cloke of hoarfrost +peering, +'Tis to see the tiny blossom with its smile the earth adorning, + Oh yes 'tis sweet, oh yes 'tis sweet. +But the smiles of Hywel slender, and the kindness of his bearing, +When my ice-bound heart he's thawing with his honeyed kisses tender, + Are sweeter far a thousand times, oh sweeter far. + +Sweet the violet on the swelling bank when first it shyly bloweth, +Pale and wan but cheerly smiling on its lonely sheltered dwelling, + That is sweet, oh that is sweet. +But the sight of Hywel coming, sweeter is than flower that groweth, +On his cheeks a rarer beauty, near the fold at hour of gloaming, + Sweeter is a thousand times, oh sweeter far. + +Laughing ever in the sunlight, primrose brakes the hillside cover, +April breezes stir the petals till they smile e'en in the twilight; + They are sweet, oh they are sweet. +So in spite of opposition, true and constant is my lover, +Ne'er a moment he forgets me, in the night of persecution, + Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine. + +Sweet the countless daisies flecking grass-green glade and meadow dewy, +Like some rare and precious jewels nature's verdant garments decking, + They are sweet, oh they are sweet. +But the eyes of Hywel glowing, 'neath his forehead broad and ruddy, +When the tears--love's best enchantment--fill them full to over-flowing, + Are sweeter far a thousand times, oh, sweeter far. + +Roses white and lilies tender, marigolds and all sweet posies +Scenting all the air together, fair are they in summer weather, + O lilies white, O roses fair! +But like every summer blossom, lilies fade and so do roses, +There's one flower that fadeth never, bloom of love will last for ever, + Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine. + +Leafy beech in verdant hollow--mighty oak with branches hoary, +Sycamores--all proudly wearing autumn garb of russet yellow, + These are fair, oh these are fair. +But when darling Hywel's near me, what care I for woodland glory? +Fairer far than all the greenwood is my sweetheart's face to cheer me, + Fairer far a thousand times, oh fairer far. + +Sweet the song of thrushes filling all the air with shake and quiver, +While the feathered songsters, vying each with each, their songs are +trilling, + Sweet the sound, oh sweet the sound. +But to me my love's caressing words and looks are sweeter ever, +Would this moment I were near him, and my lips to his were pressing, + Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine. + +God in heaven be Thou his sentry. Guard him from the tempests wintry, +Sheep and shepherd ever tending--such my prayer to heaven ascending, + O hear my cry and guard my love. +Loving Saviour, stay beside us; let Thy Holy Spirit guide us, +Keep our feet from rock and mire, till within Thy heavenly choir, + We shall rest with Thee above. + + + + +IOAN EMLYN. + + +John Jones was born at Newcastle Emlyn in 1818, and apprenticed to a +watchmaker at Crickhowel. He did a good deal of journalistic work and +entered the Baptist ministry in 1853. After holding various charges in +South Wales, he died Jan., 1873. His fame rests almost entirely on +lyric, "The Pauper's Grave," which is one of the most popular in the +language. + + + +The Pauper's Grave. + + +Lo! a grassy mound, where lowers + Branching wide a sombre yew, +Rises as to catch the showers, + Jewelled showers, of heaven-sent dew. +Many a one with foot unheeding, + Tramples down its verdure brave, +Hurrying onward, careless treading,-- + It is but a pauper's grave. + +Workhouse hirelings from the Union + Bore him to his last, lone bed, +"Dust to dust," that sad communion + Woke no grief, no tear was shed. +Worn by woes and life's denials, + Only rest he now would crave: +Quiet haven from all trials + To the pauper is his grave. + +E'en the rough-hewn stone is broken, + Where some rude, untutored hand +Carved two letters, as a token + Of their boyhood's scattered band, +And when bright Palm Sunday neareth, + When the dead remembrance crave, +Friend nor brother garland beareth + For the pauper's squalid grave. + +Not for him the Muse which weepeth, + Carved in marble rich and rare; +Even now time's ploughshare creepeth + Through the grass which groweth there. +O'er the place where he is sleeping + Soon will roll oblivion's wave: +Still God's angel will be keeping + Ward above the pauper's grave. + + + + +TREBOR MAI. + + +Robert Williams was born May 25, 1830, and followed his father's trade as +a tailor. He published two small volumes in his lifetime, "Fy Noswyl" in +1861, and "Y Geninen" in 1869. The contents of these with large +additions were published after his death--which took place August 5, +1877--under the title of "Gwaith Barddonol Trebor Mai" (Isaac Ffoulkes, +Liverpool, 1883). + + + +The Shepherd's Love. + + +Adown Llewelyn's Cairn there creep + Cloud shadows in the failing light, +From far off dingles flock the sheep + To seek their shelter for the night. +My dog about me as of yore + Plays seek and fetch as we go home; +But, Ellen, why dost thou no more + To meet me in the gloaming come? + +The heart I gave thee free from thorn + Why seek to wound with coldness, sweet? +If lasts thine anger and thy scorn + Death's coming I will gladly greet. +Yet if to lose thee be my fate + My life I cannot all regret, +To see thy face doth compensate + Though weary storms await me yet. + +Across thy memory's golden gate + Let not my faithlessness appear, +Nor think upon my failings great, + Forget them--for I love thee, dear. +But if of good I aught have done, + Oh that with eyes of kindness mark, +And let it shine--as when the sun + Spreads wings of gold to chase the dark. + +Thou rulest all my phantasy + With thy fair face and eyes divine, +The form, which in my sleep I see + Mid dreamland's mazy fields, is thine. +Oh if thy sweet companionship + I may not win, nor call thee wife-- +Then all my future let me sleep, + And one long dream be all my life. + + + +Baby. + + +His cradle's his castle, and dainty his fare, +And all the world crowds just to see him lie there. +Whole volumes of rapture around him are heard, +But he keeps his counsel and says not a word. + +His mother while hushing her baby to rest +Foretells for him all that can make a man blest. +But still he lies silent--his pride is not stirred +For all her fond visions, he says not a word. + +His father feigns anger and swears that his son +Is cross and ill-tempered, and scolds him in fun +But though he speaks loud and demands to be heard +For threats as for praises, he says not a word. + +A glance at the strange world around him he throws-- +Whence came he? He knows not--nor whither he goes. +Vague memories of angels within him are stirred, +Too deep for mere speech--so he says not a word. + +Yet answer there comes and as clear as can be, +In his eyes bright and sparkling his soul you can see. +To all that is said of him, all that is heard +He looks his reply, though he says not a word. + + + + +CALEDFRYN. + + +William Williams was born at Denbigh February 6th, 1801. A weaver by +trade, he showed signs of fitness for the ministry, was sent to Rotherham +College, and was ordained minister of the Independent body at +Llanerchymedd in 1829. He died at Groeswen, Glamorganshire, March 29, +1869. He published a volume of his poems in 1856, "Caniadau Caledfryn." + + + +The Cuckoo. + + +Dear playmate of the verdant spring, + We greet thee and rejoice, +Nature with leaves thy pathway decks, + The woodlands need thy voice. + +No sooner come the daisies fair + To fleck the meadows green, +Than thy untrammelled notes are heard + Rising the brakes between. + +Hast thou some star in yonder heights + To guide thee on thy way, +And warn thee of the changing years + And seasons, day by day? + +Fair visitant, the time of flowers, + We welcome now with thee, +When all the birds' unnumbered choir + Warbles from every tree. + +The schoolboy on his truant quest + For flowers, wandering by, +Leaps as he hears thy welcome note + And echoes back thy cry. + +To visit other lands afar + Thou soon wilt flying be; +Thou hast another spring than ours + To cheerly welcome thee. + +For thee the hedgerows aye are green, + Thy skies are always clear, +There is no sorrow in thy song, + Nor winter in thy year! + + + + +GWILYM MARLES. + + +William Thomas was born in Carmarthenshire, 1834. After graduating at +the University of Glasgow, he entered the Unitarian ministry. He died +December 11th, 1879. He seems to have published one volume of poetry in +1859, but most of his works are still in MS. Judging from the specimens +given in the "Llenor" No. 3 (July, 1895), their publication would be a +real service to Welsh literature. + + + +New Year Thoughts. + + +As to the dying year I bade farewell, +Within my hands she left a mantle dark, + Whereon mine eyes did mark +Loved names I scarce for blinding tears could read; +But from its folds fresh blushing flow'rets fell +Of that fair spring-tide I had mourned as dead. + +And now her youngest sister draweth nigh, +'Neath modest starlight and with noiseless feet, + Whom thousands flock to greet-- +Thousands of every age, who fain would know, +As in her face each peereth wistfully, +What fate she bringeth--happiness or woe? + +She answereth not, but pointeth silently +To where far off the hidden future lies, + All dark to mortal eyes, +Save where, from out the gloom, faint stars appear. +She will not linger--haste and thou shalt see +From chaos order as thou drawest near. + + + +Who in this new God's acre? + + +Who in this new God's acre first shall rest? +Or gallant youth, or baby from the breast? +Or age, beneath it's crown of snow-white hair? +Or queen of smiles and charms, some maiden fair? +Time only can the answer give--and God, +Who first shall lie beneath the upturned sod. + +It matters not; whom e'er death first may reap +Here in a Father's arms shall quiet sleep, +The tender flowers shall grow above his head +And drink the dews that fall upon his bed. +The silent grave is safe from foolish sneer +And persecutor's rage is baffled here. + +Who _first_ shall rest here? Ah! the days soon come, +When all the love of many a village home +Shall centre round this spot, where kith and kin +Are laid to rest, this virgin soil within. +From far and near men by the graves shall stand +Of friends who rest within the Better Land. + +Who first shall rest here? God o'er all doth reign, +The life He gave us we must give again. +Our chiefest duty here to work and strive +To His great glory while we are alive, +And He some resting place will then provide, +Or far from town or by the Cletwr's tide. + + + + +IEUAN GWYNEDD. + + +Evan Jones was born near Dolgelley, September 20th, 1820. He was +ordained to the Independent ministry in 1845. Always weakly, he found a +pastoral charge too great a strain on his health, and he devoted himself +to literary pursuits, but he died Feb. 23, 1852, having in his short life +served his country well. His Life and Works were published in 1876, +"Hanes Bywyd a Gweithiau Barddonol Ieuan Gwynedd" (Hughes & Son, +Wrexham). + + + +The Cottages of Wales. + + +Fair cottages of Cymru, with walls of gleaming white, +Whose smoke curls round the valley and up the mountain height; +The bees hum 'neath the gable or sheltering garden wall, +While all around grow flowers, red rose and lily tall. + +Oh lowly cots of Cymru, blest, yea, thrice blest are ye! +Ye know not this world's greatness nor earthly dignity; +Yet dwell within you ever, the love and peaceful rest +Which fly from hall and palace of those the world holds blest. + +Oh lovely cots of Cymru, that smile beside the rill, +Your rooms the children gladden, as flowers your gardens fill; +Their eyes are bright and sparkling, like water in the sun, +Their cheeks are like the roses, red rose and white in one. + +Grey cottages of Cymru, that nestle 'mid the leaves, +No marble walls surround you, straw thatched your lowly eaves, +Yet thither many an angel in love delights to come, +And watch in joy and gladness the heirs of his bright home. + +O quiet cots of Cymru, far from the city's din, +Your peace no tumult troubles, no discord enters in; +No sound breaks on your stillness but merry children's cry, +Or murmur of the rustling leaves or brook that babbles by. + +O pleasant cots of Cymru, within, at dawn's first rays, +As in the wood around them, are heard glad hymns of praise, +And early in the morning the birds and goodwife sing +Their matin song of gratitude to God, their Lord and King. + +Dear cottages of Cymru, what country holds their peer? +Long may they stand unshaken, nor ill their hearths draw near! +God keep, as fair and fragrant as on the hills and dales +The flowers which smile and blossom, the cottages of Wales. + + + +Go and Dig a Grave for me. + + +Go and dig a grave for me, + This is but a world of woe: +Vanish all the joys of life, + Like the clouds which come and go: + And the weary finds no rest + Save within the grave's cold breast. + +Go and dig a grave for me, + Weary pilgrim here am I, +Through life's dark and stormy ways + Wandering with a mournful cry. + Nought to clasp to my poor breast + Save the staff whereon I rest. + +Go and dig a grave for me, + 'Neath some green and shady tree, +Where the kindly breeze will make + Mournful music over me. + Oh how pleasant 'twill be there + For the weak, lone wanderer! + +Go and dig a grave for me, + For my journey's nearly o'er; +Of life's sweets I've freely drunk, + Of its wormwood even more. + Now to earth farewell I cry-- + Weak and faint, I long to die. + +Go and dig a grave for me + All life's pleasures now are past; +Memories of the joys that were + Darker shadows round me cast. + Through death's portals I will fly + Far to peaceful worlds on high. + +Go and dig a grave for me, + Though my dwelling will be dark; +Needs not for this mortal frame + Stone or sign its place to mark. + There 'twill rest till stars shall fall + At the last great trumpet call. + +Go and dig a grave for me, + Broken is my life's frail thread; +Hasten, dig for me a grave, + Draweth near the stranger dread. + Low, ay low my head be bent, + Till the heavens in twain are rent. + +Go and dig a grave for me, + I can stay no longer here, +Fare you well--my weak heart faints + 'Neath the dark king's fatal spear. + I am ready for the grave-- + Christ receive me, help and save! + + + + +CEIRIOG. + + +John Ceiriog Hughes was born September 25, 1832. He was for many years +clerk in the Goods Station, London Road, Manchester, and was afterwards +stationmaster on the Cambrian Line at Llanidloes, Towyn and Caersws +successively. He died at Caersws April 23rd, 1887. He published during +his lifetime 'Oriau'r Hwyr,' 1860; 'Oriau'r Bore,' 1862; 'Cant o +Ganeuon,' 1863; 'Y Bardd a'r Cerddor,' 1863; 'Oriau Ereill,' 1868; and +'Oriau'r Haf,' 1870. These are now published by Messrs. Hughes and Son, +Wrexham, and ought to be in the possession of every Welshman, and of +everyone desirous of learning Welsh. A posthumous volume was published +in 1888, 'Oriau Olaf' (Isaac Foulkes, Liverpool). + + + +Songs of Wales. + + +Songs of Wales live in our ears +Through the swiftly passing years; +Moaning stormwinds as they blow +Murmur songs of long ago; +Voices of our dead ones dear +In our country's airs we hear. + +Whispering leaves in every grove +Murmur low the songs we love, +Sings the sea 'neath roaring gales +Snatches of the songs of Wales, +And to Kymric ears they sound +Through creation all around. + + + +Myfanwy. + + +Myfanwy! thy fair face is seen + In primrose and clover and rose, +In the sunshine, unsullied, serene, + And the starlight's untroubled repose. +When rises fair Venus on high, + And shines 'twixt the heaven and the sea, +She is loved by the earth and the sky, +But thou art, Myfanwy, far brighter, far fairer to me, + A thousand times fairer to me. + +Would I were the breezes that blow + Through the gardens and walks of thy home, +To murmur my love as I go + And play with thy locks as I roam! +For changeful the breezes and bleak-- + Now balmy, now chilly they blow-- +Yet they, love, are kissing thy cheek, +O heart of my heart, not changeful my love towards thee-- + Eternal my love towards thee! + + + +Liberty. + + +See, see where royal Snowdon rears +Her hoary head above her peers + To cry that Wales is free! +O hills which guard our liberties, +With outstretched arms to where you rise +In all your pride, I turn my eyes + And echo, "Wales is free!" +O'er Giant Idris' lofty seat, +O'er Berwyn and Plynlimon great +And hills which round them lower meet, + Blow winds of liberty. +And like the breezes high and strong, +Which through the cloudwrack sweep along +Each dweller in this land of song + Is free, is free, is free! + +Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleep +Over that wretch's eyelids creep + Who bears with wrong and shame. +Make him to feel thy spirit high, +And like a hero do or die, +And smite the arm of tyranny, + And lay its haunts aflame. +Rather than peace which makes thee slave, +Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive, +Lay foul oppression in its grave, + No more the light to see. +Then heavenward turn thy grateful gaze +And like the rolling thunder raise +Thy triumph song of joy and praise + To God--that thou art free! + + + +Climb the hillside. + + +Climb the hillside in the morning-- + When the radiant dawn is seen +Blushing shyly on the mountains + Like a maiden of thirteen. + "Quench the lamps of right, + Fill the earth with light + Wander o'er the lofty hills, + Fringe each brightening fold + Of the clouds with gold," + This the hest shy dawn fulfils. + +Climb the hillside in the evening + 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, +Where down its height the water poured, +And on the bank beside the deep + Fair apple trees keep ward. + +Across the pool where fell the spate + A bridge of wood was thrown; +And marble-like, to bear its weight, + There stood a big white stone. +Here all my boyhood's hours sped by, +Here would I sit contentedly, +And on this stone as happy I + As king upon his throne! + +Where'er in this wide world I be, + Where'er I yet may roam, +The great white stone I ever see, + And hear the stream at home. +And when to strangers I confess +That in my dreams I thither fly, +They pardon me, for all men bless + Each childish memory. + +Far off, far off are childhood's days, + And starry as the sky, +Nor lives the man but loves to raise + His head with wistful eye +Towards the days that are no more: +And as I turn towards that shore, +For me one star burns evermore-- + My childhood's dear white stone. + + + +The Traitors of Wales. + + +You know the fate of Caractacus, +A name immortal for each of us, +Before whose face Rome's legions dread +For nine long years in terror fled. + +How to Brigantum's town one day, +All unattended, he took his way, +And to the fair queen's palace came-- +Cartismandua was her name. + +Then cried the queen, "For many a year +To me and mine thou hast been dear: +Safe mayest thou dwell in this my land," +And she kissed the scars on his strong right hand. + +Then, with her own white royal hand, +She losed his hauberk's metal band, +And in her fairest chamber laid +His bow of steel and his flashing blade. + +With dainties quickly the board is laid, +And mead--the sweetest ever made, +Beaming with joy is every face, +And mirth and feasting fill the place. + +The royal harpist sweeps the strings, +And brave Caradoc's deeds he sings, +His foes deriding, and most of all +Ostorius, the Roman general. + +But evening fell--that fatal night +That darkened all our nation's light: +In sleep his head Caradoc laid, +And woke--a captive, bound, betrayed. + +Aregwedd {66} she, of winsome smile, +Who broke the strength of Britain's Isle, +And gave the Samson of our land +Delilah-like to the Roman's hand. + +* * * * * + +A triad of triads, yea, thrice three score, +Of traitors our land has borne and more, +And traitors many within the sound +Of the Western sea may yet be found. + +If e'er from love or hate you try +To trace a Welshman's pedigree, +There is a book--for you 'tis meant, +A bluebook of high Parliament. + +For in this book incorporate +A thousand facts, brought up to date, +Prove that each father, mother, son, +In Wales is baseborn--every one! + +It further shows there's scarce a wight +In all wild Wales knows how to write! +That none of those who only talk +Their native tongue know cheese from chalk. + +That 'Eisteddfodau' Welshman teach +To spurn the thrice blest English speech: +Welsh books--there are none, save what quacks +Sell the poor churls as almanacks. + +That therefore that most grievous sin +Yclept Dissent is rife therein; +But if 'the English' were more prized, +Wales might some day be--civilized! + +Ring out, O bells--proclaim our glee +That a real nation we yet may be, +When English blessings reach us here-- +Mountains of beef and floods of beer! + +Fraud and treason garbed as grace +In the Blue Book find a place, +And in the 'Triads of Treachery' +Let these 'Three Spies' remembered be. + + + +A Mother's Message. + + +Her visit was ended and back to her home + Far away my dear mother was going; +But now that the hour for parting was come + With sorrow her heart was o'erflowing. +Oh pale grew her cheeks and fast fell her tears, + Her faltering counsels delaying, +Then low fell these words on my listening ears, + "You know what my heart, dear, is saying." + +Not a word of the devil, his plans and his wiles, + His lies and his love of deceiving, +Not a word of the world with its follies and smiles + She said when her son she was leaving. +I know on my journey she wished me all bliss, + I know that for me she was praying, +But all that I heard her lips utter was this, + "You know what my heart, dear, is saying." + +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. + +Slain is our leader, and he who has slain him, + Prince of the foemen, will reign in his stead. +Fallen our harp with the fall of Caradoc, + Ay! let it fall as he fell and lay dead! +Yet can I look on the field of the slaughter, + God was not mocked, nor was freedom denied. +Better than that 'twas to die--there on Rhuddlan + Better to sink in the free flowing tide. + + + +The Steed of Dapple Grey. + + +Caradoc calls his warriors, + And loud the bugles blow; +On rushed the brave Silurians, + And fell beneath the foe. +Back shrank his men retreating, + But on her steed of dapple grey + There rides the stately queen that way +Her spouse, Caradoc, meeting. + +There's tumult in the dingle, + As sinks the sun o'erhead; +And many a stalwart hero + Lies for his country dead. +One host the waters cover, + But on her steed of dapple grey + There rides the stately queen that day +To seek her royal lover. + +Then saw the Romans only + A steed of dapple grey; +But saw the Britons riding + Their stately queen that way. +The bugles sound the rally! + The Britons backward turn--to fight, + The Romans backward reel--in flight, +Before that last grim sally. + + + +A Lullaby. + + + Sleep, sleep, sleep! +All nature now is steeping +Her sons in sleep,--their eyelids close, +All living things in sweet repose + Are sleeping, sleeping. + + Sleep, baby, sleep! +Peace o'er thee watch be keeping, +If from my bosom thou art torn, +Low in the grave I'll lie forlorn, + Sleeping, ah, sleeping. + + + + +ISLWYN. + + +William Thomas was born April 3, 1832, and very early showed signs of +poetic talent. He published a volume of poems, 'Caniadau Islwyn' +(Messrs. Hughes & Son, Wrexham), about 1867, some of the finest pieces in +which, including "Thought" and "The Vision and Faculty Divine," are +extracted from a long poem "The Storm," which has never yet been +published. A complete edition of his works is now in the press. He died +Nov. 20, 1878. + + + +Night. + + +Come, Night, with all thy train +Of witnesses. I love +The stars' deep eloquence, +That with the morning hours +Grows mute again. +Thy stillness cries to human sense, +"There is a God above, +And worlds more fair than ours." +The day is night which hides the stars from sight! +Our night for day is given +To make more plain the path to heaven. + +It is the Sun +That at its rising makes the infidel, +And all day long the world alone +Its tale can tell. +Oh welcome, Night, that bid'st the world be still, +That through the stars eternity may speak. +Too early, Dawn, too early dost thou wake: +Too early climbest up the Eastern hill: +Too early! stay: so quiet is the Night, +And in her pensive breeze such sympathy, +She shows us suns that suffer no eclipse, +O'er which the grave's dark shadow ne'er can lie. +Nay! come not yet, O Dawn: thy laughing lips, +Thy wanton glance, and frolic songs of glee, +The convocation of those holier spheres profane, +And when night vanishes, heaven is hid again. + +Come, balmy Night! O peaceful hours, +When on its axis sleeps the untiring wheel, +And from this loud-voiced world of ours +No taint of earth can on the breezes steal. + +The weary sailor, when time's tempests rage, +Joys when he sees, on the far shores of heaven, +The fiery line of stars, as beacons given +To guide him to the eternal anchorage. + + + +The Vision and the Faculty Divine. + + + When it will, it comes, + Like the rain or the bow + Or the nightingale's lay + By the lake below: +As free from restraint as the seraph that roams +O'er the ebbing waves of the dying day, +When the reddening west, 'twixt the sun and the sea, +Seems to open the door of eternity. + + When it will, it comes, + Like the stars that are driven + O'er the cloudwrack riven. +When it will--to the world it owes no debt, +No times, no seasons for it are set. +When it will--like all that belongs to heaven. + + Not so the sea +That hath its laws and rules and door: + Whose ebb and whose flow +In the ears of men beat evermore, + Like time's great pendulum to and fro. +And the time of whose visits is known long before +As it rolls to the moment from shore to shore. + + Not so the sun, + Time's fountain and head, +Whose shadows to hours and minutes creep, +As into their fold the gathering sheep. +The Alps, in their garb of eternal snow-- +So far from the world they grow white with dread-- + The moment know +When from the East's ever darkening sea +He will rise--the image of Deity. +And the birds, the same moment awaking, blow +The world's great trumpet that men may know + That night hath fled, +And day is risen again from the dead. + + Like the rainbow it comes-- +As the sign of the covenant made long ago +'Twixt Godhood and thought, when, abating its flow, +The sea of eternity brought into sight +Time's far distant mountains, and safe on their height +There rested, by God to humanity brought, +The Ark of eternal, immutable Thought! + + + +Thought. + + +We are not certain that the mighty soul +Doth err, when far above the narrow groove +In which man walks from childhood to the grave +It rises, murmuring things unutterable, +And spurns as lies the outward forms of sense, +And, like a shooting star, enfranchised seeks +The spaces of eternity. + + Hath not +The soul a hidden story of its own, +A tide of mysteries breaking on a far +And distant shore, where memory was lost +Amid the mighty ruins of a world +Or worlds now vanished? + + Are the stars o'erhead +Things as divine and glorious as poesy +Is wont to sing? Is't not some power in us, +Some memory of a yet diviner world +And things illumined by the light of God +That dowers the stars with beauty, gives them strength +And grandeur? 'Tis in us the stars have being, +And poesy's self is but the memory +Of things that have been or the seer's glance +At things that shall be--a future and a past +Both greater than the present. + + Who hath not +Within him felt some long forgotten world +Sweep through the corner of his former self, +Or touch some jutting peak of memory? +Or can we prove a poet's imaginings +Are not the remnants of a higher life, +A thousand times more glorious, lying hid +Within the deepest sea of his great soul, +Till comes the all-searching breath of poesy +To bid them rise? Oh hail, all hail the hour +When God reveals Himself, and like the sun +Illumines every epoch of our being, +And through them all the Spirit's path shines clear +From God, through Nature, back to God again. + + + +The Variety of Wales. + + +Oh where with such variety + Her charms doth nature pour, +Or beauties lavish as on thee, + Thou world in miniature? +Now stern and frowning she appears, +Anon her smile most radiant wears. + +Between the hills which upward soar + Fair valleys lie afar, +Where wakes no wind, no torrents roar + Our perfect peace to mar, +And many a mere to human eyes +Reflects the Peace of Paradise. + +As ramparts high thy mountains rise + Against the wind and rain, +To break the strength of wintry skies + And rush of storms restrain. +And safe beneath them smiling spreads +The green expanse of fertile meads. + +Though thou art little, dearest Wales, + Though strait thy limits are, +Upon thy mountains and thy vales + Are beauties rich and rare: +Thy bounds are narrowed, but to me +Sufficient thy variety. + + + +The Sick Minister. + + +Even now my brethren preach the word, + While here I helpless lie; +How the thought frets me like a cord-- + Their work and my infirmity. + +Their every effort, Father, crown with power, + And all their utterance with Thy unction dower. +And unto me, here in my house, be given + Patient submission to the will of Heaven. + +Time was, I thought one Sabbath's rest would be-- + One Sabbath's rest with nought of toil to tire-- +Like some fair island in a stormtoss'd sea, + Or pause in music of the eternal choir. + +But it is with my heart on this fair morn, + As with the reaper on a summer's day, +Who hears the sickle sweeping through the corn, + And he for weakness needs at home must stay. + +'Twixt us and men, us and the world's wild din, + The Sabbath is a day of rest; +But betwixt us and God--because of sin-- + A day of labour to each earnest breast. + +And think not, till thou lie beneath the sod, + Preacher of Peace, there can be rest for thee, +Time is the week-tide of the sons of God, + Their Sabbath is--Eternity. + + + +Life, like the Heavens. + + +Life, like the heavens, doth endless worlds contain; + Each day's a world where good or ill holds sway: + For through life's spacious vistas as we stray +Hour after hour we sow with varying grain. +Sown even to the wayside, down the plane + Of Time thus passes every flying day-- + Never, till Time's brief seasons fade away +Into Eternity, to rise again. +But 'neath the ripening rays of righteous fate, +To blade and ear the seed grows silently, +'Gainst that great day whose reapers angels are: +When all Time's hours before the Throne laid bare, +World heaped on world, shall for the sickle wait +Of endless death--or immortality. + + + +The Poets of Wales. + + +I. + +Dear Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring high + Dwells Genius, basking on thy quiet air, + And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare, +And all wrapt round with fullest harmony +Of streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly + 'Neath Nature their fit foster mother's care, + Thy children learn from infant hours to bear +And work the will of God. Thy scenery +So varied-wild, so strangely sweet and strong, +Works on them and to music moulds their mind, +Till flows their fancy in poetic rills. +The voice of Nature breathes in every song +And we may read therein thy features kind +As in some tarn that nestles 'neath thy hills. + +II. + +Thy fragrant breezes wander through the maze + Of all their songs as through a woodland reach: + Their odes drop sweetness like the ripening peach +In laden orchards on late summer days. +Their work is Nature's own--not theirs the praise + By culture won which midnight studies teach. + Sounds the loud cataract in their sonorous speech, +And strikes the keynote of their tuneful lays. +As to remotest ages in the past +We trace thy joyous story, more and more +Bards won high honour mid thy hills and vales. +So, Cymru, while this world of ours shall last, +And Ocean echoing beat upon thy shore, +May poets never cease to sing for Wales! + + + +The Lighthouse. + + +When night first spread her curtain o'er the deep, + Firm based beneath the waves the lighthouse tower + Rose to the clouds, and mariners once more +Blest the bright gleam that o'er them ward would keep. +When rose the moon, the sea lay all asleep, + It's dreaming waves enfolded by the shore: + And founded on the rock, of iron its door, +The beacon flashed its light across the deep. +Then rose the storm and lashed the waves until +They roared like wounded lions, and there raved +The elemental forces, shock on shock: +And all the great sea's batteries worked their will +That never more should ship through it be saved. +The rising sun looked out and saw--the Rock. + + + + +MYNYDDOG. + + +Richard Davies was born at Llanbrynmair, January 10th, 1833, and was +brought up as a farmer, but latterly, at any rate, devoted himself almost +entirely to literary and eisteddfodic pursuits. He published in 1866 +"Caneuon Mynyddog," in 1870 "Yr Ail Gynnyg," and in 1877 "Y Trydydd +Cynnyg," which may be obtained separately or in one volume from Messrs. +Hughes & Son, Wrexham. He died at Cemmaes, July 14th, 1877. + + + +When comes my Gwen. + + +When comes my Gwen, +More glorious then +The sun in heaven appeareth; +And summer's self +To meet this elf +A smile more radiant weareth. + +When comes my love, +The moon above +Shines bright and ever brighter; +And all the black +And sullen wrack +Grows in a moment lighter. + +When comes my queen, +The treetops green +Bow down to earth to greet her; +And tempests high +That rend the sky +Disperse, ashamed to meet her. + +When comes my sweet +Her love to greet, +My cares and sorrows vanish; +For on her face +Rests heavenly grace, +Which troubles all doth banish. + +When comes my dear, +The darkness drear +'Twixt God and me is riven; +Her loving eyes +Reveal the skies +And point the way to heaven. + + + +A Nocturne. + + +The mournful eve, a weary moan upraising, + Low lays her head adown in honeyed sleep; +And flame-enshrouded all the hills are praising + The God who ward o'er man doth keep: + On high the cloudwrack sailing + Its golden skirts is trailing; +Floats sound of summer song the evening airs along: + Says the light + Breeze, "Good night." + +The tiny flowers, with silvery dewdrops dripping, + Before the queen of night bow one and all, +Who shod with feathery sandals satin-soft comes tripping + To hide the world beneath her shadowy pall; + From many a quiet hearth + Over the darkling earth +Is borne along the sound of song: + Says the light + Breeze, "Good night." + + + +Come to the Boat, Love. + + +Come to the boat, love, + Come let us row, +So all the day, love, + Floating we'll go. +Low sinks the sun, love, + Crimson the sky, +See the pale moon, love, + Rises on high. + +Now through the sky, love, + Stars of the night, +O'er thy fair head, love, + Smiling shine bright. +But they are dim, love, + By the true light, +Which in thine eyes, love, + Burns day and night. + +Deep in the wood, love, + Curtained with shade, +Birds to the sun, love, + Sing serenade. +Faint is their song, love, + Nought to mine ear, +When from thy lips, love, + Sweet words I hear. + +Gaze on the tide, love, + Sleeping at rest, +Mirrored thy face, love, + See on its breast. +So in my heart, love, + Carved is thy mien, +Where thou shalt reign, love, + Throned as my queen. + + + +At the foot of the Stairs. + + +Maidenlike, love's question waiving, + Nought she said, +While I stood my answer craving, + Half afraid. +Coldly she with hand extended, + Said, "Good night," +And ere well the words were ended, + Took to flight +Past me, deep obeisance making. + Well she knew +She with her my heart was taking + Torn in two. + +At the stairway's foot half dreaming + Still I stayed; +From my heart my love poured streaming + Towards the maid. +For one blissful moment standing + Paused she there; +Fell the lamplight from the landing + On her hair, +And her eyes, like starlight sparkling, + Clear were seen, +But, alas! the staircase darkling + Lay between. + +Down the staircase through the gloaming, + Smiled she then, +As though heaven itself were coming + Down to men! +Raised her hand and from her tresses + Plucked a rose +Which amid her locks' caresses, + Found repose, +Breathed upon it love's own dower, + Kisses sweet, +And for answer dropped the flower + At my feet. + + + + +OSSIAN GWENT. + + +John Davies was born at Cardigan in 1834, and died April 24, 1892. He +was, I believe, a carpenter by trade. He published one little volume, +"Caniadau Ossian Gwent" (Hughes & Son, Wrexham), but he left a large mass +of unpublished matter. No one of our poets is simpler or purer, or +writes so lovingly of birds and flowers. + + + +The Lark. + + +Oh hark! + With fluttering wing and dewy breast, + Soars upward like a spirit strong, + From reedy nest, + The gentle lark, + To tune on high his matin song. + +Alway + A nameless charm flows from thy lay, + Melodious bird! + Whose music heard + Drives care and sorrow far away. + +Beneath, + The sleeping world lies still as death; + Above, we hear thee singing clear, + 'Mid'st morning rays, + Unsullied praise, + Which speaks of peace to mortal ear. + +How free + And blithesome is thy joyous flight! + In floods of sunshine sparkling bright, + From skies serene + Thy song unseen + Angelic music seems to me. + + + +The Bible. + + +Like stars beside the sun, + So by this book + Earth's volumes look: +Their glory fades before its light, +For on its leaves the splendour bright + Of God's own face hath shone. + +'Tis like some fair seashell-- + Bend down thine ear + And thou shalt hear +The river on the golden strand +And sound of harps in that fair land-- + Or wail of souls in hell! + + + +The Lake. + + +Oh fair the glade where dewy primrose bloweth, + And fair the quiet slope of hillside clear, + Which, girdled with the sheen + Of glorious summer green, +Its smiling face like some tall seraph showeth, + And in its sunlit lap the modest mere. + +O lake most lovely, ringed about with flowers + And girt around its marge with nodding reeds; + Like guardian angels o'er + The circle of its shore +Great trees their branches spread, whose leafy bowers + Wave gently 'neath the wind that onward speeds. + +Here, too, on meadows green which dewy glisten + Cluster sweet violets nodding 'neath the breeze, + And coronals of light + With golden splendour bright +Their fragile heads adorn, which seem to listen + To merry birds that sing amid the trees. + +O happy spot! I fain would linger ever + About thy honeyed stillness, mere benign. + Of gazing on thy face I weary never, + As fair and full of grace +As slumbering infant's face, + Or angel features which yet purer shine. + +Thy crystal depth with music strange resoundeth, + Heard but by those to whom pure souls are given; + For unto all on earth + Who win the second birth, +The whole round world with hidden strings resoundeth, + Which endless praise distil to God in heaven. + + + +A Morning Greeting. + + +Arise, my beloved! the birds' merry chorus + Is heard 'mid the bourgeoning buds of the wold +Which smiles on the breast of the valley, while o'er us + The sun tips the dewladen branches with gold. +There comes from the meadows the scent of the clover, + The banks are all hidden by daisies from sight, +Each nook with bright yellow the primroses cover, + The trees in the orchards are curtained with white. + +O rouse thee, my darling! come look at the swallow + Which over the dingle is flying at will; +And hark to the song of the thrush in the hollow, + And cuckoo's clear cry on the side of the hill. +On high in the heavens the glad lark is trilling + The song which he lays at the footstool of morn; +My heart with strange gladness his music is thrilling, + As down from the sky by the breezes 'tis borne. + +Arise, my beloved! the lambs are all springing + In frolic enjoyment the meadows among; +The stream through the valley its glad song is singing, + And the young day laughs lightly its waters along. +A robe of bright azure the clear sky is wearing + And bathed are the mountains in myriads of rays, +The woodland its harp for the noon is preparing + And hark, from its strings bursts a torrent of praise. + +O rouse thee, my darling! Come, let us be going, + So soft is the breeze and so fragrant the air, +New health and new strength through our veins will be flowing, + And sorrow will vanish and sadness and care! +O banish the charms with which sloth would ensnare us, + Far purer the joy in the sunshine that lurks, +All nature her pinions is spreading to bear us, + And show us her Maker, revealed in His works. + + + + +ROBERT OWEN. + + +Robert Owen was born near Barmouth March 30th, 1858. The son of a +farmer, he was fortunate in attracting the attention of a French +gentleman who had taken up his residence in the village and who taught +him French, German and Italian. He qualified as a teacher, but the seeds +of consumption shewed themselves early, and he sailed, in 1879, for +Australia, only to die near Harrow, Victoria, Oct. 23, 1885. His works +have never yet been published--if, indeed, he wrote much. The _Llenor_, +No. 5 (January 1896), has an interesting article on him. + + + +De Profundis. + + +Strait, strait and narrow is the vale! + Behind me riseth to the skies +What I have been: in front, but dim, + What I shall be all shrouded lies, +All shrouded by the curtain dark + Of mists which from the river rise. +Above, the clouds hide from mine eyes + The hosts of heaven. + +Strait, strait and barren is the vale! + For here no tender primrose blows, +Nor daisy with its simple charm, + Nor from the yews which round me close +Comes song of thrush--but dismal shriek + Of deathbird, scattering as it goes +The stillness deep--and pales my cheek + With awe unspeakable. + +Strait, strait and lonely is the vale! + Only from far falls on my ear +The murmur of the world I loved, + But death's dark torrent roareth near. +Now 'neath my feet the path I tread + Crumbling gives way, and filled with dread +Into the waves below I hear + The fragments falling. + +Strait, strait and hopeless is the vale! + Nor can I evermore regain +The days of happiness and health + Which once I knew, days free from pain, +Nor move a foot from where I stand, + And backward eyes of longing strain +A moment--ere I leave the land + And brave those waters. + +Yet strait tho' be the vale and dim, + And though the skies are dark and drear, +And though the mountains everywhere + Rise steep and rugged round me here +To bar me out from life! there lives + One Star which shineth bright and clear +From out the sky and comfort gives + To soothe my sadness. + + + +A Prayer. + + +O my God, my Friend, my Father, +Thou who knowest all the secrets +Of man's heart and all his failings-- +O forgive me for forgetting +All thy loving care towards me, +Evil child and disobedient, +And for setting up an idol +All of earth within thy temple. +And receive from hands unworthy +As a sacrifice accepted +On Thine altar, Lord a bruised +Contrite heart that ever suffers +Daily pangs of disappointment +Even than death itself more bitter. +Take the one love of a lifetime, +All the hopeless love and passion +Dedicated to another +Who with me Thy place had taken, +As if they to Thee were rendered. +Count it, Father, as sufficient +Chastening, that I must abandon +All my hopes my love of winning, +All I have of kin and country, +All the comforts health bestoweth, +And across the sea go seeking +All alone a grave 'mid strangers. +O, my God--for I have suffered, +Grant at last Thy peace, Thy blessing. + + + + +Footnotes: + + +{66} Aregwedd--the Welsh for Cartismandua. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WELSH LYRICS OF THE NINETEENTH +CENTURY*** + + +******* This file should be named 15165.txt or 15165.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/1/6/15165 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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