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diff --git a/15165.txt b/15165.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9d35e1d --- /dev/null +++ b/15165.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2652 @@ +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*** + + + + +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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