The Project Gutenberg eBook ofBorth LyricsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world 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 atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Borth LyricsAuthor: Edward ThringEngraver: Edward DalzielGeorge DalzielIllustrator: Charles RossiterRelease date: March 10, 2015 [eBook #48457]Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1881 John Hawthorn edition by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORTH LYRICS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world 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 atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Borth LyricsAuthor: Edward ThringEngraver: Edward DalzielGeorge DalzielIllustrator: Charles RossiterRelease date: March 10, 2015 [eBook #48457]Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1881 John Hawthorn edition by David Price
Title: Borth Lyrics
Author: Edward ThringEngraver: Edward DalzielGeorge DalzielIllustrator: Charles Rossiter
Author: Edward Thring
Engraver: Edward Dalziel
George Dalziel
Illustrator: Charles Rossiter
Release date: March 10, 2015 [eBook #48457]
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from the 1881 John Hawthorn edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORTH LYRICS ***
Transcribed from the 1881 John Hawthorn edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
Borth from the North
BYEDWARD THRING, M.A.
HEAD MASTER OF UPPINGHAM SCHOOLLATE FELLOW OF KING’S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE
Postern in Quad
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY C. ROSSITERENGRAVED BY DALZIEL BROTHERS
UPPINGHAMJOHN HAWTHORN1881
Thosewho took part in that strange camping out of the School in 1876 and 1877 will be glad to be reminded of their experiences now they are over. And perhaps the School at Uppingham, in years to come, may like to have some hint, however imperfect, of that medley of ruin and safety, fear and fun, which passed from risk and danger, which seemed almost impossible to be faced, to a happy ending.
The School-house,Uppingham,August, 1880.
TOMr. T. H. BIRLEYandMr. W. T. JACOB,THE TWO SCHOOL TRUSTEES WITHOUT WHOSE HELP THE SCHOOL WOULD HAVE BEEN LOST;
TOSirPRYSE PRYSE,Bart.,AND THE KINDLY WELSH PEOPLE, WHO MADE SAFETY POSSIBLE AND SUCCESSFUL;
TOTHE PARENTS,WHO TRUSTED THE SCHOOL, AND SENT IN FULL NUMBERS ON THE EVENTFUL NIGHT OFApril4, 1876;
TOALL FAITHFUL COLLEAGUES,WHO DID TRUE WORK THROUGH THOSE DANGEROUS AND ANXIOUS MONTHS,
THIS MEMORIAL OF A COMMON CAUSE IS DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR.
BORTH FROM THE NORTH
Frontispiece
POSTERN IN QUAD
Title
PORTION OF SCHOOL-HOUSE, GARDEN FRONT
to face page9
SCHOOL-HOUSE QUAD
10
BORTH FROM THE SOUTH
12
THE LERY ABOVE TAL-Y-BONT
19
THE BEACH BY MOEL YNYS
21
THE MARSH BEHIND BORTH
24
CHAPEL AND SCHOOL-HOUSE FROM MIDDLE GROUND
30
Oswallow, with resistless wing, that hold’st the air in fee,O swallow, with thy joyous sweep o’er earth and sunlit sea,O swallow, who, if night were thine, would’st wheel amongst the stars,Why linger round the eaves?Unhappy! free of all the world hast knit thy soul to clay?And glued thy heart up on the wall, thou swiftest child of day?Claim, glorious wing, thy heritage; break, break thy prison bars,Nor linger round the eaves.
Sweep, glorious wings, adown the wind; fly, swallow, to the west;Before thee, life and liberty; behind, a ruined nest.Blow, freshening breeze, sweep, rapid wing, for all the winds are thine,The nest is only clay.The rapid wings were stretched in flight, the swallow sped away,And left its nest beneath the eaves, the much-loved bit of clay,Turned with the sun, to go where’er the happy sun might shine,And passed into the day.
Portion of School-house, Garden Front
Athousandyear is nought to prayer,One day, soGodit will:So the chapel fair, inGod’sclear air,Looks calmly from its hill;
And true and bold the schoolhouse oldBefore it sentinel,With close at hand a trusty bandOf comrades guards it well.
Each morn they meet, the young, young feet,They lightly come and go,A changeful stream, that still doth seemThe same, and still doth flow.
The stream shall run while shines the sun,And still the buttressed stoneShall hear the beat of young, young feet,And count them all its own.
The fair sun shone, but ghastly and wanThere came a spectral dream;The stone stood fast, but a dim fear passedThrough buttress, and roof, and beam:
With sad, sad heart life did depart,A ghostly silence fell;With sad, sad heart they turned to depart,And—farewell, home, farewell.
School-House Quad
Darkestclouds drop tender rain,Every leaf and blade is fainIts own jewel to obtainFrom the casket of its pain.
And the thunder, black as night,Down descends in orbs of white,For the sun to fill with light,Tiny chambers of his might.
Precious beads of hope are pearledOn each sorrow through the world,Softest dews of peace in showersLie beneath the clouded hours.
Theice froze cold, as cold as death,Yet runs the stream below;The very spring breathes bitter breath,But still the flowerets blow.Nor shall it perish from the land,The living seed they bore,As forth they fared, that pilgrim band,As pilgrims went of yore.
Lead, river, down the mountain glen,Glide ’mid the sunny slopes;Now lose thyself, now come again,E’en like a pilgrim’s hopes.And careless rivulets with their peaceSmiled on the passers-by,From many a valley, where the treesSee but their own dear sky.
So swept they on a great bright plain,A charmèd breadth out-laid,Where mountains rounded to the mainA charmèd circle made;And northward couched a huge hill dream,Which ofttimes, as it lay.To heave and pant in sleep did seem,Beneath the sultry day.
And leaning up against the hill,Whose headland, purple-black,The southern waters, as they fill,Kiss daily, and fall back,A simple hamlet, nowise planned,Puts out a long arm white,Where level sea and level sandScarce know each other’s right.
The mountains rule the east, but allThe west, the sea, the sea;Save when the sun at evenfallDisputes her sovereignty.A kindly people held the land,A kindly race and free;So rest they found, that pilgrim band,At Borth beside the sea.
Borth from the South
Brightsea, in thy waters rolledDost eternity enfold,Endless being, uncontrolled,Freedom, more than heart can hold,Every wave a hope divine,Sun-charms, golden line on line,Thou great moving mystery-shrine!Thine the first sounds that the earthHeard, its cradle-song at birth.Hidden voices in thy deepHalf untold their secret keep,As they murmur evermoreOld-world tidings to the shore.Glorious sea, thy moving lightSpreads round earth a mantle bright,Wide as range of eye or mind,Tameless playmate of the wind.Like a shuttle glancing freeIn and out, thy life, O sea,Whatsoe’er thy mood hath been,Weaves a web of magic sheen.Gracious wandering life, the airSports around thee for its share;Winds that move, and winds that rest,Heaving softly on thy breast,Like a sea-bird from the crest,Rise from off thy waves, and fly,Sweeping fresh the summer sky.Glorious sea, glad, unconfined,Free as range of eye or mind,Tameless playmate of the wind,Gracious power, whate’er thou be,Lay thy sweetest libertyAt the pilgrims’ feet, O sea.
Eastand west, and north and south,As if we were shot from a cannon’s mouth,Hurrah, hurrah! here we all are.Never was heard in peace or war,The first in the world are we,Never, oh, never, was heard before,Since a ball was a ball,And a wall a wall,And a boy to play was free,That a school as old as an old oak-tree,Fast by the roots, was flung up in the air,Up in the air without thought or care,And pitched on its feet by the sea, the sea,Pitched on its feet by the sea.
Ere the old school walls were dumbWith the silence of despair,“March boys, march! the end has come!”Rang the watchword proud and clear.We our standard rallied round,Thrice a hundred faithful found.
Playgrounds—leagues on leagues of shore;Class-rooms—all the sea-king’s caves;We are touched by Ariel’s power,Free of air, and earth, and waves.We are elves of Ariel’s range,Nought but suffers a sea change.
Ah! the wand has laid its spellOver cricket-fields and trees;Presto!—woods, and mountains, shells,Rocks, and sea-anemones;Thrice turn round and shut your eyes,Open to a fresh surprise.
Open on the level swardSlid Gogerddan’s[16a]hills between,When Gogerddan’s genial lordLooked upon the starry green,Lady-bright with summer stars,Heard the schoolboys’ loud hurrahs.
Lo! the panting cricket trainUp the valley slowly creeps,Lo! a boyish hurricaneE’en o’er Cader Idris sweeps.Never in the good greenwoodLived more gaily Robin Hood.
Little bits of fairy world,Fairy streamlets, dropping rills,And the Lery[16b]softly curledIn amongst the dreaming hills:Never in the good greenwoodLived more gaily Robin Hood.
East and west, and north and south,As if we were shot from a cannon’s mouth,Hurrah, hurrah! here we all are.Never was heard in peace or war,The first in the world are we,Never, oh, never, was heard before,Since a ball was a ball,And a wall a wall,And a boy to play was free,That a school as old as an old oak-tree,Fast by the roots, was flung up in the air,Up in the air without thought or care,And pitched on its feet by the sea, the sea,Pitched on its feet by the sea.
Jolly, O, jolly, at eve,When the golden wavesAre tumbling into the sun,And the silent airIs thinking of nothing, to runDown to the shore,Boys by the score,Into the hollow wayCurved by the ebbing spray,Chasing him back to his watery den,Lightly, O, lightly he leaps out again.Backward, O, backward we run(Thinking-of-nothing-o fun),Jolly wet every one.Rare, O, rare,Nought can compareWhen the silent airIs thinking of nothing, to run,In thinking-of-nothing-o fun,Out on the ebbing wave,Chasing him back to his watery lair,Jolly wet every one,Thinking-of-nothing-o fun.
Jolly, O, jolly, at eve,When the golden wavesAre tumbling into the sun,And the silent airIs thinking of nothing, to go,All in a row,A hundred or so,Manfully take a stand,Just on the edge of the land,Just where the pebbles and inrushing seaBattle, and rattle, and never agree,Solemnly, solemnly, O!Each his own pebble to throw,With a heigho! jolly heigho!Rare, O, rare,Nought can compareWhen the silent airIs thinking of nothing, to go,With a heigho! jolly heigho!Solemnly, solemnly, throwPebbles and pebbles at our jolly foe,Hundreds of heads in a row,Thinking of nothing, heigho!
Ohappydays, O happy days,Ye pass, but do not die,Bright visitants, like summer rainDropped softly from the sky;Which rests awhile on earth,And sinks unseen, and reappears againIn wondrous birth on birth,New born in herb and flower, in bud and tree,And fountain waters flowing clear and free.
O happy days, thy glow is onGreen slope and heathery hill,Reflection bright of happy eyes,Which there have looked their fill.Ye choose ye valleys sweet,Where o’er the water-song the dim woods rise,Your votaries to meet,And sweetest far your home where Lery brightPlays in your smile with pebbles and the light.
We find you where we left you last,When that glad summer noonWe turned to go, half gay, half sad,An end had come so soon;Just where the wider sweep,With oak, and fern, and purple heather clad,Curves from the shoulder steep,Whereon ye watch the streamlet down the gladeSend its white thoughts through narrowing glooms of shade.
The Lery above Tal-y-Bont
Look, now th’ imprisoned light is spreadOn a clear bed of rock;And the next moment tossed about,A fairy shuttlecock;Then in a still pool deep,Heart laid to heart in chambers hollowed out,The quiet wood doth sleep.So wooing still and wooed, demure or gay,The Lery down the vale a soul of joy doth stray.
Thy train, dear happy days, are here,Each leaflet in its place,They tell me round yon jutting rockThat I shall see your face.Lo! all are paddling there,For happy time recks not of mortal clock,The children of last year.Our fishers throw, while on the pebbly ridgeTea boils, and rash feet shake the miner’s bridge.
Each tendril the old welcome gives,Each leaflet in its place,The very ants are marching stillAlong the selfsame trace;The hours themselves forgetTo drop another shadow on the rill,So there it lingers yet,And year by year we wake up with a kissThe sleeping princess of our summer bliss.
Eachshall have his own love,High be linked to high,Sky be kissing mountain,Mountain kissing sky.
Dozing in the orchardLet the goodman sit,Count on summer eveningsApples he will eat.
Glory to the sands O!Glory give who can,Where a man, who stands O!Feels himself a man.
Where the east wind gallops,Keen with keen-edged knife,And the wide world freshens,Salted with sea-life.
Where the great free watersHave their freedom rolled,And the golden sunbeamsPowdered them with gold.
Blow, ye winds, your trumpets,Blow, ye winds, your fife,Glory to the sands O!Salted with sea-life.
With the sea-bird shriekingTo the sea below,Clang thy wild clang, sea-bird,Sea, thy organ blow.
The beach by Moel Ynys
When the summer whispersFloat in o’er the sea,Then a moving rainbowSpreads itself o’er thee.
Rainbow light and silver,Silver sheen and gold,All the light of childhood,Happy childhood bold.
There it gleams and glistensMoving as we go,Light of sun or childhood,Who is skilled to know?
Liberty and joyanceStill ye give each one,Manhood with the east wind,Childhood with the sun.
Blow, ye winds, your trumpets,Blow, ye winds, your fife,Glory to the sands O!Salted with sea-life.
With the sea-bird shriekingTo the sea below;Clang thy wild clang, sea-bird,Sea, thy organ blow.
Chimesthere are on earth, harmonious splendours,Subtle symphonies of ear and eye,Yea, dim bridals, when the mortal spiritWeds a half-veiled immortality.
Moments, as when some dumb, wistful creatureGazes in its master’s eyes, to findDeeps on deeps, and wins a higher natureBy mysterious touch of higher mind.
Whoso sees the deep eyes turned upon him,Nature’s dreamlike radiance, on the heightBreathless-happy stands, and draws by seeingBlissful inspiration, clearer sight.
Go where from his rampart Taliesin[23]O’er the beaten gold of the great plainThrows his charm on river, sea, and mountain,Blending all in one bright living strain.
Now a sunny silence makes heart-music,As it comes up smiling o’er the sea;All the hill-sides dimple; on it passes,In and out the enchanted shadows flee.
Now within the coronet of mountainsAnd the sea-fringed margin of the westNature’s thoughts are stirring, gusts of passionRuffle the embroidery on her breast.
Far away a trouble on the waters’Gins to whiten, then a living veilDrops down from the sky, black gleam the headlands,Gleam the hills through drifts of shadowy trail.
And the weird wild freedom of the marshlandStretches, breadths on breadths of level gold,Where the storm-scuds wander, and the rainbowIn the midst lets fall its glittering hold.
Broad, bright plain, free wanderland of fancy,Robed in colours, all the sun can weaveOut of silver seas, and hill-sides glooming,Molten in the ruddy fires of eve,
Cloth of gold from sands, and silken tissueSpun from the blue distance, threads of whiteShot through by the rivers, crimson buddingsOf the oak groves flushed with spring delight.
He on whom the deep eyes once have turned theirHidden splendours, be he where he will,Evermore a prophet’s dream enfolding,Walks with yearnings which he ne’er can fill.
The marsh behind Borth
Fairiesall, whoever ranPell-mell from smoke-witted man,Scared from haunted well and treeFairy mermaidens to be,Colonists of fairy sea;Empire found, and perils o’er,Soon ye peeped out on the shore,Frolic-bold as heretofore;Village green and woodland spellsLightly changed for shells O, shells!Your sea besoms twice a daySwish, and swirl, and hissing spray,Brush all mortal taint away.Twice a day the saucy waves,Heads bent low, your merry slaves,Tumble in of shells a storeFrom the sea-king’s palace floor.On a day remembered well,Never butterfly befellBrighter bursting from his cell,Picked we the first fairy shell.Time his hinge had backward swung,Youth and Age together sprungIn a world where all was young.Age was young and Youth as old,Age and Youth, two children bold,Caught old Time with potent spells,Magic words of shells O, shells!Shells—the very air did seemOpening into some bright dream,And an unseen gladness sweptAll around us as we stept.Miles of hope before us lay,Golden, glistening sheets of day,With a sea-charm washed alway,Fairy-sprinkled! who could tell?Every yard might give its shell;Little Cockles’ pearly sheen,Chariot fit for fairy queen,Pectens, dipped in colours wonFrom the rays slipped off the sunIn the waves, when day is done.Here a ripple in and outMocking whirls the Cones about,Brings them to our fingers, thenLaughs, and swings them off again.There a dark line softly liesRich in promise ’neath the skies;Happy he foredoomed to burstOn that fairy treasure first,Ere assailed by foot accurst,Or the jealous, tricksy seaRushing catch him to the knee,And with slow malicious gleeGently suck it back; ah me!Shells O, shells! the slanted hail,Thunder-driven, blind, and pale,Beat on rovers bent, subdued,Each apart in solitude,Nursing his own woeful mood.Lo! a shell bank—at the crySunshine flashed along the sky,Reckless-bright each sunny eyeGlistened, on the spoil they fly,Cockles, Mactras, Artemis,Pectens, unknown shapes of bliss,Turritella, Tellens frail,Orphans, delicate and pale,Newly risen from the seaPeerless Venus Chione.Such a ring was never seenGlancing coy on minstrel’s eenIn the sweetest, shyest gloomOf the young world’s maiden bloom,Ere the tender dew had diedHopeless, on the mountain-side,And away the fairies hied.Where the fairies hied would’st know?To the printless margin go,Where sea besoms twice a daySwish, and swirl, and hissing spray,Purge all mortal taint away,There the fairy children play.
Howsoftly leading upward, the green slopeLeans ’gainst the southern sky,And restful feet have reached the top beforeThey know they are so high.
E’en so, up from the levels of the week,In its own quiet air,Enthroned within a more ethereal blue,The Sunday rises fair.
And ofttimes, asGod’speace from church and fieldUpon their spirit lay,A happy group down set made all their ownThat gracious place and day.
Far down the shadowy tracts of gleaming sandSeemed melting from the eye,And all the busy week, a few dark specks,Which sight could scarce descry.
The small waves chattered all along the shore;But with low pleading sweetThe billows crept up to the tall black rocks,And clasped their giant feet.
And there in talk, or silence dearer still,They let their hearts go free,In that sweet confidence, which nothing asksBut being still to be.
The sea discourses to them, or they launchOn summer clouds, that throwA purple mantle wrought in peaceful skiesOn dreaming waves below.
And gathering up the light of the great plain,A web of colours rare,They blend them, as they look, with fancies meet,And peace of upper air,
Till where the river ’twixt the distant hillsLeads up into the skies,In that fair borderland of earth and heavenThe changeful glory lies.
Whoso within that dreamy circle sits,For him abideth stillThe calm of upper air, the magic lightThat hill sends on to hill.
Salt, and sand, and rocking wave,Salt, and sand, and sky,All ye had to give ye gave,But—good bye, good bye.Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,And the ivy that clings to the wall;Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,And the oak, and the ash-tree tall.
Rocking wave, and mountain bold,Bright air, free to roam,Say not that our hearts are cold;Oh! but—home is home.Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,And the ivy that clings to the wall;Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,And the oak, and the ash-tree tall.
Smoothest turf, a sunshine floor,Dance of cricket ball,Studies, where we shut the doorOn our cosy all.Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,And the ivy that clings to the wall;Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,And the oak, and the ash-tree tall.
Grey old school-house, consecrateOn thy hill afar,Chapel, keeping solemn state—Home we go, hurrah!Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,And the ivy that clings to the wall;Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,And the oak, and the ash-tree tall.
Chapel and School-house from Middle Ground
Tohim, who wounded turned aside,It mattered little that he diedIn sunshine, in the fair springtide.
On many a grave the flowers are gay,Oft ruin creeping on his preyPuts forth a velvet paw in play.
O Flags, ye wrap within your foldA stranger tale than e’er was toldOf Muses’ sons in days of old.
The homeless school, of fortune braved,Will aye remember how ye wavedAbove them, in the hour that saved.
As long as youth breathes living fire,As long as scorn is on the liar,And men can mount from high to higher.
Rest in the school-room, rest, and beA spirit moving calm and free,A silent flame of liberty.
Say, peace more stern than war demandsDevotion purer, cleaner hands,Life larger, foot that firmer stands.
Bid Hope his thrilling clarion blow,And fearless truth in boyhood glow,And honour send him on his foe.
So life shall foster life, each sonStill better what his sire hath done,And truth from truth full circle run.
[16a]Gogerddan, the seat of Sir Pryse Pryse, Bart.
[16b]The river at Borth.
[23]Taliesin, the great Welsh Bard, buried on a hill overlooking the plain of Borth.