By the Rev. Evan Evans.
Translated by T. W. Harris, Esq., and another.
Hus.—Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs,Their cry is not so fine:And if you have not, don’t delay,’Tis nearly half-past nine.
Wife.—There, now your noisy din begins,Ding, ding, and endless ding,I do believe your scolding voiceMe to the grave will bring.
H.—Were you to drop in there to-day,This day would end my sorrow.
W.—But I shall not to please you, Mog,To-day, nor yet to-morrow.
H.—Oh! were you, Jane, to leave this world,
W.—And you to beg and borrow,
H.—Stop, Jane, talk not so silly, Jane,
W.—Not at your bidding, never;I’d talk as long as I thought fit,Were I to live for ever.
H.—Your voice if raised a little more,Would rouse the very dead,A pretty noise, because I ask’dIf you the pigs had fed.
W.—I’ll raise my voice, Mog, louder still,As sure as you were born,Why should you ask “How many loavesCame from the peck of corn?”
H.—Should not the master of the houseKnow every undertaking?
W.—And wear his wife’s own crinoline,And try his hand at baking!
H.—The breeches you would like to wear!
W.—What vulgar jests you’re making!
H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, don’t speak so loud,Your noise will stun the cattle!
W.—The only noise that could do thatIs your continued rattle.
H.—As sounds a bee upon her back,So does this wasp I’ve got,And all because I ask’d if sheHad fed the pigs or not.
W.—Your peevish growling, Mog, is worse,Yes, ten times worse and more,Still asking, “How this churning gaveLess than the one before?”
H.—You know the butter pays our rent,And many another matter.
W.—I know that if the cows are starvedThey won’t get any fatter!
H.—I give the cows enough to eat.
W.—Well do, and hold your clatter.
H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, confound your noise,’Twould shame a barrel organ.
W.—If I were half as loud as you,I think it would, Old Morgan!
H.—Your temper, Jane, will drive me soonTo share a soldier’s lot,To march with gun and martial tune’Midst powder, smoke, and shot.
W.—What! you a soldier? never, Mog!Your heart is coward too,You’ll fight with no one but with me,You’ve then enough to do!
H.—I’ll go and fight the mighty Czar,To aid the Turkish nation.
W.—Then go, a greater Turk than youBreathes not within creation!
H.—For shame, to call your husband Turk.
W.—Such is my pledg’d relation.
H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, let’s now shake handsAnd we’ll be henceforth friends.
W.—No, not till you have stopp’d will I,Be still, or make amends.
By Rev. Daniel evans, B.D.
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love,From one endued with beauty from above.To bring him up with fond andtendercare—Was an obligation from my fair.—
And for the guileless, beaming star’s sweet sakeHim to my bosom did I kindly take,Him warmly cherished and with joy caress’d,Like Philomela in the parent breast!
Thus on my breast, and sipping from my cup,With food and nurture did I bring him up;He grew a winged stripling, plump and fair,And yet he filled and fills my soul with care!
Foster-son, indeed, a rebel has become,Morose, insubordinate and glum,A peevish, wayward, wanton, wicked swain:To strive against the darts of love is vain.
And now with his ruthless, vengeful bow,He points it at me and shoots high and low.Ah! whither shall I from his anger flee;Where from his darts and wily snares be free?
All fickle is the foster-son, indeed;He leads me on to the flowery mead,When all is peace and harmony aroundHe wrings my ears with doleful sound.
And woe betide if e’er he sees one dareA single word exchange with the fair,He forthwith casts his vengeance like a dart,And thrusts his pointed dagger through my heart.
One day, when feeling somewhat brisk and strongOn summer-morn, I strolled the meads along,A curious thought upon my mind did flashThat I would try this foster-boy to thrash.
With this intent I straightway armed myself,My oaken cudgel drew to chase the elf;When lo! the elf felt not the slightest stroke,But in return the tendrils of my heart he broke!
I am father to a foster-sonMost cruel since this earth began to run:Oh, thousand times how sorely have I said,“The fates may take him, foster’d on my bread.”
Then must I live in sorrow evermoreNo hope to cheer my spirit as of yore?And is despair, dark, sullen, on my heartTo plant its talons with a fatal dart?
No, there yet will beam a brilliant dayTo chase these lurid, murky clouds away!Arise, sweet soul, thy sorrows cast away,Blow off thy cares, like ocean’s shifting spray.
There is a blushing rose that blooms unseenIn yonder valley decked with leaflets green,’Twill healthy heart, tho’ shatter’d and forlorn,Like scented balm from distant Gilead borne.
’Tis there my darling Dora makes her home;’Tis there my wand’ring glances fondly roam;’Tis there my star of beauty mildly shines;’Tis there the chain of life my soul entwines.
’Tis there where kind maternal fondness dwells,And sister gentleness the bosom swells,’Tis there where now the lovely lily growsBeside the purling brook that ever flows.
There’s one, and only one to cheer my soul,To heal my anguish, and my grief control;’Tis she who did the foster-boy impartTo nestle deeply in my restless heart.
And if, indeed, the fair one will not payFor time and nurture, anguish and delay,Unless a guerdon in her smiles I seeThen must I from her arms for ever flee.
[Pennillion singing formed quite a feature in the eisteddfodau of the Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh gentry. The pennillion were sung by one voice to the harp, and followed a quaint air which was not only interesting, but owing to its peculiarity, it set forth in a striking manner the humour of the verse. This practice, which was quite a Welsh institution, is fast dying out, and is not now much in use except at eisteddfodau.]
Many an apple will you findIn hue and bloom so cheating,That, search what grows beneath its rind,It is not worth your eating.Ere closes summer’s sultry hour,This fruit will be the first to sour.
* * * * * *
Those wild birds see, how bless’d are they!Where’er their pleasure leads they roam,O’er seas and mountains far away,Nor chidings fear when they come home.
* * * * *
Thou dearest little Gwen, kindest maiden of all,With cheeks fair and ruddy, and teeth white and small,With thy blue sparkling eyes, and thy eye-brows so bright,Ah, how I would love thee, sweet girl, if I might!
* * * * *
Place on my breast, if still you doubt,Your hand, but no rough pressure making,And, if you listen, you’ll find out,How throbs a little heart when breaking.
* * * * *
Both old maids and young ones, the witless and wiseGain husbands at pleasure, while none will me prize;Ah! why should the swains think so meanly of me,And I full as comely as any they see!
* * * * *
From this world all in time must move,’Tis known to every simple swain;And ’twere as well to die of loveAs any other mortal pain.
* * * * *
’Tis noised abroad, where’er one goes,And I am fain to hear,That no one in the country knowsThe girl to me most dear:And, ’tis so true, that scarce I wot,If I know well myself or not.
* * * * *
What noise and scandal fill my ear,One half the world to censure prone!Of all the faults that thus I hear,None yet have told me of their own.
* * * * *
Varied the stars, when nights are clear,Varied are the flowers of May,Varied th’ attire that women wear,Truly varied too are they.
* * * * *
To rest to-night I’ll not repair,The one I love reclines not here:I’ll lay me on the stone apart,If break thou wilt, then break my heart.
* * * * *
In praise or blame no truth is found,Whilst specious lies do so abound;Sooner expect a tuneful crow,Than man with double face to know.
* * * * *
My speech until this very day,Was ne’er so like to run astray:But now I find, when going wrong,My teeth of use to atop my tongue.
[The editor of the “Cambro Briton” (J. H. Parry, Esq., father of Mr. Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: “The following translations will serve to give the English reader a faint, though perhaps, but a faint idea of the WelshTribanau, which are most of them, like these, remarkable for their quaintness, as well as for the epigrammatic point in which they terminate.”]
No cheat is it to cheat the cheater,No treason to betray the traitor,Nor is it theft, I’m not deceiving,To thieve from him who lives by thieving.
* * * * *
Three things there are that ne’er stand still;A pig upon a high-topt hill,A snail the naked stones among,And Tom the Miller’s rattling tongue.
* * * * *
Three things ’tis difficult to scan;The day, an aged oak, and man:The day is long, the oak is hollow,And man—he is a two fac’d fellow.
By Dafydd Ab Gwilym.
Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forgetThat ever in moments of pleasure we met;You bid me remember no longer a nameThe muse hath already companioned with fame;And future ap Gwilyms, fresh wreaths who compose,Shall twine with the chaplet of song for the browsOf each fair Morvida, Llan Meilen’s sweet Rose.
Had the love I had loved been inconstant or gay,Enduring at most but a long summer’s day,Growing cold when the splendour of noontide hath set,I might have forgotten that ever we met.But long as Eryri its peak shall exposeTo the sunshine of summer, or winter’s cold snows,My love will endure for Llan Meilen’s sweet Rose.
Then bid me not, maiden, remember no moreA name which affection and love must adore,’Till affection and love become one with the breathOf life in the silent oblivion of death,Perchance in that hour of the spirit’s repose,But not until then, when the dark eyelids close,Can this fond heart forget thee, Llan Meilen’s sweet Rose.
The white cot where I spent my youthIs on yon lofty mountain side,The stream which flowed beside the doorAdown the mossy slope doth glide;The holly tree that hid one endIs shaken by the moaning wind,Like as it was in days of yoreWhen ’neath its boughs I shade did find.
Clear is the sky of morning tide,Bright is the season time of youth,Before the mid-day clouds appear,And fell deceit obliterates truth;Black tempest in the evening lowers,The rain descends with whirlwind force,And long ere midnight’s hour nearsFull is the heart of deep remorse.
Where are my old companions dear,Who in those days with me did play?The green graves in the parish yardWill soon the mournful answer say:Farewell therefore ye pleasures light,Which in my youth I did enjoy,Dark evening’s come with all its trials,And these the bliss of life destroy.
Under the deep-laden boughs of the orchardWalks a maid that is fairer than all its rich fruit,And little I doubt if I stood beneath them,To which of the objects I’d offer my suit.’Twas little I thought when I was a striplingWhile gazing upon the apples so sweet,I ever should see beneath the green branchesAn object which yet I much sooner would greet.
Thy father was careful about his rich orchard,To fence well and strong lest the neighbours should stray,For now there doth, wander amid its green arboursA maiden more lovely than aught in the way;Its fruit I would leave to the one who may wish it,But her, who moves so majestic between,I’d steal from the orchard without a misgiving,And never would touch its apples so green.
One morning in May, when soft breezes were blowingO’er Dee’s pleasant tide with a ripple and swell,A shepherdess tended her flock that was feedingUpon the green meadows that lay in the dell,Her blue eye she raised, and she looked all around her,As if she’d fain see some one far on the lea,And spite of its brightness, I saw the salt tearFor one who was far from the banks of the Dee.
The maiden I thought was preparing to solaceHer stay with a song amid the fair scene,Nor long was I left in suspense of her object,Before she broke forth with a melody clean;The tears she would wipe away with her napkin,While often a sigh would escape from her breast,And as she sent forth the notes of her mourning,I could find that to love the lay was address’d:
“Four summers have pass’d since I lost my sweet William,And from this fair valley he mournful did go;Four autumns have shower’d their leaves on the meadowsSince he on these eyelids a smile did bestow;Four winters have sped with their snowflakes and tempestSince he by my side did sing a light glee;But many more springs will be sown for the harvestEre William revisit the banks of the Dee.”
In the depth of yonder valley,Where the fields are bright and sunny,Ruth was nurtured fair and slenderNeath a mother’s eye so tender.
Listening to the thrush’s carols.Was her pleasure in her gambols,And ere she grew up a maidenGwilym’s voice was sweet in Dyffryn.
Together did they play in childhood,Together ramble in the greenwood,Together dance upon the meadow,Together pluck the primrose yellow.
Both grew up in youthful beautyOn the lap of peace and plenty,And before they could discoverLove had linked its silent fetter.
Ruth had riches—not so Gwilym,Her stern sire grew cold unto him,And at length forbade him comingAny more to visit Dyffryn.
Gwilym thence would roam the wild-wood,Where he wander’d in his childhood,And would shun his home and hamlet,Pensive sitting in the thicket.
Ruth would, weeping, walk the garden,And survey the blank horizonFor a passing glimpse of Gwilym—But all vain her tears and wailing.
Gwilym said, “I’ll cross the ocean,And abide among the heathen,In the hope of getting riches,Which alone the father pleases.”
But, before he left his country,Once, by stealth, he met the lady,And beneath the beech’s shadowVow’d undying love in sorrow.
Much the weeping—sad the sighing,When they parted in the gloaming,Gwilym for a distant region,Ruth behind in desolation.
Time flew fast, and many a wooerCame to Ruth an ardent lover;But in vain they sought the maiden,For she held her troth unbroken.
Owain Wynn had wealth in plenty,Earnest was his deep entreaty,And tho’ favour’d by the father,Yet all vain was his endeavour.
Years now pass’d since Ruth saw Gwilym,But her dreams were always of him,And tho’ morning undeceived her,Nightly did she see him near.
One fair evening Ruth was sittingIn the spot of their last parting,When she thought she saw her GwilymCross the meadows green of Dyffryn.
Was it fact or apparition?Slow she mov’d to test the vision,Who was there but her own true loveCome to claim her in the green grove.
Gwilym now possessed abundance,Gold and pearls displayed their radiance,Soon the father gave him welcomeTo his house and daughter handsome.
Quick the wedding-day was settled,Ruth to Gwilym then was married,Long they lived in bliss and plenty,Pride and envy of the valley.
The Lord of Clâs to his hunting is gone,Over plain and sedgy moor;The glare of his bridle bit has shoneOn the heights of wild Benmore.
Why does he stay away from hound?Nor urge the fervid chase?Where is the shrill blast of his bugle sound?And the bloom of his radiant face?
The Lord of Clâs has found other gameThan the buck and timid roe;His heart is warm’d by other flame,His eyes with love-light glow.
On the mountain side a damsel he metCollecting flowers wild;Her eyes like diamonds were set,And modest as a child.
Fair was her face, and lovely to seeHer form of slender mould,Her dark hair waved in tresses freeOn shoulders arch and bold.
The Lord of Clâs did blush and sighWhen the lovely maid he saw;He stoutly tried to pass her by;His bridle rein did draw.
But his heart quick flutter’d in his breast,The rein fell from his hand,In accents weak the maid address’d,While trembling did he stand.
“Fair lady, may I ask your name?And what your purpose here?From what bright homestead far you came?And is your guardian near?”
Answer’d the maid with haughty mien,That show’d her high estate:“I know not, sir, why you should gleanSuch knowledge as you prate.
I ask’d not your name, or whence you came?Nor on you deign’d a look;Wherefore should you my wrath inflame,By taking me to book?”
The chieftain high was now subdu’d,And lower’d was his crest;With deep humility imbuedThe maid he thus address’d:
“My lady fair, your beauteous mienMy heart has deep impress’d;Altho’ I hear the chase so keen,My thoughts with you do rest.
I did essay to pass your charms,And spurr’d my steed to flight,But your dazzling beauty numb’d my arms,And chain’d me to your sight.
If I may humbly crave your love,I’ll tell you my degree:I am the Lord of yonder groveAnd of this mountain free.
These broad lands will your dowry be,If you my suit receive,And ye shall urge the chase with meFrom morn to winter eve.”
The maid’s reply was firm, yet bland,And in a calmer mood:“I thank you, sir, for your offer’d hand,With dowry large and good.
I thank you for all your praises fair,And for your gallant grace;Had we but met an earlier yearI might be Lady Clâs.
Behold this ring on my finger worn—A token of plighted love;Lo, he who plac’d it there this mornSits on yon cairn above.”
The chieftain look’d to the lonely cairnAnd saw the Knight of Lleyn!Like mountain deer he flew o’er the sarn,And there no more was seen!
Although I’ve no money or treasure to give,No palace or cottage wherein I may live,Altho’ I can’t boast of high blood or degree,Than all these my sweet Rose is dearer to me.
The lambs on the mountain are frisky and gay,The birds in the forest are restless with play,The maidens rejoice at the advent of spring,Yet my fair Rose to me more enjoyment can bring.
By Madoc Mervyn.
My tried and trusty mountain steed,Of Aberteivi’s hardy breed,Elate of spirit, low of flesh,That sham’st thy kind of vallies fresh;And three score miles and twelve a dayHast sped, my gallant galloway.
Like a sea-boat, firm and tight,Dancing on the ocean, light,That the spirit of the windActuates to heart and mindElastic, buoyant, proud, and gay,Art thou, my mountain galloway.
Thou’st borne me, like a billow’s sweep,O’er mountains high and vallies deep,Oft drank at lake and waterfall,Pass’d sunless gulfs whose glooms appall,And shudder’d oft at ocean’s spray,Where breakers roar’d, destruction lay.
And thou hast snuff’d sulphureous fumes’Mid rural nature’s charnel tombs;Thou hast sped with eye unscar’dWhere Merthyr’s fields of fire flar’d;And thou wert dauntless on thy way,My faithful mountain galloway.
There is a vale, ’tis far away,But we must reach that vale to-day;There is a mansion in that vale,Its white walls well the eye regale!And there’s a hand more white they say,Shall pat my gallant galloway.
And she is young, and she is fair,The lovely one who sojourns there;Oh, truly dear is she to me!As thou art mine, she’ll welcome thee:Then off we go, at break of day,On, on! my gallant galloway.
From the Rev. Evan Evans.
One time upon a summer dayI saunter’d on the shoreOf swift Geirionydd’s waters blue,Where oft I walked beforeIn youth’s bright season gone,And spent life’s happiest mornIn drawing from its crystal wavesThe trout beneath the thorn,When every thought within my breastWas light as solar ray,Enjoying every pastime dearThroughout the livelong day.
The breeze would soften on the lake,Unruffled be its deep,And all surrounding nature beAs calm as silent sleep,Except the raven’s dismal shriekUpon the lofty spray,And bleat of sheep beside the bushWhere light their lambkins play,And noise made by the busy millUpon the river shore,With cuckoo’s song perch’d in the ashTo show that winter’s o’er.
The impressive scene would rather tendTo nurse reflection deep,Than cast the gay and sprightly flyBeneath the rocky steep;’Twould fill my spirit now subduedWith sober earnest thought,Of other days, and other things,My youthful hands had wrought;The tears would spring into my eyes,My heart with heaving fill,To think of all that I had been,And all that I am still.
* * * * *
The sober stillness would begetThoughts of departed friends,Who not long since companions wereUpon the river’s bends;And soon will come the sombre dayWhen I shall meet their doom,And ’stead of fishing by the lake,I shall be in the tomb.Some brother bard may chance to strayAnd ask for Ieuan E’an?—“Geirionydd lake is still the same,But here no Ieuan’s seen.”
By the Rev. Daniel Evans, B.D.
My gentle child, thou dost not knowWhy still on thee I am gazing so,And trace in meditation deepThy features fair in silent sleep.
Thy mien, my babe, so full of grace,Reminds me of thy father’s face;Although he rests beneath the tree,His features all survive in thee.
Thou knowest not, my gentle child,The deep remorse that makes me wild,Nor why sometimes I can’t bestowA smile for smile when thine doth glow.
Thy father, babe, lies in the clay,Lock’d in the tomb, his prison gray;And yet methinks he still doth live,When on thy face a glance I give.
And dost thou smile, my baby fair,Before my face so pale with care?What for the world and its deceit,With myriad snares for youthful feet?
These are before thee, while the aidOf father’s counsel is deep laid;And soon thy mother wan may findA last home there—and thou behind.
Thy sad condition then will beLike some lone flower upon the lea,Without a cover from the wind,Or winter’s hail and snow unkind.
But smile thou on—in heaven aboveThy father lives, and He is love;He knows thy lot, and well doth careFor all, and for thee will prepare.
If through His help, Jehovah good!Thou smilest now in blissful mood;May I not think, safe in His handThou mayest travel through this land?
Smile on, my child, for thou wilt findIn Him a friend and father kind;He’ll guide the orphan on his way,Nor ever will his trust betray.
At last in the eternal landWe all shall meet a joyous band,Without ought danger more to part,Or tear or sigh to heave the heart.
By Rev. Daniel Evans, B.D.
Gentle Woman! thou most perfectWork of the Divine Architect;Pearl and beauty of creation,Rose of earth by all confession.
Myriad times thy smiles are sweeterThan the morning sun doth scatter,All the loveliness of NatureInto thee almost doth enter.
The rose’s hues and of the lily,Verdant spring in all its beauty,Brighter yet among the flowersIs fair woman in her bowers.
As the water fills the river,Full of feeling is her temper,And her love, once it doth settle,Truer than the steel its mettle.
Full of tenderness her bosom,Deep affection there doth blossom,Gentle Woman! who can wonderAfter thee man’s heart doth wander?
I have seen without emotionFields of blood and desolation,But I never saw the tearOn woman’s eye and mine not water.
From her lips a word of soothingWill disarm all angry feeling,On her tongue a balm of comfort,Great its virtue, strong its support.
Pleasant is it for the travellerOn his way to meet with succour,Sweeter far when at his own home,To receive fair woman’s welcome.
Woman cheerful in a familyMakes the group around so happy,And her voice filled with affection,Yields an Eden of communion.
Poor the man that roams creationWithout woman for companion,Destitute of all protection,Without her to bless his station.
Gentle Woman! all we covetWithout thee would be but wretched,Without thy voice to banish sorrow,Or sweet help from thee to borrow.
Thou art light to cheer our progress,Star to brighten all our darkness,For the troubled soul an anchorOn each stormy sea of terror.
By Rev. Daniel Evans, B.D.
At the dawning of day on a morning in May,When the birds through the forests were skipping so gay;While crossing the churchyard of a parish remote,In a district of Cambria, whose name I don’t note:
I saw a fair maiden so rich in attire,Second but to an angel her mien did appear;Quick were her footsteps in tripping the sand,And flowers resplendent were borne in her hand.
I fled to concealment that I might best learnHer object and wish in a place so forlorn,Without a companion—so early the hour—For a region so gloomy thus leaving her bower.
Anon she advanced to a new tomb that layBy the churchyard path, and there kneeling did stay,While she planted the flowers with hands so clear,And her looks were replete of meekness and fear.
The tears she would dry from eyelids fairWith a napkin so snow-white its hue and so rare;And I heard a voice, that sadden’d my mind,While it smote the breeze with words of this kind:—
“Here lieth in peace and quiet the oneI loved as dear as the soul of my own;But death did us part to my endless woe,Just when each to the other his hand would bestow.
Here resteth from turmoil, and sorrow to be,The whole that in this world was precious to me;Grow sweetly, ye flowers! and fair on his tomb,Altho’ you’ll ne’er rival his beauty and bloom.
He erst received from me gifts that were more dear,My hand for a promise—and a lock of my hair,With total concurrence my portion to bearOf his weal or his woe, whether cloudy or fair.
While sitting beside him how great my content,In this place where my heart is evermore bent;If I should e’er travel the wide globe around,To this as their centre my thoughts would rebound.
Altho’ from the earth thou dost welcome nor chide,Nor smilest as once thou didst smile on thy bride;And yet my beloved! ’tis comfort to me,To sit but a moment so near to thee.
Thy eyes bright and tender my mind now doth see,And remembers thy speech like the honey to me;Thy grave I’ll embrace though the whole world beheld,That all may attest the love we once held.”
By rev. Daniel Evans, B.D.
So artless art thou, gentle ewe!Thy aspect kindles feeling;And every bosom doth bedew,Each true affection stealing.
Thou hast no weapon of aught kindAgainst thy foes to combat;No horn or hoof the dog to woundThat worries thee so steadfast.
No, nought hast thou but feeble flight,Therein thy only refuge;And every cur within thy sightIs swifter since the deluge.
And when thy lambkin weak doth fail,Tho’ often called to follow,Thy best protection to the frailWilt give through death or sorrow.
Against the ground her foot will beat,Devoutly pure her purpose;Full many a time the sight thus meetBrought tears to me in billows.
But if wise nature did not giveTo her sharp tooth or weapon,She compensation doth receiveFrom human aid and reason.
She justly has from man support’Gainst wounds and tribulation;And has the means without distortTo yield him retribution.
Yea, of more value is her giftThan priceless mines of silverOr gold which from the depth they liftThrough India’s distant border.
To man she gives protection strongFrom winds and tempests howling,From pelting rain, and snow-drifts long,When storms above are beating.
The mantle warm o’er us the nightThroughout the dismal shadows;What makes our hearts so free and light?What but the sheep so precious!
Then let us not the Ewe forgetWhen winter bleak doth hover;When rains descend—and we safe set—Let us be grateful to her.
Her cloak to us is comfort greatWhen by the ditch she trembles;Let us then give her the best beatFor her abode and rambles.
By Rev. John Blackwell, B.A.
Restless wave! be still and quiet,Do not heed the wind and freshet,Nature wide is now fast sleeping,Why art thou so live and stirring?All commotion now is ending,Why not thou thy constant rolling?
Rest thou sea! upon thy bosomIs one from whom my thoughts are seldom,Not his lot it is to idle,But to work while he is able;Be kind to him, ocean billow!Sleep upon thy sandy pillow!
Wherefore should’st thou still be swelling?Why not cease thy restless heaving?There’s no wind to stir the bushes,And all still the mountain breezes:Be thou calm until the morningWhen he’ll shelter in the offing.
* * * * *
Deaf art thou to my entreaty,Ocean vast! and without mercy.I will turn to Him who rules thee,And can still thy fiercest eddy:Take Thou him to Thy protectionKeep him from the wave’s destruction!
By Rev. John Blackwell, B.A.
Dry the leaf above the stubble,Soon ’twill fall into the bramble,But the mind receives a lessonFrom the leaf when it has fallen.
Once it flourished in deep verdure,Bright its aspect in the arbour,Beside myriad of companions,Once it danc’d in gay rotations.
Now its bloom is gone for ever,’Neath the morning dew doth totter,Sun or moon, or breezes balmyCan’t restore its verdant beauty.
* * * * *
Short its glory! soon it faded,One day’s joy, and then it ended;Heaven declared its task was over,It then fell, and that for ever.
Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knewThe anguish she felt in expiring,The moonbeams were weeping the evening dewWhen the life of the Maiden was sinking.
Sad died the Maiden! beside the fast door,With her head resting low on the flagging,And the raindrops froze as they fell in storeOn a bosom that lately was bleeding.
She died on the sill of her father’s dear home,From which he had forc’d her to wander,While her clear white hands were trying to roamIn search of the latch and warm shelter.
* * * * *
She died! and her end will for ever revealA father devoid of affection,While her green grave will always testify wellTo the strength of love and devotion.
Like the world and its dread changesIs the ocean when it rages,Sometimes full and sometimes shallow,Sometimes green and sometimes yellow.
Salt the sea to all who drink it,Bitter is the world in spirit,Deep the sea to all who fathom,Deep the world and without bottom.
Unsupporting in his dangerIs the sea unto the sailor,Less sustaining to the travellerIs the world through which he’ll wander.
Full the sea of rocky places,Shoals and quicksands in its mazes,Full the world of sore temptationCharged with sorrow and destruction.
By the Rev. J. Emlym Jones, M.A., LL.D.
’Neath the yew tree’s gloomy branches,Rears a mound its verdant head,As if to receive the richesWhich the dew of heaven doth spread;Many a foot doth inconsiderateTread upon the humble pile,And doth crush the turf so ornate:—That’s the Poor Man’s Grave the while.
The paid servants of the UnionFollowed mute his last remains,Piling the earth in fast confusion,Without sigh, or tear or pains;After anguish and privation,Here at last his troubles cease,Quiet refuge from oppressionIs the Poor Man’s Grave of peace.
The tombstone rude with two initials,Carved upon its smoother side,By a helpmate of his trials,Is now split and sunder’d wide;And when comes the Easter Sunday,There is neither friend nor kinTo bestow green leaves or nosegayOn the Poor Man’s Grave within.
Nor doth the muse above his ashesSing a dirge or mourn his end,And ere long time’s wasting gashesWill the mound in furrows rend:Level with the earth all traces,Hide him in oblivion deep;Yet, for this, God’s angel watches,O’er the Poor Man’s Grave doth weep.
By Dafydd ap Gwilym.
All my lifetime I have beenBard to Morfydd, “golden mien!”I have loved beyond belief,Many a day to love and griefFor her sake have been a prey,Who has on the moon’s array!Pledged my truth from youth will nowTo the girl of glossy brow.Oh, the light her features wear,Like the tortured torrent’s glare!Oft by love bewildered quite,Have my aching feet all nightStag-like tracked the forest shadeFor the foam-complexioned maid,Whom with passion firm and gayI adored ’mid leaves of May!’Mid a thousand I could tellOne elastic footstep well!I could speak to one sweet maid—(Graceful figure!)—by her shade.I could recognize till death,One sweet maiden by her breath!From the nightingale could learnWhere she tarries to discern;There his noblest music swellsThrough the portals of the dells!
When I am from her away,I have neither laugh nor lay!Neither soul nor sense is left,I am half of mind bereft;When she comes, with grief I part,And am altogether heart!Songs inspired, like flowing wine,Rush into this mind of mine;Sense enough again comes backTo direct me in my track!Not one hour shall I be gay,Whilst my Morfydd is away!
By Dafydd ap Gwilym.
The girl of nobler lovelinessThan countess decked in golden dress,No longer dares to give her plightTo meet the bard at dawn or night!To the blythe moon he may not bearThe maid, whose cheeks the daylight wear—She fears to answer to his callAt midnight, underneath yon wall—Nor can he find a birchen bowerTo screen her in the morning hour;And thus the summer days are fleetingAway, without the lovers meeting!But stay! my eyes a bower behold,Where maid and poet yet may meet,Its branches are arrayed in gold,Its boughs the sight in winter greetWith hues as bright, with leaves as green,As summer scatters o’er the scene.(To lure the maiden) from that brake,For her a vesture I will make,Bright as the ship of glass of yore,That Merddin o’er the ocean bore;O’er Dyfed’s hills there was a veilIn ancient days—(so runs the tale);And such a canopy to meThis court, among the woods, shall be;Where she, my heart adores, shall reign,The princess of the fair domain.
To her, and to her poet’s eyes,This arbour seems a paradise;Its every branch is deftly strungWith twigs and foliage lithe and young,And when May comes upon the treesTo paint her verdant liveries,Gold on each threadlike sprig will glow,To honour her who reigns below.Green is that arbour to behold,And on its withes thick showers of gold!Joy to the poet and the maid,Whose paradise is yonder shade!Oh! flowers of noblest splendour, theseAre summer’s frost-work on the trees!A field the lovers now possess,With saffron o’er its verdure roll’d,A house of passing loveliness,A fabric of Arabia’s gold—Bright golden tissue, glorious tent,Of him who rules the firmament,With roof of various colours blent!An angel, ’mid the woods of May,Embroidered it with radiance gay—That gossamer with gold bedight—Those fires of God—those gems of light!’Tis sweet those magic bowers to find,With the fair vineyards intertwined;Amid the wood their jewels rise,Like gleams of starlight o’er the skies—Like golden bullion, glorious prize!How sweet the flowers which deck that floor,In one unbroken glory blended—Those glittering branches hovering o’er—Veil by an angel’s hand extended.Oh! if my love will come, her bardWill, with his case, her footsteps guard,There, where no stranger dares to pry,Beneath yon Broom’s green canopy!
that had been converted into a may-pole in the town of llanidloes, in montgomeryshire.
By Dafydd ap Gwilym.
Ah! birch tree, with the verdant locks,And reckless mind—long hast thou beenA wand’rer from thy native rocks;With canopy of tissue green,And stem that ’mid the sylvan sceneA sceptre of the forest stood—Thou art a traitress to the wood!How oft, in May’s short nights of old,To my love-messenger and meThou didst a couch of leaves unfold!Thou wert a house of melody,—Proud music soared from every bough;Ah! those who loved thee sorrow now!Thy living branches teemed and rangWith every song the woodlands know,And every woodland flow’ret sprangTo life—thy spreading tent below.Proud guardian of the public way,Such wert thou, while thou didst obeyThe counsel of my beauteous bride—And in thy native grove reside!But now thy stem is mute and dark,No more by lady’s reverence cheered;Rent from its trunk, torn from its park,The luckless tree again is reared—(Small sign of honour or of grace!)To mark the parish market-place!Long as St. Idloes’ town shall beA patroness of poesy—Long as its hospitalityThe bard shall freely entertain,My birch! thy lofty stature shall remain!
By Dafydd ap Gwilym.
Sweet holly grove, that soarestA woodland fort, an armed bower!In front of all the forestThy coral-loaded branches tower.Thou shrine of love, whose depth defiesThe axe—the tempest of the skies;Whose boughs in winter’s frost displayThe brilliant livery of May!Grove from the precipice suspended,Like pillars of some holy fane;With notes amid thy branches blended,Like the deep organ’s solemn strain.
* * * * *
House of the birds of Paradise,Round fane impervious to the skies;On whose green roof two nights of rainMay fiercely beat and beat in vain!I know thy leaves are ever scathless;The hardened steel as soon will blight;When every grove and hill are pathlessWith frosts of winter’s lengthened night,No goat from Hafren’s{141}banks I ween,From thee a scanty meal may glean!Though Spring’s bleak wind with clamour launchesHis wrath upon thy iron spray;Armed holly tree! from thy firm branchesHe will not wrest a tithe away!Chapel of verdure, neatly wove,Above the summit of the grove!
By Dafydd ap Gwilym.
Thou swan, upon the waters bright,In lime-hued vest, like abbot white!Bird of the spray, to whom is giv’nThe raiment of the men of heav’n;Bird of broad hand, in youth’s proud age,Syvaddon was thy heritage!Two gifts in thee, fair bird, uniteTo glean the fish in yonder lake,And bending o’er yon hills thy flightA glance at earth and sea to take.Oh! ’tis a noble task to rideThe billows countless as the snow;Thy long fair neck (thou thing of pride!)Thy hook to catch the fish below;Thou guardian of the fountain head,By which Syvaddon’s waves are fed!Above the dingle’s rugged streams,Intensely white thy raiment gleams;Thy shirt like crystal tissue seems;Thy doublet, and thy waistcoat bright,Like thousand lilies meet the sight;Thy jacket is of the white rose,Thy gown the woodbine’s flow’rs compose,{142}Thou glory of the birds of air,Thou bird of heav’n, oh, hear my pray’r!And visit in her dwelling placeThe lady of illustrious race:Haste on an embassy to her,My kind white-bosomed messenger—Upon the waves thy course begin,And then at Cemaes take to shore;And there through all the land explore,For the bright maid of Talyllyn,The lady fair as the moon’s flame,And call her “Paragon” by name;The chamber of the beauty seek,And mount with footsteps slow and meek;Salute her, and to her revealThe cares and agonies I feel—And in return bring to my earMessage of hope, my heart to cheer!Oh, may no danger hover near(Bird of majestic head) thy flight!Thy service I will well requite!
By Dafydd ap Gwilym.
Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leavesThy hand for thy wild band of choristers weaves;Proud knight, that subduest with glory and power,Each glen into verdure, to joy every bower;That makest the wilderness laugh and rejoice,In the chains of thy love, in thy cuckoo’s shrill voice;That fillest the heart of the lover with glee,And bringest my Morfydd’s dear image to me.
Alas! that dark Winter thy mansions should blight,With his chill mottled show’rs, and his flickering light,His moon that gleams wanly through snows falling fast,His pale mist that floats on the wings of the blast:With the voice of each river more fearfully loud—Every torrent all foam, and the heaven all cloud!Alas! that stern Winter has power to divideEach lover from hope—from the poet his bride.
By Dafydd ap Gwilym.
Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav’n is thy home;With the tidings of summer thy bright pinions roam—The summer that thickens with foliage the glade,And lures to the woodland the poet and maid.Sweet as “sack,” gentle bird, is thy beautiful voice,In thy accents the lover must ever rejoice:Oh! tell me at once, in thy musical lay,Where tarries the girl whose behest I obey.
“Poor bard,” said the cuckoo, “what anguish and painHast thou stored for thyself, all thy cares are in vain,All hopes of the maid thou awaitest resign,She has wedded another, and ne’er can be thine.”
“For the tale thou hast told”—to the cuckoo I cried,“For thus singing to me of my beautiful brideThese strains of thy malice—may winter appearAnd dim the sun’s light—stay the summer’s career;With frost all the leaves of the forest boughs fill,And wither the woods with his desolate chill,And with cold in the midst of thy own forest spray,Take thy life and thy song, foolish cuckoo, away!”
Too long I’ve loved the fickle maid,My love is turned to grief and pain;In vain delusive hopes I stray’d,Through days that ne’er will dawn again;And she, in beauty like the dawn,From me has now her heart withdrawn!A constant suitor—on her earMy sweetest melodies I pour’d;Where’er she wander’d I was near;For her whose face my soul ador’dMy wealth I madly spent in wine,And gorgeous jewels of the mine.I deck’d her arms with lovely chains,With bracelets wove of slender gold;I sang her charms in varied strains,Her praise to every minstrel told:The bards of distant Keri knowThat she is spotless as the snow.These proofs of love I hoped might bindMy Morfydd to be ever true:Alas! to deep despair consign’d,My bosom’s blighted hopes I rue,And the base craft that gave her charms,Oh, anguish! to another’s arms!
[The Reverend William Williams, styled of “Pantycelyn,” a tenement which he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish of Llanfair-on-the-hill, in Carmarthenshire, in the year 1717. He was educated for the ministry, and appointed to the Curacy of Llanwrtyd and Abergwesyn, in Breconshire, in 1740. After serving for about three years he became a convert to the Welsh Puritanism of the period, introduced by the eloquence and piety of the Revs. Daniel Rowlands of Llangeitho, and Howel Harris of Trevecca, both theretofore eminent ministers of the Established Church, with whom he became a successful co-operator, not only as an eloquent preacher, but especially as the most celebrated Hymnist of Wales. This eminent man died in 1791, and his hymns were published by his son in 1811, and Mr. Mackenzie, of Glasgow, issued a superb edition of his works with biography in 1868.]
Hasten, Israel! from the desertAfter tarrying there so long,Milk and honey, wine and welcomeWait you ’mong the ransom’d throng;Wear your arms, advance to warfare,Onward go, and bravely fight,Fair the land, and there shall lead youCloud by day and flame by night.
Babel’s waters are so bitter,There is nought but weeping still,Zion’s harps, so sweet and tuneful,Do my heart with rapture fill:Bring thou us a joyful gatheringFrom the dread captivity,And until on Zion’s mountainLet there be no rest for me.
In this land I am a stranger,Yonder is my native home,Far beyond the stormy billows,Where the flowers of Canaan bloom:Tempests wild from sore temptationDid my vessel long detain,Speed, ye gentle southern breezes,Aid me soon to cross the main.
* * * * *
Jesus—thou my only pleasure,Naught like thee this world contains;In thy name is greater treasure,Than in India’s golden plains;And this treasure,Jesus’ love for me obtains.
Jesus, lovely is the aspectOf thy gracious face divine;Eye hath seen no fairer object,On this beauteous world of thine,Rose of Sharon,Heaven’s glories in thee shine.
Jesus, shield from sin’s dark errors,Name which every foe o’ercomes;Death, the dreaded king of terrors,Death itself to thee succumbs.Thou hast conquered,Joyful praise my soul becomes.
* * * * *
Fix, O Lord, a tent in Goshen,Thither come and there abide,Bow thyself from light celestial,And with sinful man reside.Dwell in Zion, there continue,Where the holy tribes ascend;Do not e’er desert thy people,Till the world in flames shall end.
I am through the lone night waiting,For the dawning of the day;When my prison door is opened,When my fetters fall away;O come quickly,Happy day of jubilee.
Let me still be meekly wakeful,Trusting that to all my woes,By thy mighty hand, Redeemer,Shall be given a speedy close;Keep me watching,For the joyful jubilee.
* * * * *
O’er the gloomy hills of darkness,Look, my soul, be still and gaze;All the promises do travail,With a glorious day of grace;Blessed jubilee,May thy morning dawn apace.
Let the Indian, let the Negro,Let the rude Barbarian seeThat divine and Godlike conquest,Once obtained on Calvary;Let the gospel,Loud resound from pole to pole.
* * * * *
Kingdoms wide, that sit in darkness,Grant them, Lord, the saving light;And from eastern coast to western,May the morning chase the night;Pouring radiance,As if one day sevenfold bright.
Blessed Saviour, spread thy gospel,Ride and conquer, never cease;May thy wide, thy vast dominions,Multiply and still increase;Sway thy sceptre,Saviour, all the world around.
* * * * *
O’er the earth, in every nation,Reign, Jehovah, in each place;Take all kingdoms in possession,Heathen darkness thence displace;Fill each people,Sun of Righteousness, with grace.
Oh! ye heralds of salvation,Jesus’ mercy far proclaim;Bear, ye seas, the sacred mission,Till the pagan bless his name;Let the gospelFly on wings of heavenly flame.
Let all those in deserts dwelling,All on hills—in dales around,Those who live ’midst oceans swelling,Jesus’ glorious praises sound;Till the echoOf his name the world surround.
* * * * *
Ride in triumph, holy Saviour,Go and conquer o’er the land;Earth and hell, with all their forces,Now before thee cannot stand;At the radiance of thy glory,Every foe must flee away;All creation thrills with terrorUnder thine eternal sway.
Aid me, Lord, always to tarryIn my Father’s courts below;Live in light divine and glorious,Without darkness, without woe;Live without the sun’s departure,Live without a cloud or pain;Live on Jesus’ love unconquer’d,Who on Calvary was slain.
Let me view the great atonement,And the kingdom that is mine,Which thy blood hath purchased for me,Sealed also as divine;Let me daily strive to find it,Let this be my chief employ;On my way I ask no favourBut thy presence to enjoy.
* * * * *
Great Redeemer, Friend of sinners,Thou hast glorious power to save,Grant me light and still conduct meOver each tempestuous wave;May my soul with sacred transportView the dawn while yet afar,And until the sun arises,Lead me by the morning star.
* * * * *
O what madness, O what folly,That my thoughts should go astray,After toys and empty pleasures,Pleasures only for a day;This vain world with all its treasures,Very soon will be no more,There’s no object worth admiring,But the God whom I adore.
* * * * *
I look beyond the distant hills,My Saviour dear to see;O come, Beloved, ere the dusk,My sun doth set on me.
Methinks that were my feet releasedFrom these afflicting chains,I would but sing of Calvary,Nor think of all my pains.
I long for thy divine abode,Where sinless myriads dwell,Who ceaseless sing thy boundless love,And all thy glories tell.
* * * * *
My soul’s delight I will proclaim,O! Jesus ’tis thy face;Each letter of thy holy name,Is full of life and grace.
Beneath thy wing, thou Saviour meek,I would for ever be;No other pleasure vainly seek,My God, than loving thee.
Thy strength alone supports each dayMy footsteps, lest I fall;And thy salvation is my stay,My joy, my song, my all.
Than combs of honey sweeter isThy favour to enjoy;In life, in death, no joy than thisWill last without alloy.
* * * * *
Angelic throngs unnumbered,As dawn’s bright drops of dew,Present their crowns before HimWith praises ever new;But saints and angels blendingTheir songs above the sun,Can ne’er express the gloriesOf God with man made one.
* * * * *
Direct unto my God,With speed, my cry ascend;Present to Him this urgent plea:—“In mercy, Lord, attend!Fulfil thy gracious word,To bring me to thy rest;In Salem soon my place prepare,And make me ever blest!”
Down in a vale of tears,Where dwelt my Christ I mourn,And in the conflict with my foes,My tender heart is torn;O heal each bleeding wound,With thy life-giving tree;In Salem, Lord, above the strife,A place prepare for me!”
Had I but the wings of a dove,To regions afar I’d repair,To Nebo’s high summit would rove,And look on a country more fair;My eyes gazing over the flood,I’d spend the remainder of lifeBeholding the Saviour so good,Who for sinners expired in strife.
* * * * *
Once I steered through the billows,On a dark, relentless night,Stripped of sail—the surge so heinous,And no refuge within sight.Strength and skill alike were ended,Nought, but sinking in the tide,While amid the gloom appearedBethlehem’s star to be my guide.
* * * * *
Of all the ancient race,Not one be left behind,But each, impell’d by secret grace,His way to Canaan find.
Rebuilt by His command,Jerusalem shall rise;Her temple on Moriah standAgain, and touch the skies.
Send then thy servants forth,To call the Hebrews home;From east and west, and south and north,Let all the wanderers come.
With Israel’s myriads seal’dLet all the nations meet,And show the mystery fulfill’d,The family complete.
* * * * *
Teach me Aaron’s thoughtful silenceWhen corrected by the rod;Teach me Eli’s acquiescence,Saying, “Do thy will, my God;”Teach me Job’s confiding patience,Dreading words from pride that flow,For thou, Lord, alone exaltest,And thou only layest low.
* * * * *
Who cometh from Edom with might,Far brighter than day at its dawn?He routed and conquered his foes,And trampled the giants alone;His garments were dyed with their blood,His sword and his arrows stood strong,His beauty did fill the whole land,While travelling in greatness along.
* * * * *
He who darts the winged light’ning,Walks upon the foaming wave;Send forth arrows of conviction,Here exert thy power to save;Burst the bars of Satan’s prison,Snatch the firebrand from the flame,Fill the doubting with assurance,Teach the dumb to sing thy name.
* * * * *
The clouds, O Lord, do scatter,Between me and thy face;Reveal to me the gloryOf thy redeeming grace;Speak thou in words of mercy,While in distress I call;And let me taste forgiveness,Through Christ, my all-in-all.