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. a celtic psaltery being mainly renderings in english verse from irish & welsh poetry by alfred perceval graves the f. a. stokes company 443-449 fourth avenue new york published in england by the society for promoting christian knowledge 68 haymarket, london 1917 dedication to the right hon. david lloyd george prime minister of great britain and ireland this psaltery of celtic songs to you by bounden right belongs; for ere war's thunder round us broke, to your content its chord i woke, where cymru's prince in fealty pure knelt for his sire's investiture. nor less these lays are yours but more, in memory of the eisteddfod floor you flooded with a choral throng that poured god's praise a whole day long. but most, o celtic seer, to you this song wreath of our race is due, since high o'er hatred and division, you have scaled the peak and seen the vision of freedom, breaking into birth from out an agonising earth. preface i have called this volume of verse a celtic psaltery because it mainly consists of close and free translations from irish, scotch gaelic, and welsh poetry of a religious or serious character. the first half of the book is concerned with irish poems. the first group of these starts with the dawning of christianity out of pagan darkness, and the spiritualising of the early irish by the wisdom to be found in the conversations between king cormac macart--the irish ancestor of our royal family--and his son and successor, king carbery. here also will be found those pregnant ninth-century utterances known as the "irish triads." next follow poems attributed or relating to some of the irish saints--patrick, columba, brigit, moling; lays of monk and hermit, religious invocations, reflections and charms and lamentations for the dead, including a remarkable early irish poem entitled "the mothers' lament at the slaughter of the innocents" and a powerful peasant poem, "the keening of mary." the irish section is ended by a set of songs suggested by irish folk-tunes. of the early irish religious poetry here translated it may be observed that the originals are not only remarkable for fine metrical form but for their cheerful spirituality, their open-air freshness and their occasional touches of kindly humour. "irish religious poetry," it has been well said, "ranges from single quatrains to lengthy compositions dealing with all the varied aspects of religious life. many of them give us a fascinating insight into the peculiar character of the early irish church, which differed in so many ways from the christian world. we see the hermit in his lonely cell, the monk at his devotions or at his work of copying in the scriptorium or under the open sky; or we hear the ascetic who, alone or with twelve chosen companions, has left one of the great monasteries in order to live in greater solitude among the woods or mountains, or on a lonely island. the fact that so many of these poems are fathered upon well-known saints emphasises the friendly attitude of the native clergy towards vernacular poetry."[a] i have endeavoured as far as possible to preserve in my translations both the character of these poems and their metrical form. but the latter attempt can be only a mere approximation owing to the strict rules of early irish verse both as regards alliteration and vowel consonance. still the use of the "inlaid rhyme" and other assonantal devices have, it is to be hoped, brought my renderings nearer in vocal effect to the originals than the use of more familiar english verse methods would have done. the same metrical difficulties have met me when translating the welsh sacred and spiritual poems which form the second division of this volume. but they have been more easy to grapple with--in part because i have had more assistance in dealing with the older cymric poems from my lamented friend mr. sidney richard john and other welsh scholars, than i had in the case of the early irish lyrics--in part because the later welsh poems which i have rendered into english verse are generally in free, not "strict," metres, and therefore present no great difficulty to the translator. the poems in the welsh section are, roughly speaking, arranged in chronological order. the early welsh poets aneurin and llywarch hen are represented by two singular pieces, llywarch hen's curious "tercets" and aneurin's "ode to the months." in both of these, nature poetry and proverbial philosophy are oddly intermingled in a manner reminiscent of the greek gnomic poets. two examples are given of the serious verse of dafydd ab gwilym, a contemporary of chaucer, who though he did not, like wordsworth, read nature into human life with that spiritual insight for which he was so remarkable, yet as a poet of fancy, the vivid, delicate, sympathetic fancy of the celt, still remains unmatched. amongst dafydd's contemporaries and successors, iolo goch's noble poem, "the labourer," very appropriate to our breadless days, lewis glyn cothi's touching elegy on his little son john, and dr. sion cent's epigrammatic "the noble's grave" have been treated as far as possible in the metres of the originals, and i have gone as near as i could to the measures of huw morus' "the bard's death-bed confession," elis win's "counsel in view of death," and the vicar pritchard's "a good wife." a word or two about these famous welsh writers: huw morus (hugh morris) was the leading welsh poet of the seventeenth century and a staunch royalist, who during the civil war proved himself the equal if not the superior of samuel butler as a writer of anti-republican satire. he was also an amatory lyrist, but closed his career as the writer of some fine religious verses, notably this "death-bed confession." elis win (ellis wynne) was not only an excellent writer of verse but one of the masters of welsh prose. his "vision of the sleeping bard" is, indeed, one of the most beautifully written works in the welsh language. though in many respects indebted to "quevedo's visions," the matter of elis win's book is distinctly original, and most poetically expressed, though he is none the less able to expose and scourge the immoralities of his age. the vicar pritchard, otherwise the rev. rhys pritchard, was the author of the famous "welshmen's candle," "cannwyll y cymry," written in the free metres, first published in 1646--completed in 1672. this consisted of a series of moral verses in the metres of the old folk-songs (penillion telyn) and remained dear to the hearts of the welsh people for two centuries. next may be mentioned goronwy owen, educated by the poet lewis morris, grandfather of the author of "songs of two worlds" and "the epic of hades." as the rev. elvet lewis writes of him: "here at once we meet the true artist lost in his art. his humour is as playful as if the hand of a stern fate had never struck him on the face. his muse can laugh and make others laugh, or it can weep and make others weep." a specimen is given of one of his best known poems, "an ode on the day of judgment," reproducing, as far as my powers have permitted, its final and internal rhymes and other metrical effects. we now reach the most individual of the modern welsh religious and philosophical poets, islwyn (william thomas), who took his bardic title from the hill of islwyn in his native monmouthshire. he was greatly influenced by the poetry of wordsworth, but was in no sense an imitator. yet whilst, in the words of one of the triads, he possessed the three things essential to poetic genius, "an eye to see nature, a heart to feel nature: and courage that dares follow nature"--he steadfastly refused to regard poetry as an art and, by declining to use the pruning-knife, allowed the finest fruits of his poetic talents to lie buried beneath immense accumulations of weedy and inferior growth. yet what his powers were may not be ill judged of, even in translation, by the passage from his blank verse poem, "the storm," entitled "behind the veil," to be found on p. 94. pantycelyn (the rev. william williams) was a co-worker with howel harris and daniel rowlands in the methodist revival. professor w.j. gruffyd writes of him: "it is not enough to say he was a hymnologist--he was much more. he is the national poet of wales. he had certainly the loftiest imagination of all the poets of five centuries, and his influence on the welsh people can be gauged by the fact that a good deal of his idiom or dialect has fixed itself indelibly in modern literary welsh." the hymn, "marchog jesu!" which represents him was translated by me at the request of the committee responsible for the institution ceremony of the prince of wales at carnarvon castle. of the more modern welsh poets represented in this volume let it be said that ceiriog (john hughes), so called from his birth in the ceiriog valley, is the burns of welsh poetry. against the spirit of gloom that the welsh revival cast over the first half of the nineteenth century he threw himself in sharp revolt. but while the joy of life wells up and overflows in his song he was also, like all welshmen, serious-minded, as the specimens given in my translation from his works go to prove. according to professor lewis jones, no poem in the strict metre is more read than eben farrd's "dinistur jerusalem" ("the destruction of jerusalem"), translated into kindred verse in this volume, unless indeed its popularity is rivalled by hiraethog's ode on "heddwch," ("peace"). two extracts from the former poem are dealt with, and hiraethog is represented by a beautiful fancy, "love divine," taken from his "emanuel." finally, three living poets are represented in the welsh section--elvet lewis by his stirring and touching "high tide"; eifion wyn, upon whom the mantle of ceiriog has fallen, by two exquisitely simple and pathetic poems, "ora pro nobis" and "a flower-sunday lullaby"; and william john gruffydd, the bright hope of "y beirdd newydd" ("the new poets"), by his poignant ballad of "the old bachelor of ty'n y mynydd." there is no need for me to dwell upon the rest of the verse in this volume beyond stating that "the prodigal's return" is a free translation from a poem on that theme by an anonymous scotch gaelic bard to be found in sinton's "the poetry of badenoch"; that "let there be joy!" is rendered from a gaelic poem in alexander carmichael's "carmina gadelica," and that, finally, "wild wine of nature" is a pretty close english version of a poem hardly to have been expected from that far from teetotal scotch gaelic bard, duncan ban mcintyre. alfred perceval graves red branch house lauriston road, wimbledon july 11, 1917 footnotes: [footnote a: from "the ancient poetry of ireland," by professor kuno meyer, to whose beautiful prose translations from irish verse in that volume, and in his "hail, brigit!" i am greatly indebted.] contents i. irish poems the isle of the happy the wisdom of king cormac irish triads lays of the irish saints st. patrick's blessing on munster the breastplate of st. patrick st. patrick's evensong st. columba's greeting to ireland st. columba in iona hail, brigit! the devil's tribute to moling the hymn of st. philip lays of monk and hermit the scribe the hermit's song crinog king and hermit on ængus the culdee the shaving of murdoch on the flightiness of thought the monk and his white cat invocations and reflections a prayer to the virgin maelisu's hymn to the archangel michael maelisu's hymn to the holy spirit eve's lamentation alexander the great the kings who came to christ quatrains charms and invocations lamentations the song of crede, daughter of guare the deserted home the mothers' lament at the slaughter of the innocents the keening of mary caoine songs to music battle hymn the song of the woods the enchanted valley remember the poor ii. welsh poems the odes to the months the tercets hail, glorious lord! my burial the last cywydd the labourer the elegy on sion glyn the noble's grave the bard's death-bed confession quick, death! counsel in view of death from "the last judgment" a good wife "marchog jesu!" the destruction of jerusalem love divine behind the veil the reign of love plas gogerddan all through the night david of the white rock the high tide "ora pro nobis" a flower-sunday lullaby the ballad of the old bachelor of ty'n y mynydd the queen's dream the welsh fishermen iii. old and new testament studies david's lament over saul and jonathan the fiery furnace ruth and naomi the lilies of the field and the fowls of the air the good physician the sower the prodigal's return st. mary magdalen iv. church festivals a christmas communion hymn a christmas carol of the epiphany a fourteenth-century carol earth's easter easter day, 1915 the ascension whitsuntide harvest hymn v. good and faithful servants father o'flynn lady gwenny old doctor mack to the memory of john owen saint cuthbert alfred the great sir samuel ferguson "men, not walls, make a city" field-marshal earl kitchener inscription for a roll of honour in a public school an epitaph an intercessional answered vi. personal and various let there be joy! a holiday hymn summer morning's walk snow-stains remembrance sands of gold the mourner de profundis immortal hope we had a child by the bedside of a sick child he has come back spring's secrets the lord's leisure spring is not dead aim not too high wild wine of nature bridal invocation the coming of sir galahad and a vision of the grail ask what thou wilt i. irish poems the isle of the happy (from the early irish) once when bran, son of feval, was with his warriors in his royal fort, they suddenly saw a woman in strange raiment upon the floor of the house. no one knew whence she had come or how she had entered, for the ramparts were closed. then she sang these quatrains of erin, the isle of the happy, to bran while all the host were listening: a branch i bear from evin's apple-trees whose shape agrees with evin's orchard spray; yet never could her branches best belauded such crystal-gauded bud and bloom display. there is a distant isle, deep sunk in shadows, sea-horses round its meadows flash and flee; full fair the course, white-swelling waves enfold it, four pedestals uphold it o'er the sea. white the bronze pillars that this fairy curragh,[a] the centuries thorough, glimmering uphold. through all the world the fairest land of any is this whereon the many blooms unfold. and in its midst an ancient tree forth flowers, whence to the hours beauteous birds outchime; in harmony of song, with fluttering feather, they hail together each new birth of time. and through the isle glow all glad shades of colour, no hue of dolour mars its beauty lone. 'tis silver cloud land that we ever name it, and joy and music claim it for their own. not here are cruel guile or loud resentment, but calm contentment, fresh and fruitful cheer; not here loud force or dissonance distressful, but music melting blissful on the ear. no grief, no gloom, no death, no mortal sickness, nor any weakness our sure strength can bound; these are the signs that grace the race of evin. beneath what other heaven are they found? a hero fair, from out the dawn's bright blooming, rides forth, illuming level shore and flood; the white and seaward plain he sets in motion, he stirs the ocean into burning blood. a host across the clear blue sea comes rowing, their prowess showing, till they touch the shore; thence seek the shining stone where music's measure prolongs the pleasure of the pulsing oar. it sings a strain to all the host assembled; that strain untired has trembled through all time! it swells with such sweet choruses unnumbered, decay and death have slumbered since its chime. thus happiness with wealth is o'er us stealing, and laughter pealing forth from every hill. yea! through the land of peace at every season pure joy and reason are companions still. through all the lovely isle's unchanging hours there showers and showers a stream of silver bright; a pure white cliff that from the breast of evin mounts up to heaven thus assures her light. long ages hence a wondrous child and holy, yet in estate most lowly shall have birth; seed of a woman, yet whose mate knows no man to rule the thousand thousands of the earth. his sway is ceaseless; 'twas his love all-seeing that earth's vast being wrought with perfect skill. all worlds are his; for all his kindness cares; but woe to all gainsayers of his will. the stainless heavens beneath his hands unfolded, he moulded man as free of mortal stain, and even now earth's sin-struck sons and daughters his living waters can make whole again. not unto all of you is this my message of marvellous presage at this hour revealed. let bran but listen from earth's concourse crowded unto the shrouded wisdom there concealed. upon a couch of languor lie not sunken, beware lest drunkenness becloud thy speech! put forth, o bran, across the far, clear waters. and evin's daughters haply thou may'st reach. [footnote a: plain or tableland such as the curragh of kildare.] the wisdom of king cormac (from the early irish) the depths of king cormac's heart carbery "cormac, conn's grandson, and son of great art declare to me now from the depths of thy heart, with the wise and the foolish, with strangers and friends, the meek and the mulish, the old and the young, with good manners to make god amends- how i must govern my tongue, and in all things comport myself purely, the good and the wicked among." cormac "the answer thereto is not difficult surely. be not too wise nor too scatter-brained, not too conceited nor too restrained, be not too haughty nor yet too meek, too tattle-tongued or too loth to speak, neither too hard nor yet too weak. if too wise you appear, folk too much will claim of you, if too foolish, they still will be making fresh game of you, if too conceited, vexatious they'll dub you, if too unselfish, they only will snub you, if too much of a tattler, you ne'er will be heeded, if too silent, your company ne'er will be needed, if overhard, your pride will be broken asunder, if overweak, the folk will trample you under." the house of hospitality carbery "cormac, grandson of conn, what dues hath a chief and an ale-house?" said cormac: "not hard to tell! good behaviour around a good chief; lamps to light for the eye's relief; exerting ourselves for the company's sake, seats assigned with no clownish mistake, deft and liberal measuring carvers; attentive and nimble-handed servers; moderation in music and song; a telling of stories not too long; the host, to a bright elation stirred, giving each guest a welcoming word. silence during the bard's reciting- each chorus in sweet concent uniting." how king cormac ordered his youth carbery "o cormac, grandson of conn, say sooth, how didst thou order thy days in youth?" cormac "into the woods i went a-listening, i was a gazer when stars were glistening; blind when secrets were plain to guess; a silent one in the wilderness; i was talkative with the many, yet, in the mead-hall, milder than any; i was stern amid battle cries; i was gentle towards allies; i was a doctor unto the sick; on the feeble i laid no stick. not close lest burdensome i should be; though wise not given to arrogancy. i promised little, though lavish of gift; i was not reckless though i was swift; young, i never derided the old; and never boasted though i was bold; of an absent one no ill would i tell; i would not reproach, though i praised full well; i never would ask but ever would give, for a kingly life i craved to live!" the worst way of pleading carbery "o cormac mac art, of wisdom exceeding, what is the evilest way of pleading?" said cormac: "not hard to tell! against knowledge contending; without proofs, pretending; in bad language escaping; a style stiff and scraping; speech mean and muttering, hair-splitting and stuttering; uncertain proofs devising; authorities despising; scorning custom's reading; confusing all your pleading; to madness a mob to be leading; with the shout of a strumpet blowing one's own trumpet." king cormac's worst enemy "o cormac mac art, of your enemies' garrison, who is the worst for your witty comparison?" said cormac: "not hard to tell! a man with a satirist's nameless audacity; a man with a slave-woman's shameless pugnacity; one with a dirty dog's careless up-bound, the conscience thereto of a ravening hound. like a stately noble he answers all speakers from a memory full as a chronicle-maker's, with the suave behaviour of abbot or prior, yet the blasphemous tongue of a horse-thief liar and he wise as false in every grey hair, violent, garrulous, devil-may-care. when he cries, 'the case is settled and over!' though you were a saint, i swear you would swear!" irish triads (by an unknown author of the ninth century) three signs whereby to mark a man of vice are hatred, bitterness, and avarice. three graceless sisters in the bond of unity are lightness, flightiness, and importunity. three clouds, the most obscuring wisdom's glance, forgetfulness, half-knowledge, ignorance. three savage sisters sharpening life's distress, foul blasphemy, foul strife, foul-mouthedness. three services the worst for human hands, a vile lord's, a vile lady's, a vile land's. three gladnesses that soon give way to griefs, a wooer's, a tale-bearer's, and a thief's. three signs of ill-bred folk in every nation- a visit lengthened to a visitation, staring, and overmuch interrogation. three arts that constitute a true physician: to cure your malady with expedition. to let no after-consequence remain, and make his diagnosis without pain. three keys that most unlock our secret thinking are love and trustfulness and overdrinking. three nurses of hot blood to man's undoing- excess of pride, of drinking, and of wooing. three the receivers are of stolen goods: a cloak, the cloak of night, the cloak of woods. three unions, each of peace a proved miscarriage, confederate feats, joint ploughland, bonds of marriage. three lawful hand-breadths for mankind about the body be, from shoes to hose, from ear to hair, from tunic unto knee. three youthful sisters for all eyes to see, beauty, desire, and generosity. three excellences of our dress are these- elegance, durability, and ease. three idiots of a bad guest-house are these- a hobbling beldam with a hoicking wheeze, a brainless tartar of a serving-girl, for serving-boy a swinish lubber-churl. three slender ones whereon the whole earth swings- the thin milk stream that in the keeler sings; the thin green blade that from the cornfield springs; that thin grey thread the housewife's shuttle flings. the three worst welcomes that will turn a guest-house for weary wayfarers into a pest-house- within its roof a workman's hammer beat; a bath of scalding water for your feet; with no assuaging draught, salt food to eat. three finenesses that foulness keep from sight- fine manners in the most misfeatured wight; fine shapes of art by servile fingers moulded; fine wisdom from a cripple's brain unfolded. three fewnesses that better are than plenty: a fewness of fine words--but one in twenty; a fewness of milch cows, when grass is shrinking; fewness of friends when beer is best for drinking. three worst of snares upon a chieftain's way: sloth, treachery, and evil counsel they! three ruins of a tribe to west or east: a lying chief, false brehon, lustful priest. the rudest three of all the sons of earth: a youngster of an old man making mirth; a strong man at a sick man poking fun; a wise man gibing at a foolish one. three signs that show a fop: the comb-track on his hair; the track of his nice teeth upon his nibbled fare; his cane-track on the dust, oft as he takes the air. three sparks that light the fire of love are these- glamour of face, and grace, and speech of ease. three steadinesses of wise womanhood- steady tongue through evil, as through good; a steady chastity, whoso else shall stray; steady house service, all and every day. three sounds of increase: kine that low, when milk unto their calves they owe; the hammer on the anvil's brow, the pleasant swishing of the plough. three sisters false: i would! i might! i may! three fearful brothers: hearken! hush! and stay! three coffers of a depth unknown are his who occupies the throne, the church's, and the privileged poet's own. three glories of a gathering free from strife- swift hound, proud steed, and beautiful young wife. the world's three laughing-stocks (be warned and wiser!)- an angry man, a jealoused, and a miser. three powers advantaging a chieftain most are peace and justice and an armed host. lays of the irish saints st. patrick's blessing on munster (from the early irish) blessing from the lord on high over munster fall and lie; to her sons and daughters all choicest blessing still befall; fruitful blessing on the soil that supports her faithful toil. blessing full of ruddy health, blessing full of every wealth that her borders furnish forth, east and west and south and north; blessing from the lord on high over munster fall and lie! blessing on her peaks in air, blessing on her flagstones bare, blessing from her ridges flow to her grassy glens below! blessing from the lord on high over munster fall and lie! as the sands upon her shore underneath her ships, for store, be her hearths, a twinkling host, over mountain, plain and coast; blessings from the lord on high over munster fall and lie! the breastplate of st. patrick otherwise called "the deer's cry." for st. patrick sang this hymn when the ambuscades were laid against him by king leary that he might go to tara to sow the faith. then it seemed to those lying in ambush that he and his monks were wild deer with a fawn, even benen (benignus) following him. i invoke, upon my path to the king of ireland's rath, the almighty power of the trinity; through belief in the threeness, through confession of the oneness of the maker's eternal divinity. i invoke, on my journey arising, the power of christ's birth and baptizing, the powers of the hours of his dread crucifixion, of his death and abode in the tomb, the power of the hour of his glorious resurrection from out the gehenna of gloom, the power of the hour when to heaven he ascended, and the power of the hour when by angels attended, he returns for the judgment of doom! on my perilous way to tara to-day, i, patrick, god's servant, invoke from above the cherubim's love! yea! i summon the might of the company fervent of angel obedient, ministrant archangel to speed and to prosper my irish evangel. i go forth on my path in the trust of the gathering to god of the just; in the power of the patriarchs' prayers; the foreknowledge of prophets and seers; the apostles' pure preaching; the confessors' sure teaching; the virginity blest of god's dedicate daughters, and the lives and the deaths of his saints and his martyrs! i arise to-day in the strength of the heaven, the glory of the sun, the radiance of the moon, the splendour of fire and the swiftness of the levin, the wind's flying force, the depth of the sea, the earth's steadfast course, the rock's austerity. i arise on my way, with god's strength for my stay, god's might to protect me, god's wisdom to direct me, god's eye to be my providence, god's ear to take my evidence, god's word my words to order, god's hand to be my warder, god's way to lie before me, god's shield and buckler o'er me, god's host unseen to save me, from each ambush of the devil, from each vice that would enslave me. and from all who wish me evil, whether far i fare or near. alone or in a multitude. all these hierarchies and powers i invoke to intervene, when the adversary lowers on my path, with purpose keen of vengeance black and bloody on my soul and my body; i bind these powers to come against druid counsel dark, the black craft of pagandom, and the false heresiarch, the spells of wicked women, and the wizard's arts inhuman, and every knowledge, old and fresh, corruptive of man's soul and flesh. may christ, on my way to tara to-day, shield me from prison, shield me from fire, drowning or wounding by enemy's ire, so that mighty fruition may follow my mission. christ behind and before me, christ beneath me and o'er me, christ within and without me, christ around and about me, christ on my left and christ on my right, christ with me at morn and christ with me at night; christ in each heart that shall ever take thought of me, christ in each mouth that shall ever speak aught of me; christ in each eye that shall ever on me fasten, christ in each ear that shall ever to me listen. i invoke, upon my path to the king of ireland's rath, the almighty power of the trinity; through belief in the threeness, through confession of the oneness of the maker's eternal divinity. st. patrick's evensong christ, thou son of god most high, may thy holy angels keep watch around us as we lie in our shining beds asleep. time's hid veil with truth to pierce let them teach our dreaming eyes, arch-king of the universe, high-priest of the mysteries. may no demon of the air, may no malice of our foes, evil dream or haunting care mar our willing, prompt repose! may our vigils hallowed be by the tasks we undertake! may our sleep be fresh and free, without let and without break. st. columba's greeting to ireland (an old irish poem recounting the saint's voyage from erin to alba (scotland), from which he but once returned) delightful to stand on the brow of ben edar, before being a speeder on the white-haired sea! the dashing of the wave in wild disorder on its desolate border delightful to me! delightful to stand on the brow of ben edar, after being a speeder o'er the white-bosomed sea, after rowing and rowing in my little curragh! to the loud shore thorough, o, och, ochonee! great is the speed of my little wherry, as afar from derry its path it ploughs; heavy my heart out of erin steering and nearing alba of the beetling brows. my foot is fast in my chiming curragh, tears of sorrow my sad heart fill. who lean not on god are but feeble-minded, without his love we go blinded still. there is a grey eye that tears are thronging, fixed with longing on erin's shore, it shall never see o'er the waste of waters the sons and daughters of erin more. its glance goes forth o'er the brine wave-broken, far off from the firm-set, oaken seat; many the tears from that grey eye streaming, the faint, far gleaming of erin to meet. for indeed my soul is set upon erin, and all joys therein from linnhe to lene, on each pleasant prospect of proud ultonia, mild momonia and meath the green. in alba eastward the lean scot increases, frequent the diseases and murrain in her parts, many in her mountains the scanty-skirted fellows, many are the hard and the jealous hearts. many in the west are our kings and princes noble, orchards bend double beneath their fruitage vast; sloes upon the thorn-bush shine in blue abundance, oaks in redundance drop the royal mast. melodious are her clerics, melodious erin's birds are, gentle her youths' words are, her seniors discreet; famed far her chieftains--goodlier are no men- very fair her women for espousal sweet. 'tis within the west sweet brendan is residing, there colum maccriffan is indeed abiding now; and 'tis unto the west ruddy baithir is repairing and adamnan shall be faring to perform his vow. salute them courteously, salute them all and single, after them comgall, eternity's true heir, then to the stately monarch of fair navan up from the haven my greeting greatly bear. my blessing, fair youth, and my full benediction without one restriction be bearing to-day- one half above erin, one half seven times over, and one half above alba to hover for aye. carry to erin that full load of blessing, for sorrow distressing my heart's pulses fail, if death overtake me, the whole truth be spoken! my heart it was broken by great love for the gael. "gael, gael," at that dear word's repeating, again with glad beating my heart takes my breast. beloved is cummin of the tresses most beauteous, and cainnech the duteous and comgall the blest. were all of alba mine now to enter, mine from the centre and through to the sea; i would rather possess in deep-leaved derry the home that was very very dear to me. to derry my love is ever awarded, for her lawns smooth-swarded, her pure clear wells, and the hosts of angels that hover and hover over and over her oak-set dells. indeed and indeed for these joys i love her, pure air is above her, smooth turf below; while evermore over each oak-bough leafy a beautiful bevy of angels go. my derry, my little oak grove of erin! my dwelling was therein, my small dear cell. strike him, o living god out of heaven, with thy red levin who works them ill. beloved shall derry and durrow endure, beloved raphoe of the pure clear well, beloved drumhome with its sweet acorn showers, beloved the towers of swords and kells! beloved too at my heart as any art thou drumcliffe on culcinné's strand, and over loch foyle--'tis delight to be gazing- so shapely are her shores on either hand. delightful indeed, is the purple sea's glamour, where sea-gulls clamour in white-winged flight, as you view it afar from derry belovèd, o the peace of it, the peace and delight! st. columba in iona (from an irish manuscript in the burgundian library, brussels) delightful would it be to me from a rock pinnacle to trace continually the ocean's face: that i might watch the heaving waves of noble force to god the father chant their staves of the earth's course. that i might mark its level strand, to me no lone distress, that i might hark the sea-bird's wondrous band- sweet source of happiness. that i might hear the clamorous billows thunder on the rude beach. that by my blessed church side i might ponder their mighty speech. or watch surf-flying gulls the dark shoal follow with joyous scream, or mighty ocean monsters spout and wallow, wonder supreme! that i might well observe of ebb and flood all cycles therein; and that my mystic name might be for good but "cul-ri. erin." that gazing toward her on my heart might fall a full contrition, that i might then bewail my evils all, though hard the addition; that i might bless the lord who all things orders for their great good. the countless hierarchies through heaven's bright borders- land, strand, and flood, that i might search all books and from their chart find my soul's calm; now kneel before the heaven of my heart, now chant a psalm; now meditate upon the king of heaven, chief of the holy three; now ply my work by no compulsion driven. what greater joy could be? now plucking dulse upon the rocky shore, now fishing eager on, now furnishing food unto the famished poor; in hermitage anon: the guidance of the king of kings has been vouchsafed unto me; if i keep watch beneath his wings, no evil shall undo me. hail, brigit! an old irish poem on the hill of alenn recording the disappearance of the pagan world of ireland and the triumph of christianity by the establishment at kildare of the convent of brigit, saint and princess. safe on thy throne, triumphing bride, down liffey's side, far to the coast, rule with the host under thy care over the children of mighty cathair. god's hid intents at every time, for pure erin's clime all telling surpass. liffey's clear glass mirrors thy reign, but many proud masters have passed from his plain. when on his banks i cast my eyes thorough the fair, grassy curragh, awe enters my mind at each wreck that i find around me far strown of lofty kings' palaces gaunt, lichen-grown! laery was monarch as far as the main; vast ailill's reign! the curragh's green wonder still grows the blue under, the old rulers thereon one after other to cold death have gone. where is alenn far-famed, how dear in delights! beneath her what knights what princes repose how feared by her foes when crimthan was chief- crimthan of conquests--now passes belief! proudly the triumph-shout rang from his victor lords, round their massed shock of swords; while their foes' serried, blue spears they struck through and through; blasts of delight blared from their horns over hundreds in flight. blithe, on their anvils even-hued, blent the hammers' concent; from the brugh the bard's song brake sweet and strong; proud beauty graced the field where knights jousted and charioteers raced. there in each household ran the rich mead; steed neighed to steed; chains jingled again unto kings among men under the blades of their five-edged, long, bitter, blood-letting spear-heads. there, at each hour, harp music o'erflowed; the wine-galleon rode the violet sea, whence silver showered free, and gold torques without fail, from the land of the gaul to the land of the gael. to britain's far coasts the renown of those kings on a meteor's wings o'er the waters had flown. yea! alenn's high throne, with its masterful lore, made sport of the pomp of each palace before. but where, oh, where is mighty cathair? before him or since no shapelier prince ruled many-hued erin. though round the rath, wherein they laid him, you cry, the champion of champions can never reply. where is feradach's robe, where his diadem famed, round which, as it flamed, plumed ranks deployed? his blue helm is destroyed, his shining cloak dust. overthrower of kings, in whom now is thy trust? alenn's worship of auguries now is as naught! none thereof takes thought. all in vain is each spell the dark future to tell! all is vain, when 'tis probed, and alenn lies dead of her black arts disrobed. hail, brigit! whose lands to-day i behold, whither monarchs of old came each in his turn. thy fame shall outburn their mightiest glory; thou art over them all, till this earth ends its story. yea! thy rule with the king everlasting shall stand, apart from the land of thy burial-place. child of bresal's proud race, o triumphing bride,[a] sit safely enthroned upon liffey's green side. [footnote a: brigit; hence st. bride's bay.] the devil's tribute to moling (from the early irish) once, when st. moling was praying in his church, the devil visited him in purple raiment and distinguished form. on being challenged by the saint, he declared himself to be the christ, but on moling's raising the gospel to disprove his claim, the evil one confessed that he was satan. "wherefore hast thou come?" asked moling. "for a blessing," the devil replied. "thou shalt not have it," said moling, "for thou deservest it not." "well, then," said the devil, "bestow the full of a curse on me." "what good were that to thee?" asked moling. "the venom and the hurt of the curse will be on the lips from which it will come." after further parley, the devil paid this tribute to moling: he is pure gold, the sky around the sun, a silver chalice brimmed with blessed wine, an angel shape, a book of lore divine, whoso obeys in all the eternal one. he is a foolish bird that fowlers lime, a leaking ship in utmost jeopardy, an empty vessel and a withered tree, who disobeys the sovereign sublime. a fragrant branch with blossoms overrun, a bounteous bowl with honey overflowing, a precious stone, of virtue past all knowing is he who doth the will of god's dear son. a nut that only emptiness doth fill, a sink of foulness, a crookt branch is he upon a blossomless crab-apple tree, who doeth not his heavenly master's will. whoso obeys the son of god and mary- he is a sunflash lighting up the moor, he is a dais on the heavenly floor, a pure and very precious reliquary. a sun heaven-cheering he, in whose warm beam the king of kings takes ever fresh delight, he is a temple, noble, blessèd, bright, a saintly shrine with gems and gold a-gleam. the altar he, whence bread and wine are told, while countless melodies around are hymned, a chalice cleansed from god's own grapes upbrimmed, upon christ's garment's hem the joyful gold. the hymn of st. philip (from the early irish) philip the apostle holy at an aonach[a] once was telling of the immortal birds and shapely afar in inis eidheand dwelling. east of africa abiding they perform a labour pleasant; unto earth there comes no colour that on their pinions is not present. since the fourth creation morning when their god from dust outdrew them, not one plume has from them perished, and not one bird been added to them. seven fair streams with all their channels pierce the plains wherethrough they flutter, round whose banks the birds go feeding, then soar thanksgiving songs to utter. midnight is their hour apportioned, when, on magic coursers mounted, through the starry skies they circle, to chants of angel choirs uncounted. of the foremost birds the burthen most melodiously unfolded tells of all the works of wonder god wrought before the world he moulded. then a sweet crowd heavenward lifted, when the nocturn bells are pealing, chants his purposes predestined until the day of doom's revealing. next a flock whose thoughts are blessed, under twilight's curls dim sweeping, hymn god's wondrous words of judgment when his court of doom is keeping. one and forty on a hundred and a thousand, without lying, was their number, joined to virtue, put upon each bird-flock flying. who these faultless birds should hearken, thus their strains of rapture linking, for the very transport of it, unto death would straight be sinking. pray for us, o mighty mary! when earth's bonds no more are binding, that these birds our souls may solace, in the land of philip's finding. [footnote a: a fair, or open-air assembly.] lays of monk and hermit the scribe (from the early irish) for weariness my hand writes ill, my small sharp quill runs rough and slow; its slender beak with failing craft gives forth its draught of dark blue flow. and yet god's blessed wisdom gleams and streams beneath my fair brown palm, the while quick jets of holly ink the letters link of prayer or psalm. so still my dripping pen is fain to cross the plain of parchment white, unceasing, at some rich man's call, till wearied all am i to-night. the hermit's song (see _eriu_, vol. i, p. 39, where the irish text will be found. it dates from the ninth century) i long, o son of the living god, ancient, eternal king, for a hidden hut on the wilds untrod, where thy praises i might sing; a little, lithe lark of plumage grey to be singing still beside it, pure waters to wash my sin away, when thy spirit has sanctified it. hard by it a beautiful, whispering wood should stretch, upon either hand, to nurse the many-voiced fluttering brood in its shelter green and bland. southward, for warmth, should my hermitage face, with a runnel across its floor, in a choice land gifted with every grace, and good for all manner of store. a few true comrades i next would seek to mingle with me in prayer, men of wisdom, submissive, meek; their number i now declare, four times three and three times four, for every want expedient, sixes two within god's church door, to north and south obedient; twelve to mingle their voices with mine at prayer, whate'er the weather, to him who bids his dear sun shine on the good and ill together. pleasant the church with fair mass cloth, no dwelling for christ's declining to its crystal candles, of bees-wax both, on the pure, white scriptures shining. beside it a hostel for all to frequent, warm with a welcome for each, where mouths, free of boasting and ribaldry, vent but modest and innocent speech. these aids to support us my husbandry seeks, i name them now without hiding- salmon and trout and hens and leeks, and the honey-bees' sweet providing. raiment and food enow will be mine from the king of all gifts and all graces; and i to be kneeling, in rain or shine, praying to god in all places. crinog a.d. 900-1000 this poem relates "to one who lived like a sister or spiritual wife with a priest, monk, or hermit, a practice which, while early suppressed and abandoned everywhere else, seems to have survived in the irish church till the tenth century." crinog of melodious song, no longer young, but bashful-eyed, as when we roved niall's northern land, hand in hand, or side by side. peerless maid, whose looks ran o'er with the lovely lore of heaven, by whom i slept in dreamless joy, a gentle boy of summers seven. we dwelt in banva's broad domain, without one stain of soul or sense; while still mine eye flashed forth on thee affection free of all offence. to meet thy counsel quick and just, our faithful trust responsive springs; better thy wisdom's searching force than any smooth discourse with kings. in sinless sisterhood with men, four times since then, hast thou been bound, yet not one rumour of ill-fame against thy name has travelled round. at last, their weary wanderings o'er, to me once more thy footsteps tend; the gloom of age makes dark thy face, thy life of grace draws near its end. o, faultless one and very dear, unstinted welcome here is thine. hell's haunting dread i ne'er shall feel, so thou be kneeling at my side. thy blessed fame shall ever bide, for far and wide thy feet have trod. could we their saintly track pursue, we yet should view the living god. you leave a pattern and bequest to all who rest upon the earth- a life-long lesson to declare of earnest prayer the precious worth. god grant us peace and joyful love! and may the countenance of heaven's king beam on us when we leave behind our bodies blind and withering. king and hermit marvan, brother of king guare of connaught, in the seventh century, had renounced the life of a warrior prince for that of a hermit. the king endeavoured to persuade his brother to return to his court, when the following colloquy took place between them: guare now marvan, hermit of the grot, why sleep'st thou not on quilted feathers? why on a pitch-pine floor instead at night make head against all weathers? marvan i have a shieling in the wood, none save my god has knowledge of it, an ash-tree and a hazelnut its two sides shut, great oak-boughs roof it. two heath-clad posts beneath a buckle of honeysuckle its frame are propping, the woods around its narrow bound swine-fattening mast are richly dropping. from out my shieling not too small, familiar all, fair paths invite me; now, blackbird, from my gable end, sweet sable friend, thy notes delight me. with joys the stags of oakridge leap into their clear and deep-banked river, far off red roiny glows with joy, muckraw, moinmoy in sunshine quiver. with mighty mane a green-barked yew upholds the blue; his fortress green an oak uprears against the storms, tremendous forms, stupendous scene. mine apple-tree is full of fruit from crown to root--a hostel's store- my bonny nutful hazel-bush leans branching lush against my door. a choice, pure spring of cooling draught is mine. what prince has quaffed a rarer? around it cresses keen, o king, invite the famishing wayfarer. tame swine and wild and goat and deer assemble here upon its brink, yea! even the badger's brood draw near and without fear lie down to drink. a peaceful troop of creatures strange, they hither range from wood and height, to meet them slender foxes steal at vesper peal, o my delight! these visitants as to a court frequent resort to seek me out, pure water, brother guare, are they the salmon grey, the speckled trout; red rowans, dusky sloes and mast- o unsurpassed and god-sent dish- blackberries, whortleberries blue, red strawberries to my taste and wish; sweet apples, honey of wild bees and after them of eggs a clutch, haws, berries of the juniper; who, king, could cast a slur on such? a cup with mead of hazelnut outside my hut in summer shine, or ale with herbs from wood and spring are worth, o king, thy costliest wine. bright bluebells o'er my board i throw- a lovely show my feast to spangle- the rushes' radiance, oaklets grey, brier-tresses gay, sweet, goodly tangle. when brilliant summer casts once more her cloak of colour o'er the fields, sweet-tasting marjoram, pignut, leek, to all who seek, her verdure yields. her bright red-breasted little men their lovely music then outpour, the thrush exults, the cuckoos all around her call and call once more. the bees, earth's small musicians, hum, no longer dumb, in gentle chorus. like echoes faint of that long plaint the fleeing wild-fowl murmur o'er us. the wren, an active songster now, from off the hazel-bough pipes shrill, woodpeckers flock in multitudes with beauteous hoods and beating bill. with fair white birds, the crane and gull the fields are full, while cuckoos cry- no mournful music! heath-poults dun through russet heather sunward fly. the heifers now with loud delight, summer bright, salute thy reign! smooth delight for toilsome loss 'tis now to cross the fertile plain. the warblings of the wind that sweep from branchy wood to beaming sky, the river-falls, the swan's far note- delicious music floating by. earth's bravest band because unhired, all day, untired make cheer for me. in christ's own eyes of endless youth can this same truth be said of thee? what though in kingly pleasures now beyond all riches thou rejoice, content am i my saviour good should on this wood have set my choice. without one hour of war or strife through all my life at peace i fare; where better can i keep my tryst with our lord christ, o brother guare? guare my glorious kingship, yea! and all my sire's estates that fall to me, my marvan, i would gladly give, so i might live my life with thee. on ængus the culdee author of the _felire ængusa_ or calendar of church festivals. he was a saint, his appellation culdee [céile dé] meaning "servant of god." he lived at the end of the eighth and beginning of the ninth century. delightful here at disert bethel, by cold, pure nore at peace to rest, where noisy raids have never sullied the beechen forest's virgin vest. for here the angel host would visit of yore with ængus, oivlen's son, as in his cross-ringed cell he lauded the one in three, the three in one. to death he passed upon a friday, the day they slew our blessed lord. here stands his tomb; unto the assembly of holy heaven his soul has soared. 'twas in cloneagh he had his rearing; 'tis in cloneagh he now lies dead, 'twas in cloneagh of many crosses that first his psalms he read. the shaving of murdoch (from the early irish) (by muiredach o'daly, late twelfth century, when he and cathal more of the red hand, king of connaught, entered the monastic life together.) murdoch, whet thy razor's edge, our crowns to pledge to heaven's ardrigh! vow we now our hair fine-tressed to the blessed trinity! now my head i shear to mary; 'tis a true heart's very due. shapely, soft-eyed chieftain now shear thy brow to mary, too! seldom on thy head, fair chief, hath a barbing-knife been plied; oft the fairest of princesses combed her tresses at thy side. whensoever we did bathe, we found no scathe, yourself and i, with brian of the well-curled locks, from hidden rocks and currents wry. and most i mind what once befell beside the well of fair boru- i swam a race with ua chais the icy flood of fergus through. when hand to hand the bank we reached, swift foot to foot we stretched again, till duncan cairbre, chief of chiefs, gave us three knives--not now in vain. no other blades such temper have; then, murdoch, shave with easy art! whet, cathal of the wine red hand, thy victor brand, in peaceful part! then our shorn heads from weather wild shield, daughter mild of joachim! preserve us from the sun's fierce power, mary, soft flower of jesse's stem! on the flightiness of thought (a tenth-century poem. see _eriu_, vol. iii, p. 13) shame upon my thoughts, o shame! how they fly in order broken, therefore much i fear for blame when the trump of doom has spoken. at my psalms, they oft are set on a path the fiend must pave them; evermore, with fash and fret, in god's sight they misbehave them. through contending crowds they fleet, companies of wanton women, silent wood or strident street, swifter than the breezes skimming. now through paths of loveliness, now through ranks of shameful riot, onward evermore they press, fledged with folly and disquiet. o'er the ocean's sounding deep now they flash like fiery levin; now at one vast bound they leap up from earth into the heaven. thus afar and near they roam on their race of idle folly; till at last to reason's home they return right melancholy. would you bind them wrist to wrist- foot to foot the truants shackle, from your toils away they twist into air with giddy cackle. crack of whip or edge of steel cannot hold them in your keeping; with the wriggle of an eel from your grasp they still go leaping. never yet was fetter found, never lock contrived, to hold them; never dungeon underground, moor or mountain keep controlled them. thou whose glance alone makes pure, searcher of all hearts and saviour, with thy sevenfold spirit cure my stray thoughts' unblessed behaviour. god of earth, air, fire and flood, rule me, rule me in such measure, that to my eternal good i may live to love thy pleasure. christ's own flock thus may i reach, at the flash of death's sharp sickle, just in deed, of steadfast speech, not, as now, infirm and fickle. the monk and his white cat (after an eighthor early ninth-century irish poem. text and translation in _thesaurus palæohibernicus_.) pangar, my white cat, and i silent ply our special crafts; hunting mice his one pursuit, mine to shoot keen spirit shafts. rest, i love, all fame beyond, in the bond of some rare book; yet white pangar from his play casts, my way, no jealous look. thus alone within one cell safe we dwell--not dull the tale- since his ever favourite sport each to court will never fail. now a mouse, to swell his spoils, in his toils he spears with skill; now a meaning deeply thought i have caught with startled thrill. now his green full-shining gaze darts its rays against the wall; now my feebler glances mark through the dark bright knowledge fall. leaping up with joyful purr, in mouse fur his sharp claw sticks, problems difficult and dear, with my spear i, too, transfix. crossing not each other's will, diverse still, yet still allied, following each his own lone ends, constant friends we here abide. pangar, master of his art, plays his part in pranksome youth; while in age sedate i clear shadows from the sphere of truth. invocations and reflections a prayer to the virgin (edited by strachan in _eriu_, vol. i, p. 122. tenth or perhaps ninth century) gentle mary, noble maiden, hearken to our suppliant pleas! shrine god's only son was laid in! casket of the mysteries! holy maid, pure queen of heaven, intercession for us make, that each hardened heart's transgression may be pardoned for thy sake. bent in loving pity o'er us, through the holy spirit's power, pray the king of angels for us in thy visitation hour. branch of jesse's tree whose blossoms scent the heavenly hazel wood, pray for me for full purgation of my bosom's turpitude. mary, crown of splendour glowing, dear destroyer of eve's ill, noble torch of love far-showing, fruitful stock of god's good will; heavenly virgin, maid transcendent, yea! he willed that thou shouldst be his fair ark of life resplendent, his pure queen of chastity. mother of all good, to free me, interceding at my side, pray thy first-born to redeem me, when the judgment books are wide; star of knowledge, rare and noble, tree of many-blossoming sprays, lamp to light our night of trouble, sun to cheer our weary days; ladder to the heavenly highway, whither every saint ascends, be a safeguard still, till my way in thy glorious kingdom ends! covert fair of sweet protection, chosen for a monarch's rest, hostel for nine months' refection of a noble infant guest; glorious heavenly porch, whereunder, so the day-star sinks his head, god's own son--o saving wonder! jesus was incarnated; for the fair babe's sake conceivèd in thy womb and brought to birth, for the blest child's sake, receivèd now as king of heaven and earth; for his rood's sake! starker, steeper hath no other cross been set, for his tomb's sake! darker, deeper there hath been no burial yet; by his blessed resurrection, when he triumphed o'er the tomb, by the church of his affection 'during till the day of doom, safeguard our unblest behaviour, till behind death's blinding veil, face to face, we see our saviour. this our prayer is: hail! all hail! maelisu's hymn to the archangel michael (by maelisu ua brochain, a writer of religious poetry both in irish and latin who died in 1051. mael-isu means "the tonsured of jesus.") angel and saint, o michael of the oracles, o michael of great miracles, bear to the lord my plaint! hear my request! ask of the great, forgiving god, to lift this vast and grievous load of sin from off my breast. why, michael, tarry my fervent prayer with upward wing unto the king, the great high king of heaven and earth, to carry? unto my soul bring help, bring comfort, yea bring power to win release, in death's black hour, from sin, distress, and dole. till, as devoutly my fading eyes seek heaven's dim height, to meet me with thy myriads bright, do thou adventure stoutly. captain of hosts, against earth's wicked, crooked clan to aid me lead thy battle van and quell their cruel boasts. archangel glorious, disdain not now thy suppliant urgent, but over every sin insurgent set me at last victorious. thou art my choosing! that with my body, soul, and spirit eternal life i may inherit, thine aid be not refusing. in my sore need o thou of anti-christ the slayer, triumphant victor, to my prayer give heed, o now give heed! maelisu's hymn to the holy spirit o holy spirit, hasten to us! move round about us, in us, through us! all our deadened souls' desires inflame anew with heavenly fires! yea! let each heart become a hostel of thy bright presence pentecostal, whose power from pestilence and slaughter shall shield us still by land and water. from bosom sins, seducing devils, from hell with all its hundred evils, for jesus' only sake and merit, preserve us, thou almighty spirit! eve's lamentation (from the early irish) i am eve, great adam's wife, 'twas my guilt took jesus' life. since of heaven i robbed my race, on his cross was my true place. in his paradise, god placed me, then a wicked choice disgraced me. at the counsel of the devil, my pure hand i stained with evil; for i put it forth and plucked, then the deadly apple sucked. long as woman looks on day, shall she walk in folly's way. winter's withering icy woe, whelming wave and smothering snow, hell to fright and death to grieve- had been never, but for eve! alexander the great (from the early irish) four sages stood to chant a stave above the proud earth conqueror's grave; and all their words were words of candour above the urn of alexander. the first began: "but yesterday, when all in state the great king lay, myriads around him made their moan, to-day he lieth all alone!" "but yesterday," the second sang, "o'er earth his charger's hoof outrang; to-day its outraged soil instead is riding heavy o'er his head!" "but yesterday," the third went on, "all earth was swayed by philip's son: to-day, to shroud his calcined bones, seven feet thereof is all he owns!" "but yesterday, so liberal he, silver and gold he scattered free; to-day," the last outsighed his thought, "his wealth abounds but he is naught!" thus sentence gave these sages four, above the buried emperor; it was no foolish women's prate that held them thus in high debate. the kings who came to christ (from the early irish) three kings came to the babe's abode, with faces that like bright moons glowed, from out the learned eastern world, where o'er wide plains slow streams are curled. the three sought out the lovely child, on whom, white-blossomed bethel smiled, three, o'er all knowledge granted sway, three seers of the vision they. the promise of the great all-wise was present to their prescient eyes, a vision beckoning from afar, the christ child cradled on a star; a lofty star of lucent ray, it swam before them through the day, and when earth's hues were lost in night, it still led on with loving light. and still the lucky royal three went following it full readily; and still across the firmament an arch of blessed might it went. so rushing radiant, round and soft, past every star that paced aloft, right joyously it stayed for them at last o'er blessed bethlehem. o, then each monarch of the three with worship fell upon his knee, and gave, while god he loud extolled, his frankincense and myrrh and gold. they recognised the babe's bright face and mary in her virgin grace. 'twas thus the star's epiphany showed christ their king to the kings three. quatrains hospitality whether my house is dark or bright, i close it not on any wight, lest thou, hereafter, king of stars, against me close thy heavenly bars. if from a guest who shares thy board thy dearest dainty thou shalt hoard, 'tis not that guest, o never doubt it, but mary's son shall do without it. the blackbird ah, blackbird, that at last art blest because thy nest is on the bough, no hermit of the clinking bell, how soft and well thy notes fall now. moling sang this with the old when i consort jest and sport they straight lay by; when with frolic youth i am flung, maddest of the young am i. the church bell in the night sweet little bell, sweet little bell, struck long and well upon the wind, i'd rather tryst with thee to-night than any maiden light of mind. the crucifixion at the first bird's early crying, they began thy crucifying, o thou of face as woeful wan, as the far-flown winter swan. sore the suffering and the shame put upon thy sacred frame; ah! but sorer the heartache for thy stricken mother's sake. the pilgrim at rome unto rome wouldst thou attain, great the toil is, small the gain, if the king thou seekest therein travel not, with thee, from erin. on a dead scholar dead is lon of kilgarrow, o great sorrow! dead and gone. dire the dolour, erin, here and past thy border, dire the dolour and disorder, to the schools and to the scholar, since our lon is dead and gone. charms and invocations charms against sorrow a charm whereunto grief must yield- the charm of michael with the shield. charms before which all sorrows fail- the palm-branch of christ and brigit's veil. the charm christ set for himself, when the godhead within him darkened; and when he cried from the cross that his father no longer hearkened. when you are bound down by the cross and night is blackest before you, a charm that shall lift off sorrow's weight and to joyful hope restore you. a charm to be said at sunrise when your hands your heart are crushing, when the eyes are red with weeping and the madness of grief outrushing. a charm with not even a whisper to spare, but only the silent prayer. on covering the fire for the night let us preserve this seed of fire as christ preserves us all, himself a-watch above the house, bride at its middle wall, below the twelve apostles of highest heavenly sway, guarding and defending it until the dawn of day. morning wish o jesu! in the morning i cry and call thee early, blest only son of god on high who purchased us so dearly. o guard me in the shelter of thy most holy cross, all through the courses of the day keep me from sin and loss. a charm against enemies three powers are of the evil one to curse mankind; an evil eye, an evil tongue, an evil mind. three words are god's own breath and mary's to her son, for she in heaven had heard them, told them every one. the word of mercy free, the singing word of joy, the binding word of love he gives us to employ. o may the saving might of these three holy words on erin's men and women light, and keep them still the lord's. charm for a pain in the heart "god save you my three brothers! god save you! now how far have ye on foot to travel, by sun and moon and star?" "to olivet's own mount we fare till we have gotten gold, therefrom a cup to fashion the tears of christ to hold." "so do! and when those precious tears drop down into the bowl into thy very heart they'll fall and cure thee body and soul." the safe-guarding of my soul my succour from all sinful harms be thou, almighty father! and mary, who, within her arms the king of kings did gather! and michael, messenger to earth from out the heavenly city, the twelve of apostolic worth, and last the lord of pity! that so my soul, encircled by their care, into heaven's golden halls with joy may fare! the white paternoster. on going to sleep, think that it is the sleep of death and that you may be summoned to the day of the mountain of judgment and say: i lay me down with god; may he rest here also, his guardian arms around my head, christ's cross my limbs below. where wouldst, thou lay thee down? 'twixt mary and her son- brigit and her bright mantle, colomb and his shield handle, god and his strong right hand. at morn where wouldst thou rise? with patrick to the skies. lamentations the song of crede, daughter of guare in the battle of aidne, crede, the daughter of king guare of aidne, beheld dinertach of the hyfidgenti, who had come to the help of guare with seventeen wounds upon his breast. then she fell in love with him. he died and was buried in the cemetery of colman's church. "these are the arrows that murder sleep," at every hour in the night's black deep; pangs of love through the long day ache all for the dead dinertach's sake. great love of a hero from roiny's plain has pierced me through with immortal pain, blasted my beauty and left me to blanch, a riven bloom on a restless branch! never was song like dinertach's speech, but holy strains that to heaven's gate reach. a front of flame without boast or pride, yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid's side. a growing girl--i was timid of tongue, and never trysted with gallants young, but, since i won on into passionate age, fierce love-longings my heart engage. i have every bounty that life could hold, with guare, arch-monarch of aidne cold, but fallen away from my haughty folk, in irluachair's field my heart lies broke. there is chanting in glorious aidne's meadow under st. colman's church's shadow; a hero flame sinks into the tomb- dinertach, alas, my love and my doom! chaste christ! that unto my life's last breath i trysted with sorrow and mate with death; at every hour of the night's black deep, these are the arrows that murder sleep! the deserted home (an eleventh-century poem) keenly cries the blackbird now; from the bough his nest is gone. for his slaughtered mate and young still his tongue talks on and on. such, alas! not long ago was the woe my heart befell; therefore, wherefore thine so grieves it perceives, o bird, too well! poor heart burnt with grief within by the sin of that rash band! little could they guess thy care, crying there, or understand. from afar at thy clear call fluttered all thy new-fledged brood. now thy nest of love lies hid down amid the nettles rude. in one day the herd-boy crew careless slew thy fledgelings fine. one the fate to thine and thee, one the fate to me and mine. as thy mate upon the mead chirruped, feeding at thy side, taken in their snaring strands, at the herd-boy's hands she died. o thou framer of our fates, not an equal lot have all! neighbour's wife and child are spared, ours, as though uncared for, fall. fairy hosts with blasting death breathed on mine a breath abhorred; bloodless though their evil ire, it was direr than the sword. woe our wife! and woe our young! sorrow-wrung our hearts complain! of each fair and faithful one tidings none or trace remain! the mothers' lament at the slaughter of the innocents (probably a poem of the eleventh century. it is written in rosg metre, and was first published in _the gaelic journal_, may 1891.) _then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women said_: "why are you tearing away to his doom the child of my caring, the fruit of my womb. till nine months were o'er, his burthen i bore, then his pretty lips pressed the glad milk from my breast, and my whole heart he filled, and my whole life he thrilled. "all my strength dies; my tongue speechless lies; darkened are my eyes; his breath was the breath of me; his death is the death of me!" _then another woman said_: "tis my own son that from me you wring, _i_ deceived not the king. but slay me, even me, and let my boy be. a mother most hapless, my bosom is sapless. mine eyes one tearful river, my frame one fearful shiver, my husband sonless ever, and i a sonless wife to live a death in life. o, my son! o, god of truth! o, my unrewarded youth! o, my birthless sicknesses, until doom without redress! o, my bosom's silent nest! o, the heart broke in my breast!" _then said another woman_: "murderers, obeying herod's wicked willing, one ye would be slaying, many are ye killing. infants would ye smother? ruffians ye have rather wounded many a father, slaughtered many a mother. hell's black jaws your horrid deed is glutting, heaven's white gate against your black souls shutting. "ye are guilty of the great offence! ye have spilt the blood of innocence." _and yet another woman said_: "o lord christ come to me! nay, no longer tarry! with my son, home to thee my soul quickly carry! o mary great, o mary mild, of god's one son the mother, what shall i do without my child, for i have now no other. for thy son's sake my son they slew, those murderers inhuman; my sense and soul they slaughtered too, i am but a crazy woman. yea! after that most piteous slaughter, when my babe's life ran out like water, the heart within my bosom hath become a clot of blood from this day till the doom!" the keening of mary taken down by patrick h. pearse from mary clancy of moycullen, who keened it with great horror in her voice, in a low sobbing recitative. mary. "o peter, o apostle, my bright love, hast thou found him?" "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" peter. "even now in the midst of his foemen i found him." "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" mary. "come hither, ye two marys, and my bright love be keening." "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" the two marys. "if his body be not with us, sure our keene had little meaning." "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" mary. "who is yonder stately man on the tree his passion showing?" "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" christ. "o mother, thine own son, can it be thou art not knowing." "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" mary. "and is that the little son whom nine months i was bearing?" "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" "and is that the little son in the stall i was caring? and is that the little son this mary's breast was draining?" "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" christ. "hush thee, hush thee, mother, and be not so complaining." mary. "and is this the very hammer that struck the sharp nails thro' thee?" "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" "and this the very spear that thy white side pierced and slew thee?" "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" "and is that the crown of thorns that thy beauteous head is caging?" "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" christ. "hush, mother, for my sake thy sorrow be assuaging." "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" "for thy own love's sake thy cruel sorrow smother!" "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" "the women of my keening are unborn yet, little mother!" "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" "o woman, why weepest thou my death that leads to pardon?" "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" "happy hundreds, to-day, shall stray through paradise garden." "m'ochon agus m'ochon, o!" caoine (from the eighteenth-century irish) cold, dark, and dumb lies my boy on his bed; cold, dark, and silent the night dews are shed; hot, swift, and fierce fall my tears for the dead! his footprints lay light in the dew of the dawn as the straight, slender track of the young mountain fawn; but i'll ne'er again follow them over the lawn. his manly cheek blushed with the sun's rising ray, and he shone in his strength like the sun at midday; but a cloud of black darkness has hid him away. and that black cloud for ever shall cling to the skies: and never, ah, never, i'll see him arise, lost warmth of my bosom, lost light of my eyes! songs to music battle hymn (written to an old irish air) above the thunder crashes, around the lightning flashes: our heads are heaped with ashes but thou, god, art nigh! thou launchest forth the levin, the storm by thee is driven, give heed, o lord, from heaven, hear, hear our cry! for lo, the dane defaces with fire thy holy places, he hews thy priests in pieces, our maids more than die. up, lord, with storm and thunder, pursue him with his plunder, and smite his ships in sunder, lord god most high! the song of the woods (to an irish air of the same name) not only where thy blessed bells peal afar for praise and prayer, or where thy solemn organ swells, lord, not only art thou there. thy voice of many waters from out the ocean comfort speaks, thy presence to a radiant rose thrills a thousand virgin peaks. and here, where in one wondrous woof- aisle on aisle and choir on choir- to rear thy rarest temple roof, pillared oak and pine aspire; life-weary here we wander, when lo! the saviour's gleaming stole! 'tis caught unto our craving lips, kissed and straightway we are whole. the enchanted valley (to an irish air of the same name) i will go where lilies blow beside the flow of languid streams, within that vale of opal glow, where bright-winged dreams flutter to and fro, fain am i its magic peace to know. beware! beware of that valley fair! all dwellers there to phantoms turn, for joys and griefs they have none to share, tho' ever they yearn life's burdens to bear, ah! of that valley beware, beware! remember the poor (founded on an irish ballad of the name) oh! remember the poor when your fortune is sure, and acre to acre you join; oh! remember the poor, though but slender your store and you ne'er can go gallant and fine. oh! remember the poor when they cry at your door in the raging rain and blast; call them in! cheer them up with the bite and the sup, till they leave you their blessing at last. the red fox has his lair, and each bird of the air with the night settles warm in his nest, but the king who laid down his celestial crown for our sakes--he had nowhere to rest. oh! the poor were forgot till their pitiful lot he bowed himself to endure; if your souls ye would make, for his heavenly sake, oh! remember, remember the poor. ii. welsh poems the odes to the months (after aneurin, a sixth-century warrior bard) month of janus, the coom is smoke-fuming; weary the wine-bearer; minstrels far roaming; lean are the kine; the bees never humming; milking-folds void; to the kiln no meat coming; gaunt every steed; no pert sparrows strumming; long the night till the dawn; but a glimpse is the gloaming. sapient cynfelyn, this was thy summing; "prudence is man's surest guide, by my dooming." * * * * * month of mars; the birds become bolder; wounding the wind upon the cape's shoulder; serene skies delay till the young crops are older; anger burns on, when grief waxes colder; every man's mind some dread may unsolder; each bird wins the may that hath long been a scolder; each seed cleaves the clay, though for long months amoulder, yet the dead still must stay in the tomb, their strong holder. * * * * * month of augustus--the beach is a-spray; blithesome the bee and the hive full alway; better work than the bow hath the sickle to-day; fuller the stack than the house of the play; the churl who cares neither to work nor to pray now why should he cumber the earth with his clay? justly st. breda, the sapient, would say "as many to evil as good take the way." * * * * * month of september--benign planets shiver; serene round the hamlet are ocean and river; not easy for men and for steeds is endeavour; trees full of fruit, as of arrows the quiver. a princess was born to us, blessed for ever, from slavery's shackles our land's freedom-giver. saith st. berned the saint, ripe wisdom's mouth ever; "in sleep shall god nod, who hath sworn to deliver?" month of october--thin the shade is showing; yellow are the birch-trees; bothies empty growing; full of flesh, bird and fish to the market going; less and less the milk now of cow and goat is flowing, alas! for him who meriteth disgrace by evil-doing; death is better far than extravagance's strowing. three acts should follow crime, to true repentance owing- fasting and prayer and of alms abundance glowing. * * * * * month of december--with mud the shoe bemired; heavy the land, the sun in heaven tired; bare all the trees, little force now required; cheerful the cock; by dark the thief inspired. whilst the twelve months thus trip in dance untired, round youthful minds satan still weaves his fetter. justly spake yscolan, wisdom's sage begetter, "than an evil prophecy god is ever better." the tercets (after llywarch hen, a sixth-century prince and poet) set is the snare, the ash clusters glow, ducks plash in the pools; breakers whiten below; more strong than a hundred is the heart's hidden woe. long is the night; resounding the shore, frequent in crowds a tumultuous roar, the evil and good disagree evermore. long is the night; the hill full of cries; o'er the tree-tops the wind whistles and sighs, ill nature deceives not the wit of the wise. the greening birch saplings asway in the air shall deliver my feet from the enemy's snare. it is ill with a youth thy heart's secrets to share. the saplings of oak in yonder green glade shall loosen the snare by an enemy laid. it is ill to unbosom thy heart to a maid. the saplings of oak in their full summer pride shall loosen the snare by the enemy tied. it is ill to a babbler thy heart to confide. the brambles with berries of purple are dressed; in silence the brooding thrush clings to her nest, in silence the liar can never take rest. rain is without--wet the fern plume; white the sea gravel--fierce the waves spume. there is no lamp like reason man's life to illume. rain is without, but the shelter is near; yellow the furze, the cow-parsnip is sere, god in heaven, how couldst thou create cowards here! hail, glorious lord! (from a twelfth-century ms., "the black book of carmarthen") hail, all glorious lord! with holy mirth may church and chancel bless thy good counsel! each chancel and church, all plains and mountains, and ye three fountains- two above wind, and one above earth! may light and darkness bless thee! fine silk, green forest confess thee! thus did abraham father of faith with joy possess thee. bird and bee-song bless thee, among the lilies and roses! all the old, all the young laud thee with joyful tongue, as thy praise was once sung by aaron and moses. male and female, the days that are seven, the stars of heaven, the air and the ether, every book and fair letter; fish in waters fair-flowing, and song and deed glowing! grey sand and green sward make your blessing's award! and all such as with good have satisfied stood! while my own mouth shall bless thee and my saviour confess thee. hail, glorious lord! my burial (after dafydd ab gwilym, the most famous welsh lyrical poet, 1340-1400) when i die, o, bury me within the free young wild wood; little birches, o'er me bent, lamenting as my child would! let my surplice-shroud be spun of sparkling summer clover; while the great and stately treen their rich rood-screen hang over! for my bier-cloth blossomed may outlay on eight green willows! sea-gulls white to bear my pall take flight from all the billows. summer's cloister be my church of soft leaf-searching whispers, from whose mossed bench the nightingale to all the vale chants vespers! mellow-toned, the brake amid, my organ hid be cuckoo! paters, seemly hours and psalm bird voices calm re-echo! mystic masses, sweet addresses, blackbird, be thou offering; till god his bard to paradise uplift from sighs and suffering. the last cywydd (after dafydd ab gwilym) memories fierce like arrows pierce; alone i waste and languish, and make my cry to god on high to ease me of mine anguish. if heroic was my youth, in truth its powers are over; with brain dead and force sped, love sets at naught the lover! the muse from off my lips is thrust, 'tis long since song has cheered me; gone is ivor, counsellor just, and nest, whose grace upreared me! morfydd, all my world and more, lies low in churchyard gravel; while beneath the burthen frore of age alone i travel. mute, mute my song's salute, when summer's beauties thicken; cuckoo, nightingale, no art of yours my heart can quicken! morfydd, not thy haunting kiss or voice of bliss can save me from the spear of age whose chill has quenched the thrill love gave me. my ripe grain of heart and brain the sod sadly streweth; its empty chaff with mocking laugh the wind of death pursueth! dig my grave! o, dig it deep to hide my sleeping body, so but christ my spirit keep, amen! ab gwilym's ready! the labourer (after iolo goch, "iowerlt the red," a fourteenth-century bard and son of the countess of lincoln) when the folk of all the earth, for the weighing of their worth, promised by his ancient word, freely flock before the lord- and his judgment-seat is set high on mighty olivet, forthright then shall be the tale of the plougher of the vale, if so be his tithes were given justly to the king of heaven; if he freely shared his store with the sick or homeless poor- when his soul is at god's feet rich remembrance it shall meet. he who turns and tills the sod leans by nature on his god. save his plough-beam naught he judgeth, none he angereth, or grudgeth, strives with none, takes none in toils, crushes none and none despoils; overbeareth not, though strong, doth not even a little wrong. "suffering here," he saith, "is meet, else were heaven not half so sweet." following after goad and plough, with unruffled breast and brow, is to him an hundred-fold dearer than, for treasured gold, even in king arthur's form, castles to besiege and storm. if the labourer were sped, where would be christ's wine and bread? certes but for his supply, pope and emperor must die, every wine-free king and just, yea! each mortal turn to dust. blest indeed is he whose hands steer the plough o'er stubborn lands. how through far-spread broom and heath tear his sharp, smooth coulter's teeth- old-time relic, heron-bill, rooting out fresh furrows still, with a noble, skilful grace smoothing all the wild land's face, reaching out a stern, stiff neck each resisting root to wreck. * * * * * behind his oxen on his path thus he strides the healthy strath, chanting many a godly rhyme to the plough-chain's silver chime. all the crafts that ever were with the ploughman's ill compare. ploughing, in an artful wise, earth's subduing signifies, far as baptism and creed, far as christendom hath speed. by god, who is man's master best, and mary may the plough be blest. the elegy on sion glyn, a child of five years of age (by his father, lewis glyn cothi, 1425-1486) one wee son, woe worth his sire! my treasure was and heart's desire; but evermore i now must pine, mourning for that wee son of mine, sick to the heart, day out and in, thinking and thinking of johnny glynn, my fairy prince for ever fled, leaving life's mabinogion dead. a rosy apple, pebbles white, and dicky-birds were his delight, a childish bow with coloured cord, a little brittle wooden sword. from bagpipes or the bogy-man into his mother's arms he ran, there coaxed from her a ball to throw with his daddy to and fro. his own sweet songs he'd then be singing, then for a nut with a shout be springing; holding my hand he'd trot about with me, coax me now, and now fall out with me, now, make it up again, lip to lip, for a dainty die or a curling chip. would god my lovely little lad a second life, like lazarus, had! st. beuno raised from death at once st. winifred and her six nuns; would to god the saint could win an eighth from death in johnny glynn! ah, mary! my merry little knave, coffined and covered in the grave! to think of him beneath the slab deals my lone heart a double stab. bright dream beyond my own life's shore, proud purpose of my future's store, my hope, my comfort from annoy, my jewel and my glowing joy, my nest of shade from out the sun, my lark, my soaring, singing one, my golden shaft of faithful love shot at the radiant round above, my intercessor with heaven's king, my boyhood's second blossoming, my little, laughing, loving john, for you i'm sunk in shadow wan! good-bye, good-bye, for evermore my little lively squirrel's store, the happy bouncing of his ball, his carol up and down the hall! adieu, my little dancing one, adieu, adieu, my son, my son! the noble's grave (after sion cent, 1386-1420, priest of kentchurch, in hereford) premier peer but yesterday, lone within the tomb to-morrow; for his silken garments gay, grave-clothes in a gravelled furrow. no love-making, homage none; from his mines no golden mintage; no rich traffic in the sun; no more purple-purling vintage. no more usherings out of hall by obsequious attendant; no more part, however small, in the pageant's pomp resplendent! just a perch of churchyard clay all the soil he now possesses; heavily its burthen grey on his pulseless bosom presses. the bard's death-bed confession (after huw morus, 1622-1709, a welsh cavalier poet) lord, hear my confession of life-long transgression! weak-willed and too filled with earth's follies am i to reach by the strait way of faith to heaven's gateway, if thou light not thither my late way. from duty's hard high road by beauty's soft by-road to satan's, not thy road, i wandered away. thou hast seen, father tender, thou seest what a slender return for thy talents i render. thy pure eyes pierced through me and probed me and knew me, not flawless but lawless, when put to the proof. in ease or in cumber, day-doings or slumber, what ills of mine wouldst thou not number! from thy holy hand's healing, contrition annealing and faith's oil of healing grant, lord, i beseech; these only can cure me and fresh life assure me, these only thy peace can procure me! to the blood freely flowing of the lamb life-bestowing this wonder is owing that washes out sin; thy love to us lent him, thy love to death sent him, that man through thy love should repent him. lord god, thy protection, lord christ, thy affection, holy ghost, thy direction so govern my heart, that all promptings other than love's it may smother, as a babe is subdued to its mother. for that treasure of treasures that all price outmeasures, pure faith, on whose pleasures life-giving we feed- let kings in their places, let all the earth's races sing aloud in a crowd of glad faces. yea! all mouths shall bless thee, all hearts shall confess thee the bounteous fountain of mercy and love; each gift we inherit of pure, perfect merit, dear god, overflows from thy spirit. quick, death! (after huw morus) this room an antechamber is: beyond--the hall of very bliss! quick, death! for underneath thy door i see the glimmering of heaven's floor. counsel in view of death (after elis wyn, 1671-1734, one of the welsh classics) leave your land, your goods lay down! life's green tree shall soon grow brown. pride of birth and pleasure gay renounce or they shall own you! manly strength and beauty fair, dear-bought sense, experience rare, learning ripe, companions fond yield, lest their bond ensnare you! is there then no sure relief, thou arch-murderer and thief, death, from thine o'ermastering law- thy monstrous maw can none shun? o ye rich, in all your pride through the ages would ye bide, wherefore not with death compound, ere underground he hide you? lusty athlete, light of foot, death, the bowman's fell pursuit challenge! o, the laurels won, if thou but shun his shooting! travellers by sea and land on remotest mount or strand, have ye found one secret spot where death is not commanding? learned scholar, jurist proud, lifted god-like o'er the crowd, can your keenest counsel's aid dispel death's shade enshrouding? fervent faith, profound repentance, holy hours of stern self-sentence- these alone can victory bring when death's dread sting shall wring us. from "the last judgment" (after goronwy owen, 1728-1769, next to dafydd ab gwilym, the greatest poet who sang in the old welsh metres) day of doom, at thy glooming may earth be but meet for thee! day, whose hour of louring not angels in light foresee! to christ alone and the father 'tis known when thy hosts of might swift as giants shall gather, yet stealthy as thieves at night. then what woe to the froward, what joy to the just and kind! when the seraph band comes streaming christ's gleaming banner behind; heavenly blue shall its hue be to a myriad marvelling eyes; save where its heart encrimsons the cross of the sacrifice! rocks in that day's black fury like leaves shall be whirled in the blast; hoary-headed eryri prone to the plough-lands cast! then shall be roaring and warring and ferment of sea and firth, ocean, in turmoil upboiling, confounding each bound of earth. the flow of the deluge of noah were naught by that fell flood's girth! then heaven's pure self shall offer her multitudinous eyes, cruel blinding to suffer, as her sun faints out of the skies; and the bright-faced moon shall languish and perish in such fierce pain as darkened and shook with anguish all life, when the lamb was slain. a good wife (after the vicar pritchard, 1569-1644) wise yokel foolish king excelleth; good name than spikenard sweeter smelleth! what's gold to prudence? strength to grace? man's more than goods; god first in place. what though her dowry be but meagre, far better wise, god-fearing igir, than yonder vain and brainless doll, helpless her fortune to control. a wife that's true and kind and sunny is better than a mint of money; better than houses, land and gold or pearls and gems to have and hold. a ship is she with jewels freighted, her price beyond all rubies rated, a hundred-virtued amulet to such as her in marriage get. gold pillar to a silver socket; the weakling's tower of strength, firm-lockèd, the very golden crown of life; grace upon grace--a virtuous wife. "marchog jesu!" (hymn sung at the investiture of the prince of wales, the welsh words by pantycelyn, the famous eighteenth-century hymn-writer) lord, ride on in triumph glorious, gird thy sword upon thy thigh! earth shall own thy might victorious, death and hell confounded lie. yea! before thine eye all-seeing, all thy foes shall fly aghast; nature's self, through all her being, tremble at thy trampling past. pierce, for thou alone art able, pierce our dungeon with thy day; shatter all the gates of babel, rend her iron bars away! till, as billows thunder shoreward, all the ransomed ones ascend, into freedom surging forward without number, without end. who are these whose praises pealing from beyond the morning star earthward solemnly are stealing down the distance faint and far? these are they, the ever living, all in glistening garments gone, palm in hand, with proud thanksgiving up before the great white throne. the destruction of jerusalem (after eben fardd, 1802-1863, one of the leading welsh poets of the nineteenth century) rachel mourning rachel, ah me! most wretchedly mourns, meekest, worthiest woman, her husband dear hurled to his bier by roman fiends inhuman. tremulously now murmurs she: "naught's here but naked horror; black despond and blind despair, mad turmoil, murderous terror! free he rose, his hero blows gave rome black cause to rue him; ten to one, then they run their poisonous poignards through him. thus took flight thy tortured sprite, dear heart, from my fond seeing! now stars on high in stark dawn die, we too must far be fleeing. children dear, i thrill with fear to hear your hungry crying! away, away! one more such day- and we're too weak for flying." the burning temple the savage foes of this lost land of ours conspire to fire antonius' shapely towers. ere long the temple proud, surpassing all art's fairest gems, shall unto earth be bowed! lo! through the lurid gloom the lightning's lash! and hark the unnatural thunder crash and boom! moriah's marvellous fane is leaning low; with cries of woe her rafters rend in twain; for our imperial one is brought to naught. yea, even where most cunningly she was wrought, the fire has cleft its way each coign into, for wood and stone searching her bosom through. astonishingly high she took the blue, yet weeping molten dross shall meet the ground- a sight for grief profound to gaze across. flame follows flame, each like a giant worm, to feast and batten on her beauteous form. through gold and silver doors they sinuous swarm and crop the carven flowers with gust enorme; till all is emptiness. then with hellish shout the embruted gentiles in exultant rout into her holy of holies profanely press! one streaming flood of steaming blood- shudders her sacred pavement! love divine (from "emanuel." after gwilym hiraethog, 1802-1880.) when the angel trumpet sounded. through the unbounded ether blown, star on star danced on untiring, choiring past the great white throne; then as, every globe outglancing, earth's entrancing orb went by, love divine in blushing pleasure steeped the azure of the sky. wisdom, when she saw earth singled from the bright commingled band, whispered mercy: "that green wonder yonder is thy promised land!" mercy looked and loved earth straightway, at heaven's gateway smiling set. ah! that glance of tender yearning she is turning earthward yet. behind the veil (after islwyn, 1832-1878, the welsh wordsworth) what say ye, can we charge a master soul with error, when beyond all life's experience between the cradle and the grave, it rises, whispering of things unutterable, breaks its bond with outward sense and sinks into itself, as fades a star in space? hath not that soul a history in itself, a refluent tide of mystery murmuring out of unplumbed deeps, on distant inaccessible strands, whereon memory lies dead amid the monstrous wreckage of jarring worlds? are yonder stars above as spiritually, magnificently bright as poesy feigns? may not some slumbering sense, a memory dim of those diviner days, when all the heavens were yet aglow with god, transfuse them through and through with glimmering grace and glory? still the stars within us shine, and poesy is but a recollection of something greater gone, a presage proud of something greater yet to be. what soul but sometimes thrills with hauntings of a world for long forgotten, at a glimpse begotten once more, then gone again? imaginations? nay why not memories of a life than ours a thousand times more blest within us buried so deeply, the divine all-searching breath of poesy alone can lure it forth. all hail that hour when god's redeeming face shall so illume our past existences, that through them all man's spirit shall see plain, and to his blessed past relink life's broken chain. the reign of love (after ceiriog, to a welsh air. ceiriog, 1832-1887, was the welsh burns; his songs to old welsh airs are the best of their kind.) love that invites, love that delights, from hedgerow lush and leafy heights is flooding all the air; their forest harps the breezes strum, the happy brooks their burden hum; there's nothing deaf, there's nothing dumb, but music everywhere! above the airy steep their lyres of gold the angels sweep, glad holiday with earth to keep before the great white throne. then, when heaven and earth and sea are joining in love's jubilee; while morning stars make melody, shall man be mute alone? naught that hath birth matches the worth of love, in god's own heaven and earth, for through his power divine love opes the golden eye of day, love guides the pale moon's lonely way, love lights the glow-worm's glimmering ray amid the darkling bine. heavenly hue and form above, around, are glowing warm, from his right hand who rides the storm, yet paints the lily's cheek. yea! whereso'er man lifts his eyes to wood or wave or sunset skies, a myriad magic shapes arise eternal love to speak. plas gogerddan (after ceiriog to a welsh air) "without thy sire hast thou returned?" in grief the princess cried! "go back!--or from my sight be spurned- to battle by his side. i gave thee birth; but struck to earth i'd sooner see thee lie, or on thy bier come carried here, than thus a craven fly! "seek yonder hall, and pore on all the portraits of thy race; the courage high that fires each eye canst thou endure to face?" "i'll bring no blame on thy fair name, or my forefathers slight! but kiss and bless me, mother dear, ere i return to fight." he fought and fell--his stricken corse they bore to her abode; "my son!" she shrieked, in wild remorse; "forgive me, o! my god!" then from the wall old voices fall: "rejoice for such a son! his deed and thine shall deathless shine, whilst gwalia's waters run!" all through the night _ar hyd y nos_ (after ceiriog to this welsh air) fiery day is ever mocking man's feeble sight; darkness eve by eve unlocking heav'n's casket bright; thence the burdened spirit borrows strength to meet laborious morrows, starry peace to soothe his sorrows, all through the night. planet after planet sparkling, all through the night, down on earth, their sister darkling, shed faithful light. in our mortal day's declining, may our souls, as calmly shining, cheer the restless and repining, till lost in sight. david of the white rock _dafydd y garreg wen_ (after ceiriog to this welsh air) "all my powers wither, death presses me hard; bear my harp hither!" sighed david the bard. "thus while life lingers, in one lofty strain o, let my fond fingers awake it again. "last night an angel cried, 'david, come sound christ's dear evangel death's valley around!'" wife and child harkened his harp's solemn swell; till his eye darkened, and lifeless he fell. the high tide (after elvet lewis, a contemporary welsh poet) a balmy air blows; the waterflags shiver, on, on the tide flows, on, on, up the river! to no earth or sky allegiance he oweth; he comes, who knows why? unless the moon knoweth. the tide flows and flows; by hill and by hollow, white rose upon rose, the foam flowers follow. he spreads broad and full from margent to margent, the wings of the gull are his bannerets argent. the tide flows and flows; atlantic's loud charges mix in murmurous close with the wash of the barges. with wondering ear the children cease playing; the voice that they hear, what can it be saying? too well they shall know, when amid the wild brattle of the waters below, they enter life's battle. the tide flows apace; the ship that lies idle trips out with trim grace, like a bride to her bridal. what hath she in store? shall fate her boon give her? or must she no more return to the river? the flood has gone past! ah me! one was late for it, and friends cry aghast: "how long must he wait for it?" young eyes that to-night are darkened for sorrow shall hail with delight their dear ship to-morrow. amid the sea-wrack the barque, tempest battered, at length staggers back, like a prodigal tattered! what if she be scarred or scoffers make light of her? though blemished and marred, how blest is the sight of her! the tide flows and flows, far past the grey towers; and whispering goes through the wheat and the flowers. and now his pulse takes the calm heart of the valley and lifts, till it shakes, the low bough of the sally. slow, and more slow is his flow--he has tarried- the blue ocean's pilgrim, outwearied, miscarried! far, far from home, in wandering error, a dim rocky dome beshrouding his mirror. but hark! a voice thrills the traveller erring; in the heart of the hills its sea-call is stirring: and home, ever home, to its passionate pleading, one whirl of white foam, with the ebb he is speeding. "ora pro nobis" (after eifion win, 1867. he lies as a poet between elfed and the "new bards") a sudden shower lashes the darkening pane; the voice of the tempest is lifted again. the centuried oaks to their very roots rock; and crying, for shelter course cattle and flock. our father, forget not the nestless bird now; the snow is so near, and so bare is the bough! a great flood is flashing athwart the wide lee; like a storm-struck encampment, the clouds rend and flee; at the scourge of the storm my cot quakes with affright; far better the hearth than the pavement to-night! our father, forget not the homeless outcast; so thin is his raiment, so bitter thy blast! the foam-flakes are whirling below on the strand, as white as the pages i turn with my hand; and the curlew afar, from his storm-troubled lair, laments with the cry of a soul in despair. our father, forget not our mariners' state; their ships are so slender, thy seas are so great. a flower-sunday lullaby (after eifion win, the contemporary welsh poet) though the blue slab hides our laddy, slumber, free of fear! well we know it, i and daddy, naught can harm you here. you and all the little sleepers, their small graves within, have bright angels for door-keepers. sleep, goronwy wyn! ah, too well i now remember, darling, when you slept, how the children from your chamber jealously i kept. now how willingly to wake you i would let them in, if their merry noise could make you move, goronwy wyn! sleep, though mother is not near you, in god's garden green! flower-sunday gifts we bear you, lovely to be seen; six small primroses to show us summer-time is ours; though, alas! locked up below us, lies our flower of flowers. sleep! to mother's love what matters passing time or tide? on my ear your footstep patters, still my babe you bide. all the others moving, moving, still disturb my breast; but the dead have done with roving, you alone have rest. then, beneath the primrose petals, sleep, our heart's delight! darkness o'er us deeply settles; we must say "good night!" your new cradle needs no shaking on its quiet floor. sleep, my child! till you are waking in my arms once more. the ballad of the old bachelor of ty'n y mynydd (after w.j. gruffydd, 1880, one of the leading "new bards") strongest swept his sickle through the whin-bush, straightest down the ridge his furrows sped; early on the mountain ranged his reapers, above his mattock late he bowed his head. love's celestial rapture once he tasted, then a cloud of suffering o'er him crept. out along the uplands, in the dew-fall, he mourned the maid who in the churchyard slept, with the poor he shared his scanty earnings, to the lord his laden heart he breathed; on his rustic heart fell two worlds' sunshine, and two worlds' blossoms round his footsteps wreathed. much he gloried in young gwalia's doings, yet more dearly loved her early lore, catching ever from her triple harpstrings the far, faint echoes of her ancient shore. yestereven he hung up his sickle, ne'er again to trudge his grey fields o'er, ne'er again to plough the stony ridges, to sow the home of thorns, alas! no more. the queen's dream (to a welsh air of the name) from the starving city she turned her couch to seek, with pearls of tender pity on her queenly cheek; there in restless slumber she dreamt that she was one of that most piteous number by distress undone. in among that sullen brood, in homeless want she glided, while in mock solicitude her fate they thus derided: "queen, now bear thee queenly, in destiny's despite! if _thou_ wilt starve serenely, we poor wretches might." but, amid their mocking, "the king, the king!" they cry, and forward they run flocking while he passes by; with the crowd she mixes her cruel shame to hide; when, o, what wonder fixes the surging human tide? there one stood, with thorn-crown'd head, hands of supplication, multiplying mystic bread for her famished nation. "children thus remember my poor and me!" he spoke, and in her palace chamber weeping she awoke. the welsh fishermen (to the air of "the song of the bottle") up, up with the anchor, round, round for the harbour mouth! wind, boys, and a spanker racing due south! where 'ood you be going? how, now can ye hoist your sails? when blossoms be blowing over welsh wales! dear hearts for the herring, sure, after the herring, hot after the herring, each ship of us sails. up, up with the anchor, round, round for the harbour mouth! wind boys and a spanker, racing due south. "men, when you go rocking, out under the angry gale, wives' hearts begin knocking, lasses turn pale. oh, why start a-fishing far, far and across the foam? give way to our wishing; stay, stay at home!" "now, but for king herring, what 'ood you be wearing, how 'ood you be faring how keep ye warm? lest loaves should be failing, lest children for want take harm, men still will go sailing out into the storm." then men, since it must be, then men, since it must be so, christ, christ shall our trust be, when the winds blow. once when he was sleeping, "save lord!" the disciples cried, "wild waters are leaping over the side!" see he has awoken! hark, hark, he has spoken, "peace, peace," and in token down the storm died. lord god of the billows, still succour the fishing smack! give peace to our pillows, bring our men back! iii. old and new testament studies david's lament over saul and jonathan israel's beauty is slain here on gilboa's high places, how are the mighty fallen and tears upon all our faces. tell it not now in gath or in askelon's city name it, lest philistia's daughters rejoice and with songs of triumph proclaim it. let there be no more dew, gilboa, upon thy mountains! over thy fields of offerings fair, holden be all heaven's fountains. for there the shield of the mighty, even saul's shield, to-day, as though he was ne'er the anointed of god, is vilely cast away. till the foe in his blood lay stricken or cloven through and through, the bow of jonathan turned not back, the sword of saul still slew. lovely were they in their lives, in death undivided they lay, they were swifter than mountain eagles, stronger than lions at bay. weep, ye daughters of israel, weep over saul your king, who clothed you with scarlet and decked you with gold and filled you with every good thing. how are the mighty fallen, and all their boasts in vain! there on gilboa's high places, o jonathan, thou wast slain. alas! my brother jonathan, i am sore distressed for thee; for thou hast been very pleasant, very pleasant to me. beyond the love of woman was the love that for me you bore. how are the mighty fallen and perished the weapons of war! the fiery furnace bound into the furnace blazing they have cast the children three; but oh! miracle amazing, they arise, unscathed and free; while through paths of fire, to guide them, paths no other foot has trod- lo! a fourth is seen beside them, shining like the son of god. ah! not ours their saintly measure, yet 'tis still our heart's desire, that thou wouldst of thy good pleasure, teach us, too, to walk the fire- living lives of stern denial, trusty toiler, helpmeet tried, till grown fit for fiery trial, with our saviour at our side. ruth and naomi when judges ruled the tribes of israel, a cruel famine on the people fell, till even bethlehem, the "house of bread," for meat and drink at last was sore bestead. then when they called upon jehovah's name, this answer to their heart's petition came: "send forth your strong into the land where lot the might of moab and his race begot- "your kinsfolk they: there still the streams run quick, still grass and corn are laughing high and thick." therefore adventuring forth, the bold and strong their famished flocks and herds drove each along, till moab's high-set plain and warm, wide valleys wherefrom clear-watered arnon westward sallies, rejoiced they reached: there welcome found and there release from want, of wealth a goodly share. with these elimelech and his precious ones, his wife naomi and his two brave sons, mahlon and chilion, jordan's shrunken tide crossed, and at hesbon stayed and occupied. and there they prospered for a blessed time until elimelech in his lordly prime, hasting those cattle-spoilers to pursue, the ambuscading sons of anak slew. then chilion and mahlon, by the voice of their good mother guided, made their choice amongst the maids of moab for their wives: and so, a ten years' space lived joyful lives. till pestilence o'ertook the brothers; naught of wives' or mothers' care availed them aught, but, blessing both, their sight was quenched in gloom; three widows wept o'er their untimely tomb. then when their days of mourning now were o'er, fresh tidings came from jordan's further shore: "judaea's years of famine now are passed, and joyous plenty crowns her fields at last." naomi then outspake: "dear daughters lone, yea, dearer for their sakes who now are gone than if indeed ye were my very own born children, hearken to naomi's voice who of all moabs' maids made you her choice! "good wives and fond, as ever cherished husband, were ye unto my two sons dead, diligent weavers of their household wool, true joy-mates when their cup of bliss was full, kind comforters in sorrow or in pain. alloy was none, but one to mar life's golden chain. "no child, dear orpah, loving ruth, have ye to suckle or to dance upon your knee, no other sons have i your hearts to woo- grandchildren can be none from me to you. therefore, my daughters, o, consider well since you are young, and fair and so excel in every homecraft, were it not more wise no longer to refuse to turn your eyes towards the suitors brave who, now your days of mourning are accomplished, fix their gaze upon your goings? verily now 'twere right that you should each a noble moabite espouse, till, with another's love accost, your childless grief in motherhood be lost. and i, why should i tarry longer here to be a burden on you year by year? kinsfolk and friends have i at bethlehem where plenty reigns; i will go back to them--" then much they both besought her to remain, and yet her purpose neither could restrain; therefore her goods to gather she began against the passing of the caravan. but ruth and orpah each prepared also beside her unto bethlehem to go. and now the three stand ready, full of tears to quit the haunts of happy married years, the tombs that hid their lost ones. staunchly then naomi spoke her purpose once again: "daughters, turn back, each to her mother's house to take the rest that there her work allows, and in due course a second husband find, nor be unto the future foolish--blind! yet take a blessing from the heart of hearts of your naomi ere she hence departs." she blessed them, and with voices lifted up in loud lament the dregs of sorrow's cup they drained together. orpah, weeping, turned and slowly went, but ruth with eyes that yearned into naomi's, cried aloud in pain: "thus to forsake thee, urge me not again, nor to return from following after thee! for where thou goest, i will surely go. and where thou lodgest, will i lodge also! thy people shall be my people evermore, and thy god only will i now adore! and where thou diest, i will buried be! so may jehovah strike me with his thunder, if aught but only death our lives shall sunder." ruth's lips have sealed that solemn covenant, then with naomi hand in hand she went. but as they slept that night there came to each the selfsame vision, though they ne'er had speech thereon, till obed's birth, ruth's only son and david's grandsire; for they each saw one with mahlon's aspect seated in the skies, and on his knees a babe with ruth's own eyes, and by the infant's side one with a face ruddy and bold, a form of kingly grace, and in his hand a harp wherefrom he drew marvellous music while his songs thereto held hosts of angels hearkening in the blue. then figures floated o'er him faint and far up to a child who rode upon a star, and in the heavenly wonder of his face, they read the ransom of the human race. the lilies of the field and the fowls of the air "consider the lilies!" he spake as yet spake no man: "consider the lilies, the lilies of the leas, they toil not, they spin not, like you, tired man and woman, yet solomon in his glory was not robed like one of these. "consider the lilies! sure, if your heavenly father so clothe the meadow grasses that here flower free of scathe and to-morrow light the oven, now, say, shall he not rather still of his goodness clothe you, o ye of little faith? "consider the fowls of the air, behind your harrows; they plough not, they reap not, nor gather grain away, yet your heavenly father cares for them; then, if he feed the sparrows, shall he not rather feed you, his children, day by day?" the good physician to find him they flock, young and old, from their cities, with hearts full of hope: for the tidings had spread: "the proud he rebukes and the poorest he pities, recovers the leper, upraises the dead." so the shepherd has left his sheep lone on the mountain, the woodman his axe buried fast in the pine, the maiden her pitcher half-filled at the fountain, the housewife her loom and the fisher his line. with their babes on their bosoms, their sick on their shoulders, toilsomely thronging by footpath and ford, now resting their burthens among the rude boulders, still they come climbing in search of the lord. until on the mount, with the morn they have found him- christ, the long sought--they have found him at length, with their sick and their stricken, in faith they flock round him, as sighing he looks up to heaven for strength. he has touched the deaf ears and the blind eyes anointed- and straightway they hear him and straightway they see; laid hands on the lame and they leap, supple-jointed, the devils denounced and affrighted they flee. yea? for their faith, from each life-long affliction, yea, for their faith from their sins they are freed, and therefore have earned his divine benediction- * * * * * stretch forth thy hand, for as sore is our need. lord! we are deaf, we are dumb, lost in blindness, lepers and lame and by demons possessed! lord, we are dead! of thine infinite kindness restore us, redeem! bear us home on thy breast. the sower a sower went forth to sow, but his seed on the wayside showered; a bird-flock out of the air flashed low and the goodly grain devoured. a sower went forth to sow, o'er hid rocks plying his toil; the seed leaped up at the warm sun's glow, but withered for lack of soil. a sower went forth to sow, and his seed took steadfast root; but flaming poppies and thorns in row sprang up and strangled the fruit. a sower went forth to sow, and at last his joy he found; for his good seed's generous overflow sank deep into gracious ground. lord, when we look back on our lives, with penitent sighs and tears, our evil that with thee strives and strives in thy parable's truth appears. as the wayside hard were our hearts, where thy good seed lightly lay, for the devil's flock, as it downward darts, to bruise and to bear away. thy winged words falling nigher sprang up in our souls with haste, but they could not endure temptation's fire and withered and went to waste. within us thy word once more thou sowest, but--sore beset with worldly weeds--for thy threshing floor shall it ever ripen yet? yea, lord, it shall if thou please, in passionate, patient prayer, to draw the nation upon its knees and fill it with heavenly care. and so shall we all arise in the joy of a soul's re-birth to hold a communion with the skies that shall bring down heaven to earth. the prodigal's return (from the scotch gaelic) tedious grew the time to me within the courts of blessing; my secure felicity, for folly i forswore; vain delusion wrought my woe till now, in want distressing, i go begging to and fro upon an alien shore. in my dear old home of peace, around my father's table many a servant sits at ease and eats and drinks his fill; while within a filthy stall with loathsome swine i stable, sin-defiled and scorned of all to starve on husk and swill. ah, how well i mind me of the happy days gone over! love was then behind me, before me, and around; then, light as air, i leapt, a laughing little rover, now dull and heavy-stepped i pace this desert ground. sin with flattering offers came; against my sire rebelling i yielded my good name at the tempter's easy smile; in fields that were not ours, brighter blooming, richer smelling, i ravished virgin flowers with a heart full of guile. 'twas thus an open shame in the sight of all the noble, yea! a monster i became, till my gold ceased to flow, and my fine fair-weather friends turned their backs upon my trouble. now an outcast to earth's ends under misery i go. yet though bitter my disgrace, than every ill severer is the thought of the face of the sire for whom i long. i shall see him no more though to me he now is dearer than he ever was, before i wrought him such wrong. and yet ere i die i will journey forth to meet him. home i will hie, for he yet may be won. for pardon and peace my soul will entreat him, "father, have grace on thy prodigal son!" could i get near enough to send him a message- i keeping far off- he would not say me nay. in some little nook he would find me a living and let none be driving his shamed son away. the penitent arose, his scalding tears blinding him; hope's ray lit his way as homeward he pressed. afar off his father's fond eyes are finding him, and the old man gathers his boy to his breast. st. mary magdalen they who have loved the most the most have been forgiven, and with the devil's host most mightily have striven. and so it was of old with her, once all unclean, now of the saints white-stoled- mary, the magdalen. for though in satan's power she seemed for ever fast, her saviour in one hour seven devils from her cast. o'erburthened by the weight of her black bosom sin, as christ with simon sate at meat, she had stolen in. toward her lord she drew; she knelt by him unchid; the latchet of his shoe her trembling hands undid. foot-water none was by nor towel, as was meet, to comfort and to dry his hot way-weary feet; but with her blinding tears she bathes them now instead, and dries them with the hairs of her abased head. and so, when simon looked, and pondered, evil-eyed, no longer jesus brooked his thought, but thus replied; "simon, no kiss of peace thou gav'st me at thy door, no oil, my head to ease, didst thou upon it pour, nay, for thy bidden guest so little hast thou cared, his weary feet to rest no bath hadst thou prepared; yet hath this woman here, by thee with scorn decried, washed them with many a tear, and with her tresses dried, and given them, from her store of spikenard, cool relief, and kissed them o'er and o'er in penitential grief. therefore her joy begins, her prayer is heard in heaven; though many are her sins, they all shall be forgiven!" scant mercy he receives whose love for god is small; but he whom god forgives the most, loves most of all. iv. church festivals a christmas communion hymn (after the meditation for communion on christmas day in _eucharistica_) welcome, thrice blessed day! thrice blessed hour! to hail you, every heart to heaven is climbing, the while the snow in softly circling shower draws down to meet them 'mid the joybell's chiming; like blessed morsels of that manna bread wherewith of old the lord his people fed. welcome, dear dawn! if now no angel song with sudden ravishing acclaim salute thee, yet everywhere our church's white-robed throng shall to thy first exultancy transmute thee. peace and good will again with holy mirth proclaiming to the universal earth. then, too, my soul, forth summoning all thy powers, thyself from worldly schemes and wishes sunder, to worship and admire this hour of hours that is all miracle and the height of wonder; infinity itself shrinks to a span, since god, remaining god, becometh man. here is a mother with no mortal mate! here is a son that hath no earthly father! a graft, on adam's stock incorporate, who yet therefrom no mortal taint can gather! a babe to whom a new and glorious star earth's wisest kings for worship draws from far. all hail! then, sweetest saviour, thrice all hail! the king of kings, by david's prophesying; yet on no royal couch thy first weak wail awoke, for in a manger thou wast lying: still for that condescension more a king than having all the whole world's wealth could bring. thus with earth's humblest brothering thy estate, thus to earth's mightiest giving meek example, the lowly thou exaltest to be great, the proud thou teachest on their pride to trample. so, turning poor men rich and rich men poor, for each thou makest his salvation sure. a christmas carol of the epiphany now who are these who from afar follow yon solitary star? whence journey they and what the quest that turns their faces towards the west? three kings are they and mages three, who in their camel company, with offerings rich, still onward press, across the wintry wilderness. nine months agone, isaiah's page they pondered o'er with questioning sage, when underneath their wondering eyes his words were altered in this wise: "behold a virgin hath conceived!" they saw, and marvelled, and believed, and hasted forth upon the morn to greet the king that should be born. afar they fared by land and flood, the while they saw, with bounding blood, a star that did all stars exceed in wonder still their footsteps lead. until, amid the falling snow, they found the highest laid most low; his palace but a cattle shed, a manger for his princely bed. and there they bent with holy joy and hope before the new-born boy; and opened, at his infant feet, their royal offerings rich and sweet. a fourteenth-century carol when god came down on earth to dwell, great cold befell: yet mary on the road hath seen a fig-tree green. said joseph: "o mary, let the fruit hang; for thirty good mile we have still to gang, lest we be late!" when mary unto a village door at last did win, she thus bespake the cottager: "sir, take us in! since for this young child's tender sake a pitying heart must surely ache, the night's so cold." "you're welcome all to my ox-stall!" the good man cried. but in the middle of the night he rose and sighed: "where are ye now, poor hapless ones? that ye're not frozen to the bones, i marvel much." then back into his house he runs from forth the byre- "rouse up, rouse up, my dearest wife, and light a fire, as fine as ever sent up smoke, whereat these poor and perishing folk may comfort them." mary with joy into the house the babe has brought, joseph her just and faithful spouse, his wallet sought. therefrom he took a kettle small; some snow the child therein let fall, and lo 'tis flour! thereto the babe has added ice; 'tis sugar straight! now water drops, and, in a trice, 'tis milk most sweet! the kettle, fast as you could look, they hung upon the kitchen hook a meal to cook. the godly joseph carved a spoon from out a brand; to ivory it changed full soon and adamant. when mary gave the babe the food, he became jesus, son of god. before their eyes. earth's easter she the long sought for and sighed for in vain, the enchantress immortal- spring, in our very despair, out of inviolate air charioting summons the eastern gate; the obedient portal opes, and a vision blest yields to the wondering west. high on her crystal car she trembles in halycon tissues, gently with golden curb checking her coursers superb- all her ethereal beauty elate with love's infinite issues, whilst this enchantment slips forth from her sibylline lips: "herb and tree in your kinds, free lives of the mountain and forest, shoals of the stream and the flood, flights of the welkin and wood, herd and flock of the field, and ye, whose need is the sorest, suffering spirits of men, lo! i am with you again. fear no more for the tyrant hoar as he rushes to battle armoured in ice, and darts lance after lance at your hearts, fear not his flaming bolts as they hurtle with horrible rattle out of the lurid inane fulminant over the plain. fear not his wizardry white that circles and circles and settles stealthily hour by hour, feathery flower upon flower, over the spell-bound sleeper, till last the pitiless petals darkly in icy death stifle his labouring breath. "late upon yon white height the despot his fugitives rallied, deeming the crest snow-crowned still inaccessibly frowned; idly, for instant upon him my bright-speared chivalry sallied, smote and far into the north swept him discomfited forth, therefore, from root unto hole, from hole into burgeoning branches, tendril and tassel and cup now let the ichor leap up: therefore, with flowering drift and with fluttering bloom avalanches, snowdrop and silver thorn laugh baffled winter to scorn; primrose, daffodil, cowslip, shine back to my shimmering sandals, hyacinth host, o'er the green flash your cerulean sheen, lilac, your perfumed lamps, light, chestnut, your clustering candles, broom and laburnum, untold torches of tremulous gold! therefore gold-gather again from the honeyed heath and the bean field, snatching no instant of ease, bright, multitudinous bees! therefore, ye butterflies, float and flicker from garden to green field, flicker and float and stay, settle and sip and away! "therefore race it and chase it, ye colts, in the emerald meadow! round your serious dams frisk, ye fantastical lambs! therefore, bird unto bird, from the woodland's wavering shadow pipe and 'plain and protest, flutter together and nest. "therefore, ye skylarks, in shivering circle still higher and higher soar, and the palpitant blue drench with delirious dew. therefore, nightingale, lost in the leaves, or lone on the brier, under the magic moon lift your tumultuous tune. therefore refresh you, faint hearts, take comfort, ye souls sorrow-stricken, winning from nature relief, courage and counsel in grief, judging that he, whose handmaid i am, out of death to requicken year after year his earth into more exquisite birth, shadows thereby to your souls through what drear and perilous places into what paradise blest beacons his searching behest- even the heaven of heavens where fond, long-hungered-for faces into your own shall shine radiant with rapture divine." easter day, 1915 i the stars die out on avon's watchful breast, while simple shepherds climb through shadows grey, with beating bosoms up the wrekin's crest to see the sun "dance in" an easter day whose dawning consummates three centuries- since shakespeare's death and entrance to the skies- resolved the radiant miracle not to miss reserved alone to earliest opened eyes. we, too, with faces set towards the east, our joyful orison offerings yielding up keep with our risen lord his pascal feast from paten blest and consecrated cup, and give him thanks who of all realms of earth made england richest by her shakespeare's birth. ii "st. george for merrie england!" let us cry and each a red rose pin upon his breast, then face the foe with fearless front and eye through all our frowning leaguer in the west. for not alone his patron day it is wherefrom our noble george hath drawn his name; three centuries and a half gone by ere this; by shakespeare's birth it won a second fame. a greater glory is its crown to-day since at its first and faintest uttered breath a mighty angel rolled the stone away that sealed his tomb who captive now leads death, and thereby did the great example give. that they who die for others most shall live. the ascension when christ their lord, to heaven upraised, was wafted from the apostles' sight, and upwards wistfully they gazed into the far, blue infinite, behold two men in white apparel dressed who thus bespake them on the mountain crest: "why stand ye, men of galilee, so sadly gazing on the skies? for this same jesus, whom ye see caught in the clouds to paradise, shall in like manner from the starry height return again to greet your joyful sight." would, o lord jesus! thus to hear thy farewell words we too had met, among thine own disciples dear, upon the brow of olivet! yet are we blest, though of that joy bereaved, who having seen thee not, have yet believed. o, then in each succeeding year when thine ascension day draws round, with hearts so full of holy fear may we within thy church be found, that in the spirit we may see thee rise and bless us with pierced hands from out the skies! christ, if our gaze for ever thus is fixed upon thy heavenward way, death shall but bring to each of us at last his soul's ascension day, till in thy mercy thou descend once more and quick and dead to meet thy coming soar. whitsuntide when christ from off the mountain crest before their marvelling eyes, whilst his disciples still he blessed, was caught into the skies- the angels, whose harmonious breath erstwhile proclaimed his birth, now hailed him victor over death, redeemer of the earth; "lift up your heads, ye heavenly gates!" rang forth their joyful strain; "for lo! the king of glory waits to enter you again!" thus, heralded, from heaven to heaven magnifical he goes, until the last of all the seven to greet his coming glows; while he the eternal long left lone to meet him doth upstand, then sets his son upon the throne once more at his right hand. whereat with one triumphal hymn majestically blent the cherubim and seraphim the universe have rent. last, from the splendrous mercy seat, of father and of son, to earth, their purpose to complete, descends the promised one. like to a mighty rushing wind he falls, subduing space, to where christ's chosen with one mind are gathered in one place. with tongues of flame he lights on each, whose wonder-working spell fires them in every human speech heaven's message forth to tell. the coward brood of doubt and fear and hesitance are fled; before the quickening comforter they rise as from the dead. the bolted door is yawning wide, the barred gate backward flung; and forth unarmed and fearless-eyed, they fare their foes among. harvest hymn cast thy bread upon the waters o ye weeping sons and daughters, trust the heavenly harvest giver, cast your bread upon the waters of his overflowing river; cast the good seed, nothing doubting that your tears shall turn to praise, ye shall yet behold it sprouting heavenward, after many days. hope and love, long frost-withholden, into laughing life upleaping, blade and ear, from green to golden, yet shall ripen for your reaping; till some radiant summer morrow, wheresoe'er your sickle cleaves, ye, who sow to-day in sorrow, shout for joy amid your sheaves. o then, learn the inmost meaning of your harvest's rich redundance, bid the famished ones come gleaning in the fields of your abundance; so in overrunning measure shall your thankful fellow-men give you, of their hearts' hid treasure, all your good gifts back again. till, ye faithful sons and daughters, god your golden lives deliver, like the good grain to the waters of death's overflowing river; till up-caught amid his sleepers, heavenly fruit from earthly loam, at the last, his angel reapers on their bosoms bear you home. v. good and faithful servants father o'flynn of priests we can offer a charming variety, far renowned for larning and piety; still, i'd advance you, widout impropriety, father o'flynn as the flower of them all. _chorus_: here's a health to you, father o'flynn, slainté and slainté, and slainté agin; powerfullest preacher, and tenderest teacher, and kindliest creature in ould donegal. don't talk of your provost and fellows of trinity, famous for ever for greek and latinity, dad, and the divels and all at divinity, father o'flynn 'd make hares of them all. come, i vinture to give you my word, never the likes of his logic was heard. down from mythology into thayology, troth! and conchology, if he'd the call. _chorus_: here's a health to you, etc. och! father o'flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you, all the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, all the young childer are wild for to play wid you, you've such a way wid you, father avick! still, for all you've so gentle a soul, gad, you've your flock in the grandest conthroul checkin' the crazy ones, coaxin' onaisy ones, liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick. _chorus_: here's a health to you, etc. and though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, still at all saisons of innocent jollity, where was the play-boy could claim an equality at comicality, father, wid you? once the bishop looked grave at your jest, till this remark set him off wid the rest: "is it lave gaiety all to the laity? cannot the clargy be irishmen too?" _chorus_: here's a health to you, etc. lady gwenny county by county for beauty and bounty go search! and this pound to a penny, when you've one woman to show us as human and lovely as our lady gwenny; for she has the scorn for all scorners, and she has the tear for all mourners, yet joying with joy, with no crabb'd annoy to pull down her mouth at the corners. up with the lark in the pasture you'll meet with her, songs like his own sweetly trilling, carrying now for some poor folk a treat with her, small mouths with lollypops filling: and while, as he stands in a puzzle, she strokes the fierce bull on his muzzle, the calves and the lambs run deserting their dams in her kind hands their noses to nuzzle. now with her maidens a sweet cymric cadence she leads, just to lighten their sewing; now at the farm, her food basket on arm, she has set all the cock'rels a-crowing. the turkey-cock strutting and strumming, his bagpipe puts by at her humming, and even the old gander, the fowl-yard's commander, he winks his sly eye at her coming. never to wandering minstrel or pondering poet her castle gate closes: ever her kindly cheer--ever her praise sincere falls like the dew on faint roses. and when her pennillions rhyming she mates to her triple harp's chiming, in her green gorsedd gown- the half of the town up the fences to hear her are climbing. men in all fashions have pleaded their passions- the scholar, the saint, and the sinner, pleaded in vain lady gwenny to gain,- for only a hero shall win her: and to share his strong work and sweet leisure he'll have no keen chaser of pleasure, but a loving young beauty with a soul set on duty, and a heart full of heaven's hid treasure. old doctor mack ye may tramp the world over from delhi to dover, and sail the salt say from archangel to arragon; circumvint back through the whole zodiack, but to ould docther mack ye can't furnish a paragon. have ye the dropsy, the gout, the autopsy? fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez; no way infarior in skill, but suparior and lineal postarior to ould aysculapius. _chorus_: he and his wig wid the curls so carroty, aigle eye and complexion clarety; here's to his health, honour and wealth, the king of his kind and the cream of all charity. how the rich and the poor, to consult for a cure, crowd on to his door in their carts and their carriages, showin' their tongues or unlacin' their lungs, for divel wan sympton the docther disparages, troth an' he'll tumble for high or for humble from his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety; makin' as light of nursin' all night the beggar in rags as the belle of society. _chorus_: he and his wig wid the curls, etc. and, as if by a meracle, ailments hysterical, dad, wid one dose of bread pills he can smother, and quench the love sickness wid comical quickness, prescribin' the right boys and girls to each other. and the sufferin' childer! your eyes 'twould bewilder, to see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin'- each of them fast on some treasure at last, well knowin' ould mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'. _chorus_: he and his wig wid the curls, etc. thin, his doctherin' done, in a rollickin' run wid the rod or the gun he's the foremost to figure; be jupiter ammon! what jack-snipe or salmon e'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger! and hark that view-holloa! 'tis mack in full follow on black "faugh-a-ballagh" the country-side sailin'! och, but you'd think 'twas ould nimrod in pink, wid his spurs cryin' chink over park wall and palin'. _chorus_: he and his wig wid the curls so carroty, aigle eye and complexion clarety. here's to his health, honour and wealth, hip, hip, hooray, wid all hilarity! hip, hip, hooray! that's the way! all at once widout disparity! one more cheer for our docther dear, the king of his kind and the cream of all charity, hip, hip, hooray! to the memory of john owen harlech choirmaster who is this they bear along the street in his coffin through the sunshine sweet? who is this so many comrades crave, turn by turn, to carry to the grave? who is this for whom the hillward track glooms with mounting lines of mourners black? till the baptists' green old burial-ground clasps them all within its quiet bound. here john owen we must lay to rest, 'tis for him our hearts are sore distressed; since his sister wistfully he eyed, bowed his head upon her breast and died. well and truly at his work he wrought; every harlech road to order brought; then through winter evenings dark and long at the chapel gave his heart to song. till before his gesture of command- till before his hushing voice and hand- sweeter, fuller strains who could desire than he charmed from out his baptist choir. many a time the passer-by enchained by their rapture to its close remained, and the churches joyfully agreed their united choirs his skill should lead. so in handel's choruses sublime he would train them for the christmas time; mould their measures for the concert hall, roll their thunders round the castle wall. loving husband, tender father, quick to console the suffering and sick- christ to follow was his constant aim, christ's own deacon ere he bore the name. widowed wife and children fatherless, stricken kinsfolk, friends in keen distress- sorrow swept them all beneath its wave as his coffin sank into the grave. but his pastor's fervent voice went forth, delicately dwelling on his worth, urging his example, till at last heavenly comfort o'er our grief he cast. for his lonely ones we bowed in prayer, sighed one hymn, and left him lying there, whispering: "lord, thy will be done to-day, thou didst give him, thou hast taken away." saint cuthbert when once a winter storm upon the shores of fife drave cuthbert; in despair, one fearful comrade saith: "to land in such a storm is certain loss of life!" "return," another cried, "by sea is equal death." then cuthbert, "earth and sea against us both are set, but friends, look up, for heaven lies open to us yet." alfred the great a millenary memorial "in my life i have striven to live so worthily that at my death i may leave but a memory of good works to those who come after me." thus alfred spake, whose days were beads of prayer upon the rosary of his royal time, who let "i do" wait not upon "i dare," yet both with duty kept in golden chime, who, great in victory, greater in defeat, greatest in strenuous peace, still suffering, planned from ashdown's field to athelney's lone retreat upward for aye to lift his little land. therefore the seed of his most fruitful sowing, a thousand years gone by, on earth and sea, from slender strength to stately empire growing hath given our isle great continents in fee. for which on alfred's death-day each true heart goes out in praise of his immortal part. sir samuel ferguson strong son of fergus, with thy latest breath thou hast lent a joy unto the funeral knell, welcoming with thy whispered "all is well!" the awful aspect of the angel death. as, strong in life, thou couldst not brook to shun the heat and burthen of the fiery day, fronting defeat with stalwart undismay, and wearing meekly honours stoutly won. pure lips, pure hands, pure heart were thine, as aye erin demanded from her bards of old, and, therefore, on thy harpstrings of pure gold has waked once more her high heroic lay. what shoulders now shall match the mighty fold of ossian's mantle? thou hast passed away. "men, not walls, make a city" (on the home-coming of the london regiments after the boer war) london town, hear a ditty, while we crown our comrades true: "men, not walls, make a city;" ill befalls when men are few,- ill indeed when from his duty into greed the burgess falls, every hand on bribe and booty- how shall stand that city's walls? never yet upon thine annals hath been writ such a shame; never down such crooked channels, london town, thy commerce came. on the poor no tyrant burden, debt secure and sacred trust, honest gain and generous guerdon, these remain thy record just. therefore still through all thy story loyal will thy train-bands led forth to feats of patriot glory, back through streets with bays o'erspread. therefore when the trumpet's warning out again for battle rang, as of old all peril scorning, forth thy bold young burghers sprang; faced the fight, endured the prison, through the night of doubt and gloom, till the empire's star new risen chased afar the clouds of doom. therefore, when their ranks came marching, home again with flashing feet, under bays of triumph arching city ways and city street; london, lift to god thanksgiving for his gift that passes all- for thy heroes, dead and living, who have made thy city wall. field-marshal earl kitchener (june 13, 1916) a sheet of foam is our great soldier's shroud beside the desolate orkney's groaning caves; and we are desolate and groan aloud to know his body wandering with the waves who when the thunder-cloud of battle hate broke o'er us, through it towered, the while he bore upon his titan shoulders a world weight of doubt and danger none had brooked before. for while incredulous friend and foe denied him such possible prowess, honour's blast he blew; and lo! as if from out the earth beside him, army on army into order grew; till need at last was none for our retreating, and back to belgium and the front of france we bore, firm gathered for our foe's defeating against the sounding of the great advance. few were his friends, yet closely round him clustered, but from five million britons, who at his call came uncompelled and round him sternly mustered, the sighs escape, the silent teardrops fall. and not alone the motherland is weeping her great dead captain but, the seven seas o'er, daughter dominions sorrow's watch are keeping, for he was theirs as her's in peace and war. yea, strong sage botha, and that stern cape raider whom first he fought then bound with friendship's bond- each now our own victorious empire aider- lament his loss the sounding deeps beyond. and india mourns her mightiest soldier warden, egypt the sirdar who her desert through laid iron lines of vengeance for our gordon till on the madhi he swept, and struck and slew. and france, for whom he fought a youthful gallant, from whose proud breast he drew fashoda's thorn- france who with england shared his searching talent, france like his second mother stands forlorn. * * * * * a man of men was he, the steadfast glances of whose steel-grey, indomitable eyes so pierced the mind, behind all countenances, crushed were the sophist's arts, the coward's lies. a man of men but in his greatness lonely- undaunted in defeat, in conquest calm, for god and country living and dying only, and winner therefore of the deathless palm. * * * * * a truce to tears then. though his body hath no rest in english earth, his shining soul still leads his armies up the arduous path he paved for them forthright to glory's goal. and we the men and women who remain, let us to be his other army burn with such pure fires of sacrificial pain as shall reward our warriors' return. but now a sudden heavy silence falls on all our streets, half-mast the standard hangs- the hearseless funeral passes to st. paul's, and out of every steeple the death-bell clangs. now sorrowing king and queen, as midday booms, the hushed fane enter, while o'er mourners black, grey soldier, choral white, quick gleams and glooms of sun and shadow darkle and sparkle back. the prayers of priest and people to heaven's gate win and a choir as of angels welcoming thither our chief- till a thunder of drums the mighty dead march beats in and the last post lingers, lingers and dies on our grief. inscription for a roll of honour in a public school since to die nobly is life's act supreme, and since our best and dearest thus have died, across our cloud of grief a solemn gleam of joy has struck, and all our tears are dried. for these men to keep pure their country's fame against great odds fell fighting to the death, god give us grace who here bear on their name to grow more like them with each proud-drawn breath. an epitaph on an irish cross in memory of charles graves, bishop of limerick to god his steadfast soul, his starry mind to science, a gracious heart to kin and kind, he living gave. therefore let each fair bloom of faith and hope breathe balsam o'er his tomb. an intercessional answered (june 26, 1902) we thought to speed our earthly king triumphant on his way unto his solemn sacreing before thy throne to-day; his royal robes were wrought, prepared his sceptre, orb and crown, and all earth's princes here repaired to heighten his renown; when, hurtling out of bluest heaven, thy bolt upon us fell; our head is pierced, our heart is riven, struck dumb the minster bell. yet flags still flutter far and wide; the league-long garlands glow, still london wears her gala pride above a breast of woe. lord shall these laughing leaves and flowers their joyful use forget? nay, on this stricken realm of ours have thou compassion yet. long years ago our edward lay thus fighting for his breath, yet to such prayers as now we pray thou gavest him back from death. then o'er the tempest of his pain, his cry of perishing thrill, let thy right arm go forth again, thy saving "peace! be still!" until to all his strength restored thy spirit lead him down, in solemn state, almighty lord, to take from thee his crown. vi. personal and various let there be joy! (a christmas carol from the scotch gaelic) this is now the blessed morn, when was born the virgin's son, who from heights of glorious worth, unto earth his way has won; all the heav'ns grow bright to greet him, forth to meet him, ev'ry one! all hail! let there be joy! all hail! let there be joy! mountains praise, with purple splendour, plains, with tender tints, the morn; shout, ye waves, with prophesying voices crying, "christ is born! christ, the son of heav'n's high king, therefore sing no more forlorn!" all hail! let there be joy! all hail! let there be joy! a holiday hymn he, unto whom the heavenly father hath in his works himself revealed, sees with rapt eyes the glory gather o'er hill and forest, flood and field. he, when the torrent laughs in thunder, larks soar exulting in the blue, thrills with the waterfall's glad wonder, far up to heaven goes singing too; wanders, a child among the daisies; ponders, a poet, all things fair; wreathes with the rose of dawn his praises, weaves with eve's passion-flowers his prayer; full sure that he who reared the mountain, made smooth the valley, plumed the height, holds in clear air the lark and fountain- shall yet uplift him into light. summer morning's walk 'tis scarcely four by the village clock, the dew is heavy, the air is cool- a mist goes up from the glassy pool, through the dim field ranges a phantom flock: no sound is heard but the magpie's mock. very low is the sun in the sky, it needeth no eagle now to regard him. is there not one lark left to reward him with the shivering joy of his long, sweet cry, for sad he seemeth, i know not why. through the ivied ruins of yonder elm there glides and gazes a sadder face; spectre queen of a vanished race- 'tis the full moon shrunk to a fleeting film, and she lingers for love of her ancient realm. these are but selfish fancies, i know, framed to solace a secret grief- look again--scorning such false relief- dwarf not nature to match thy woe- look again! whence do these fancies flow? what is the moon but a lamp of fire that god shall relume in his season? the sun, like a giant, rejoices his race to run with flaming feet that never tire on the azure path of the starry choir. the lark has sung ere i left my bed: and hark! far aloft from those ladders of light many songs, not one only, the morn delight. then, sad heart, dream not that nature is dead, but seek from her strength and comfort instead. snow-stains the snow had fallen and fallen from heaven, unnoticed in the night, as o'er the sleeping sons of god floated the manna white; and still, though small flowers crystalline blanched all the earth beneath, angels with busy hands above renewed the airy wreath; when, white amid the falling flakes, and fairer far than they, beside her wintry casement hoar a dying woman lay. "more pure than yonder virgin snow from god comes gently down, i left my happy country home," she sighed, "to seek the town, more foul than yonder drift shall turn, before the sun is high, downtrodden and defiled of men, more foul," she wept, "am i." "yet, as in midday might confessed, thy good sun's face of fire draws the chaste spirit of the snow to meet him from the mire, lord, from this leprous life in death lift me, thy magdalene, that rapt into redeeming light i may once more be clean." remembrance (to music) the fairest blooming flower before the sun must fade; each leaf that lights the bower must fall at last decayed! like these we too must wither, like these in earth lie low, none answering whence or whither we come, alas! or go. none answering thee? thou sayest, nay, mourner, from thy heart, if but in faith thou prayest, the voice divine shall start; "i gave and i have taken, if thou wouldst comfort win to cheer thy life forsaken, i knock, o, let me in! "thy loved ones have but folden their earthly garments by, and through heaven's gateway golden gone gladly up on high. o, if thou wouldst be worthy to share their joy anon, cast off, cast off the earthy, and put the heavenly on!" sands of gold hope gave into my trembling hands an hour-glass running golden sands, and love's immortal joys and pains i measured by its glancing grains. but evil fortune swooped, alas! remorseless on the magic glass, and shivered into idle dust the radiant record of my trust. long i mated with despair and craved for death with ceaseless prayer; till unto my sick-bed side there stole a presence angel-eyed. "if thou wouldst heal thee of thy wound," her voice to heavenly harps attuned bespake me, "let the sovran tide within this glass thy future guide." therewith she gave into my hands no hour-glass running golden sands, only a horologe forlorn set against a cross of thorn, and cold and stern the current seemed that through its clouded crystal gleamed. "immortal one," i cried, "make plain this cure of my consuming pain. open my eyes to understand, and sift the secrets of this sand, and measure by its joyless grains what yet of life to me remains." "the sand," she said, "that glimmers grey within this glass, but yesterday was dust at dives' bolted door shaken by god's suffering poor; then by blasts of heaven upblown before the judge upon his throne to swell the ever-gathering cloud of witnesses against the proud- the dust of throats that knew no slaking, the dust of brows for ever aching- dust unto dust with life's last breath sighed into the urn of death." with tears i took that cross of thorn, with tears that horologe forlorn. and all my moments by its dust i measure now with prayerful trust, and though my courage oft turns weak, fresh comfort from that cross i seek; in wistful hope i yet may wake to find the thorn in blossom break, and from life's shivered glass behold my being's sands ebb forth in gold. the mourner when tears, when heavy tears of sharpest sorrow bathe the lone pillow of the mourner's bed, whose grief breaks fresh with every breaking morrow for his beloved one dead, if all be not in vain, his passionate prayer shall like a vapour mount the inviolate blue, to fall transfigured back on his despair in drops of heavenly dew; nor fail him ever but a cloud unceasing of incense from his soul's hushed altar start, and still return to rise with rich increasing, a well-spring from his heart; pure fount of peace that freshly overflowing through other lives shall still run radiant on, till they, too, reap in joy who wept in sowing, long after he is gone. de profundis out of the darkness i call; i stretch forth my hands unto thee. loose these fetters that foully enthral; to their lock thou alone hast the key. low at thy footstool i fall, forgive and thy servant is free! folly took hold of my time, on pleasure i perched, to my woe; i was snared in the evil one's lime and now all his promptings i know. crimson as blood is my crime. yet thou canst wash whiter than snow. heaven overhead is one frown; about me the black waters rave; to the deep i go dreadfully down; o pluck my feet out of the grave; lord! i am sinking, i drown, o save, for thou only canst save. immortal hope summer hath too short a date autumn enters, ah! how soon, scattering with scornful hate all the flowers of june. nay say not so, nothing here below but dies to rise anew with rarer glow. now, no skylarks singing soar sunward, now, beneath the moon love's own nightingale no more lifts her magic tune! nay, say not so, but awhile they go; their strain again all heaven shall overflow. we had a child we had a child, a little fairy prince, let loose from elfland for our heart's delight; ah! was it yesterday or four years since he beamed upon our sight? four years--and yet it seems but yesterday since the blue wonder of his baby eyes. beneath their ebon-fringèd canopies, subdued us to his sway. three years--and yet but yestermorn it seems since first upon his feet he swaying stood, buoyed bravely up by memory's magic dreams of elfin hardihood. he stood, the while that long-forgotten lore lit all his lovely face with frolic glee; and then--o marvel! to his mother's knee walked the wide nursery floor. two years gone by--ah, no! but yesterday our bright-eyed nursling, swift as we could teach, forsook the low soft croonings of the fay for broken human speech- broken, yet to our ears divinelier broken than sweetest snatches from heaven's mounting bird- more eloquent than the poet's passionate word supremely sung or spoken. but o, our darling in his joyful dance tottered death-pale beneath the withering north, into a kinder clime, most blessed chance, we caught him swiftly forth, and there he bloomed again, our fairy boy, two year-long aprils through in sun and shower, wing-footed mercury of each merry hour, the genius of our joy. and evermore we shared his shifting mood of hide-and-seek with april joy and sorrow, till not one shadow of solicitude remained to mar our morrow; yea, every fear had flown, lest, welladay! the headlong heats or winter's piercing power should light afresh upon our radiant flower and wither him away. * * * * * we had a child, a little fairy child, he kissed us on the lips but yesternight, yet when he wakened his blue eyes were wild with fevered light. we had a child--what countless ages since, did he go forth from us with wildered brain, will he come back and kiss us once again- our little fairy prince? by the bedside of a sick child o thou by whose eternal plan ages arise and roll, who in thine image madest man to search him to the soul, if e'er in token of the cross, with infant arms outspread, thou sawest thy beloved toss in anguish on his bed; or heardest in the childish cry that pierced the cottage room the voice of christ in agony breaking from calvary's gloom, give ear! and from thy throne above with eyes of mercy mild, look down, of thine immortal love, upon our suffering child. though earth's physicians all in vain have urged their utmost skill, yet to our prayers o make it plain that thou canst succour still; yea! through the midnight watches drear, and all the weary day, o be thy good physician near our stricken one to stay; that evermore as we succeed in service at his side, each office of our darling's need his heavenly hands may guide; till o'er his tempest bed of pain, his cry of perishing thrill the saviour's arm go forth again, the saviour's "peace! be still." too well, o lord, too well we know how oft upon thy way our feet have followed faint and slow, how often turned astray for fleeting pleasures to forsake thy path of heavenly prayer; we have deserved that thou shouldst take our children from our care. yet, o good shepherd, lead us back, our lamb upon thy breast, safely along the narrow track, across the dangerous crest; until our aching eyes rejoice at salem's shining walls, and to our thirsting souls a voice of living waters calls. he has come back without the wintry sky is overcast, the floods descend, fierce hail and rushing rain, whilst ever and anon the angry blast clutches the casement-pane. within our darling beats an angrier air with piteous outstretched arms and tossing head, whilst we, bowed low beside his labouring bed, pour all our hearts in prayer. is this the end? the tired little hands fall by his side, the wild eyes close at last, breathless he sinks, almost we hear his sands of being ebbing past; when, o miraculous! he wakes once more, love glowing in his glance, the while there slips "mother, dear mother!" from his trembling lips, "dear mother!" o'er and o'er. he has come back, our little fairy child, back from his wanderings in the dreadful dark, back o'er the furious surge of fever wild, the lost dove of our ark; back, slowly back o'er the dire flood's decrease the white wings flutter, only our god knows how, bearing aloft the blessed olive bough of his compassionate peace. spring's secrets as once i paused on poet wing in the green heart of a grove, i met the spirit of the spring with her great eyes lit of love. she took me gently by the hand and whispered in my wondering ear secrets none may understand, till she make their meaning clear; why the primrose looks so pale, why the rose is set with thorns; why the magic nightingale through the darkness mourns and mourns; how the angels, as they pass in their vesture pure and white o'er the shadowy garden grass, touch the lilies into light; how their hidden hands upbear the fledgling throstle in the air, and lift the lowly lark on high, and hold him singing in the sky; what human hearts delight her most; the careless child with roses crowned, the mourner, knowing that his lost shall in the eternal spring be found. the lord's leisure tarry thou the leisure of the lord! ever the wise upon him wait; early they sorrow, suffer late, yet at the last have their reward. shall then the very king sublime keep thee and me in constant thought, out of the countless names of naught swept on the surging stream of time? ah, but the glorious sun on high, searching the sea, fold on fold, gladdens with coronals of gold each troubled billow heaving by. though he remove him for a space, though gloom resume the sleeping sea, yet of his beams her dreams shall be, yet shall his face renew her grace. then when sorrow is outpoured, pain chokes the channels of thy blood, think upon the sun and the flood, tarry thou the leisure of the lord. spring is not dead snow on the earth, though march is wellnigh over; ice on the flood; fingers of frost where late the hawthorn cover burgeoned with bud. yet in the drift the patient primrose hiding, yet in the stream the glittering troutlet gliding, yet from the root the sap still upward springing, yet overhead one faithful skylark singing, "spring is not dead!" brows fringed with snow, the furrowed brows of sorrow, cheeks pale with care: pulses of pain that throb from night till morrow; hearts of despair! o, yet take comfort, still your joy approaches, dark is the hour that on the dawn encroaches, april's own smile shall yet succeed your sighing, april's own voice set every song-bird crying, "spring is not dead!" aim not too high (to an old english air) aim not too high at things beyond thy reach nor give the rein to reckless thought or speech. is it not better all thy life to bide lord of thyself than all the earth beside? then if high fortune far from thee take wing, why shouldst thou envy counsellor or king? purple or buckram--wherefore make ado what coat may cover, so the heart be true? but if at last thou gather wealth at will, thou best shalt succour those that need it still; since he who best doth poverty endure, should prove when rich heart's brother to the poor. wild wine of nature in praise of water-drinking (after duncan ban mcintyre) wild wine of nature, honey tasted, ever streaming, never wasted, from long and long and long ago in limpid, cool, life-giving flow up-bubbling with its cordial bland even from the thirsty desert sand- o draught to quench man's thirst upon far sweeter than the cinnamon! like babes upon their mother's breast, to earth our craving lips are pressed for her free gift of matchless price, pure as it poured in paradise. bridal invocation jesu, from to-day guide us on our way, so shall we, no moment wasting, follow thee with holy hasting, led by thy dear hand to the blessed land. through despondence dread, still support our tread; though our heavy burdens bow us, how to bear them bravely, show us! such adversity is but the path to thee. when our bosom's grief clamours for relief, when we share another's sorrow, may we thy sweet patience borrow, that to our heavenly father's will we may trust each issue still. thus our onward way, order day by day, though upon rough roads thou set us, thy fond care shall ne'er forget us, till "underneath death's darkening door; we see the glimmering of heaven's floor." the coming of sir galahad and a vision of the grail at the solemn feast of pentecost arthur the king and his chosen knights sat, as we sit, in the court of camelot side by side at the table round. none made music, none held converse, none knew hunger, none were athirst, each possessed with the same strange longing, each fulfilled with one awful hope; each of us fearing even to whisper what he felt to his bosom friend, lest the spell should be snapped in sunder. thus we sat awaiting a sign! when, on a sudden, out of the distance blared the bugle that hangs at the gate; loud the barbican leaped on its hinges; and the hollow porch and the vacant hall and the roof of the long resounding corridor echoed the advent of unknown feet, the feet of a stranger approaching the threshold step by step irresistibly: till opened yonder door and through it strode to this table the virgin knight- strode and stood with uplifted vizor. fear fell on all, save only the king! uprose arthur, unbarred his helmet; shone confessed the countenance chaste. then, for so the spirit inspired him, set the youth on the perilous seat; brake as he pressed it a peal of thunder and paled the firelight, paled the lamps, such a sudden stream of splendour flooded the feast with miraculous light; whilst, o wonder! round the table swathed in samite, dazzling bright, passed the presence, mystical, shadowy, ghostly gliding--the holy grail, passed, though none could its shape discover, nay, not even the virgin knight, passed, passed with strains seraphic, incense odours, rainbow hues- passed, passed, and where it entered, suddenly melted out of sight. ask what thou wilt thy blood was spilt from death to set us free; ask what thou wilt, 'tis consecrate to thee! thy hands and feet for us the nails went through. what is most meet, bid ours for thee to do. ask what thou wilt. all round thy brows the throne of heavenly thought, divine wisdom's house- for us the thorns were wrought; therefore, though dust in balance with thy pains, take thou, in trust, the travail of our brains! ask what thou wilt. thy heart of love with all its human aches, by the spear's proof, was broken for our sakes; our hearts, therefore, and all we love and own are ours no more, but thine and thine alone. ask what thou wilt. though homes be riven, at thy supreme behest, yea! the sword driven through many a mother's breast; thy blood was spilt from death to set us free; ask what thou wilt 'tis consecrate to thee. ask what thou wilt. printed at the complete press west norwood london transcribed from the 1873 houlston & sons edition, by david price, email ccx074@pglaf.org the poetry of wales. edited by john jenkins, esq. "i offer you a bouquet of culled flowers, i did not grow, only collect and arrange them."--par le seigneur de montaigne. london: houlston & sons, paternoster square llanidloes: john pryse. 1873. [_cheap edition_.--_all rights reserved_.] preface. the editor of this little collection ventures to think it may in some measure supply a want which he has heard mentioned, not only in the principality, but in england also. some of the editor's english friends--themselves being eminent in literature--have said to him, "we have often heard that there is much of value in your literature and of beauty in your poetry. why does not some one of your literati translate them into english, and furnish us with the means of judging for ourselves? we possess translated specimens of the literature, and especially the poetry of almost every other nation and people, and should feel greater interest in reading those of the aborigines of this country, with whom we have so much in common." it was to gratify this wish that the editor was induced to give his services in the present undertaking, from which he has received and will receive no pecuniary benefit; and his sole recompense will be the satisfaction of having attempted to extend and perpetuate some of the treasures and beauties of the literature of his native country. introduction. the literature of a people always reflects their character. you may discover in the prose and poetry of a nation its social condition, and in their different phases its political progress. the age of homer was the heroic, in which the greeks excelled in martial exploits; that of virgil found the romans an intellectual and gallant race; the genius of chaucer, spencer and sidney revelled in the feudal halls and enchanted vistas of the middle ages; shakespeare delineated the british mind in its grave and comic moods; milton reflected the sober aspect and spiritual aspirations of the puritanical era; while at later periods pope, goldsmith and cowper pourtrayed the softer features of an advanced civilization and milder times. following the same rule, the history of wales is its literature. first came the odes and triads, in which the bards recited the valour, conquests and hospitality of their chieftains, and the gentleness, beauty and virtue of their brides. this was the age of aneurin, of taliesin and llywarch hen. next came the period of love and romance, wherein were celebrated the refined courtship and gay bridals of gallant knights and lovely maids. this was the age of dafydd ap gwilym, of hywel ap einion and rhys goch. in later times appeared the moral songs and religious hymns of the welsh puritans, wherein was conspicuous above all others william williams of pantycelyn, aptly denominated "the sweet psalmist of wales." the principality, like every other country, has had and has its orators, its philosophers and historians; and, much as they are prized by its native race, we venture to predict that the productions of none will outlive the language in which their prose is spoken and writ. not that there is wanting either eloquence or grandeur or force in their orations and essays, depth or originality in their philosophical theories, or truthfulness, research or learning in their historic lore; but that neither the graces of the first, the novelty of the next, or the fidelity of the last will in our opinion justify a translation into more widely spoken tongues, and be read with profit and interest by a people whose libraries are filled with all that is most charming in literature, most profound in philosophy and most new and advanced in science and art. our evil prophecy of its prose does not however extend to the poetry of wales, for like all other branches of the celtic race, the ancient britons have cultivated national song and music with a love, skill and devotion which have produced poems and airs well deserving of extensive circulation, long life and lasting fame. the poetic fire has inspired the nation from the most primitive times, for we find that an order of the druidical priests were bards who composed their metres among aboriginal temples and spreading groves of oak. the bard was an important member of the royal household, for the court was not complete without the bard president, the chief of song, and the domestic bard. the laws of hywel the good, king or prince of wales in the tenth century, enact:- "if there should be fighting, the bard shall sing 'the monarchy of britain' in front of the battle." "the bard president shall sit at the royal table." "when a bard shall ask a gift of a prince, let him sing one piece; when he asks of a baron, let him sing three pieces." "his land shall be free, and he shall have a horse in attendance from the king." "the chief of song shall begin the singing in the common hall." "he shall be next but one to the patron of the family." "he shall have a harp from the king, and a gold ring from the queen when his office is secured to him. the harp he shall never part with." "when a song is called for, the bard president should begin; the first song shall be addressed to god, the next to the king. the domestic bard shall sing to the queen and royal household." the bard therefore in ancient times performed important functions. in peace he delighted his lord with songs of chivalry, love and friendship. in war he accompanied his prince to battle, and recited the might and prowess of his leader and the martial virtue of his hosts. no court or hall was complete without the presence of the bard, who enlivened the feast with his minstrelsy and song. we also see that the welsh bard, like the primitive poets of greece, and the troubadours of southern france, sang his verses to the harp, whose dulcet strings have always sent forth the national melodies. the chief bards were attached to the courts and castles of their princes and chieftains; but a multitude of inferior minstrels wandered the country singing to their harps, and were in those primitive times received with open arms and welcome hospitality in the houses of the gentry, and whither soever they went. even within living memory the english tourist has often met in the lonely dells and among the mountain passes of wales the wayworn minstrel, with harp strung to his shoulders, ever ready to delight the traveller with the bewitching notes of his lyre and song. but the modern bard of wales is the counterpart of his scottish brother, of whom scott wrote:- "the way was long, the wind was cold, the minstrel was infirm and old; his withered cheeks and tresses gray seemed to have known a better day; the harp, his sole remaining joy, was carried by an orphan boy. * * * * * no more on prancing palfry borne, he carolled light as lark at morn; no longer courted and caress'd, high placed in hall, a welcome guest, he poured to lord and lady gay the unpremeditated lay." nor will the modern visitor to the castles and halls of the principality, not to mention its principal hotels, often miss the dulcet strains of the national lyre. the song and minstrelsy of wales have from the earliest period of its history been nurtured by its eisteddfodau. it is ascertained that the prince bleddyn ap kynfyn held an eisteddfod in a.d. 1070, which was attended by the bards and chief literati of the time. this eisteddfod made rules for the better government of the bardic order. this annual assemblage of princes, bards and literati has been regularly held through the intervening centuries to the present time. within living memory royalty has graced this national gathering of the ancient british race. the ceremonies attendant upon this national institution are well known. the president or chief, followed by the various grades of the bardic order, walk in procession (_gorymdaith_) to the place appointed, where twelve stones are laid in a circle, with one in the centre, to form a _gorsedd_ or throne. when the whole order is assembled, the chief of bards ascends the _gorsedd_, and from his laurel and flower-bedecked chair opens the session, by repeating aloud the mottoes of the order, viz.: "_y gwir yn erbyn y byd_, _yn ngwyneb haul a llygad goleuni_," or "the truth against the world, in the face of the sun and the eye of light," meaning that the proceedings, judgments and awards of the order are guided by unswerving truth, and conducted in an open forum beneath the eyes of the public. then follow verses laudatory of the president. poetical compositions, some of a very high order, are then rehearsed or read, interspersed with singing and lyric music. the greater part of the poets and musical performers compete for prizes on given subjects, which are announced beforehand on large placards throughout the principality. the subjects for competition are for the most part patriotic, but religion and loyalty are supreme throughout the eisteddfod. the successful competitors are crowned or decorated by the fair hands of lady patronesses, who distribute the prizes. this yearly gathering of the rank, beauty, wealth and talent of the principality, to commemorate their nationality and foster native genius, edified and delighted by the gems of welsh oratory, music and song, cannot but be a laudable institution as well as pleasant recreation. some of the foremost english journals, who devote columns of their best narrative talent to record a horse race, a scottish highland wrestle, or hideous prize fight with all their accompaniments of vice and brutality, may surely well spare the ridicule and contempt with which they visit the pleasant welsh eisteddfod. their shafts, howsoever they may irritate for the time, ought surely not to lower the welshman's estimate of his eisteddfod, seeing the antiquity of its origin, the praiseworthiness of its objects, the good it has done, the talent it has developed,--as witness, a brinley richards and edith wynne,--and the delight it affords to his country people. enveloped in the panoply of patriotism, truth and goodness, he may well defy the harmless darts of angry criticism and invective, emanating from writers who are foreign in blood, language, sympathy and taste. when the greeks delighted in their olympic games of running for a laurel crown, the romans witnessed with savage pleasure the deadly contentions of their gladiators, the spaniards gazed with joy on their bloody bull fights, and the english crowded to look at the horse race or prize fight, the cymry met peaceably in the recesses of their beautiful valleys and mountains to rehearse the praises of religion and virtue, to sing the merits of beauty, truth and goodness, and all heightened by the melodious strains of their national lyre. it is often asked, what is poetry? prose, we assume to be a simple or connected narrative of ordinary facts or common circumstances. poetry, on the other hand, is a grouping of great, grand or beautiful objects in nature, or of fierce, fine or lofty passions, or beautiful sentiments, or pretty ideas of the human heart or mind, and all these premises expressed in suitable or becoming language. poetry is most indulged in the infancy of society when nature is a sealed book, and the uneducated mind fills creation with all sorts of beings and phantoms. there is then wide scope for the rude imagination to wander at will through the unknown universe, and to people it with every description of mythical beings and superstitious objects. poetry is most powerful in the infancy of civilization, and enjoys a license of idea and language which would shock the taste of more advanced times. the hindustani poetry as furnished by sir william jones, that of the persian hafiz, the early ballads of the arabians, moors and spaniards, the poems of ossian, besides the primitive saxon ballads, and the triads of wales, all indicate the extravagant imagery and rude license of poetry in the early ages of society. the history of those several nations also attests the magical influence of their early poetry upon the peoples. we find that tallifer the norman trouvere, who accompanied william to the invasion of england, went before his hosts at hastings, reciting the norman prowess and might, and flung himself upon the saxon phalanx where he met his doom. we read that the example of the trouvere aroused the norman hosts to an enthusiasm which precipitated them upon the saxon ranks with unwonted courage and frenzy. we also find that the welsh bard always accompanied his prince to battle, and rehearsed in song the ancient valour and conquests of the chieftain and army in front of the enemy. the progress of philosophy and science dissipates the myths and spectres of the poetical creation, just as the advance of a july sun dispels the mist and cloud which hung over the earlier hours of day and veiled the mountains and valleys from the eye of man. poetry becomes now shorn of its greatest extravangancies and wildest flights, instead of soaring with the eagle to the extremities of space, it flies like the falcon within human sight. in lieu of a homer, a shakespeare and a milton, we have a pope, a thomson and a campbell. the poetry of wales may be classified into six parts, viz.: the sublime, the beautiful, the patriotic, the humourous, the sentimental and religious. much of the poetry of the principality consists of the first class, and is specially dedicated to description and praise of the supreme being, the universe and man. as the great objects of creation, like the sun and moon, the planetary world and stars first attract the attention of man and always enlist his deepest feelings, so they furnish the great themes for the poetry of all nations, more especially in its ruder stages. the welsh poet is no exception to the rule. on the contrary, he indulges in the highest flights of imagination, and borrows the grandest imagery and choicest description to set forth the most high and his wonderful works. no translation can convey to the english reader the interest and effect which this class of poetry has and produces upon the welsh mind, simply because their trains of thought are so entirely different. the power and expressiveness of the welsh language, which cannot be transferred into any english words, also add materially to the effect of this class of poetry upon the native mind. the cymric is unquestionably an original language, and possesses a force and expression entirely unknown to any of the derivative tongues. the finer parts of scripture, as the book of job and the psalms, are immeasurably more impressive in the welsh than english language. the native of the principality, who from a long residence in the metropolis or other parts of england, and extensive acquaintance with its people, followed often by mercantile success, so as almost to become anglicised, no sooner returns to his native hills, either for a visit or residence, and upon the sabbath morn enters the old parish church or chapel to hear the bible read in the native tongue, than he feels a transport of delight and joy, to which his heart has been foreign since he crossed the border, mayhap in youth. much of this may be owing to a cause similar to that which fires the swiss soldier on foreign service when he hears the chant of his own mountain "_rans des vaches_." something may doubtless be laid to the account of early association; but, we think, more is justly due to the great impressiveness and power of his native tongue. the poems, original and translated, contained in the first part of the ensuing collection, may convey to the english reader some idea of this class of welsh poetry. the love of the beautiful is natural to man, but of all nations the greeks entertained the best ideals and cultivated the faculty to the highest perfection. their temples have formed models of architectural beauty for all nations, and the grace and elegance of their statuary have found students among every people. much of this taste for the beautiful mingled with their poetry, which is kin sister to the imitative arts. in recent times the italians have inherited the faculty of beauty, and introduced it into their fine cathedrals and capitols, as well as their statuary. the french also have displayed the highest ideals of beauty in their manufactures and fine arts. the spaniards have introduced into their poetry some of the inimitable grace and beauty of their alhambra. the latin races appear in modern times to have been pre-distinguished in the fine arts. much of the taste for beauty is inherent in the celtic races, and this element is very perceptible in the poetry of the cymric branch, as will appear from the illustrations contained in the second part of this collection. patriotism, or love of country, is characteristic of all nations, and manifests itself in their poetical effusions, more especially of the earlier date. it is but natural that man should feel a profound attachment to the land of his fathers, to the valley where he spent the early and happier years of his life, to the hills which bounded that plain, to the church or chapel where he worshipped in youth, and in whose cemetery rest the ashes of his kin, to the language of his childhood, its literature, history and traditions, and more especially to the kind family, neighbours and friends who watched over his infancy, and entertained his maturer years. this attachment, which is no other than patriotism, is only deepened by his removal into a distant land, and among a strange people. perhaps no people in modern times have cultivated their patriotic songs more ardently or even more successfully than the scotch; though probably most of this may be owing to their great minstrel scott, who transformed their rude ballads into immortal song. moore did a similar, though smaller, service for the irish branch of the celtic race. and we most truly think that a welsh scott or moore is only wanting to marry the lays of wales to undying verse. the third part of this collection will contain some of the most spirited of the patriotic poems of wales. humour is inherent in every people, and is more or less characteristic of every nation. cervantes among the spaniards, the abbate casti among the italians, jean paul richter among the germans, voltaire among the french, samuel butler, the author of hudibras, and dr. john wolcot among the english, jonathan swift among the irish, and robert burns among the scotch, have introduced humorous writing into the literature of their respective countries with more or less of success. nor was it possible that a people so lively, so susceptible of contrast, and possessed of so keen a sense of the ridiculous in manners and conversation as the welsh, should not spice their literature with examples of humorous writing. we shall furnish in the fourth part of this collection a few specimens from the writings of some of the humorists of wales. sentiment, which may be defined as the emotion of the human heart, mixes freely in verse and sentimental poetry, forms a considerable portion of the lays of every country. there is in this particular no distinction between the early and modern history of nations, for sentiment enters the metrical effusions of every period alike. pathos and taste appear to be the foster mothers of this quality, which is a distinguishing trait of the poetry of wales, as shown by the examples furnished in the fifth part of this collection. if any trait be more distinctive of the welshman than another, it is his love for his bible, his chapel and church, and this has furnished the richest store of spiritual song. the hymnists of wales are many; but distinguished beyond and above every other, is the celebrated williams of pantycelyn, whose hymns are sung in every chapel and cottage throughout the principality, and are now as refreshing to the religious tastes and emotions of the people as at their first appearance; and, from their intrinsic beauty and warmth, they are not likely to be lost so long as the welsh language remains a spoken or written tongue. the sixth part of this collection will furnish the reader with an insight into the transcendent merit and fervour of this prince of religious song. part i. the sublime. snowdon. king of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow thou rearest in the clouds, as if to mock the littleness of human things below; the tempest cannot harm thee, and the shock of the deep thunder falls upon thy head as the light footfalls of an infant's tread. the livid lightning's all destroying flame has flashed upon thee harmlessly, the rage of savage storms have left thee still the same; thou art imperishable! age after age thou hast endured; aye, and for evermore thy form shall be as changeless as before. the works of man shall perish and decay, cities shall crumble down to dust, and all their "gorgeous palaces" shall pass away; even their lofty monuments shall fall; and a few scattered stones be all to tell the place where once they stood,--where since they fell! yet, even time has not the power to shiver one single fragment from thee; thou shalt be a monument that shall exist for ever! while the vast world endures in its immensity, the eternal snows that gather on thy brow shall diadem thy crest, as they do now. thy head is wrapt in mists, yet still thou gleam'st, at intervals, from out the clouds, that are a glorious canopy, in which thou seem'st to shroud thy many beauties; now afar thou glitterest in the sun, and dost unfold thy giant form, in robes of burning gold. and, when the red day dawned upon thee, oh! how bright thy mighty form appeared! a thousand dies shed o'er thee all the brilliance of their light, catching their hues from the o'er-arching skies, that seemed to play around thee, like a dress sporting around some form of loveliness. and when the silver moonbeams on thee threw their calm and tranquil light, thou seem'st to be a thing so wildly beautiful to view, so wrapt in strange unearthly mystery, that the mind feels an awful sense of fear when gazing on thy form, so wild and drear. the poet loves to gaze upon thee when no living soul is near, and all are gone wooing their couches for soft sleep; for then the poet feels that he is _least_ alone,-holding communion with the mighty dead, whose viewless shadows flit around thy head. say, does the spirit of some warrior bard, with unseen form, float on the misty air, as if intent thy sacred heights to guard? or does he breathe his mournful murmurs there, as if returned to earth, once more to dwell on the dear spot he ever lov'd so well. perhaps some druid form, in awful guise, with words of wond'rous import, there may range, making aloud mysterious sacrifice, with gestures incommunicably strange, praying to the gods he worshipped, to restore his dear lov'd cymru to her days of yore. or does thy harp, oh, hoel! sound its strings, with chords of fire proclaim thy country's praise; and he of "flowing song's" wild murmurings breathe forth the music of his warrior lays; and davydd, caradoc--a glorious band-tune their wild harps to praise their mountain land? thou stand'st immovable, and firmly fixed as cambria's sons in battle, when they met the roman legions, and their weapons mixed, and clash'd as bravely as they can do yet. the saxon, dane, and norman, knew them well, and found them--as they are--invincible! majestic snowdon! proudly dost thou stand, like a tall giant ready for the fray, the guardian bulwark of thy mountain land; old as the world thou art! as i survey thy lofty altitude, strange feelings rise, of the unutterable mind's wild sympathies. thou hast seen many changes, yet hast stood unaltered to the last, remained the same even in the wildness of thy solitude, even in thy savage grandeur; and thy name acts as a spell on cambria's sons, that brings their heart's best blood to flow in rapid springs. and must i be the only one to sing thy dear loved name? and must the task be mine, to the insensate mind thy name to bring? oh! how i grieve to think, when songs divine have echoed to thy praises night and day, i can but offer thee so poor a lay. the day of judgment. by goronwy owain. [this poet, who was born in 1722, obtained great celebrity in wales; he was a native of anglesea, and entered the welsh church, but removed to donington in shropshire, where he officiated as curate for several years. there the following poem was composed and afterwards translated by the poet. the poem has been copied from a ms of the poet, and is now, it is believed, published for the first time.] almighty god thy heavenly aid bestow, o'er my rapt soul bid inspiration flow; let voice seraphic, mighty lord, be mine, whilst i unfold this awful bold design. no less a theme my lab'ring breast inspires, than earth's last throes and overwhelming fires, than man arising from his dark abode to meet the final sentence of his god! the voice of ages, yea of every clime, the hoary records of primeval time; the saints of christ in glowing words display, the dread appearance of that fateful day! oh! may the world for that great day prepare with ceaseless diligence and solemn care, no human wisdom knows, no human power can tell the coming of that fatal hour. no warning sign shall point out nature's doom; resistless, noiseless it shall surely come, like a fierce giant rushing to the fight, or silent robber in the shades of night. what heart unblenched can dare to meet this day, a day of darkness and of dire dismay? what sinner's eye can fearless then--behold the day of horrors on his sight unfold, but to the good a day of glorious light, a day for chasing all the glooms of night. for then shall burst on man's astonished eyes the christian banner waving in the skies, borne by angelic bands supremely fair, by countless seraphs through the pathless air. the heavenly sky shall christ's proud banner form, a sky unruffled by a cloud or storm; the bloody cross aloft in awful pride shall float triumphant o'er the airy tide. then shall the king with splendour cloth'd on high ride through the glories of the golden sky, with power resistless guide his awful course, and curb the whirlwinds in their wildest force. the white robed angels shall resound the praise, ten thousand saints their choral songs shall raise now through the void a louder shout shall roar than surges dashing on a rocky shore. an awful silence reigns!--the angels sound the final sentence to the worlds around; loud through the heavens the echoing blast shall roll, and nature, startled, shake from pole to pole. all flesh shall tremble at the fearful sign, and dread to approach the judgment seat divine; the loftiest hills, which 'mid the tempest reign, shall sink and totter, levelled with the plain. the hideous din of rushing torrents far augment the horrors of this final war; the glorious sun, the gorgeous eye of day, shall faint and sicken in this vast decay. from our struck view his golden beams shall hide, as when the saviour on calvaria died; the lovely moon no more in beauty gleam, or tinge the ocean with her silv'ry beam; ten thousand stars shall from their orbits roll, in dread confusion through the empty pole. at the loud blasts hell's barriers fall around, even satan trembles at the awful sound! far down he sinks, deep in the realms of night, and strives to shun the glorious son of light. "rise from your tomb," the mighty angel cries, "ye sleeping mortals, and approach the skies, for christ is thron'd upon his judgment seat, and for his mercy may ye all be meet!" the roaring ocean from its inmost caves shall send forth thousands o'er the foaming waves; from earth the countless myriads shall arise, like corn-land springing 'neath benignant skies; for all must then appear--we all shall meet in dread array before christ's judgment seat! all flesh shall stand full in its maker's view-the past, the present, and the future too; not one shall fail, for rise with one accord shall saint and sinner, vassal and his lord. then mary's son, in heavenly pomp's array, shall all his glory to the world display; the faithful twelve with saintly vesture graced, friends of his cross around his throne are placed; the impartial judge the book of fate shall scan, the unerring records of the deeds of man. the book is opened! mark the anxious fear that calls the sigh and starts the bitter tear; the good shall hear a blessed sentence read, all mourning passes--all their griefs are fled. no more their souls with racking pains are riven, their lord admits them to the peace of heaven; the sinner there, with guilty crime oppressed, bears on his brow the fears of hell confess'd. behold him now--his guilty looks--i see his god condemns, and mercy's god is he; no joy for him, for him no heaven appears to bid him welcome from a vale of tears. hark! jesu's voice with awful terrors swell, it shakes even heaven, it shakes the nether hell: "away ye cursed from my sight, retire down to the depths of hell's eternal fire, down to the realms of endless pain and night, ye fiends accursed, from my angry sight depart! for heaven with saintly inmates pure no crime can harbour or can sin endure, away! away where fiends infernal dwell, down to your home and taste the pains of hell. behold his servants--lo, the virtuous bands await the sentence which the life demands; all blameless they their course in virtue run have for their brows a crown of glory won. their saviour's voice, a sound of heavenly love, admits them smiling to the realms above: "approach, ye faithful, to the heaven of peace, where worldly sorrows shall for ever cease. come, blessed children, share my bright abode, rest in the bosom of your king and god, where thousand saints in grateful concert sing loud hymns of glory to th' eternal king." for you, beloved, i hung upon the tree, that where i am there also ye might be; the infernal god (ye trembling sinners quake) shall hurl you headlong on the burning lake, there shall ye die, nor dying shall expire, rolled on the waves of everlasting fire, whilst christ shall bid his own lov'd flock rejoice, and lead them upward with approving voice, where countless hosts their heavenly lord obey, and sing hosannas in the courts of day. o gracious god! each trembling suppliant spare-grant each the glory of that song to share; may christ, my god, a kind physician be, and may he grant me bless'd eternity! the immovable covenant. [the reverend david lewis pughe, who translated the following piece from the welsh of mr. h. hughes, was a minister in the baptist church, and was possessed of extensive learning, and a highly critical taste. after officiating as minister at a church in swansea and other places, he finally settled at builth, where he died at an early age.] ye cloud piercing mountains so mighty, whose age is the age of the sky; no cold blasts of winter affright ye, nor heats of the summer defy: you've witness'd the world's generations succeeding like waves on the sea; the deluge you saw, when doom'd nations, in vain to your summits would flee. you challenge the pyramids lasting, that rolling milleniums survive; fierce whirlwinds, and thunderbolts blasting, and oceans with tempests alive! but lo! there's a day fast approaching, which shall your foundations reveal,-the powers of heaven will be shaking, and earth like a drunkard shall reel! proud idris, and snowdon so tow'ring, ye now will be skipping like lambs; the alps will, by force overpow'ring propell'd be disporting like rams! the breath of jehovah will hurl you- aloft in the air you shall leap: your crash, like his thunder's who'll whirl you, shall blend with the roars of the deep. all ties, and strong-holds, with their powers, shall, water-like, melting be found; earth's palaces, temples, and towers, shall then be all dash'd to the ground: but were this great globe plunged for ever in seas of oblivion, or prove untrue to its orbit, yet never, my god, will thy covenant move! the skies, as if kindling with ire and resentment, will pour on this ball a deluge of sulphurous fire, and consume its doom'd elements all! but though heaven and earth will be passing away on time's saturday eve; the covenant-bonds, notwithstanding, are steadfast to all that believe! i see--but no longer deriding- the sinner with gloom on his brow: he cries to the mountains to hide him, but nothing can shelter him now! he raves--all but demons reject him! but not so the christian so pure; the covenant-arms will protect him, in these he'll be ever secure! thus fixed, while his triumphs unfolding, enrapture his bosom serene: in sackcloth the heavens he's beholding, and nature dissolving is seen; he mounts to the summits of glory, and joins with the harpers above, whose theme is sweet calvary's story- the issue of covenant love. methinks, after ages unnumber'd have roll'd in eternity's flight, i see him, by myriads surrounded, enrob'd in the garments of light; and shouting o'er this world's cold ashes- "thy covenant, my god, still remains: no tittle or jot away passes, and thus it my glory sustains." he asks, as around him he glances, "ye sov'reigns and princes so gay, where are your engagements and pledges? where are they--where are they to-day? where are all the covenants sacred that mortal with mortals e'er made?" a silent voice whispers,--"departed- 'tis long since their records did fade!" i hear him again, while he's winging his flight through the realms of the sky, th' immovable covenant singing with voice so melodious and high that all the bright mountains celestial are dancing, as thrill'd with delight: too lofty for visions terrestial- he vanishes now from my sight. blest saviour, my rock, and my refuge, i fain to thy bosom would flee; of sorrows an infinite deluge on calv'ry thou barest for me: thou fountain of love everlasting- high home of the purpose to save: myself on the covenant casting, i triumph o'er death and the grave. an ode to the thunder. translated by the rev. r. harries jones, m.a. [the author of the following poem, mr. david richards, better known by his bardic name of dafydd ionawr, was born in the year 1751 at glanmorfa, near towyn, merionethshire, and died in 1827. he was educated at ystradmeurig grammar school, with a view to entering the welsh church, but his academic career was cut short by the death of his parents, and he devoted himself to tuition. he composed two long poems, viz.: an "ode to the trinity," and an "ode to the deluge," besides a number of minor poems, and were first published in 1793. this poet is designated the welsh milton, by reason of the grandeur of his conceptions and the force of his expression.] swift-flying courser of the ambient skies! thy trackless bourne no mortal ken espies! but in thy wake the swelling echoes roll while furious torrents pour from pole to pole; the thunder bellows forth its sullen roar like seething ocean on the storm-lashed shore; the muttering heavens send terror through the vale, and awe-struck mountains shiver in the gale; an angry, sullen, overwhelming sound that shakes each craggy hollow round and round, and more astounding than the serried host which all the world's artillery can boast;-and fiercely rushing from the lurid sky from pregnant clouds and murky canopy the deluge saturates both hill and plain-the maddened welkin groaning with the strain: the torrents dash from upland moors along their journey to the main, in endless throng, and restless, turbid rivers seethe and rack, like foaming cataracts, their bounding track; a devastating flood sweeps o'er the land, tartarean darkness swathes the sable strand! o'er wolds and hills, o'er ocean's chafing waves the wild tornado's bluster wierdly raves; the white-heat bolt of every thundering roar the pitchy zenith coruscating o'er; the vast expanse of heaven pours forth its ire 'mid swarthy fogs streaked with candescent fire! the sombre meadows can be trod no more nor beetling brow that over-laps the shore; the hailstones clattering thro' field and wood-the rain, the lightning and the scouring flood, the dread of waters and the blazing sky make pensive captives all humanity; confusion reigns o'er all the seething land, from mountain peak to ocean's clammy strand; as if--it seemed--but weak are human words, the rocks of christendom were rent to sherds: they clash, they dash, they crash, above, around, the earth-quake, dread, splits up and rasps the ground! tell me, my muse, my goddess from above, of dazzling sheen, and clothed in robes of love, what this wild rage--this cataclysmic fall-what rends the welkin, and, who rules them all? "'tis god! the blest! all elements are his who rules the unfathonable dark abyss. 'tis god commands! his edicts are their will! be silent, heavens! the heavens are hushed and still!" these are the wail of elemental life; the fire and water wage supernal strife; the blasting fire, with scathing, angry glare, gleamed like an asphalte furnace in the air: around, above it swirled the water's sweep, and plunged its scorching legions in the deep! the works of god are good and infinite, the perfect offsprings of his love and might, and wonderful, beneficient in every land-with wisdom crowned the creatures of his hand; and truly, meekly, lowly must we bow to worship him who made all things below, for from his holy, dazzling throne above he gives the word, commanding, yet in love,- "ye fogs of heaven, ye stagnant, sluggard forms that float so laggardly amid the storms! disperse! and hie you to yon dormant shores! your black lair lies where ocean's caverns roar!" the fogs of heaven o'er yonder sun-tipped hill their orcus-journey rush, and all is still. in brilliant brightness breaks the broad expanse of firmament! heaven opens to our glance; and day once more out-pours its silvery sheen, a couch pearl-decked, fit for its orient queen; (aurora) the sun beams brightly over hill and dale its glancing rays enliven every vale: its face effulgent makes the heaven to smile thro' dripping rain-drops yet it smiles the while, its warmth makes loveable the teeming world, hill, dale, where'er its royal rays are hurled; sweet nature smiles, and sways her magic wand, and sunshine gleams, beams, streams upon the strand; and warbling birds, like angels from above do hum their hymns and sing their songs of love!-the deluge. by david richards, esq. * * * * * whether to the east or west you go, wondrous through all are the myriad clouds; dense and grim they appear-black and fierce the firmament, dark and horrid is all. a ray of light's not seen, but light'ning white and flashy, thunder throughout the heavens, a torrent from on high. a thousand cascades roar boiling with floods of hate, rivers all powerful with great commotion rush. the air disturb'd is seen, while the distant sea's in uproar: the heaving ocean bounds, within its prison wild; great thundering throughout the bottomless abyss. some folk, simple and bewilder'd, for shelter seek the mountains; shortly the raging waters drown their loftiest summits. where shall they go, where flee from the eternal torrent? conscience, a ready witness, having been long asleep, mute among mortals, now awakens with stinging pangs. * * * * * the shipwreck. by rev. w. williams. [the rev william williams, whose bardic name was _gwilym caledfryn_, was a welsh congregationalist minister, and an eminent poet. his ode on the wreck of the ship rothsay castle, off anglesea, is a very graphic and forcible poem, and won the chief prize at an eisteddfod held at beaumaris in 1839, which was honoured by the presence of her majesty the queen, then the princess victoria, who graciously invested the young bard, with the appropriate decoration.] boiling and tearing was the fearful deep, its raging waves aroused from lengthened sleep together marching like huge mountains; the swell how great--nature bursting its chains! the bounding spray dashed 'gainst the midnight stars in its wild flight shedding salt tears. again it came a sweeping mighty deluge, washing the firmament with breakers huge; ripping the ocean's bosom so madly, wondrous its power when roaring so wildly, the vessel was seen immersed in the tide, while all around threatened destruction wide. god, ruler of the waters, his words of might now utters, his legions calls to battle: no light of sun visible, the firmament so low'ring, with tempest strong approaching. loud whistling it left its recesses, threats worlds with wreck, so fearful it rages, while heaven unchaining the surly billows, both wind and wave rush tumultuous, sweeping the main, the skies darkening, while rothsay to awful destruction is speeding. anon upon the wave she's seen, reached through struggles hard and keen: again she's hurled into the abyss, while all around tornados hiss, through the salt seas she helpless rolls, while o'er her still the billow falls: alike she was in her danger to the frail straw dragg'd by the river. the ocean still enraged in mountains white, would like a drunkard reel in sable night, while she her paddles plies against the wave, yet all in vain the sweeping tide to brave: driven from her course afar by the loud wind, then back again by breezes from behind; headlong she falls into the fretful surge, while weak and broken does she now emerge. the inmates are now filled with fear, destruction seeming so near; the vessel rent in awful chasms, waxing weaker, weaker she seems. * * * * * anon is heard great commotion, roaring for spoil is the lion; the vessel's own final struggles are fierce, while the crew trembles. the hurricane increasing over the grim sea is driving, drowning loud moans, burying all in its passage dismal. how hard their fate, o how they wept in that sad hour of miseries heap'd; some sighed, others prayed fervently, others mad, or in despair did cry. affrighted they ran to and fro, to flee from certain death and woe; while _he_, with visage grim and dark, would still surround the doomed bark. deep night now veiled the firmament, while sombre clouds thicker were sent to hide each star, the ocean's rage no cries of grief could even assuage. the vessel sinks beneath the might of wind, and wave, and blackest night, while through the severed planks was heard the breaker's splash, with anger stirred. part ii. the beautiful. an address to the summer. by dafydd ap gwilym. [dafydd ap gwilym was the son of gwilym gam, of brogynin, in the parish of llanbadarn fawr, cardiganshire, and was born about the year 1340. the bard was of illustrious lineage, and of handsome person. his poetical talent and personal beauty procured him the favourable notice of the fair sex; which, however, occasioned him much misfortune. his attachments were numerous, and one to morvydd, the daughter of madog lawgam, of niwbwrch, in anglesea, a welsh chieftain, caused the bard to be imprisoned. this lady was the subject of a great portion of the bard's poems. dafydd ap gwilym has been styled the petrarch of wales. he composed some 260 poems, most of which are sprightly, figurative, and pathetic. the late lamented arthur james johnes, esquire, translated the poems of dafydd ap gwilym into english. they are very beautiful, and were published by hooper, pall mall, in 1834. the bard, after leading a desultory life, died in or about the year 1400.] thou summer! so lovely and gay, ah! whither so soon art thou gone? the world will attend to my lay while thy absence i sadly bemoan: with flow'rs hast thou cherish'd the glade, the fair orchard with opening buds,-the hedge-rows with darkening shade, and with verdure the meadows and woods. how calm in the vale by the brook- how blithe o'er the lawn didst thou rove, to prepare the fresh bow'r in the nook for the damsel whose wishes were love: when, smiling with heaven's bright beam, thou didst paint every hillock and field, and reflect, in the smooth limpid stream, all the elegance nature could yield. perfuming the rose on the bush, and arching the eglantine spray, thou wast seen by the blackbird and thrush, and they chanted the rapturous lay: by yon river that bends o'er the plain, with alders and willows o'erhung, each warbler perceiv'd the glad strain, and join'd in the numerous song. here the nightingale perch'd on the throne, the poet and prince of the grove, inviting the lingering morn, taught the bard the sweet descant of love: and there, from the brake by the rill, when night's sober steps have retir'd, ten thousand gay choristers thrill sweet confusion with rapture inspir'd. then the maiden, conducted by may, persuasive adviser of love, with smiles that would rival the ray, nimbly trips to the bow'r in the grove; where sweetly i warble the song which beauty's soft glances inspire; and, while melody flows from my tongue, my soul is enrapt with desire. but how sadly revers'd is the strain! how doleful! since thou art away; every copse, every hillock and plain, has been mourning for many a day: my bow'r, on the verge of the glade, where i sported in rapturous ease, once the haunt of the delicate maid- she forsakes it, and--how can it please? nor blame i the damsel who flies, when winter with threatening gale, loudly howls through the dark frozen skies, and scatters the leaves o'er the vale: in vain to the thicket i look for the birds that enchanted the fair, or gaze on the wide-spreading oak; no shelter, no music, is there. but tempests, with hideous yell, chase the mist o'er the brow of the hill, and grey torrents in every dell deform the soft murmuring rill: and the hail, or the sleet, or the snow, on winter's hard mandate attends: to banishment, hence may they go- earth's tyrants, and destiny's friend! but thou, glorious summer, return, and visit the destitute plains; nor suffer thy poet to mourn, unheeded, in languishing strains: o! come on the wings of the breeze, and open the bloom of the thorn; display thy green robe o'er the trees, and all nature with beauty adorn. 'midst the bow'rs of the fresh blooming may, where the odours of violets float, each bird, on his quivering spray, will remember his sprightliest note: then the golden hair'd lass, with a song, will deign to revisit the grove; then, too, my harp shall be strung, to welcome the season of love. song to arvon. by the rev. evan evans. [the poem from which the following translation is extracted was composed by the rev. evan evans, a clergyman of the church of england, better known by his bardic name of _ieuan glan geirionydd_. he was born in 1795 at a freehold of his father, situate on the banks of the river geirionydd, in carnarvonshire, and died in 1855. he composed a great number of poems on different subjects, religious and patriotic, several of which obtained prizes at eisteddfodau, and one on the resurrection gained the chair or principal prize. this poet's compositions are distinguished by great elegance, sweetness and pathos, and are much esteemed in the principality. several of them have been set to music.] where doth the cuckoo early sing, in woodland, dell and valley? where streamlets deep o'er rocky cliffs form cataracts so lofty? on snowdon's summits high, in arvon's pleasant county. flocks of thousand sheep are fed upon its mountains rugged, her pastures green and meadows fair with cattle-herds are studded, deep are the lakes in arvon's vales where fish in shoals are landed. the shepherd's soft and mellow voice is heard upon her mountain, where oft he hums his rustic song to his beloved maiden, resounding through the gorges deep with bleat of sheep and oxen. on arvon's rock-bound shore doth break the surge in fretful murmur, and oft when stirr'd by tempest high the ocean speaks in thunder, spreading through town and village wide dismay, despair and fear. * * * * * the sun is glorious when it breaks the gloom of morning darkness, sweet are the leaves and flowers of may succeeding winter's baldness, yet fairer than the whole to me are arvon's maids so guile-less. if to the sick there is delight to heal of his affliction, if to the traveller's weary sight sweet is the destination, than all these sweeter far to me the hills and dales of arvon. had i the wings and speed of morn to skim o'er mount and valley, i'd hie o'er earth and sea direct to arvon's genial country, and there in peace would end my days, far from deceit and envy. to the spring. oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, far scatter the frost from our border, all nature cries loud for the sunshine and rain, for the howl of the winter is over. approach gentle spring, and show the white snow thou cans't melt it by smiles and caresses, chase far the cold winter away from us now, and cover the fields with white daisies. oh, come gentle spring, alight on the trees, renew them with life and deep verdure, then choristers gay will replenish the breeze with their songs and musical rapture. oh, come gentle spring, breathe soft on the flowers, and clothe them in raiments of beauty, the rose may reopen its petals in tears, and sunbeams unfold the white lily. to the nightingale. by the rev. john blackwell, b.a. [the rev. john blackwell, b.a., whose bardic name was _alun_, from the river of that name was born at mold, in flintshire, in the year 1797, and died in 1840, in the parish of manordeivi, pembrokeshire, of which he was rector. he participated much in the eisteddfodau of that period, and his poems gained many of their prizes. he also edited the "gwladgarwr," or the patriot, a monthly magazine, and afterwards the "cylchgrawn," or circle of grapes, another magazine, under the auspices of the society for the diffusion of useful knowledge. the subjects of this poet's compositions were patriotic, sentimental and religious, and his poems are characterised by deep pathos, and great sweetness of diction.] when night o'erspreads each hill and dale beneath its darksome wing are heard thy sweet and mellow notes through the lone midnight ring; and if a pang within thy breast should cause thy heart to bleed, thou wilt not hush until the dawn shall drive thee from the mead. * * * * * altho' thy heart beneath the pang should falter in its throes thou wilt not grieve thy nestlings young, thy song thou wilt not close. when all the chorus of the bush by night and sleep are still, thou then dost chant thy merriest lays, and heaven with music fill. the flowers of spring. by the rev. j. emlyn jones, m.a., ll.d. [the rev. john emlyn jones, m.a., ll.d., the lamented author of the beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation is made, was an eloquent minister of the baptist church in wales, and died on the 20th day of january, 1873, at the age of 54 years, at beaufort, in monmouthshire, leaving a widow and seven children to mourn their great loss. he was also an eminent poet, and one of his poems obtained the chair prize at a royal eisteddfod. it may be remarked that the lamented poet on his death bed (in answer to an application from the editor) desired his wife to inform him that he was welcome to publish the translations of his poems which appear in this collection.] oh, pleasant spring-time flowers that now display their bloom, the primrose pale, and cowslip, which nature's face illume; the winter bleak appears when you bedeck the land, like age bent down by years, with a posy in its hand. oh, dulcet spring-time flowers sweet honey you contain, and soon the swarming beehive your treasure will retain; the busy bee's low humming is heard among your leaves, like sound of distant hymning, or reaper 'mid the sheaves. oh, balmy spring-time flowers, the crocus bright and rose, the lily sweet and tulip, which bloom within the close: anoint the passing breezes which sigh along the vale, and with your dulcet posies perfume the evening gale. oh, wild-grown spring-time flowers that grow beside the brook, how happy once to ramble beneath your smiling look, and of you form gay garlands to deck the docile lamb, in wreaths of colour'd neck-bands, beside its loving dam. oh, pretty spring-time flowers none look so blithe and gay, while dancing in the breezes upon the lap of may, your fragrant petals open beneath the balmy dew, you're nature's rich heave-offering on winter's grave anew. oh, wondrous spring-time flowers tho' death stalk all around, another spring will quicken your bloom upon the ground, speak hopeful, as you ripen, of yet another spring, where flowers never deaden and seasons have no wing. to may by the rev. daniel evans, b.d. [the rev. daniel evans, b.d., fellow of jesus college, oxford, composed the following and several other poems in this collection. he was a native of cardiganshire, and, following the example of his countrymen, he assumed the bardic name of _daniel ddu_. he was born in 1792, and died in 1846. his compositions were very miscellaneous, and appeared separately, but the whole were afterwards published in one volume by mr. w. rees, of llandovery, in 1831. this poet's writings are distinguished by great pathos, and a truthful description of nature.] how fair and fragrant art thou, may! replete with leaf and verdure, how sweet the blossom of the thorn which so enriches nature, the bird now sings upon the bush, or soars through fields of azure. the earth absorbs the genial rays which vivify the summer, the busy bee hums on his way exhausting every flower, returning to its earthen nest laden with honied treasure. how cheerful are the signs of may, the lily sweet and briar, perfuming every shady way beside the warbling river; and thou, gay cuckoo! hast returned to usher in the summer. how pleasant is the cuckoo's song which floats along the meadow, how rich the sight of woodland green, and pastures white and yellow, the lark now soars into the heights and pours her notes so mellow. to welcome may, let thousands hie at the sweet dawn of morning, the winter cold has left the sky, the sun is mildly beaming, the dew bright sparkles on the grass, all nature is rejoicing. let may be crown'd the best of months of all the passing year, let her be deck'd with floral wreaths, and fed with juice and nectar, let old and young forsake the town and shout a welcome to her. the dawn. by the rev. daniel evans, b.d. streaking the mantle of deep night the rays of light arise, delightful day--shed by the sun- breaks forth from eastern skies, he--in his course o'er oceans vast and distant lands--returns firm to his purpose, true his way, he nature's tribute earns: before him messengers arrive and sparkle in the sky, these are the bright and twinkling stars which spot the sable canopy. the cock upon his lofty perch has sung the break of day, the birds within the sheltering trees now frolic, chirp and play; i see all nature is astir as tho' from sleep restor'd, alive with joy and light renew'd by the creator's word: now every hill and valley low appear in full charm, beneath the sun's benignant smiles, which now creation warm. to the daisy. by the rev. daniel evans, b.d. oh, flower meek and modest that blooms of all the soonest, some great delight possesses me when thy soft crystal bud i see. thou art the first of the year to break the bonds of winter, and for thy gallant enterprise i'll welcome thee and sing thy praise. and hast thou no misgiving? or fear of tempests howling to issue from the hardy sod before thy sisters break their pod? behind thee millions lie and hide their faces shy, lest winter's cold continue, or tempests charged with mildew. inform thy sisters coy the spring's without alloy, tell them there is no snow or icy wind to blow. tell them the cattle meek will joy their heads to seek, the lamb delighted be to see them on the lea. speed therefore all ye flowers that gleam upon the pastures, ye white and yellow come and make the field your smiling home. a thousand times more comely your cheerful features lively, than all the gems that shine in royal crown of princely line. how pleasant then to roam through field and forest home, and listen to the song of birds that carol long. the lily and the rose. once i saw two flowers blossom in a garden 'neath the hill, one a lily fair and handsome, and one a rose with crimson frill; erect the rose would lift its pennon and survey the garden round, while the lily--lovely minion! meekly rested on a mound. tempest came and blew the garden, forthwith the rose fell to the ground, while the lily, like brave maiden, steadfast stood the stormy bound; the red rose trusting to its prowess fell beneath the wind and rain, while the lily in its meekness firm did on its stalk remain. the circling of the mead horns. fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn: natural is mead in the buffalo horn: as the cuckoo in spring, as the lark in the morn, so natural is mead in the buffalo horn. as the cup of the flower to the bee when he sips, is the full cup of mead to the true briton's lips: from the flower-cups of summer, on field and on tree, our mead cups are filled by the vintager bee. seithenyn ap seithyn, the generous, the bold, drinks the wine of the stranger from vessels of gold; but we from the horn, the blue silver-rimmed horn, drink the ale and the mead in our fields that were born. the ale-froth is white, and the mead sparkles bright; they both smile apart, and with smiles they unite: the mead from the flower, and the ale from the corn, smile, sparkle, and sing in the buffalo horn. the horn, the blue horn, cannot stand on its tip; its path is right on from the hand to the lip; though the bowl and the wine-cup our tables adorn, more natural the draught from the buffalo horn. but seithenyn ap seithyn, the generous, the bold, drinks the bright-flowing wine from the far-gleaming gold, the wine, in the bowl by his lip that is worn, shall be glorious as mead in the buffalo horn. the horns circle fast, but their fountains will last, as the stream passes ever, and never is past: exhausted so quickly, replenished so soon, they wax and they wane like the horns of the moon. fill high the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn; fill high the long silver-rimmed buffalo horn: while the roof of the hall by our chorus is torn, fill, fill to the brim, the deep silver-rimmed horn. dafydd ap gwilym to the white gull. bird that dwellest in the spray, far from mountain woods away, sporting,--blending with the sea, like the moonbeam--gleamily. wilt thou leave thy sparkling chamber round my lady's tower to clamber? thou shalt fairer charms behold than taliesin's tongue has told, than merddin sang, or loved, or knew-lily nursed on ocean's dew-say (recluse of yon wild sea), "she is all in all to me." to the lark. by dafydd ap gwilym. "sentinel of the morning light! reveller of the spring! how sweetly, nobly wild thy flight, thy boundless journeying: far from thy brethren of the woods, alone a hermit chorister before god's throne! "oh! wilt thou climb yon heav'ns for me, yon rampart's starry height, thou interlude of melody 'twixt darkness and the light, and seek, with heav'n's first dawn upon thy crest, my lady love, the moonbeam of the west? "no woodland caroller art thou; far from the archer's eye, thy course is o'er the mountain's brow, thy music in the sky: then fearless float thy path of cloud along, thou earthly denizen of angel song." dafydd ap gwilym's invocation to the summer to visit glamorganshire, where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion of ivor hael. the bard, speaking from the land of wild gwynedd, or north wales, thus invokes the summer to visit the sweet pastoral county of glamorgan with all its blessings: "and wilt thou, at the bard's desire, thus in thy godlike robes of fire, his envoy deign to be? hence from wild gwynedd's mountain land, to fair morganwg druid strand, sweet margin of the sea. oh! may for me thy burning feet with peace, and wealth, and glory greet, my own dear southern home; land of the baron's, halls of snow! land of the harp! the vineyards glow, green bulwark of the foam. she is the refuge of distress; her never-failing stores have cheer'd the famish'd wilderness, have gladden'd distant shores. oh! leave no little plot of sod 'mid all her clust'ring vales untrod; but all thy varying gifts unfold in one mad embassy of gold: o'er all the land of beauty fling bright records of thy elfin wing." from this scene of ecstacy, he makes a beautiful transition to the memory of ivor, his early benefactor: still addressing the summer, he says, "then will i, too, thy steps pursuing, from wood and cave, and flowers the mountain-mists are dewing, the loveliest save; from all thy wild rejoicings borrow one utterance from a heart of sorrow; the beauties of thy court shall grace my own lost ivor's dwelling-place." a bridal song. by a welsh harper. wilt thou not waken, bride of may, while the flowers are fresh, and the sweet bells chime? listen, and learn from my roundelay, how all life's pilot-boats sailed one day, a match with time. love sat on a lotus leaf afloat, and saw old time in his loaded boat; slowly he crossed life's narrow tide, while love sat clapping his wings and cried, "who will pass time?" patience came first, but soon was gone with helm and sail to help time on; care and grief could not lend an oar, and prudence said while he staid on shore, "i will wait for time." hope filled with flowers her cork tree bark, and lighted its helm with a glow worm spark; then love, when he saw her bark fly fast, said, "lingering time will soon be passed, hope outspeeds time." wit, next nearest old time to pass, with his diamond oar, and his boat of glass; a feathery dart from his store he drew, and shouted, while far and swift it flew, "o mirth kills time." but time sent the feathery arrow back, hope's boat of amaranths missed its track; then love made his butterfly pilots move, and, laughing, said, "they shall see how love can conquer time." his gossamer sails he spread with speed, but time has wings when time has need; swiftly he crossed life's sparkling tide, and only memory stayed to chide unpitying time. wake, and listen then bride of may, listen and heed thy minstrel's rhyme; still for thee some bright hours stay, for it was a hand like thine, they say, gave wings to time. the legend of trwst llywelyn. once upon a time, llywelyn was returning from a great battle, against the saxons, and his three sisters came down here to meet him; and, when they heard him coming, they said, "it is trwst llywelyn," (the sound of llywelyn,) and the place has been called so ever since.--_old story_. it is a scene of other days, that dimly meets my fancy's gaze; the moon's fair beams are glist'ning bright, on the severn's loveliest vale, and yonder watchtower's gloomy height looks stern, in her lustre pale. within that turret fastness rude three lovely forms i see, and marvel why, in that solitude, so fair a group should be. i know them now, that beauteous band; by the broidered vest, so rich and rare, by the sparkling gem, on the tiny hand, and the golden circlet in their hair, i know llywelyn's sisters fair, the pride of powys land: but the proof of lineage pure and high, is better far supplied by the calm, fair brow, and fearless eye, and the step of graceful pride. why are the royal maidens here, heedless of saxon foemen near? their only court, the minstrel sage, who wakes such thrilling sound; their train, yon petty childish page; their guard, that gallant hound. they have left their brother's princely hall, to greet him from fight returning; and hope looks out from the eyes of all, though fear in their heart lies burning. "now, hark!" the eldest maiden cried, "kind minstrel, lay thy harp aside, and listen here with me; did not llywelyn's bugle sound from off that dark and wooded mound you named the goryn ddu?" {59} "no, lady, no; my master, kind, i strive in vain to hear; 'tis but the moaning of the wind that cheats thy anxious ear." the second lady rous'd her page, from the peaceful sleep of his careless age; "awake, fair child, from thy happy dreams, look out o'er the turret's height, is it a lance that yonder gleams in the moonbeams blue and bright?" "no, lady mine; not on a lance does that fair radiance quiver; i only see its lustre dance on the blue and trembling river." the youngest and fairest maiden sits on the turret's highest stone, like the gentle flower that flings its sweets o'er the ruin drear and lone: at her feet the hound is crouching still; and they look so calm and fair, you might almost deem, by a sculptor's skill, they were carved in the grey stone there. a distant sound the spell hath broken, the lady and her hound together caught the joyful token, and down the stair they bound. "'tis trwst llywelyn! dear sisters speed, our own llywelyn's near; i know the tramp of his gallant steed, 'tis music to mine ear!" * * * * * yes, 'twas his lance gleamed blue and bright, his horn made the echoes ring; he is safe from a glorious field of fight, and his sisters round him cling: and gelert lies at his master's feet, the page returns to his slumbers sweet, the minstrel quaffs his mead, and sings llywelyn's fame and power, and, trwst llywelyn, names the tower, where they heard his coming steed. * * * * * that tower, no more, o'erlooks the vale, but its name is unforgot, and the peasant tells the simple tale, and points to the well-known spot. oh, lady moon! thy radiance fills an altered scene, to-night, all here is chang'd save the changeless hills, and the severn, rippling bright. we dwell in peace, beneath the yoke that roused our father's spears, the very tongue our fathers spoke, sounds strangely in our ears. {61} but the human heart knows little change: 'tis woman's to watch, 'tis man's to range for pleasure, wealth, or fame; and thou may'st look, from thy realms above, on many a sister's yearning love, the same--still, still the same. ye students grave, of ancient lore, grudge not my skilless rhyme, one tale (from tradition's ample store) of cambria's olden time; seek, 'mid the hills and glens around, for names and deeds of war; and leave this little spot of ground, a record holier far. the golden goblet, in imitation of gothe. there was a king in mon, {62} a true lover to his grave; to whom in death his lady a golden goblet gave. when christmas bowls were circling, and all was joy and cheer, he passed that goblet from him with a kiss and with a tear. when death he felt approaching, to all his barons bold, he left some fair dominion- to none, that cup of gold. he sate at royal banquet, with all his lordly train, in the castle of his fathers, on the rock above the main. upstood the tottering monarch, and drank the cup's last wine; then flung the holy goblet, deep, deep, into the brine. he watch'd it, bubbling, sinking, far, far, beneath the wave; and the light sank from his eyelid, with the cup his lady gave. the sick man's dream. dans le solitaire bourgade, revant a ses maux tristement, languissait un pauvre malade, d'un long mal qui va consumant.--millevoye. it was a dream, a pleasant dream, that o'er my spirit came, when faint beneath the lime-trees' shade i flung my weary frame: i stood upon a mountain's brow, above the haunts of men, and, far beneath me, smiling, lay my lovely native glen. i watch'd the silv'ry severn glide, reflecting rock and tree, a gentle pilgrim, bound to pay her homage to the sea; and waking many a treasured thought, that slumb'ring long had lain: some mountain minstrel's harp poured forth a well remember'd strain. i rais'd my voice in thankfulness, and vowed no more to roam, or leave my heart's abiding-place, my beauteous mountain home. alas! how different was the scene that met my waking glance! it fell upon the fertile plains, the sunny hills of france. the garonne's fair and glassy wave rolls onward in its pride; it cannot quench my burning thirst for thee, my native tide; and, for the harp that bless'd my dream with mem'ries from afar, i only hear yon peasant maid, who strikes the light guitar: the merry stranger mocks at griefs he does not understand, he cannot--he has never seen my own fair mountain land. they said consumption's ruthless eye had mark'd me for her prey: they bade me seek in foreign climes her wasting hand to stay; they told me of an altered form, an eye grown ghastly bright, and called the crimson on my cheek the spoiler's hectic blight. oh! if the mountain heather pined amidst the heaven's own dew, think ye the parterre's wasting heat its freshness could renew? and thus, 'mid shady glens and streams, was my young life begun, and now, my frame exhausted sinks beneath this southern sun. i feel, i feel, they told me true; my breath grows faint and weak, and, brighter still, this crimson spot is glowing on my cheek; my hour of life is well nigh past, too fleetly runs the sand: oh! must i die so far from thee, my dear lov'd mountain land? the fairy's song. "heavens defend me from that welsh fairy!"--shakspeare. i am a wand'rer o'er earth and sea, the trackless air has a path for me; ye may trace my steps on the heather green, by the emerald ring, where my foot hath been; ye may hear my voice in the night wind's sigh, or the wood's low moan when a storm is nigh. my task is to brighten the rainbow's hue, to sprinkle the flowers with glit'ring dew, to steep in crimson the evening cloud, and wrap the hills in their misty shroud; to track the course of a wandering star, and marshal it back to its home afar. i am no child of the murky night, but a being of music, and joy, and light; if the fair moon sleep in her bower o'er long, i break on her rest with my mirthful song; and when she is shining o'er hill and heath, i dance in the revels of gwyn ab nudd. {65} few are the mortals whose favoured feet may tread unscathed where the fairies meet; wo to the tuneless tongue and ear, and the craven heart, that has throbbed with fear, if i meet them at night, on the lonely heath, as i haste to the banquet of gwyn ab nudd. but joy to the minstrel, whose deathless song on the breeze of the mountain is borne along, and joy to the warrior, whose heart and hand are strong in the cause of his native land; for them we are twining our fairest wreath, they are welcome as moonlight to gwyn ab nudd! walter sele. o'er walter's bed no foot shall tread, nor step unhallow'd roam; for here the grave hath found a grave, the wanderer a home. this little mound encircles round a heart that once could feel; for none possess'd a warmer heart than gallant walter sele. the primrose pale, from derwen vale, through spring shall sweetly bloom, and here, i ween, the evergreen shall shed its death perfume; the branching tree of rosemary the sweet thyme may conceal; but both shall wave above the grave of gallant walter sele. they brand with shame my true love's name, and call him traitor vile, who dar'd disclose to charlie's foes the secret postern aisle; but though, alas! that fatal pass he rashly did reveal, he ne'er betray'd his maniac maid,- my gallant walter sele! part iii. the patriotic. my father-land. land of the cymry! thou art still, in rock and valley, stream and hill, as wild and grand; as thou hast been in days of yore, as thou hast ever been before, as thou shalt be for evermore, my father-land! where are the bards, like thine, who've sung the warrior's praise? the harp hath strung, with mighty hand? made chords of magic sound arise, that flung their echoes through the skies, and gained the fame that never dies, my father-land? and where are warriors like thine own, who in the battle's front have shown so firm a stand? who fought against the romans' skill, "the conquerors of the world," until they found thou wert "invincible," my father-land? and where are hills like thine, or where are vales so sweet, or scenes so fair, such praise command? there towering snowdon, first in height, or cader idris, dreary sight, and lonely clwyd? oh! how bright, my father-land! oh! how i love thee, though i mourn that cold neglect should on thee turn, thy name to brand; and oft the scalding tear will start raining its dew-drops from the heart, to think how far we are apart, my father-land. and when my days are almost done, and, faltering on, i've nearly run life's dreary sand; still, still my fainting breath shall be bestowed upon thy memory, my soul shall wing its way to thee, my father-land! my native land. by the rev. d. evans, b.d. translated by miss lydia jones. my soul is sad, my spirit fails, and sickness in my heart prevails, whilst chill'd with grief, it mourns and wails for my old native land. gold and wine have power to please, and summer's pure and gentle breeze,-but ye are dearer far than these, hills of my native land. lovely to see the sun arise, breaking forth from eastern skies; but oh! far lovelier in my eyes would be my native land. as pants the hart for valley dew, as bleats the lambkin for the ewe, thus i lament and long to view my ancient native land. what, what are delicacies, say, and large possessions, what are they? what the wide world and all its sway out of my native land? o should i king of india be, might europe to me bend the knee, such honours should be nought to me far from my native land. in what delightful country strays each gentle friend of youthful days? where dwelleth all i love or praise? o! in my native land. where are the fields and gardens fair where once i sported free as air, without despondency or care? o! in my native land. where is each path and still retreat where i with song held converse sweet with true poetic fire replete? o! in my native land. where do the merry maidens move, who purely live and truly love-whose words do not deceitful prove? o! in my native land. and where on earth that friendly place, where each presents a brother's face, where frowns or anger ne'er debase! o! 'tis my native land. and o! where dwells that dearest one my first affections fix'd upon, dying with grief that i am gone? o! in my native land. where do they food to strangers give? where kindly, liberally relieve? where unsophisticated live? o! in my native land. where are the guileless rites retain'd, and customs of our sires maintain'd? where has the ancient welsh remain'd? o! in my native land. where is the harp of sweetest string? where are songs read in bardic ring? genius and inspiration sing within my native land. once zion's sons their harps unstrung, on babylonian willows hung, and mute their songs--with sorrow wrung, they mourn'd their native land. captives, the babylonians cry, awake judaean melody,-there is no music they reply, out of our native land. and thus when i in misery beseech my muse to visit me, she echo's--there's no hope for thee out of thy native land. a bard how dull in indian groves, distant from the land he loves! the muse to melody ne'er moves far from her native land. day and night i ceaseless groan among these foreigners, alone; yet not for fame or gold i moan, but for my native land. oft to the rocky heights i haste, and gaze intent, while tears flow fast, over old ocean's troubled waste, towards my native land. then breaks my heart with grief to see the mountain waves o'erspread the sea, which widely separates from me my charming native land. to see the boiling ocean near, whose waves as if they joy'd appear, rolling betwixt me and my dear enchanting native land. o had i wings! to cure my pain i'd flee across the widening main, to view the extensive vales again of my dear native land. there i would lay me down secure, and cheerfully my wants endure: the wealth of worlds could not allure me from my native land. ode to cambria. by the rev. john walters. cambria, i love thy genius bold; thy dreadful rites, and druids old; thy bards who struck the sounding strings, and wak'd the warlike souls of kings; those kings who, prodigal of breath, rush'd furious to the fields of death; thy maids for peerless beauty crown'd, in songs of ancient fame renown'd, pure as the gem of arvon's caves, bright as the foam of menai's waves, with sunny locks and jetty eyes, of valour's deeds the glorious prize, who tam'd to love's refin'd delight those chiefs invincible in fight. thy sparkling horns i next recall in many a hospitable hall circling with haste, whose boundless mirth to many an amorous lay gave birth, and many a present to the fair, and many a deed of bold despair. i love thy harps with well-rank'd strings, heard in the stately halls of kings, whose sounds had magic to bestow or sunny joy, or dusky woe. i love thy fair silurian vales fann'd by sabrina's temperate gales, that fir'd the roman to engage the scythed cars of arvirage. oft to the visionary skies i see thy ancient genius rise, who mounts the chariot of the wind, and leaves our mortal steeds behind; and while to rouse the drooping land he strikes the harp with glowing hand, light spirits with aerial wings dance upon the trembling strings. oh, lead me thou in strains sublime thy sacred hill of oaks to climb, to haunt thy old poetic streams, and sport in fiction's fairy dreams, there let the rover fancy free, and breathe the soul of poesy! to think upon thy ravish'd crown, thy warlike deeds of old renown; thy valiant sons at maelor slain, {75a} the stubborn fight of bangor's plain, {75b} a thousand banners waving high where bold tal moelvre meets the sky! {75c} nor seldom, cambria, i explore thy treasures of poetic store, and mingle with thy tuneful throng, and range thy realms of ancient song, that like thy mountains, huge and high, lifts its broad forehead to the sky; whence druids fanes of fabling time, and ruin'd castles frown sublime, down whose dark sides torn rocks resound, eternal tempests whirling round; with many a pleasant vale between, where nature smiles attir'd in green, where innocence in cottage warm is shelter'd from the passing storm, stretch'd on the banks of lulling streams where fancy lies indulging dreams, where shepherds tend their fleecy train, where echoes oft the pleading strain of rural lovers. o'er my soul such varied scenes in vision roll, whether, o prince of bards, i see the fire of greece reviv'd in thee, that like a deluge bursts away; or taliesin tune the lay; or thou, wild merlin, with thy song pour thy ungovern'd soul along; or those perchance of later age more artful swell their measur'd rage, sweet bards whose love-taught numbers suit soft measures and the lesbian lute; whether, iolo, mirtle-crown'd, thy harp such amorous verse resound as love's and beauty's prize hath won; or led by gwilym's plaintive song, i hear him teach his melting tale in whispers to the grove and gale. but since thy once harmonious shore resounds th' inspiring strain no more, that snatch'd in fields of ancient date, the palm from number, strength, and fate; since to thy grove no more belong the sacred eulogies of song; since thou hast rued the waste of age, and war, and scolan's fiercer rage;--{76} the spirit of renown expires, the brave example of thy sires is lost; thy high heroic crest oblivion and inglorious rest have torn with rude rapacious hand; and apathy usurps the land. lo! silent as the lapse of time sink to the earth thy towers sublime; where whilom harp'd the minstrel throng, the night-owl pours her feral song: for ever sinks blest cambria's fame, by ignorance, and sword, and flame laid with the dust, amidst her woes the taunt of her ungenerous foes; for ever sleeps her warlike praise, her wealth, dominion, language, lays. an ode on the death of hoel. by aneurin. translated by thomas gray, esq. {77} [aneurin was the son of a welsh chieftain, and was born in the early part of the sixth century. he was himself a soldier, and distinguished himself at the battle of cattraeth, fought between the welsh and saxons, in or about the year 560, but was disastrous to the former and especially to the bard, who was there taken prisoner, and kept for several years in confinement. he composed his principal poem, the gododin, upon the battle of cattraeth. this is the oldest welsh poem extant, and is full of boldness, force, and martial fire. it has been translated into english by the rev. john williams, (ab ithel,) and published by the messrs. rees, of llandovery. the bard died, according to tradition, from the blow of an assassin before the close of the sixth century.] had i but the torrent's might, with headlong rage, and wild affright, upon deira's squadrons hurl'd, to rush and sweep them from the world! too, too secure in youthful pride, by them my friend, my hoel, dy'd, great cian's son; of madoc old, he ask'd no heaps of hoarded gold; alone in nature's wealth array'd he asked and had the lovely maid. to cattraeth's vale, in glitt'ring row, twice two hundred warriors go; ev'ry warrior's manly neck chains of regal honour deck, wreath'd in many a golden link: from the golden cup they drink nectar that the bees produce, or the grape's ecstatic juice. flush'd with mirth and hope they burn, but none from cattraeth's vale return, save aeron brave and conan strong, (bursting through the bloody throng,) and i, the meanest of them all, that live to weep and sing their fall. the death of owain. by aneurin. lo! the youth, in mind a man, daring in the battle's van; see the splendid warrior's speed on his fleet and thick-maned steed, as his buckler, beaming wide, decks the courser's slender side, with his steel of spotless mould, ermined vest and spurs of gold! think not, youth, that e'er from me hate or spleen shall flow to thee; nobler deeds thy virtues claim, eulogy and tuneful fame. ah! much sooner comes thy bier than thy nuptial feast, i fear; ere thou mak'st the foe to bleed, ravens on thy corse shall feed. owain, lov'd companion, friend, to birds a prey--is this thy end! tell me, steed, on what sad plain thy ill-fated lord was slain. roderic's lament. farewell every mountain to memory dear, each streamlet and fountain pelucid and clear; glad halls of my father, from banquets ne'er freed, where chieftains would gather to quaff the bright mead, each valley and woodland whose coverts i knew, lov'd haunts of my childhood for ever, adieu! the mountains are blasted and burnt the green wood, the fountain untasted flows crimsoned with blood, the halls are deserted, their glory appear like dreams of departed and desolate years, the wild wood and valley, the covert, the glade, bereft of their beauty, invaded! betrayed! farewell hoary minstrel, gay infancy's friend, what roof will protect thee? what chieftain defend? alas for the number, and sweets of their song, soon, soon they must slumber, the mountains among; the breathing of pleasure no more will aspire, for changed is the measure, of liberty's lyre! adieu to the greeting of damsel and dame, when home from the beating of foemen we came, if edward the daughters of walia would spare, he dooms them the fetters of vassals to wear; to hear the war rattle, to see the land burn, while foes from the battle in triumph return. farewell, and for ever, dear land of my birth, again we shall never know revels or mirth, the cloud mantled castle, my ancestors' pride, the pleasure and wassail in rapture allied; the preludes of danger approach thee from far, the spears of strangers, the beacons of war. farewell to the glory i dreamed of in vain; behold on the story a blood tinctured stain! nor this the sole token the records can blast, our lances are broken, our trophies are lost; the children of freedom, the princely, the brave, have none to succeed them their country to save. yet still there are foemen the tyrant to meet, will laugh at each omen of death and defeat; despise every warning his mandate may bring the promises scorning of loegria's king: who seek not to vary their purpose or change, but firm as eryri {81} are fixed for revenge. between the rude barriers of yonder dark hill, a few gallant warriors are lingering still; while fate pours her phials, unmoved they remain, resolved on the trial of battle again; resolved on their honour, which yet they can boast, to rescue their banner they yesterday lost. shall roderic then tremble, and cowardly leave the faithful assembly to fight for a grave? regardless of breathing the patriot's law, his country forsaking and basely withdraw from liberty's quarrel, forgetting his vow, and tarnish the laurel that circles his brow? but art thou not, helen, reproving this stay, while fair sails are swelling to bear thee away? and must we then sever, my country, my home? thus part and for ever submit to our doom? ah! let me not linger thus long by the way lest memory's finger unman me for aye! hark, hart, yonder bugle! 'tis gwalchmai's shrill blast exclaiming one struggle, then all will be past, another, another! it peals the same note as erst when together delighted we fought! but then it resounded with victory's swell, while now it hath sounded, life, liberty's knell! adieu, then my daughter loved helen adieu, the summons of slaughter is pealing anew; yet can i thus leave thee, defenceless and lorn, no home to receive you, a by-word and scorn? 'tis useless reflection, all soon will be o'er, heaven grant you protection when roderic's no more cease, saxons, your scorning prepare for the war; so roderic's returning to battle once more! the vulture and raven are tracking his breath; for fate has engraven a record of death: they mark on his weapon from many a breast, a stream that might deepen the crimsonest crest! while darkness benighting engirdled the zone, the chieftain was fighting his way to renown; but ere morn had risen in purple and gold, the heart's blood was frozen, of roderic the bold! the foemen lay scattered in heaps round his grave; his buckler was battered and broke was his glaive! and fame the fair daughter of victory came, and loud 'mid the slaughter was heard to proclaim, "a hero is fallen! a warrior's at rest, the banner of gwynedd enshrouded his breast, his name shall inherit the conqueror's prize, his purified spirit ascend to the skies." the battle of gwenystrad. by taliesin. [taliesin was the greatest of the ancient welsh bards, and was a contemporary of aneurin in the sixth century. he appears to have been a native of cardiganshire, for we find him at an early age living at the court of gwyddno, a petty king of cantre y gwaelod, who appointed him his chief bard and tutor to his son elphin. he was afterwards attached to the court of urien rheged, a welsh prince, king of cambria and of scotland as far as the river clyde, who fought and conquered in the great battle of gwenystrad, and is celebrated by the bard in the following song. taliesin composed many poems, but seventy seven of them only have been preserved. the subjects of his poetry were for the most part religion and history, but a few of his poems were of a martial character.] if warlike chiefs with dawning day at cattraeth met in dread array, the song records their splendid name; but who shall sing of urien's fame? his patriot virtues far excel whate'er the boldest bard can tell: his dreadful arm and dauntless brow spoil and dismay the haughty foe. pillar of britain's regal line! 'tis his in glorious war to shine; despair and death attend his course, brave leader of the christian force! see prydyn's men, a valiant train, rush along gwenystrad's plain! bright their spears for war addrest, raging vengeance fires their breast; shouts like ocean's roar arise, tear the air, and pierce the skies. here they urge their tempest force! nor camp nor forest turns their course: their breath the shrieking peasants yield o'er all the desolated field. but lo, the daring hosts engage! dauntless hearts and flaming rage; and, ere the direful morn is o'er, mangled limbs and reeking gore, and crimson torrents whelm the ground, wild destruction stalking round; fainting warriors gasp for breath, or struggle in the toils of death. where the embattled fortress rose, (gwenystrad's bulwark from the foes,) fierce conflicting heroes meet-groans the earth beneath their feet. i mark, amidst the rolling flood, where hardy warriors stain'd with blood drop their blunt arms, and join the dead, grey billows curling o'er their head: mangled with wounds, and vainly brave, at once they sink beneath the wave. lull'd to everlasting rest, with folded arms and gory breast-cold in death, and ghastly pale, chieftains press the reeky vale, who late, amidst their kindred throng, prepar'd the feast, and join'd the song; or like the sudden tempest rose, and hurl'd destruction on the foes. warriors i saw who led the fray, stern desolation strew'd their way; aloft the glitt'ring blade they bore, their garments hung with clotted gore. the furious thrust, the clanging shield, confound the long-disputed field. but when rheged's chief pursues, his way through iron ranks he hews; hills pil'd on hills, the strangers bleed: amaz'd i view his daring deed! destruction frowning on his brow, close he urg'd the panting foe, 'till hemm'd around, they met the shock, before galysten's hoary rock. death and torment strew'd his path; his dreadful blade obey'd his wrath: beneath their shields the strangers lay, shrinking from the fatal day. thus in victorious armour bright, thou brave euronwy, pant for fight: with such examples in thine eyes, haste to grasp the hero's prize. and till old age has left me dumb-till death has call'd me to the tomb-may cheerful joys ne'er crown my days, unless i sing of urien's praise! taliesin's prophecy. {86} by mrs. hemans. a voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among, o cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy taliesin sung, the path of unborn ages is trac'd upon my soul, the clouds, which mantle things unseen, away before me roll. a light, the depths revealing, hath o'er my spirit passed; a rushing sound from days to be swells fitful on the blast, and tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue, to which the harp of mona's woods by freedom's hand was strung. green island of the mighty! {87a} i see thine ancient race driv'n from their fathers' realm, to make the rocks their dwelling place! i see from uthyr's {87b} kingdom the sceptre pass away, and many a line of bards and chiefs, and princely men decay. but long as arvon's mountains shall lift their sovereign forms, and wear the crown to which is giv'n dominion o'er the storms, so long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue, to which the harp of mona's woods by freedom's hand was strung. the monarchy of britain. {87c} by mrs. hemans. sons of the fair isle! forget not the time, ere spoilers had breath'd the free air of your clime! all that its eagles beheld in their flight was yours from the deep to each storm-mantled height! though from your race that proud birthright be torn, unquench'd is the spirit for monarchy born. darkly though clouds may hang o'er us awhile, the crown shall not pass from the beautiful isle! {88} ages may roll ere your children regain the land for which heroes have perish'd in vain. yet in the sound of your names shall be pow'r, around her still gath'ring, till glory's full hour. strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, your britain shall sit on the throne of the deep. then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, who died for the crown of the beautiful isle! farewell to wales. by mrs. hemans. the voice of thy streams in my spirit i bear; farewell; and a blessing be with thee, greenland; in thy halls, thy hearths, in thy pure mountain air, on the strings of the harp and the minstrel's free hand; from the love of my soul with my tears it is shed, whilst i leave thee, o land of my home and my dead. i bless thee; yet not for the beauty which dwells in the heart of thy hills, in the waves of thy shore; and not for the memory set deep in thy dells of the bard and the warrior, the mighty of yore; and not for thy songs of those proud ages fled, greenland, poetland of my home and my dead. i bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat, where e'er a low hamlet smiles, under thy skies, for thy peasant hearths burping the stranger to greet, for the soul that looks forth from thy children's bright eyes, may the blessing, like sunshine, around thee be spread, greenland of my childhood, my home and my dead. the castles of wales. by rev. daniel evans, b.d. ye fortresses grey and gigantic i see on the hills of my land, to my mind ye appear terrific, when i muse on your ruins so grand; your walls were a shelter the strongest from the enemies' countless array, when they spilt with the blood of the bravest, your sides in our ancestors' day. around you the war-horse was neighing, and pranced his rich trappings to feel, while through you were frightfully gleaming bright lances and spears of steel; the fruits of the rich-laden harvest, were ruthlessly trod by the foe, and the thunder of battle was loudest, to herald its message of woe. while viewing your dilapidation, my memory kindles with joy, to think that the foes of our nation, no longer these valleys destroy; by sowing his fields in the winter, in hope of a rich harvest-home, the husbandman now feels no terror of war with its havoc to come. when i look at the sheep as they shelter in safety beneath your rude walls, where erst the dread agents of slaughter fell'd thousands, nor heeded their calls; the hillock where crossed the sharp spears now shadows the ewe and its lamb, while seeing the peace of these years, my heart is with gratitude warm. ye towers that saw the wild ravens, and the eagles with hunger impell'd, exultingly gorge 'mid your ruins. on corpses of men which they held; how sweet for you now 'tis to hear the shepherd, so peaceful and meek, tune his reed with a melody clear, while his flock in you shelter do seek. upon your battlements sitting, to view the bright landscape below, my heart becomes sad when remembering that silent in death is the foe, and the friends who bravely did combat, and raised your grey towers so steep, declaring their life-blood should stagnate, ere ever in chains they would weep. when i think of their purpose so pure, the tear must fast trickle from me, their hearts did providence allure to their country, and her did they free; we now live beneath a meek power, and feel the full blessings of peace, while on us abundantly shower, the mercies of heaven with increase. the eisteddfod, by mrs. cornwell baron wilson. {91} strike the harp: awake the lay! let cambria's voice be heard this day in music's witching strain! wide let her ancient "soul of song," the echo of its notes prolong, o'er valley, hill, and plain! minstrels! awake your harps aloud, bid cambria's nobles hither crowd, her daughters fair, her chieftains proud, nor shall the call be vain! let gen'rous wine around be pour'd! to many a chief in mem'ry stored, of cambria's ancient day! sons of the mountain and the flood, who shed for her their dearest blood, nor own'd a conqueror's sway! be they extolled in music's strain, remembered, when the cup we drain, and let their deeds revive again in ev'ry minstrel's lay! 'tis now the feast of soul and song! as roll the festive hours along, here wealth and pow'r combine with beauty's smiles, (a rich reward,) to cheer the rugged mountain bard, and honour cambria's line! then, minstrels! wake your harps aloud, behold her nobles hither crowd, her daughters fair, her chieftains proud, like gems around they shine! llywarch hen's lament on cynddylan. [llywarch hen, warrior and poet, was the contemporary of aneurin and taliesin in the sixth century. he was engaged at the battle of cattraeth, where he witnessed the fall of three of his sons, and in the endless wars of that period. he had twenty four sons, all of whom were slain in battle in the bard's lifetime. he retired for refuge to the court of cynddylan, then prince of powys, at pengwern, now shrewsbury. the saxons at length drove cynddylan from pengwern, and the bard retired to llanfor, near bala, in merionethshire, where he died at the long age of 150 years. hence the appellation _hen_, or the aged. twelve poems of this bard remain, but all are imbued with the melancholy of the poet's life.] cynddylan's hearth is dark to-night, cynddylan's halls are lone; war's fire has revell'd o'er their might, and still'd their minstrel's tone; and i am left to chant apart one murmur of a broken heart! pengwern's blue spears are gleamless now, her revelry is still; the sword has blanched his chieftain's brow, her fearless sons are chill: and pagan feet to dust have trod the blue-robed messengers of god. {92} cynddylan's shield, cynddylan's pride, the wandering snows are shading, one palace pillar stands to guide the woodbine's verdant braiding; and i am left, from all apart, the minstrel of the broken heart! the lament op llywarch hen. by mrs. hemans. the bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing with song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom; but fairer than aught which the summer is bringing, the beauty and youth gone to people the tomb! oh! why should i live to hear music resounding, which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave? why smile the waste flow'rs, my sad footsteps surrounding? my sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave! fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing, as on to the fields of your glory you trod! each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing, each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod! i weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, which rouses ye not, oh, my lovely, my brave! when warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding, i turn from heav'n's light, for it smiles on your grave! the hall of cynddylan. by mrs. hemans. the hall of cynddylan is gloomy to-night, i weep, for the grave has extinguished its light; the beam of its lamp from the summit is o'er, the blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more! the hall of cynddylan is voiceless and still, the sound of its harpings hath died on the hill! be silent for ever, thou desolate scene, nor let e'en an echo recall what hath been! the hall of cynddylan is lonely and bare, no banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there! oh! where are the warriors who circled its board?-the grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour'd. the hall of cynddylan is loveless to-night, since he is departed whose smile made it bright: i mourn, but the sigh of my soul shall be brief, the pathway is short to the grave of my chief! the grave of king arthur. {94a} i called on the sun, in his noonday height, by the power and spell a wizard gave: hast thou not found, with thy searching light, the island monarch's grave? "i smile on many a lordly tomb, where death is mock'd by trophies fair; i pierce the dim aisle's hallow'd gloom; king arthur sleeps not there." i watched for the night's most lovely star, and, by that spell, i bade her say, if she had been, in her wand'rings far, where the slain of gamlan lay. {94b} "well do i love to shine upon the lonely cairn on the dark hill's side, and i weep at night o'er the brave ones gone, but not o'er britain's pride." i bent o'er the river, winding slow through tangled brake and rocky bed: say, do thy waters mourning flow beside the mighty dead? the river spake through the stilly hour, in a voice like the deep wood's evening sigh: "i am wand'ring on, 'mid shine and shower, but that grave i pass not by." i bade the winds their swift course hold, as they swept in their strength the mountain's bre'st: ye have waved the dragon banner's fold, where does its chieftain rest? there came from the winds a murmured note, "not ours that mystery of the world; but the dragon banner yet shall float on the mountain breeze unfurl'd." answer me then, thou ocean deep, insatiate gulf of things gone by, in thy green halls does the hero sleep? and the wild waves made reply: "he sleeps not in our sounding cells, our coral beds with jewels pearl'd; not in our treasure depths it dwells, that mystery of the world. "long must the island monarch roam, the noble heart and the mighty hand; but we shall bear him proudly home to his father's mountain land." the vengeance of owain. {96} [owain gwynedd, the subject of the following poem was the eldest son of gruffydd ab cynan, prince of gwynedd, or north wales, and he succeeded his father on his death in 1137. father and son were illustrious warriors and patriotic rulers. they were also celebrated for their munificent protection of the welsh bards. the saxons had established themselves at the castle of wyddgrug, now mold, and thence committed great ravages on the welsh in that vicinity. owain collected his forces, and by a sudden and fierce attack he conquered the saxons in their stronghold, and afterwards razed it with the ground in 1144. this celebrated prince died in 1162, and was buried at bangor, where a monument to his memory still remains.] "it may be bowed with woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb that weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom in her dark eye, prophetic of the doom, heaven gives its favourites--early death." childe harold. "oh gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, thy name is gone, thy rights invaded, and hopelessly the strong oak pineth, where the tall sapling faded; the mountain eagle idly cowers beside his slaughtered young, our sons must bow to other powers, must learn a stranger tongue. pride, valour, freedom, treasures that have been, do they all slumber in the grave of rhun?" thus sad and low the murmurs spread round owain's stately walls, while he, a mourner o'er the dead, sate lonely in his halls; and not the hardiest warrior there, unpitying, might blame the reckless frenzy of despair which shook that iron frame; eyes that had coldly gazed on woman's grief, wept o'er the anguish of their stern old chief. not all unheard those murmurs past, they reached a lady's bower, where meekly drooped beneath the blast proud gwynedd's peerless flower; and she, the hero's widow'd bride, has roused her from her sorrow's spell, and vowed one effort should be tried for that fair land he loved so well. there came a footstep, light and lone, to break the chieftain's solitude, and, bending o'er a harp's low tone, a form of fragile beauty stood; more like the maid, in fairy lay, {97} whose very being was of flowers, than creature, moulded from the clay, to dwell in this cold sphere of ours. her snowy brow through dark locks gleamed, and long and shadowy lashes curled, o'er eyes whose deep'ning radiance seemed caught from the light of another world; and on her cheek there was a glow, like clouds that kiss the parting sun; death's crimson banner, spread to show his mournful triumph was begun. has grief so dulled prince owain's ear, her melody he may not hear? no kindly look, or word, or token, his trance of wretchedness has broken, yet knows she, in that lonely spot, her presence felt, tho' greeted not; knows that no foot, save hers, unbidden; had dared to tread the living tomb, no other hand had waked, unchidden, the echoes of that sullen gloom; and now her voice's gentle tone blends with the harp, in dirge-like moan: "i mourn for rhun; the spider's patient trail hangs fairy cordage round his useless mail; the pennon, never seen to yield, bends in the light breeze, idly gay, and rusted spear, and riven shield tell of a warrior past away. "i mourn for rhun; alas! the damp earth lies heavy and chill on those unconscious eyes; around those cold and powerless fingers, the earthworm coils her slimy rings; above his grave the wild bird lingers, and many a requiem o'er it sings. "i mourn for rhun; doth not the stranger tread, with spurning foot, upon his lowly bed? doth not his spirit wailing roam, the land his dying wishes bless'd? and finds, within the cymry's home, but the oppressor and oppress'd." the minstrel pauses in her strain, to gaze on owain's altered brow, where shame and sorrow, pride and pain, are striving for the mastery now. not long the pause, again she flings her fingers o'er the sounding strings; mournfully still, yet hurriedly, waking a bolder melody; her form assumes a loftier height, her dark eyes flash more wildly bright, and the voice, that seem'd o'er the ear to float, now stirs the heart like a trumpet's note. "whence is the light on my spirit cast, a glance of the future, a dream of the past? there's a coming sound in the shelter'd glen, like the measur'd tread of warlike men, and the mingled hum of a gathering crowd, and the war-cry echoing far and loud. "i hear their shields and corselets clashing, i see the gleam of their blue spears flashing, and the sun on plume-deck'd helmets glance, and the banners that on the free wind dance, and the steed of the chief in his gallant array as he rushes to glory, away, away!" "sweep on, sweep on, in your crushing might, bear ye that banner o'er hill and height! sweep on, sweep on, in your 'whelming wrath, the far-scented raven shall follow your path; let him track the step of the mountain ranger, and his beak shall be red with the blood of the stranger. "on, for the fortress, whose gloomy height looks down on the valley in scornful might, leave not one stone on another to tell that the saxon has dwelt where no more he shall dwell; let the green weed o'ershadow the desolate hearth that has rung to the spoiler's exulting mirth. "on! when the strife grows fierce and high, vengeance and rhun be your battle-cry! star of the cymry! can it be they go to conquer and not with thee? thy blood is on the foeman's glaive, my lost, my beautiful, my brave!" the song has ceased, but ere its close, the lustre from those eyes is gone, the cheek has lost its crimson rose, the voice has changed its thrilling tone, till the last notes in murmurs die, faint as the echo of a sigh. the task is done, the spell is cast, and, left in silent loneliness, the o'erwrought spirit breaks at last, her hands her throbbing temples press, and tears are gushing fast and bright, down those small palms and fingers slight. oh, human love! how beautiful thou art, shading the ruin, clinging round the tomb, and ling'ring still, tho' all beside depart; can the cold sceptic, with his creed of gloom, deem that thy final dwelling is the dust, thy faith but folly, nothingness thy trust? the saxon feasted high that night, in wyddgrug's fortress proud, where countless torches lent their light, and the song of mirth was loud; and ruby juice of southern vine sparkled in cups of golden shine. sudden there rose a fearful cry, that drowned the voice of revelry, and then a glare so fiercely bright, it paled the torches' waning light, and as its blaze more redly glowed, leaving no niche or grey stone darkling, a deep and deadly current flowed to mingle with the wine-cup's sparkling. and, in that triumph's wild'ring hour of sated vengeance, grappled power, owain has lost the show of grief, once more his cymry's warlike chief, with dauntless mien he proudly stands, the centre of his faithful bands, who gladly view the haughty brow, whence care and pain seem banished now, and little reck what deeper lies, all is not joy that wears its guise, and, not, 'mid valour's trophies won, can he forget his slaughtered son. forget! no, time and absence have estranged those who in sundered paths must tread, we may forget the distant or the changed, but not--oh, not the dead: all other things, that round us come and pass, some with'ring chance or change have proved, but they still bear, in mem'ry's magic glass, the semblance we have loved. the morning breaks all calm and bright on ruins stern and bloody plain, flinging her rich and growing light o'er many a ghastly heap of slain; and pure and fresh her lustre showers on shattered helm and dinted mail, as when her coming wakes the flowers in some peace-hallow'd vale. but where is she, whose voice had power to rouse the war storm's awful might? glad eager footsteps seek her bower, with tidings of the glorious fight; on her loved harp her head is bowed, one slender arm still round it clings, and her dark tresses in a cloud, are clust'ring o'er the silent strings. they clasp her hands, they call her name, they bid her strike the harp once more, and sing of victory, and fame, the song she loved in days of yore. vain, vain, there comes no breath or sound those faded lips to sever, the broken heart its rest hath found, the harp is hushed for ever. part iv. the humorous. old morgan and his wife. 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 voice me 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'd if 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 loaves came from the peck of corn?" h.--should not the master of the house know 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 that is 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 she had fed the pigs or not. w.--your peevish growling, mog, is worse, yes, ten times worse and more, still asking, "how this churning gave less than the one before?" h.--you know the butter pays our rent, and many another matter. w.--i know that if the cows are starved they 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 soon to 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 you breathes 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 hands and we'll be henceforth friends. w.--no, not till you have stopp'd will i, be still, or make amends. song of the foster-son, love. 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 and _tender_ care-was an obligation from my fair.-and for the guileless, beaming star's sweet sake him 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 around he wrings my ears with doleful sound. and woe betide if e'er he sees one dare a 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 strong on summer-morn, i strolled the meads along, a curious thought upon my mind did flash that 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-son most 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 evermore no hope to cheer my spirit as of yore? and is despair, dark, sullen, on my heart to plant its talons with a fatal dart? no, there yet will beam a brilliant day to 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 unseen in 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 grows beside 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 impart to nestle deeply in my restless heart. and if, indeed, the fair one will not pay for time and nurture, anguish and delay, unless a guerdon in her smiles i see then must i from her arms for ever flee. pennillion. [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 find in 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 wise gain 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 love as any other mortal pain. * * * * * 'tis noised abroad, where'er one goes, and i am fain to hear, that no one in the country knows the 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. tribanau. [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 welsh _tribanau_, 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. part v. the sentimental. the rose of llan meilen. by dafydd ab gwilym. sweet rose of llan meilen! you bid me forget that ever in moments of pleasure we met; you bid me remember no longer a name the muse hath already companioned with fame; and future ap gwilyms, fresh wreaths who compose, shall twine with the chaplet of song for the brows of 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 expose to 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 more a name which affection and love must adore, 'till affection and love become one with the breath of 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. my native cot. the white cot where i spent my youth is on yon lofty mountain side, the stream which flowed beside the door adown the mossy slope doth glide; the holly tree that hid one end is shaken by the moaning wind, like as it was in days of yore when '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 nears full 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 yard will 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 orchard tree. under the deep-laden boughs of the orchard walks 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 stripling while gazing upon the apples so sweet, i ever should see beneath the green branches an 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 arbours a 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. the banks of the dee. one morning in may, when soft breezes were blowing o'er dee's pleasant tide with a ripple and swell, a shepherdess tended her flock that was feeding upon 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 tear for one who was far from the banks of the dee. the maiden i thought was preparing to solace her 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 meadows since he on these eyelids a smile did bestow; four winters have sped with their snowflakes and tempest since he by my side did sing a light glee; but many more springs will be sown for the harvest ere william revisit the banks of the dee." gwilym glyn and ruth of dyffryn. in the depth of yonder valley, where the fields are bright and sunny, ruth was nurtured fair and slender neath a mother's eye so tender. listening to the thrush's carols. was her pleasure in her gambols, and ere she grew up a maiden gwilym'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 beauty on the lap of peace and plenty, and before they could discover love had linked its silent fetter. ruth had riches--not so gwilym, her stern sire grew cold unto him, and at length forbade him coming any 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 horizon for 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 shadow vow'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 wooer came 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 sitting in the spot of their last parting, when she thought she saw her gwilym cross 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 love come to claim her in the green grove. gwilym now possessed abundance, gold and pearls displayed their radiance, soon the father gave him welcome to 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 clas. the lord of clas to his hunting is gone, over plain and sedgy moor; the glare of his bridle bit has shone on 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 clas has found other game than 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 met collecting flowers wild; her eyes like diamonds were set, and modest as a child. fair was her face, and lovely to see her form of slender mould, her dark hair waved in tresses free on shoulders arch and bold. the lord of clas did blush and sigh when 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 glean such 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 imbued the maid he thus address'd: "my lady fair, your beauteous mien my 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 grove and of this mountain free. these broad lands will your dowry be, if you my suit receive, and ye shall urge the chase with me from 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 year i might be lady clas. behold this ring on my finger worn- a token of plighted love; lo, he who plac'd it there this morn sits on yon cairn above." the chieftain look'd to the lonely cairn and saw the knight of lleyn! like mountain deer he flew o'er the sarn, and there no more was seen! the rose of the glen. 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. the mountain galloway. 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 day hast sped, my gallant galloway. like a sea-boat, firm and tight, dancing on the ocean, light, that the spirit of the wind actuates to heart and mind elastic, 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'd where 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. glan geirionydd. from the rev. evan evans. one time upon a summer day i saunter'd on the shore of swift geirionydd's waters blue, where oft i walked before in youth's bright season gone, and spent life's happiest morn in drawing from its crystal waves the trout beneath the thorn, when every thought within my breast was light as solar ray, enjoying every pastime dear throughout the livelong day. the breeze would soften on the lake, unruffled be its deep, and all surrounding nature be as calm as silent sleep, except the raven's dismal shriek upon the lofty spray, and bleat of sheep beside the bush where light their lambkins play, and noise made by the busy mill upon the river shore, with cuckoo's song perch'd in the ash to show that winter's o'er. the impressive scene would rather tend to nurse reflection deep, than cast the gay and sprightly fly beneath the rocky steep; 'twould fill my spirit now subdued with 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 beget thoughts of departed friends, who not long since companions were upon the river's bends; and soon will come the sombre day when i shall meet their doom, and 'stead of fishing by the lake, i shall be in the tomb. some brother bard may chance to stray and ask for ieuan e'an?-"geirionydd lake is still the same, but here no ieuan's seen." the mother to her child after its father's death. by the rev. daniel evans, b.d. my gentle child, thou dost not know why still on thee i am gazing so, and trace in meditation deep thy 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 bestow a 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 aid of father's counsel is deep laid; and soon thy mother wan may find a last home there--and thou behind. thy sad condition then will be like 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 above thy father lives, and he is love; he knows thy lot, and well doth care for 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 hand thou mayest travel through this land? smile on, my child, for thou wilt find in 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 land we all shall meet a joyous band, without ought danger more to part, or tear or sigh to heave the heart. woman. by rev. daniel evans, b.d. gentle woman! thou most perfect work of the divine architect; pearl and beauty of creation, rose of earth by all confession. myriad times thy smiles are sweeter than the morning sun doth scatter, all the loveliness of nature into thee almost doth enter. the rose's hues and of the lily, verdant spring in all its beauty, brighter yet among the flowers is 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 wonder after thee man's heart doth wander? i have seen without emotion fields of blood and desolation, but i never saw the tear on woman's eye and mine not water. from her lips a word of soothing will disarm all angry feeling, on her tongue a balm of comfort, great its virtue, strong its support. pleasant is it for the traveller on his way to meet with succour, sweeter far when at his own home, to receive fair woman's welcome. woman cheerful in a family makes the group around so happy, and her voice filled with affection, yields an eden of communion. poor the man that roams creation without woman for companion, destitute of all protection, without her to bless his station. gentle woman! all we covet without 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 anchor on each stormy sea of terror. the faithful maiden. 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 learn her 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 lay by 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 fair with 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 one i 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 bear of 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." the ewe. 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 kind against thy foes to combat; no horn or hoof the dog to wound that worries thee so steadfast. no, nought hast thou but feeble flight, therein thy only refuge; and every cur within thy sight is swifter since the deluge. and when thy lambkin weak doth fail, tho' often called to follow, thy best protection to the frail wilt give through death or sorrow. against the ground her foot will beat, devoutly pure her purpose; full many a time the sight thus meet brought tears to me in billows. but if wise nature did not give to her sharp tooth or weapon, she compensation doth receive from human aid and reason. she justly has from man support 'gainst wounds and tribulation; and has the means without distort to yield him retribution. yea, of more value is her gift than priceless mines of silver or gold which from the depth they lift through india's distant border. to man she gives protection strong from winds and tempests howling, from pelting rain, and snow-drifts long, when storms above are beating. the mantle warm o'er us the night throughout the dismal shadows; what makes our hearts so free and light? what but the sheep so precious! then let us not the ewe forget when winter bleak doth hover; when rains descend--and we safe set- let us be grateful to her. her cloak to us is comfort great when by the ditch she trembles; let us then give her the best beat for her abode and rambles. the song of the fisherman's wife. 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 bosom is 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 morning when 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 protection keep him from the wave's destruction! the withered leaf. by rev. john blackwell, b.a. dry the leaf above the stubble, soon 'twill fall into the bramble, but the mind receives a lesson from 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 balmy can'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. sad died the maiden! and heaven only knew the anguish she felt in expiring, the moonbeams were weeping the evening dew when 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 store on 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 roam in search of the latch and warm shelter. * * * * * she died! and her end will for ever reveal a father devoid of affection, while her green grave will always testify well to the strength of love and devotion. the world and the sea: a comparison. like the world and its dread changes is 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 danger is the sea unto the sailor, less sustaining to the traveller is the world through which he'll wander. full the sea of rocky places, shoals and quicksands in its mazes, full the world of sore temptation charged with sorrow and destruction. the poor man's grave. 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 riches which the dew of heaven doth spread; many a foot doth inconsiderate tread 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 union followed 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 oppression is 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 kin to bestow green leaves or nosegay on the poor man's grave within. nor doth the muse above his ashes sing a dirge or mourn his end, and ere long time's wasting gashes will 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. the bard's long-tried affection for morfydd. by dafydd ap gwilym. all my lifetime i have been bard to morfydd, "golden mien!" i have loved beyond belief, many a day to love and grief for her sake have been a prey, who has on the moon's array! pledged my truth from youth will now to 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 night stag-like tracked the forest shade for the foam-complexioned maid, whom with passion firm and gay i adored 'mid leaves of may! 'mid a thousand i could tell one 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 learn where she tarries to discern; there his noblest music swells through 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 back to direct me in my track! not one hour shall i be gay, whilst my morfydd is away! the grove of broom. by dafydd ap gwilym. the girl of nobler loveliness than countess decked in golden dress, no longer dares to give her plight to meet the bard at dawn or night! to the blythe moon he may not bear the maid, whose cheeks the daylight wear-she fears to answer to his call at midnight, underneath yon wall-nor can he find a birchen bower to screen her in the morning hour; and thus the summer days are fleeting away, 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 greet with 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 veil in ancient days--(so runs the tale); and such a canopy to me this 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 strung with twigs and foliage lithe and young, and when may comes upon the trees to 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, these are 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 bard will, with his case, her footsteps guard, there, where no stranger dares to pry, beneath yon broom's green canopy! address to a birch tree, 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 been a wand'rer from thy native rocks; with canopy of tissue green, and stem that 'mid the sylvan scene a 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 me thou 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 rang with every song the woodlands know, and every woodland flow'ret sprang to life--thy spreading tent below. proud guardian of the public way, such wert thou, while thou didst obey the 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 be a patroness of poesy-long as its hospitality the bard shall freely entertain, my birch! thy lofty stature shall remain! the holly grove. by dafydd ap gwilym. sweet holly grove, that soarest a woodland fort, an armed bower! in front of all the forest thy coral-loaded branches tower. thou shrine of love, whose depth defies the axe--the tempest of the skies; whose boughs in winter's frost display the 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 rain may 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 pathless with 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 launches his wrath upon thy iron spray; armed holly tree! from thy firm branches he will not wrest a tithe away! chapel of verdure, neatly wove, above the summit of the grove! the swan. 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'n the 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, unite to glean the fish in yonder lake, and bending o'er yon hills thy flight a glance at earth and sea to take. oh! 'tis a noble task to ride the 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 place the 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 reveal the cares and agonies i feel-and in return bring to my ear message of hope, my heart to cheer! oh, may no danger hover near (bird of majestic head) thy flight! thy service i will well requite! may and november. by dafydd ap gwilym. sweet may, ever welcome! the palace of leaves thy 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 divide each lover from hope--from the poet his bride. the cuckoo's tale. 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 pain hast 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 bride these strains of thy malice--may winter appear and 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!" dafydd ap gwilym's address to morfydd after she married his rival. 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 ear my sweetest melodies i pour'd; where'er she wander'd i was near; for her whose face my soul ador'd my 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 know that she is spotless as the snow. these proofs of love i hoped might bind my 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! part vi. the religious. from the hymns of the rev. william williams, pantycelyn. [the reverend william williams, styled of "pantycelyn," a tenement which he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish of llanfair-onthe-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 desert after tarrying there so long, milk and honey, wine and welcome wait you 'mong the ransom'd throng; wear your arms, advance to warfare, onward go, and bravely fight, fair the land, and there shall lead you cloud 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 gathering from the dread captivity, and until on zion's mountain let 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 temptation did 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 aspect of 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 see that 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 gospel fly 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 echo of 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 terror under thine eternal sway. aid me, lord, always to tarry in 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 favour but thy presence to enjoy. * * * * * great redeemer, friend of sinners, thou hast glorious power to save, grant me light and still conduct me over each tempestuous wave; may my soul with sacred transport view 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 released from 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 day my footsteps, lest i fall; and thy salvation is my stay, my joy, my song, my all. than combs of honey sweeter is thy favour to enjoy; in life, in death, no joy than this will last without alloy. * * * * * angelic throngs unnumbered, as dawn's bright drops of dew, present their crowns before him with praises ever new; but saints and angels blending their songs above the sun, can ne'er express the glories of 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!" translations from miscellaneous welsh hymns. 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 life beholding 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 appeared bethlehem'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 stand again, 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'd let all the nations meet, and show the mystery fulfill'd, the family complete. * * * * * teach me aaron's thoughtful silence when 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 glory of 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. the farmer's prayer. by rev. rees prichard, m.a. translated by the rev. william evans. [any collection of welsh poetry that does not contain a portion of the poems of the "good vicar prichard of llandovery" would be incomplete. this excellent man was born at llandovery, in carmarthenshire, in the year 1579, and died there in 1644. after a collegiate course in oxford he was inducted to the vicarage of his native parish, and received successively afterwards the appointments of prebendary, and chancellor of st. david's. he composed a multitude of religious poems and pious carols, which were universally popular among his contemporaries and had great influence upon the welsh of after-times. they were collected and published after his death under the title of "canwyll y cymry," or "the candle of the welsh," of which about twenty editions have appeared. the "welshman's caudle" has for the last two hundred and fifty years found a place beside the holy bible in the bookshelf of almost every native of the principality, and has been consecrated by the nation. it consists of pious advice and religious exhortation suited to all conditions and circumstances of life. an english translation of the poems was published by messrs. longman & co., in 1815.] o thou! by whom the universe was made, mankind's support, and never failing aid, who bid'st the earth her various products bear, who waterest the soft'ned soil with rain, who givest vegetation to the grain, unto a peasant's ardent pray'r give ear! i now intend, with care, my land to dress, and in its fertile womb to sow my grain; which, if, o god! thou deignest not to bless, i never shall receive, or see again. in vain it is to plant, in vain to sow, in vain to harrow well the levell'd plain, if thou wilt not command the seed to grow, and shed thy blessing on the bury'd grain. for not a single corn will rush to birth of all that i've entrusted to the earth, if thou dost not enjoin the blade to spring and the young shoot to full perfection bring. i therefore beg thy blessing on my lands, o lord! and on the labour of my hands, that i thereby, may as a christian, live, and my support, and maintenance receive! open the windows of the skies, and pour thy blessings on them in a genial show'r; my corn with earth's prolific fatness feed, and give increase to all my cover'd seed! let not the skies, like brass in fusion, glow, nor the earth, with heat, as hard as iron grow, let not our pastures and our meads of hay, for our supine neglect of thee, decay! but give us in good time and measure meet, a temp'rate season, and sufficient heat, give us the former and the latter rains, give peace and plenty to the british swains. the locust and the cankerworm restrain, the dew that blights and tarnishes the grain, the drought, the nipping winds, the lightning's glare, which to the growing corn pernicious are. o, let the year be with thy goodness crown'd, let it with all thy choicest gifts abound, let bleating flocks each fertile valley fill, and lowing herds adorn each rising hill. give to the sons of men their daily bread, give grass to the mute beasts, that crop the mead, give wine and oil to those that till the field, and let thy heritage abundance yield. give us a harvest with profusion crown'd, let ev'ry field and fold with corn abound, let herbs each garden, fruit each orchard fill, let rocks their honey, kine their milk distill. prosper our handy work thou gracious god, and further our endeavours with success: so, on our knees, shall we thy name applaud, and night and morn our benefactor bless. the praise and commendation of a good woman. by rev. rees prichard, m.a. translated by the rev. william evans. as a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool who of conceit and selfishness is full-as a good name exceeds the best perfume, and richest balms that from the indies come. a virtuous, cheerful, and obliging wife is better far than all the pomp of life, better than houses, tenements and lands, than pearls and precious stones, and golden sands. she is a ship with costly wares well-stow'd, a pearl, with virtues infinite endow'd, a gem, beyond all value and compare: happy the man, who has her to his share! she is a pillar with rich gildings grac'd, and on a pedestal of silver plac'd, she is a turret of defence, to save a weak and sickly husband from the grave, she is a gorgeous crown, a glorious prize, and ev'ry grace, in her, concent'red lies! twenty third psalm. by rev. rees prichard, m.a. translated by the rev. william evans. my shepherd is the lord above, who ne'er will suffer me to rove; in him i'll trust, he is so good, he'll never let me want for food. to pastures green and flow'ry meads, his happy flock he gently leads, where water in abundance flows, and where luxuriant herbage grows. when o'er my bounds i chance to roam, my shepherd finds and brings me home; and when i wander o'er the plain, he drives me to the fold again. or should i hap to lose my way, and in death's gloomy valley stray, i need not ever be dismay'd, for god himself will be my aid. in whate'er pasture i abide, he still is present at my side; his rod, his crook, his shepherd's staff, in every path shall keep me safe. my soul with comfort overflows, in spite of all my numerous foes; and thou with richness hast, o lord! and plenty crown'd my crowded board. his precious balms, my god hath shed, upon my highly favoured head: and with the blessings of the lord, my larder is completely stor'd. his bounty and his mercies past, shall follow me unto the last; and, for his favours shown to me, his house, my home shall ever be. to god, the father--and the son-and holy spirit--three-in-one, let us our bounden homage pay, each hour, each moment of the day! short is the life of man. by rev. rees prichard, m.a. translated by the rev. w. evans. man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, or, like a tender flow'ret, droops and dies, or, like a race, it ends without delay, or, like a vapour, vanishes away, or, like a candle, in each moment wastes, or, like a packet under sail, it hastes, or, like a courier, travels very fast, or, like the shadow of a cloud, 'tis past. strong is our foe, but very weak the fort, our death is certain, and our time is short; but as the hour of death's a secret still, let us be ready, come he when he will. concerning the divine providence. by the rev. rees prichard, m.a. translated by the rev. william evans. god doth withhold no good from those who meekly fear him here below; on them he grace and fame bestows, nor loss, nor cross they e'er shall know. cast thou on him thy troubles all, and he will thee with plenty feed; he will not let the righteous fall, nor ever suffer them to need. god says (of that advantage make)! "open thy mouth, i will thee feed;" pains in some honest calling take, and all thy labours shall succeed. though lions, and their young beside, are oft distress'd for want of food; yet they, who in their god confide, shall never want for aught that's good. god gives the sinful pagan food, supplies the ethiopian's need, his very foes he fills with good, and shall he not his servants feed? at too much riches never aim, but be content with what is thine; god never will those folks disclaim, who duly keep his laws divine. implore god's help in every ill, he is the giver of all good; but should'st thou trust thy wit and skill, thou'lt lose the prize that by thee stood. full many a man still lives in need, because on god he ne'er rely'd; full many a one still begs his bread, who did in his own strength confide. since god is always to them kind, why do they die for want of aid? because they on their strength reclin'd, and ne'er for his assistance pray'd. god never knows the least repose, but for his servants still prepares; whilst at our ease we sweetly doze, he daily for his household cares. say, can a mother e'er forget her charge, her sucking babe neglect? should even maternal fondness set, god will his servants recollect. ere thou shalt woe or want behold, (if thou dost truly god obey) he'll tell a fish to fetch thee gold, thy just expenses to defray. though, like the widow's meal, thy store should be but small--yet in a trice (if thou dost strictly god adore) he'll make that little store suffice. do not on thy own arm rely, thy strength or thy superior skill, but on thy friend, the lord most high! if thou would'st be preserv'd from ill. god feeds the warblers of the wood, and clothes the lilies of the plain; god gives to all things living food, and will he not his sons sustain? the ravens neither sow nor reap, they have no barns to house their seed; yet god does even the ravens keep, and them, through every season, feed. observe the lily, and the rose, to toil and spin they ne'er were given; yet god on them a robe bestows, more rich than monarch's vesture even. on god, each living creature's eyes are fix'd--he, with a parent's care, the wants of all the world supplies, and gives to each its proper share. he opes his bounteous hand full wide, and feeds each animal that lives, and ne'er leaves any unsupplied, but to them all due measure gives. he to the lion's cubs gives food, to each fierce rambler of the wild, to the black raven's glossy brood, and shall he not to every child? thou dost not drop a single hair, without a providence divine; no sparrow tumbles from the air, nought haps which god did not design. already has god's providence to thee, breath, being, strength allow'd-health, knowledge, reason, memory, sense, will he not, think'st thou, give thee food? two sparrows, as they are so small, are purchas'd for a single mite; though little, yet god feeds them all, art thou less precious in his sight? though god, for all his creatures here with a most lib'ral hand provides; yet is the soul of man more dear to him, than all his works besides. on god, thy cares and troubles lay- for thee, he always is in pain; if christ thou truly dost obey, a sure reward thou shalt obtain. footnotes: {59} the goryn ddu (black crown), is surmounted by a circular ancient british station, in a very perfect state, about a mile from trwst llywelyn, on the other side of the river, up the vale: like the ancient mathraval, it is situated in a wood. {61} trwst llywelyn is only four or five miles from the nearest point of shropshire; and the inhabitants, except the very old people, do not understand the welsh language. {62} anglesey. {65} king of the fairies. {75a} the battle of maelor, fought with the english in the 12th century, by owen cyveiliog, prince of powys, who composed the admired poem called hirlas, or the drinking horn, on the victory he obtained. {75b} the battle of the britons and saxons at bangor is coed, in the 7th century. {75c} "before the prince himself there was vast confusion, havoc, conflict, horrible consternation, and upon tal moelvre, a thousand banners."--panegyric on owain gwynedd. evans's specimens of the welsh bards, p. 26. {76} the captive welsh nobles, either hostages or prisoners of war, who were detained in the tower of london, obtained permission that their libraries should be sent them from wales, to amuse them in their solitude and confinement. this was a frequent practice, so that in process of time the tower became the principal repository of welsh literature. the present poverty of ancient welsh manuscripts may be dated from the time when the history and poetry of our country received a fatal blow in the loss of those collected at london, by the villainy of one scolan, who burned them. {77} the poet, and author of the elegy written in a country churchyard. {81} snowdon. {86} this prophecy of taliesin relating to the ancient britons is still extant, and has been strikingly verified:- "their god they'll adore, their language they'll keep, their country they'll lose, except wild wales." {87a} _ynys cedeirn_, or isle of the mighty, an ancient name given to britain. {87b} uthyr pendragon, king of britain, supposed to have been the father of arthur. {87c} the bard of the palace, under the ancient welsh princes, always accompanied the army when it marched into an enemy's country; and while it was preparing for battle or dividing the spoils he performed an ancient song, called "unbennaeth prydain," the monarchy of britain. it has been conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition of the welsh, that the whole island had been possessed by their ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their saxon invaders. when the prince had received his share of the spoils, the bard, for the performance of this song, was rewarded with the most valuable beast that remained.--see jones's _historical account of the welsh bards_. {88} ynys prydain, the ancient name of britain, signifies the fair, or beautiful island. {91} this lady was born near the beautiful breidden hills in montgomeryshire. {92} the bards. {94a} king of britain, and of bretagne in france, celebrated for his prowess. he and his famous knights of the round table are the themes of much romance. {94b} a great battle was fought at gamlan, between the welsh and saxons in 512, where king arthur was slain. {96} the death of rhun overwhelmed his father (owain gwynedd) with grief, from which he was only roused by the ravages of the english, then in possession of mold castle; he levelled it with the ground, and, it is said, forgot his sorrow in his triumph. {97} flower aspect, vide the mabinogion. {141} "hafren," the river severn. {142} these words "doublet," "jacket," &c., are english words applied sportively by the poet. john pryse, printer, llanidloes. 