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diff --git a/18523-h/18523-h.htm b/18523-h/18523-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1fe6849 --- /dev/null +++ b/18523-h/18523-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5071 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Poetry of Wales</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Poetry of Wales, by John Jenkins</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Poetry of Wales, by John Jenkins + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Poetry of Wales + + +Author: John Jenkins + + + +Release Date: June 6, 2006 [eBook #18523] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETRY OF WALES*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1873 Houlston & Sons edition, by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>THE POETRY OF WALES.</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">edited by</span><br /> +JOHN JENKINS, Esq.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">“I offer you a bouquet of culled +flowers, I did not grow, only collect and arrange them.”—<span class="smcap">Par +le Seigneur de Montaigne.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">london: houlston & +sons, paternoster square<br /> +llanidloes: john pryse</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">1873.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Cheap Edition</i>.—<i>All Rights +Reserved</i>.]</p> +<h2><!-- page iii--><a name="pageiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. iii</span>PREFACE.</h2> +<p>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.</p> +<h2><!-- page 9--><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>INTRODUCTION.</h2> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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. <!-- page 10--><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <!-- page 11--><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>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:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“If there should be fighting, the bard shall sing +‘The Monarchy of Britain’ in front of the battle.”</p> +<p>“The Bard President shall sit at the Royal Table.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“His land shall be free, and he shall have a horse in attendance +from the king.”</p> +<p>“The Chief of Song shall begin the singing in the common hall.”</p> +<p>“He shall be next but one to the patron of the family.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>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; <!-- page 12--><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>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:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The way was long, the wind was cold,<br /> +The minstrel was infirm and old;<br /> +His withered cheeks and tresses gray<br /> +Seemed to have known a better day;<br /> +The harp, his sole remaining joy,<br /> +Was carried by an orphan boy.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>No more on prancing palfry borne,<br /> +He carolled light as lark at morn;<br /> +No longer courted and caress’d,<br /> +High placed in hall, a welcome guest,<br /> +He poured to lord and lady gay<br /> +The unpremeditated lay.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <!-- page 13--><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>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.</p> +<p>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 (<i>gorymdaith</i>) to the place +appointed, where twelve stones are laid in a circle, with one in the +centre, to form a <i>gorsedd</i> or throne. When the whole order +is assembled, the chief of bards ascends the <i>gorsedd</i>, and from +his laurel and flower-bedecked chair opens the session, by repeating +aloud the mottoes of the order, viz.: “<i>Y gwir yn erbyn y byd</i>, +<i>yn ngwyneb haul a llygad goleuni</i>,” 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 <!-- page 14--><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>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.</p> +<p>It is often asked, what is poetry? Prose, we assume to be a +simple or connected narrative of ordinary facts or <!-- page 15--><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>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.</p> +<p><!-- page 16--><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>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.</p> +<p>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 <!-- page 17--><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>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 “<i>Rans des vaches</i>.” 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.</p> +<p>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 <!-- page 18--><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>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.</p> +<p>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 <!-- page 19--><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p><!-- page 20--><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>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.</p> +<h2><!-- page 23--><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>PART +I. THE SUBLIME.</h2> +<h3>SNOWDON.</h3> +<p>King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow<br /> + Thou rearest in the clouds, as if to mock<br /> +The littleness of human things below;<br /> + The tempest cannot harm thee, and the shock<br /> +Of the deep thunder falls upon thy head<br /> +As the light footfalls of an infant’s tread.</p> +<p>The livid lightning’s all destroying flame<br /> + Has flashed upon thee harmlessly, the rage<br /> +Of savage storms have left thee still the same;<br /> + Thou art imperishable! Age after age<br /> +Thou hast endured; aye, and for evermore<br /> +Thy form shall be as changeless as before.</p> +<p>The works of man shall perish and decay,<br /> + Cities shall crumble down to dust, and all<br /> +Their “gorgeous palaces” shall pass away;<br /> + Even their lofty monuments shall fall;<br /> +And a few scattered stones be all to tell<br /> +The place where once they stood,—where since they fell!</p> +<p>Yet, even time has not the power to shiver<br /> + One single fragment from thee; thou shalt be<br /> +A monument that shall exist for ever!<br /> + While the vast world endures in its immensity,<br /> +The eternal snows that gather on thy brow<br /> +Shall diadem thy crest, as they do now.</p> +<p>Thy head is wrapt in mists, yet still thou gleam’st,<br /> + At intervals, from out the clouds, that are<br /> +A glorious canopy, in which thou seem’st<br /> + To shroud thy many beauties; now afar<br /> +Thou glitterest in the sun, and dost unfold<br /> +Thy giant form, in robes of burning gold.</p> +<p><!-- page 24--><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>And, +when the red day dawned upon thee, oh! how bright<br /> + Thy mighty form appeared! a thousand dies<br /> +Shed o’er thee all the brilliance of their light,<br /> + Catching their hues from the o’er-arching skies,<br /> +That seemed to play around thee, like a dress<br /> +Sporting around some form of loveliness.</p> +<p>And when the silver moonbeams on thee threw<br /> + Their calm and tranquil light, thou seem’st to be<br /> +A thing so wildly beautiful to view,<br /> + So wrapt in strange unearthly mystery,<br /> +That the mind feels an awful sense of fear<br /> +When gazing on thy form, so wild and drear.</p> +<p>The poet loves to gaze upon thee when<br /> + No living soul is near, and all are gone<br /> +Wooing their couches for soft sleep; for then<br /> + The poet feels that he is <i>least</i> alone,—<br /> +Holding communion with the mighty dead,<br /> +Whose viewless shadows flit around thy head.</p> +<p>Say, does the spirit of some warrior bard,<br /> + With unseen form, float on the misty air,<br /> +As if intent thy sacred heights to guard?<br /> + Or does he breathe his mournful murmurs there,<br /> +As if returned to earth, once more to dwell<br /> +On the dear spot he ever lov’d so well.</p> +<p>Perhaps some Druid form, in awful guise,<br /> + With words of wond’rous import, there may range,<br /> +Making aloud mysterious sacrifice,<br /> + With gestures incommunicably strange,<br /> +Praying to the gods he worshipped, to restore<br /> +His dear lov’d Cymru to her days of yore.</p> +<p>Or does thy harp, oh, Hoel! sound its strings,<br /> + With chords of fire proclaim thy country’s praise;<br /> +And he of “Flowing Song’s” wild murmurings<br /> + Breathe forth the music of his warrior lays;<br /> +And Davydd, Caradoc—a glorious band—<br /> +Tune their wild harps to praise their mountain land?</p> +<p><!-- page 25--><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>Thou +stand’st immovable, and firmly fixed<br /> + As Cambria’s sons in battle, when they met<br /> +The Roman legions, and their weapons mixed,<br /> + And clash’d as bravely as they can do yet.<br /> +The Saxon, Dane, and Norman, knew them well,<br /> +And found them—as they are—invincible!</p> +<p>Majestic Snowdon! proudly dost thou stand,<br /> + Like a tall giant ready for the fray,<br /> +The guardian bulwark of thy mountain land;<br /> + Old as the world thou art! As I survey<br /> +Thy lofty altitude, strange feelings rise,<br /> +Of the unutterable mind’s wild sympathies.</p> +<p>Thou hast seen many changes, yet hast stood<br /> + Unaltered to the last, remained the same<br /> +Even in the wildness of thy solitude,<br /> + Even in thy savage grandeur; and thy name<br /> +Acts as a spell on Cambria’s sons, that brings<br /> +Their heart’s best blood to flow in rapid springs.</p> +<p>And must I be the only one to sing<br /> + Thy dear loved name? and must the task be mine,<br /> +To the insensate mind thy name to bring?<br /> + Oh! how I grieve to think, when songs divine<br /> +Have echoed to thy praises night and day,<br /> +I can but offer thee so poor a lay.</p> +<h3><!-- page 26--><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>THE +DAY OF JUDGMENT.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Goronwy Owain</span>.</p> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p>Almighty God thy heavenly aid bestow,<br /> +O’er my rapt soul bid inspiration flow;<br /> +Let voice seraphic, mighty Lord, be mine,<br /> +Whilst I unfold this awful bold design.<br /> +No less a theme my lab’ring breast inspires,<br /> +Than earth’s last throes and overwhelming fires,<br /> +Than man arising from his dark abode<br /> +To meet the final sentence of his God!<br /> +The voice of ages, yea of every clime,<br /> +The hoary records of primeval time;<br /> +The saints of Christ in glowing words display,<br /> +The dread appearance of that fateful day!<br /> +Oh! may the world for that great day prepare<br /> +With ceaseless diligence and solemn care,<br /> +No human wisdom knows, no human power<br /> +Can tell the coming of that fatal hour.<br /> +No warning sign shall point out nature’s doom;<br /> +Resistless, noiseless it shall surely come,<br /> +Like a fierce giant rushing to the fight,<br /> +Or silent robber in the shades of night.<br /> +What heart unblenched can dare to meet this day,<br /> +A day of darkness and of dire dismay?<br /> +What sinner’s eye can fearless then—behold<br /> +The day of horrors on his sight unfold,<br /> +But to the good a day of glorious light,<br /> +A day for chasing all the glooms of night.<br /> +For then shall burst on man’s astonished eyes<br /> +The Christian banner waving in the skies,<br /> +<!-- page 27--><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>Borne +by angelic bands supremely fair,<br /> +By countless seraphs through the pathless air.<br /> +The heavenly sky shall Christ’s proud banner form,<br /> +A sky unruffled by a cloud or storm;<br /> +The bloody cross aloft in awful pride<br /> +Shall float triumphant o’er the airy tide.<br /> +Then shall the King with splendour cloth’d on high<br /> +Ride through the glories of the golden sky,<br /> +With power resistless guide his awful course,<br /> +And curb the whirlwinds in their wildest force.<br /> +The white robed angels shall resound the praise,<br /> +Ten thousand saints their choral songs shall raise<br /> +Now through the void a louder shout shall roar<br /> +Than surges dashing on a rocky shore.<br /> +An awful silence reigns!—the angels sound<br /> +The final sentence to the worlds around;<br /> +Loud through the heavens the echoing blast shall roll,<br /> +And nature, startled, shake from Pole to Pole.<br /> +All flesh shall tremble at the fearful sign,<br /> +And dread to approach the judgment seat divine;<br /> +The loftiest hills, which ’mid the tempest reign,<br /> +Shall sink and totter, levelled with the plain.<br /> +The hideous din of rushing torrents far<br /> +Augment the horrors of this final war;<br /> +The glorious sun, the gorgeous eye of day,<br /> +Shall faint and sicken in this vast decay.<br /> +From our struck view his golden beams shall hide,<br /> +As when the Saviour on Calvaria died;<br /> +The lovely moon no more in beauty gleam,<br /> +Or tinge the ocean with her silv’ry beam;<br /> +Ten thousand stars shall from their orbits roll,<br /> +In dread confusion through the empty pole.<br /> +At the loud blasts hell’s barriers fall around,<br /> +Even Satan trembles at the awful sound!<br /> +Far down he sinks, deep in the realms of night,<br /> +And strives to shun the glorious Son of Light.<br /> +“Rise from your tomb,” the mighty angel cries,<br /> +“Ye sleeping mortals, and approach the skies,<br /> +For Christ is thron’d upon his Judgment Seat,<br /> +And for his mercy may ye all be meet!”<br /> +The roaring ocean from its inmost caves<br /> +<!-- page 28--><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>Shall +send forth thousands o’er the foaming waves;<br /> +From earth the countless myriads shall arise,<br /> +Like corn-land springing ’neath benignant skies;<br /> +For all must then appear—we all shall meet<br /> +In dread array before Christ’s Judgment Seat!<br /> +All flesh shall stand full in its Maker’s view—<br /> +The past, the present, and the future too;<br /> +Not one shall fail, for rise with one accord<br /> +Shall saint and sinner, vassal and his lord.<br /> +Then Mary’s Son, in heavenly pomp’s array,<br /> +Shall all his glory to the world display;<br /> +The faithful twelve with saintly vesture graced,<br /> +Friends of his cross around his throne are placed;<br /> +The impartial judge the book of fate shall scan,<br /> +The unerring records of the deeds of man.</p> +<p> The book is opened! mark the anxious fear<br /> +That calls the sigh and starts the bitter tear;<br /> +The good shall hear a blessed sentence read,<br /> +All mourning passes—all their griefs are fled.<br /> +No more their souls with racking pains are riven,<br /> +Their Lord admits them to the peace of heaven;<br /> +The sinner there, with guilty crime oppressed,<br /> +Bears on his brow the fears of hell confess’d.<br /> +Behold him now—his guilty looks—I see<br /> +His God condemns, and mercy’s God is He;<br /> +No joy for him, for him no heaven appears<br /> +To bid him welcome from a vale of tears.<br /> +Hark! Jesu’s voice with awful terrors swell,<br /> +It shakes even heaven, it shakes the nether hell:<br /> +“Away ye cursed from my sight, retire<br /> +Down to the depths of hell’s eternal fire,<br /> +Down to the realms of endless pain and night,<br /> +Ye fiends accursed, from my angry sight<br /> +Depart! for heaven with saintly inmates pure<br /> +No crime can harbour or can sin endure,<br /> +Away! away where fiends infernal dwell,<br /> +Down to your home and taste the pains of hell.</p> +<p> Behold his servants—Lo, the virtuous bands<br /> +Await the sentence which the life demands;<br /> +<!-- page 29--><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>All +blameless they their course in virtue run<br /> +Have for their brows a crown of glory won.<br /> +Their Saviour’s voice, a sound of heavenly love,<br /> +Admits them smiling to the realms above:<br /> +“Approach, ye faithful, to the heaven of peace,<br /> +Where worldly sorrows shall for ever cease.<br /> +Come, blessed children, share my bright abode,<br /> +Rest in the bosom of your King and God,<br /> +Where thousand saints in grateful concert sing<br /> +Loud hymns of glory to th’ Eternal King.”<br /> +For you, beloved, I hung upon the tree,<br /> +That where I am there also ye might be;<br /> +The infernal god (ye trembling sinners quake)<br /> +Shall hurl you headlong on the burning lake,<br /> +There shall ye die, nor dying shall expire,<br /> +Rolled on the waves of everlasting fire,<br /> +Whilst Christ shall bid his own lov’d flock rejoice,<br /> +And lead them upward with approving voice,<br /> +Where countless hosts their heavenly Lord obey,<br /> +And sing Hosannas in the courts of day.<br /> +O gracious God! each trembling suppliant spare—<br /> +Grant each the glory of that song to share;<br /> +May Christ, my God, a kind physician be,<br /> +And may He grant me bless’d Eternity!</p> +<h3>THE IMMOVABLE COVENANT.</h3> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p>Ye cloud piercing mountains so mighty,<br /> + Whose age is the age of the sky;<br /> +No cold blasts of winter affright ye,<br /> + Nor heats of the summer defy:<br /> +You’ve witness’d the world’s generations<br /> + Succeeding like waves on the sea;<br /> +The deluge you saw, when doom’d nations,<br /> + In vain to your summits would flee.</p> +<p><!-- page 30--><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>You +challenge the pyramids lasting,<br /> + That rolling milleniums survive;<br /> +Fierce whirlwinds, and thunderbolts blasting,<br /> + And oceans with tempests alive!<br /> +But lo! there’s a day fast approaching,<br /> + Which shall your foundations reveal,—<br /> +The powers of heaven will be shaking,<br /> + And earth like a drunkard shall reel!</p> +<p>Proud Idris, and Snowdon so tow’ring,<br /> + Ye now will be skipping like lambs;<br /> +The Alps will, by force overpow’ring<br /> + Propell’d be disporting like rams!<br /> +The breath of Jehovah will hurl you—<br /> + Aloft in the air you shall leap:<br /> +Your crash, like his thunder’s who’ll whirl you,<br /> + Shall blend with the roars of the deep.</p> +<p>All ties, and strong-holds, with their powers,<br /> + Shall, water-like, melting be found;<br /> +Earth’s palaces, temples, and towers,<br /> + Shall then be all dash’d to the ground:<br /> +But were this great globe plunged for ever<br /> + In seas of oblivion, or prove<br /> +Untrue to its orbit, yet never,<br /> + My God, will thy covenant move!</p> +<p>The skies, as if kindling with ire and<br /> + Resentment, will pour on this ball<br /> +A deluge of sulphurous fire, and<br /> + Consume its doom’d elements all!<br /> +But though heaven and earth will be passing<br /> + Away on time’s Saturday eve;<br /> +The covenant-bonds, notwithstanding,<br /> + Are steadfast to all that believe!</p> +<p>I see—but no longer deriding—<br /> + The sinner with gloom on his brow:<br /> +He cries to the mountains to hide him,<br /> + But nothing can shelter him now!<br /> +<!-- page 31--><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>He +raves—all but demons reject him!<br /> + But not so the Christian so pure;<br /> +The covenant-arms will protect him,<br /> + In these he’ll be ever secure!</p> +<p>Thus fixed, while his triumphs unfolding,<br /> + Enrapture his bosom serene:<br /> +In sackcloth the heavens he’s beholding,<br /> + And nature dissolving is seen;<br /> +He mounts to the summits of glory,<br /> + And joins with the harpers above,<br /> +Whose theme is sweet Calvary’s story—<br /> + The issue of covenant love.</p> +<p>Methinks, after ages unnumber’d<br /> + Have roll’d in eternity’s flight,<br /> +I see him, by myriads surrounded,<br /> + Enrob’d in the garments of light;<br /> +And shouting o’er this world’s cold ashes—<br /> + “Thy covenant, my God, still remains:<br /> +No tittle or jot away passes,<br /> + And thus it my glory sustains.”</p> +<p>He asks, as around him he glances,<br /> + “Ye sov’reigns and princes so gay,<br /> +Where are your engagements and pledges?<br /> + Where are they—where are they to-day?<br /> +Where are all the covenants sacred<br /> + That mortal with mortals e’er made?”<br /> +A silent voice whispers,—“Departed—<br /> + ’Tis long since their records did fade!”</p> +<p>I hear him again, while he’s winging<br /> + His flight through the realms of the sky,<br /> +Th’ immovable covenant singing<br /> + With voice so melodious and high<br /> +That all the bright mountains celestial<br /> + Are dancing, as thrill’d with delight:<br /> +Too lofty for visions terrestial—<br /> + He vanishes now from my sight.</p> +<p><!-- page 32--><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>Blest +Saviour, my rock, and my refuge,<br /> + I fain to thy bosom would flee;<br /> +Of sorrows an infinite deluge<br /> + On Calv’ry thou barest for me:<br /> +Thou fountain of love everlasting—<br /> + High home of the purpose to save:<br /> +Myself on the covenant casting,<br /> + I triumph o’er death and the grave.</p> +<h3>AN ODE TO THE THUNDER.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Translated by the Rev. R. Harries Jones, M.A</span>.</p> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p>Swift-flying courser of the ambient skies!<br /> +Thy trackless bourne no mortal ken espies!<br /> +But in thy wake the swelling echoes roll<br /> +While furious torrents pour from pole to pole;<br /> +The thunder bellows forth its sullen roar<br /> +Like seething ocean on the storm-lashed shore;<br /> +The muttering heavens send terror through the vale,<br /> +And awe-struck mountains shiver in the gale;<br /> +An angry, sullen, overwhelming sound<br /> +That shakes each craggy hollow round and round,<br /> +And more astounding than the serried host<br /> +Which all the world’s artillery can boast;—<br /> +And fiercely rushing from the lurid sky<br /> +From pregnant clouds and murky canopy<br /> +The deluge saturates both hill and plain—<br /> +The maddened welkin groaning with the strain:<br /> +<!-- page 33--><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>The +torrents dash from upland moors along<br /> +Their journey to the main, in endless throng,<br /> +And restless, turbid rivers seethe and rack,<br /> +Like foaming cataracts, their bounding track;<br /> +A devastating flood sweeps o’er the land,<br /> +Tartarean darkness swathes the sable strand!<br /> +O’er wolds and hills, o’er ocean’s chafing waves<br /> +The wild tornado’s bluster wierdly raves;<br /> +The white-heat bolt of every thundering roar<br /> +The pitchy zenith coruscating o’er;<br /> +The vast expanse of heaven pours forth its ire<br /> +’Mid swarthy fogs streaked with candescent fire!</p> +<p> The sombre meadows can be trod no more<br /> +Nor beetling brow that over-laps the shore;<br /> +The hailstones clattering thro’ field and wood—<br /> +The rain, the lightning and the scouring flood,<br /> +The dread of waters and the blazing sky<br /> +Make pensive captives all humanity;<br /> +Confusion reigns o’er all the seething land,<br /> +From mountain peak to ocean’s clammy strand;<br /> +As if—it seemed—but weak are human words,<br /> +The rocks of Christendom were rent to sherds:<br /> +They clash, they dash, they crash, above, around,<br /> +The earth-quake, dread, splits up and rasps the ground!</p> +<p> Tell me, my muse, my goddess from above,<br /> +Of dazzling sheen, and clothed in robes of love,<br /> +What this wild rage—this cataclysmic fall—<br /> +What rends the welkin, and, Who rules them all?<br /> + “’Tis God! The Blest! All elements +are his<br /> + Who rules the unfathonable dark abyss.<br /> + ’Tis God commands! His edicts are their will!<br /> + Be silent, heavens! The heavens are hushed and still!”<br /> +These are the wail of elemental life;<br /> +The fire and water wage supernal strife;<br /> +The blasting fire, with scathing, angry glare,<br /> +Gleamed like an asphalte furnace in the air:<br /> +Around, above it swirled the water’s sweep,<br /> +And plunged its scorching legions in the deep!</p> +<p> <!-- page 34--><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>The +works of God are good and infinite,<br /> +The perfect offsprings of his love and might,<br /> +And wonderful, beneficient in every land—<br /> +With wisdom crowned the creatures of His hand;<br /> +And truly, meekly, lowly must we bow<br /> +To worship Him who made all things below,<br /> +For from His holy, dazzling throne above<br /> +He gives the word, commanding, yet in love,—<br /> + “Ye fogs of heaven, ye stagnant, sluggard forms<br /> + That float so laggardly amid the storms!<br /> + Disperse! And hie you to yon dormant shores!<br /> + Your black lair lies where ocean’s caverns roar!”<br /> +The fogs of heaven o’er yonder sun-tipped hill<br /> +Their orcus-journey rush, and all is still.<br /> +In brilliant brightness breaks the broad expanse<br /> +Of firmament! Heaven opens to our glance;<br /> +And day once more out-pours its silvery sheen,<br /> +A couch pearl-decked, fit for its orient queen; (aurora)<br /> +The sun beams brightly over hill and dale<br /> +Its glancing rays enliven every vale:<br /> +Its face effulgent makes the heaven to smile<br /> +Thro’ dripping rain-drops yet it smiles the while,<br /> +Its warmth makes loveable the teeming world,<br /> +Hill, dale, where’er its royal rays are hurled;<br /> +Sweet nature smiles, and sways her magic wand,<br /> +And sunshine gleams, beams, streams upon the strand;<br /> +And warbling birds, like angels from above<br /> +Do hum their hymns and sing their songs of love!—</p> +<h3><!-- page 35--><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>THE +DELUGE.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By David Richards, Esq</span>.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Whether to the east or west<br /> +You go, wondrous through all<br /> +Are the myriad clouds;<br /> +Dense and grim they appear—<br /> +Black and fierce the firmament,<br /> +Dark and horrid is all.<br /> +A ray of light’s not seen,<br /> +But light’ning white and flashy,<br /> +Thunder throughout the heavens,<br /> +A torrent from on high.<br /> +A thousand cascades roar<br /> +Boiling with floods of hate,<br /> +Rivers all powerful<br /> +With great commotion rush.<br /> +The air disturb’d is seen,<br /> +While the distant sea’s in uproar:<br /> +The heaving ocean bounds,<br /> +Within its prison wild;<br /> +Great thundering throughout<br /> +The bottomless abyss.<br /> +Some folk, simple and bewilder’d,<br /> +For shelter seek the mountains;<br /> +Shortly the raging waters<br /> +Drown their loftiest summits.<br /> +Where shall they go, where flee<br /> +From the eternal torrent?<br /> +Conscience, a ready witness,<br /> +Having been long asleep,<br /> +Mute among mortals,<br /> +Now awakens with stinging pangs.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<h3><!-- page 36--><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>THE +SHIPWRECK.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Rev. W. Williams</span>.</p> +<p>[The Rev William Williams, whose bardic name was <i>Gwilym Caledfryn</i>, +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.]</p> +<p>Boiling and tearing was the fearful deep,<br /> +Its raging waves aroused from lengthened sleep<br /> +Together marching like huge mountains;<br /> +The swell how great—nature bursting its chains!<br /> +The bounding spray dashed ’gainst the midnight stars<br /> +In its wild flight shedding salt tears.</p> +<p>Again it came a sweeping mighty deluge,<br /> +Washing the firmament with breakers huge;<br /> +Ripping the ocean’s bosom so madly,<br /> +Wondrous its power when roaring so wildly,<br /> +The vessel was seen immersed in the tide,<br /> +While all around threatened destruction wide.</p> +<p> God, ruler of the waters,<br /> + His words of might now utters,<br /> + His legions calls to battle:<br /> + No light of sun visible,<br /> + The firmament so low’ring,<br /> + With tempest strong approaching.</p> +<p>Loud whistling it left its recesses,<br /> +Threats worlds with wreck, so fearful it rages,<br /> +While heaven unchaining the surly billows,<br /> +Both wind and wave rush tumultuous,<br /> +Sweeping the main, the skies darkening,<br /> +While Rothsay to awful destruction is speeding.</p> +<p><!-- page 37--><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>Anon +upon the wave she’s seen,<br /> +Reached through struggles hard and keen:<br /> +Again she’s hurled into the abyss,<br /> +While all around tornados hiss,<br /> +Through the salt seas she helpless rolls,<br /> +While o’er her still the billow falls:<br /> +Alike she was in her danger<br /> +To the frail straw dragg’d by the river.</p> +<p>The ocean still enraged in mountains white,<br /> +Would like a drunkard reel in sable night,<br /> +While she her paddles plies against the wave,<br /> +Yet all in vain the sweeping tide to brave:<br /> +Driven from her course afar by the loud wind,<br /> +Then back again by breezes from behind;<br /> +Headlong she falls into the fretful surge,<br /> +While weak and broken does she now emerge.</p> +<p>The inmates are now filled with fear,<br /> +Destruction seeming so near;<br /> +The vessel rent in awful chasms,<br /> +Waxing weaker, weaker she seems.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Anon is heard great commotion,<br /> +Roaring for spoil is the lion;<br /> +The vessel’s own final struggles<br /> +Are fierce, while the crew trembles.</p> +<p>The hurricane increasing<br /> +Over the grim sea is driving,<br /> +Drowning loud moans, burying all<br /> +In its passage dismal.</p> +<p>How hard their fate, O how they wept<br /> +In that sad hour of miseries heap’d;<br /> +Some sighed, others prayed fervently,<br /> +Others mad, or in despair did cry.</p> +<p><!-- page 38--><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>Affrighted +they ran to and fro,<br /> +To flee from certain death and woe;<br /> +While <i>he</i>, with visage grim and dark,<br /> +Would still surround the doomed bark.</p> +<p>Deep night now veiled the firmament,<br /> +While sombre clouds thicker were sent<br /> +To hide each star, the ocean’s rage<br /> +No cries of grief could even assuage.</p> +<p>The vessel sinks beneath the might<br /> +Of wind, and wave, and blackest night,<br /> +While through the severed planks was heard<br /> +The breaker’s splash, with anger stirred.</p> +<h2><!-- page 41--><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>PART +II. THE BEAUTIFUL.</h2> +<h3>AN ADDRESS TO THE SUMMER.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Dafydd ap Gwilym</span>.</p> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p>Thou summer! so lovely and gay,<br /> + Ah! whither so soon art thou gone?<br /> +The world will attend to my lay<br /> + While thy absence I sadly bemoan:<br /> +With flow’rs hast thou cherish’d the glade,<br /> + The fair orchard with opening buds,—<br /> +The hedge-rows with darkening shade,<br /> + And with verdure the meadows and woods.</p> +<p>How calm in the vale by the brook—<br /> + How blithe o’er the lawn didst thou rove,<br /> +To prepare the fresh bow’r in the nook<br /> + For the damsel whose wishes were love:<br /> +When, smiling with heaven’s bright beam,<br /> + Thou didst paint every hillock and field,<br /> +And reflect, in the smooth limpid stream,<br /> + All the elegance nature could yield.</p> +<p><!-- page 42--><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>Perfuming +the rose on the bush,<br /> + And arching the eglantine spray,<br /> +Thou wast seen by the blackbird and thrush,<br /> + And they chanted the rapturous lay:<br /> +By yon river that bends o’er the plain,<br /> + With alders and willows o’erhung,<br /> +Each warbler perceiv’d the glad strain,<br /> + And join’d in the numerous song.</p> +<p>Here the nightingale perch’d on the throne,<br /> + The poet and prince of the grove,<br /> +Inviting the lingering morn,<br /> + Taught the bard the sweet descant of love:<br /> +And there, from the brake by the rill,<br /> + When night’s sober steps have retir’d,<br /> +Ten thousand gay choristers thrill<br /> + Sweet confusion with rapture inspir’d.</p> +<p>Then the maiden, conducted by May,<br /> + Persuasive adviser of love,<br /> +With smiles that would rival the ray,<br /> + Nimbly trips to the bow’r in the grove;<br /> +Where sweetly I warble the song<br /> + Which beauty’s soft glances inspire;<br /> +And, while melody flows from my tongue,<br /> + My soul is enrapt with desire.</p> +<p>But how sadly revers’d is the strain!<br /> + How doleful! since thou art away;<br /> +Every copse, every hillock and plain,<br /> + Has been mourning for many a day:<br /> +My bow’r, on the verge of the glade,<br /> + Where I sported in rapturous ease,<br /> +Once the haunt of the delicate maid—<br /> + She forsakes it, and—how can it please?</p> +<p>Nor blame I the damsel who flies,<br /> + When winter with threatening gale,<br /> +Loudly howls through the dark frozen skies,<br /> + And scatters the leaves o’er the vale:<br /> +<!-- page 43--><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>In +vain to the thicket I look<br /> + For the birds that enchanted the fair,<br /> +Or gaze on the wide-spreading oak;<br /> + No shelter, no music, is there.</p> +<p>But tempests, with hideous yell,<br /> + Chase the mist o’er the brow of the hill,<br /> +And grey torrents in every dell<br /> + Deform the soft murmuring rill:<br /> +And the hail, or the sleet, or the snow,<br /> + On winter’s hard mandate attends:<br /> +To banishment, hence may they go—<br /> + Earth’s tyrants, and destiny’s friend!</p> +<p>But thou, glorious summer, return,<br /> + And visit the destitute plains;<br /> +Nor suffer thy poet to mourn,<br /> + Unheeded, in languishing strains:<br /> +O! come on the wings of the breeze,<br /> + And open the bloom of the thorn;<br /> +Display thy green robe o’er the trees,<br /> + And all nature with beauty adorn.</p> +<p>’Midst the bow’rs of the fresh blooming May,<br /> + Where the odours of violets float,<br /> +Each bird, on his quivering spray,<br /> + Will remember his sprightliest note:<br /> +Then the golden hair’d lass, with a song,<br /> + Will deign to revisit the grove;<br /> +Then, too, my harp shall be strung,<br /> + To welcome the season of love.</p> +<h3><!-- page 44--><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>SONG +TO ARVON.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By the Rev. Evan Evans</span>.</p> +<p>[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 <i>Ieuan Glan Geirionydd</i>. 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.]</p> +<p>Where doth the cuckoo early sing,<br /> + In woodland, dell and valley?<br /> +Where streamlets deep o’er rocky cliffs<br /> + Form cataracts so lofty?<br /> +On Snowdon’s summits high,<br /> + In Arvon’s pleasant county.</p> +<p>Flocks of thousand sheep are fed<br /> + Upon its mountains rugged,<br /> +Her pastures green and meadows fair<br /> + With cattle-herds are studded,<br /> +Deep are the lakes in Arvon’s vales<br /> + Where fish in shoals are landed.</p> +<p>The shepherd’s soft and mellow voice<br /> + Is heard upon her mountain,<br /> +Where oft he hums his rustic song<br /> + To his beloved maiden,<br /> +Resounding through the gorges deep<br /> + With bleat of sheep and oxen.</p> +<p>On Arvon’s rock-bound shore doth break<br /> + The surge in fretful murmur,<br /> +And oft when stirr’d by tempest high<br /> + The ocean speaks in thunder,<br /> +<!-- page 45--><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>Spreading +through town and village wide<br /> + Dismay, despair and fear.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>The sun is glorious when it breaks<br /> + The gloom of morning darkness,<br /> +Sweet are the leaves and flowers of May<br /> + Succeeding winter’s baldness,<br /> +Yet fairer than the whole to me<br /> + Are Arvon’s maids so guile-less.</p> +<p>If to the sick there is delight<br /> + To heal of his affliction,<br /> +If to the traveller’s weary sight<br /> + Sweet is the destination,<br /> +Than all these sweeter far to me<br /> + The hills and dales of Arvon.</p> +<p>Had I the wings and speed of morn<br /> + To skim o’er mount and valley,<br /> +I’d hie o’er earth and sea direct<br /> + To Arvon’s genial country,<br /> +And there in peace would end my days,<br /> + Far from deceit and envy.</p> +<h3>TO THE SPRING.</h3> +<p>Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain,<br /> + Far scatter the frost from our border,<br /> +All nature cries loud for the sunshine and rain,<br /> + For the howl of the winter is over.</p> +<p>Approach gentle spring, and show the white snow<br /> + Thou cans’t melt it by smiles and caresses,<br /> +Chase far the cold winter away from us now,<br /> + And cover the fields with white daisies.</p> +<p><!-- page 46--><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>Oh, +come gentle spring, alight on the trees,<br /> + Renew them with life and deep verdure,<br /> +Then choristers gay will replenish the breeze<br /> + With their songs and musical rapture.</p> +<p>Oh, come gentle spring, breathe soft on the flowers,<br /> + And clothe them in raiments of beauty,<br /> +The rose may reopen its petals in tears,<br /> + And sunbeams unfold the white lily.</p> +<h3>TO THE NIGHTINGALE.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By the Rev. John Blackwell, B.A</span>.</p> +<p>[The Rev. John Blackwell, B.A., whose bardic name was <i>Alun</i>, +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.]</p> +<p>When night o’erspreads each hill and dale<br /> + Beneath its darksome wing<br /> +Are heard thy sweet and mellow notes<br /> + Through the lone midnight ring;<br /> +And if a pang within thy breast<br /> + Should cause thy heart to bleed,<br /> +Thou wilt not hush until the dawn<br /> + Shall drive thee from the mead.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Altho’ thy heart beneath the pang<br /> + Should falter in its throes<br /> +Thou wilt not grieve thy nestlings young,<br /> + Thy song thou wilt not close.<br /> +When all the chorus of the bush<br /> + By night and sleep are still,<br /> +Thou then dost chant thy merriest lays,<br /> + And heaven with music fill.</p> +<h3><!-- page 47--><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>THE +FLOWERS OF SPRING.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By the Rev. J. Emlyn Jones</span>, M.A., LL.D.</p> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p>Oh, pleasant spring-time flowers<br /> + That now display their bloom,<br /> +The primrose pale, and cowslip,<br /> + Which nature’s face illume;<br /> +The winter bleak appears<br /> + When you bedeck the land,<br /> +Like age bent down by years,<br /> + With a posy in its hand.</p> +<p>Oh, dulcet spring-time flowers<br /> + Sweet honey you contain,<br /> +And soon the swarming beehive<br /> + Your treasure will retain;<br /> +The busy bee’s low humming<br /> + Is heard among your leaves,<br /> +Like sound of distant hymning,<br /> + Or reaper ’mid the sheaves.</p> +<p>Oh, balmy spring-time flowers,<br /> + The crocus bright and rose,<br /> +The lily sweet and tulip,<br /> + Which bloom within the close:<br /> +Anoint the passing breezes<br /> + Which sigh along the vale,<br /> +And with your dulcet posies<br /> + Perfume the evening gale.</p> +<p><!-- page 48--><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>Oh, +wild-grown spring-time flowers<br /> + That grow beside the brook,<br /> +How happy once to ramble<br /> + Beneath your smiling look,<br /> +And of you form gay garlands<br /> + To deck the docile lamb,<br /> +In wreaths of colour’d neck-bands,<br /> + Beside its loving dam.</p> +<p>Oh, pretty spring-time flowers<br /> + None look so blithe and gay,<br /> +While dancing in the breezes<br /> + Upon the lap of May,<br /> +Your fragrant petals open<br /> + Beneath the balmy dew,<br /> +You’re nature’s rich heave-offering<br /> + On winter’s grave anew.</p> +<p>Oh, wondrous spring-time flowers<br /> + Tho’ death stalk all around,<br /> +Another spring will quicken<br /> + Your bloom upon the ground,<br /> +Speak hopeful, as you ripen,<br /> + Of yet another spring,<br /> +Where flowers never deaden<br /> + And seasons have no wing.</p> +<h3><!-- page 49--><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>TO +MAY</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By the Rev. Daniel Evans</span>, B.D.</p> +<p>[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 <i>Daniel Ddu</i>. 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.]</p> +<p>How fair and fragrant art thou, May!<br /> + Replete with leaf and verdure,<br /> +How sweet the blossom of the thorn<br /> + Which so enriches nature,<br /> +The bird now sings upon the bush,<br /> + Or soars through fields of azure.</p> +<p>The earth absorbs the genial rays<br /> + Which vivify the summer,<br /> +The busy bee hums on his way<br /> + Exhausting every flower,<br /> +Returning to its earthen nest<br /> + Laden with honied treasure.</p> +<p>How cheerful are the signs of May,<br /> + The lily sweet and briar,<br /> +Perfuming every shady way<br /> + Beside the warbling river;<br /> +And thou, gay cuckoo! hast returned<br /> + To usher in the summer.</p> +<p>How pleasant is the cuckoo’s song<br /> + Which floats along the meadow,<br /> +How rich the sight of woodland green,<br /> + And pastures white and yellow,<br /> +The lark now soars into the heights<br /> + And pours her notes so mellow.</p> +<p><!-- page 50--><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>To +welcome May, let thousands hie<br /> + At the sweet dawn of morning,<br /> +The winter cold has left the sky,<br /> + The sun is mildly beaming,<br /> +The dew bright sparkles on the grass,<br /> + All nature is rejoicing.</p> +<p>Let May be crown’d the best of months<br /> + Of all the passing year,<br /> +Let her be deck’d with floral wreaths,<br /> + And fed with juice and nectar,<br /> +Let old and young forsake the town<br /> + And shout a welcome to her.</p> +<h3>THE DAWN.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By the Rev. Daniel Evans</span>, B.D.</p> +<p>Streaking the mantle of deep night<br /> + The rays of light arise,<br /> +Delightful day—shed by the sun—<br /> + Breaks forth from eastern skies,<br /> +He—in his course o’er oceans vast<br /> + And distant lands—returns<br /> +Firm to his purpose, true his way,<br /> + He nature’s tribute earns:<br /> +Before him messengers arrive<br /> + And sparkle in the sky,<br /> +These are the bright and twinkling stars<br /> + Which spot the sable canopy.</p> +<p>The cock upon his lofty perch<br /> + Has sung the break of day,<br /> +The birds within the sheltering trees<br /> + Now frolic, chirp and play;<br /> +I see all nature is astir<br /> + As tho’ from sleep restor’d,<br /> +Alive with joy and light renew’d<br /> + By the Creator’s word:<br /> +<!-- page 51--><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>Now +every hill and valley low<br /> + Appear in full charm,<br /> +Beneath the sun’s benignant smiles,<br /> + Which now creation warm.</p> +<h3>TO THE DAISY.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By the Rev. Daniel Evans</span>, B.D.</p> +<p>Oh, flower meek and modest<br /> +That blooms of all the soonest,<br /> +Some great delight possesses me<br /> +When thy soft crystal bud I see.</p> +<p>Thou art the first of the year<br /> +To break the bonds of winter,<br /> +And for thy gallant enterprise<br /> +I’ll welcome thee and sing thy praise.</p> +<p>And hast thou no misgiving?<br /> +Or fear of tempests howling<br /> +To issue from the hardy sod<br /> +Before thy sisters break their pod?</p> +<p>Behind thee millions lie<br /> +And hide their faces shy,<br /> +Lest winter’s cold continue,<br /> +Or tempests charged with mildew.</p> +<p>Inform thy sisters coy<br /> +The spring’s without alloy,<br /> +Tell them there is no snow<br /> +Or icy wind to blow.</p> +<p>Tell them the cattle meek<br /> +Will joy their heads to seek,<br /> +The lamb delighted be<br /> +To see them on the lea.</p> +<p><!-- page 52--><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>Speed +therefore all ye flowers<br /> +That gleam upon the pastures,<br /> +Ye white and yellow come<br /> +And make the field your smiling home.</p> +<p>A thousand times more comely<br /> +Your cheerful features lively,<br /> +Than all the gems that shine<br /> +In royal crown of princely line.</p> +<p>How pleasant then to roam<br /> +Through field and forest home,<br /> +And listen to the song<br /> +Of birds that carol long.</p> +<h3>THE LILY AND THE ROSE.</h3> +<p>Once I saw two flowers blossom<br /> + In a garden ’neath the hill,<br /> +One a lily fair and handsome,<br /> + And one a rose with crimson frill;<br /> +Erect the rose would lift its pennon<br /> + And survey the garden round,<br /> +While the lily—lovely minion!<br /> + Meekly rested on a mound.</p> +<p>Tempest came and blew the garden,<br /> + Forthwith the rose fell to the ground,<br /> +While the lily, like brave maiden,<br /> + Steadfast stood the stormy bound;<br /> +The red rose trusting to its prowess<br /> + Fell beneath the wind and rain,<br /> +While the lily in its meekness<br /> + Firm did on its stalk remain.</p> +<h3><!-- page 53--><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>THE +CIRCLING OF THE MEAD HORNS.</h3> +<p>Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn:<br /> +Natural is mead in the buffalo horn:<br /> +As the cuckoo in spring, as the lark in the morn,<br /> +So natural is mead in the buffalo horn.</p> +<p>As the cup of the flower to the bee when he sips,<br /> +Is the full cup of mead to the true Briton’s lips:<br /> +From the flower-cups of summer, on field and on tree,<br /> +Our mead cups are filled by the vintager bee.</p> +<p>Seithenyn ap Seithyn, the generous, the bold,<br /> +Drinks the wine of the stranger from vessels of gold;<br /> +But we from the horn, the blue silver-rimmed horn,<br /> +Drink the ale and the mead in our fields that were born.</p> +<p>The ale-froth is white, and the mead sparkles bright;<br /> +They both smile apart, and with smiles they unite:<br /> +The mead from the flower, and the ale from the corn,<br /> +Smile, sparkle, and sing in the buffalo horn.</p> +<p>The horn, the blue horn, cannot stand on its tip;<br /> +Its path is right on from the hand to the lip;<br /> +Though the bowl and the wine-cup our tables adorn,<br /> +More natural the draught from the buffalo horn.</p> +<p>But Seithenyn ap Seithyn, the generous, the bold,<br /> +Drinks the bright-flowing wine from the far-gleaming gold,<br /> +The wine, in the bowl by his lip that is worn,<br /> +Shall be glorious as mead in the buffalo horn.</p> +<p><!-- page 54--><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>The +horns circle fast, but their fountains will last,<br /> +As the stream passes ever, and never is past:<br /> +Exhausted so quickly, replenished so soon,<br /> +They wax and they wane like the horns of the moon.</p> +<p>Fill high the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn;<br /> +Fill high the long silver-rimmed buffalo horn:<br /> +While the roof of the hall by our chorus is torn,<br /> +Fill, fill to the brim, the deep silver-rimmed horn.</p> +<h3>DAFYDD AP GWILYM TO THE WHITE GULL.</h3> +<p>Bird that dwellest in the spray,<br /> +Far from mountain woods away,<br /> +Sporting,—blending with the sea,<br /> +Like the moonbeam—gleamily.<br /> + Wilt thou leave thy sparkling chamber<br /> +Round my lady’s tower to clamber?<br /> +Thou shalt fairer charms behold<br /> +Than Taliesin’s tongue has told,<br /> +Than Merddin sang, or loved, or knew—<br /> +Lily nursed on ocean’s dew—<br /> +Say (recluse of yon wild sea),<br /> +“She is all in all to me.”</p> +<h3><!-- page 55--><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>TO +THE LARK.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Dafydd ap Gwilym</span>.</p> +<p> “Sentinel of the morning light!<br /> + Reveller of the spring!<br /> + How sweetly, nobly wild thy flight,<br /> + Thy boundless journeying:<br /> +Far from thy brethren of the woods, alone<br /> +A hermit chorister before God’s throne!</p> +<p> “Oh! wilt thou climb yon heav’ns for +me,<br /> + Yon rampart’s starry height,<br /> + Thou interlude of melody<br /> + ’Twixt darkness and the light,<br /> +And seek, with heav’n’s first dawn upon thy crest,<br /> +My lady love, the moonbeam of the west?</p> +<p> “No woodland caroller art thou;<br /> + Far from the archer’s eye,<br /> + Thy course is o’er the mountain’s brow,<br /> + Thy music in the sky:<br /> +Then fearless float thy path of cloud along,<br /> +Thou earthly denizen of angel song.”</p> +<h3>DAFYDD AP GWILYM’S INVOCATION TO THE SUMMER TO VISIT GLAMORGANSHIRE,</h3> +<p>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:</p> +<p>“And wilt thou, at the bard’s desire,<br /> +Thus in thy godlike robes of fire,<br /> + His envoy deign to be?<br /> +Hence from Wild Gwynedd’s mountain land,<br /> +To fair Morganwg Druid strand,<br /> + Sweet margin of the sea.<br /> +<!-- page 56--><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>Oh! +may for me thy burning feet<br /> +With peace, and wealth, and glory greet,<br /> + My own dear southern home;<br /> +Land of the baron’s, halls of snow!<br /> +Land of the harp! the vineyards glow,<br /> + Green bulwark of the foam.<br /> +She is the refuge of distress;<br /> + Her never-failing stores<br /> +Have cheer’d the famish’d wilderness,<br /> + Have gladden’d distant shores.<br /> + Oh! leave no little plot of sod<br /> + ’Mid all her clust’ring vales +untrod;<br /> + But all thy varying gifts unfold<br /> + In one mad embassy of gold:<br /> + O’er all the land of beauty fling<br /> + Bright records of thy elfin wing.”</p> +<p>From this scene of ecstacy, he makes a beautiful transition to the +memory of Ivor, his early benefactor: still addressing the summer, he +says,</p> +<p>“Then will I, too, thy steps pursuing,<br /> + From wood and cave,<br /> +And flowers the mountain-mists are dewing,<br /> + The loveliest save;<br /> +From all thy wild rejoicings borrow<br /> +One utterance from a heart of sorrow;<br /> +The beauties of thy court shall grace<br /> +My own lost Ivor’s dwelling-place.”</p> +<h3><!-- page 57--><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>A +BRIDAL SONG.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By a Welsh Harper</span>.</p> +<p>Wilt thou not waken, bride of May,<br /> +While the flowers are fresh, and the sweet bells chime?<br /> +Listen, and learn from my roundelay,<br /> +How all life’s pilot-boats sailed one day,<br /> + A match with time.</p> +<p>Love sat on a lotus leaf afloat,<br /> +And saw old time in his loaded boat;<br /> +Slowly he crossed life’s narrow tide,<br /> +While love sat clapping his wings and cried,<br /> + “Who will pass time?”</p> +<p>Patience came first, but soon was gone<br /> +With helm and sail to help time on;<br /> +Care and grief could not lend an oar,<br /> +And prudence said while he staid on shore,<br /> + “I will wait for time.”</p> +<p>Hope filled with flowers her cork tree bark,<br /> +And lighted its helm with a glow worm spark;<br /> +Then love, when he saw her bark fly fast,<br /> +Said, “Lingering time will soon be passed,<br /> + Hope outspeeds time.”</p> +<p>Wit, next nearest old time to pass,<br /> +With his diamond oar, and his boat of glass;<br /> +A feathery dart from his store he drew,<br /> +And shouted, while far and swift it flew,<br /> + “O mirth kills time.”</p> +<p><!-- page 58--><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>But +time sent the feathery arrow back,<br /> +Hope’s boat of amaranths missed its track;<br /> +Then love made his butterfly pilots move,<br /> +And, laughing, said, “They shall see how love<br /> + Can conquer time.”</p> +<p>His gossamer sails he spread with speed,<br /> +But time has wings when time has need;<br /> +Swiftly he crossed life’s sparkling tide,<br /> +And only memory stayed to chide<br /> + Unpitying time.</p> +<p>Wake, and listen then bride of May,<br /> +Listen and heed thy minstrel’s rhyme;<br /> +Still for thee some bright hours stay,<br /> +For it was a hand like thine, they say,<br /> + Gave wings to time.</p> +<h3>THE LEGEND OF TRWST LLYWELYN.</h3> +<p>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 Trŵst Llywelyn,” +(the sound of Llywelyn,) and the place has been called so ever since.—<i>Old +Story</i>.</p> +<p>It is a scene of other days,<br /> +That dimly meets my fancy’s gaze;<br /> +The moon’s fair beams are glist’ning bright,<br /> + On the Severn’s loveliest vale,<br /> +And yonder watchtower’s gloomy height<br /> + Looks stern, in her lustre pale.</p> +<p><!-- page 59--><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>Within +that turret fastness rude<br /> + Three lovely forms I see,<br /> +And marvel why, in that solitude,<br /> + So fair a group should be.</p> +<p>I know them now, that beauteous band;<br /> + By the broidered vest, so rich and rare,<br /> +By the sparkling gem, on the tiny hand,<br /> + And the golden circlet in their hair,<br /> +I know Llywelyn’s sisters fair,<br /> +The pride of Powys land:</p> +<p>But the proof of lineage pure and high,<br /> + Is better far supplied<br /> +By the calm, fair brow, and fearless eye,<br /> + And the step of graceful pride.</p> +<p>Why are the royal maidens here,<br /> +Heedless of Saxon foemen near?<br /> +Their only court, the minstrel sage,<br /> + Who wakes such thrilling sound;<br /> +Their train, yon petty childish page;<br /> + Their guard, that gallant hound.</p> +<p>They have left their brother’s princely hall,<br /> + To greet him from fight returning;<br /> +And hope looks out from the eyes of all,<br /> + Though fear in their heart lies burning.</p> +<p>“Now, hark!” the eldest maiden cried,<br /> +“Kind minstrel, lay thy harp aside,<br /> + And listen here with me;<br /> +Did not Llywelyn’s bugle sound<br /> +From off that dark and wooded mound<br /> + You named the Goryn Ddû?” <a name="citation59"></a><a href="#footnote59">{59}</a></p> +<p><!-- page 60--><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>“No, +lady, no; my master, kind,<br /> + I strive in vain to hear;<br /> +’Tis but the moaning of the wind<br /> + That cheats thy anxious ear.”</p> +<p>The second lady rous’d her page,<br /> +From the peaceful sleep of his careless age;<br /> +“Awake, fair child, from thy happy dreams,<br /> + Look out o’er the turret’s height,<br /> +Is it a lance that yonder gleams<br /> + In the moonbeams blue and bright?”</p> +<p>“No, lady mine; not on a lance<br /> + Does that fair radiance quiver;<br /> +I only see its lustre dance<br /> + On the blue and trembling river.”</p> +<p>The youngest and fairest maiden sits<br /> + On the turret’s highest stone,<br /> +Like the gentle flower that flings its sweets<br /> + O’er the ruin drear and lone:</p> +<p>At her feet the hound is crouching still;<br /> + And they look so calm and fair,<br /> +You might almost deem, by a sculptor’s skill,<br /> + They were carved in the grey stone there.</p> +<p>A distant sound the spell hath broken,<br /> + The lady and her hound<br /> +Together caught the joyful token,<br /> + And down the stair they bound.</p> +<p>“’Tis Trwst Llywelyn! dear sisters speed,<br /> + Our own Llywelyn’s near;<br /> +I know the tramp of his gallant steed,<br /> + ’Tis music to mine ear!”</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p><!-- page 61--><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>Yes, +’twas his lance gleamed blue and bright,<br /> + His horn made the echoes ring;<br /> +He is safe from a glorious field of fight,<br /> + And his sisters round him cling:</p> +<p>And Gelert lies at his master’s feet,<br /> +The page returns to his slumbers sweet,<br /> + The minstrel quaffs his mead,<br /> +And sings Llywelyn’s fame and power,<br /> +And, Trwst Llywelyn, names the tower,<br /> + Where they heard his coming steed.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>That tower, no more, o’erlooks the vale,<br /> + But its name is unforgot,<br /> +And the peasant tells the simple tale,<br /> + And points to the well-known spot.</p> +<p>Oh, lady moon! thy radiance fills<br /> + An altered scene, to-night,<br /> +All here is chang’d save the changeless hills,<br /> + And the Severn, rippling bright.</p> +<p>We dwell in peace, beneath the yoke<br /> + That roused our father’s spears,<br /> +The very tongue our fathers spoke,<br /> + Sounds strangely in our ears. <a name="citation61"></a><a href="#footnote61">{61}</a></p> +<p>But the human heart knows little change:<br /> +’Tis woman’s to watch, ’tis man’s to range<br /> + For pleasure, wealth, or fame;<br /> +And thou may’st look, from thy realms above,<br /> +On many a sister’s yearning love,<br /> + The same—still, still the same.</p> +<p><!-- page 62--><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>Ye +students grave, of ancient lore,<br /> + Grudge not my skilless rhyme,<br /> +One tale (from tradition’s ample store)<br /> + Of Cambria’s olden time;<br /> +Seek, ’mid the hills and glens around,<br /> + For names and deeds of war;<br /> +And leave this little spot of ground,<br /> + A record holier far.</p> +<h3>THE GOLDEN GOBLET,</h3> +<p>IN IMITATION OF GÖTHE.</p> +<p>There was a king in Môn, <a name="citation62"></a><a href="#footnote62">{62}</a><br /> + A true lover to his grave;<br /> +To whom in death his lady<br /> + A golden goblet gave.</p> +<p>When Christmas bowls were circling,<br /> + And all was joy and cheer,<br /> +He passed that goblet from him<br /> + With a kiss and with a tear.</p> +<p>When death he felt approaching,<br /> + To all his barons bold,<br /> +He left some fair dominion—<br /> + To none, that cup of gold.</p> +<p>He sate at royal banquet,<br /> + With all his lordly train,<br /> +In the castle of his fathers,<br /> + On the rock above the main.</p> +<p>Upstood the tottering monarch,<br /> + And drank the cup’s last wine;<br /> +Then flung the holy goblet,<br /> + Deep, deep, into the brine.</p> +<p><!-- page 63--><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>He +watch’d it, bubbling, sinking,<br /> + Far, far, beneath the wave;<br /> +And the light sank from his eyelid,<br /> + With the cup his lady gave.</p> +<h3>THE SICK MAN’S DREAM.</h3> +<blockquote><p>Dans le solitaire bourgade,<br /> +Revant à ses maux tristement,<br /> +Languissait un pauvre malade,<br /> +D’un long mal qui va consumant.—<span class="smcap">Millevoye</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It was a dream, a pleasant dream, that o’er my spirit came,<br /> +When faint beneath the lime-trees’ shade I flung my weary frame:<br /> +I stood upon a mountain’s brow, above the haunts of men,<br /> +And, far beneath me, smiling, lay my lovely native glen.</p> +<p>I watch’d the silv’ry Severn glide, reflecting rock and +tree,<br /> +A gentle pilgrim, bound to pay her homage to the sea;<br /> +And waking many a treasured thought, that slumb’ring long had +lain:<br /> +Some mountain minstrel’s harp poured forth a well remember’d +strain.</p> +<p>I rais’d my voice in thankfulness, and vowed no more to roam,<br /> +Or leave my heart’s abiding-place, my beauteous mountain home.<br /> +Alas! how different was the scene that met my waking glance!<br /> +It fell upon the fertile plains, the sunny hills of France.</p> +<p>The Garonne’s fair and glassy wave rolls onward in its pride;<br /> +It cannot quench my burning thirst for thee, my native tide;<br /> +And, for the harp that bless’d my dream with mem’ries from +afar,<br /> +I only hear yon peasant maid, who strikes the light guitar:<br /> +The merry stranger mocks at griefs he does not understand,<br /> +He cannot—he has never seen my own fair mountain land.</p> +<p><!-- page 64--><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>They +said Consumption’s ruthless eye had mark’d me for her prey:<br /> +They bade me seek in foreign climes her wasting hand to stay;<br /> +They told me of an altered form, an eye grown ghastly bright,<br /> +And called the crimson on my cheek the spoiler’s hectic blight.</p> +<p>Oh! if the mountain heather pined amidst the heaven’s own dew,<br /> +Think ye the parterre’s wasting heat its freshness could renew?<br /> +And thus, ’mid shady glens and streams, was my young life begun,<br /> +And now, my frame exhausted sinks beneath this southern sun.</p> +<p>I feel, I feel, they told me true; my breath grows faint and weak,<br /> +And, brighter still, this crimson spot is glowing on my cheek;<br /> +My hour of life is well nigh past, too fleetly runs the sand:<br /> +Oh! must I die so far from thee, my dear lov’d mountain land?</p> +<h3><!-- page 65--><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>THE +FAIRY’S SONG.</h3> +<p>“Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!”—<span class="smcap">Shakspeare</span>.</p> +<p>I am a wand’rer o’er earth and sea,<br /> +The trackless air has a path for me;<br /> +Ye may trace my steps on the heather green,<br /> +By the emerald ring, where my foot hath been;<br /> +Ye may hear my voice in the night wind’s sigh,<br /> +Or the wood’s low moan when a storm is nigh.</p> +<p>My task is to brighten the rainbow’s hue,<br /> +To sprinkle the flowers with glit’ring dew,<br /> +To steep in crimson the evening cloud,<br /> +And wrap the hills in their misty shroud;<br /> +To track the course of a wandering star,<br /> +And marshal it back to its home afar.</p> +<p>I am no child of the murky night,<br /> +But a being of music, and joy, and light;<br /> +If the fair moon sleep in her bower o’er long,<br /> +I break on her rest with my mirthful song;<br /> +And when she is shining o’er hill and heath,<br /> +I dance in the revels of Gwyn ab Nûdd. <a name="citation65"></a><a href="#footnote65">{65}</a></p> +<p>Few are the mortals whose favoured feet<br /> +May tread unscathed where the fairies meet;<br /> +Wo to the tuneless tongue and ear,<br /> +And the craven heart, that has throbbed with fear,<br /> +If I meet them at night, on the lonely heath,<br /> +As I haste to the banquet of Gwyn ab Nûdd.</p> +<p>But joy to the minstrel, whose deathless song<br /> +On the breeze of the mountain is borne along,<br /> +And joy to the warrior, whose heart and hand<br /> +Are strong in the cause of his native land;<br /> +For them we are twining our fairest wreath,<br /> +They are welcome as moonlight to Gwyn ab Nûdd!</p> +<h3><!-- page 66--><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>WALTER +SELE.</h3> +<p>O’er Walter’s bed no foot shall tread,<br /> + Nor step unhallow’d roam;<br /> +For here the grave hath found a grave,<br /> + The wanderer a home.<br /> +This little mound encircles round<br /> + A heart that once could feel;<br /> +For none possess’d a warmer heart<br /> + Than gallant Walter Sele.</p> +<p>The primrose pale, from Derwen vale,<br /> + Through spring shall sweetly bloom,<br /> +And here, I ween, the evergreen<br /> + Shall shed its death perfume;<br /> +The branching tree of rosemary<br /> + The sweet thyme may conceal;<br /> +But both shall wave above the grave<br /> + Of gallant Walter Sele.</p> +<p>They brand with shame my true love’s name,<br /> + And call him traitor vile,<br /> +Who dar’d disclose to Charlie’s foes<br /> + The secret postern aisle;<br /> +But though, alas! that fatal pass<br /> + He rashly did reveal,<br /> +He ne’er betray’d his maniac maid,—<br /> + My gallant Walter Sele!</p> +<h2><!-- page 69--><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>PART +III. THE PATRIOTIC.</h2> +<h3>MY FATHER-LAND.</h3> +<p>Land of the Cymry! thou art still,<br /> +In rock and valley, stream and hill,<br /> + As wild and grand;<br /> +As thou hast been in days of yore,<br /> +As thou hast ever been before,<br /> +As thou shalt be for evermore,<br /> + My Father-land!</p> +<p>Where are the bards, like thine, who’ve sung<br /> +The warrior’s praise? the harp hath strung,<br /> + With mighty hand?<br /> +Made chords of magic sound arise,<br /> +That flung their echoes through the skies,<br /> +And gained the fame that never dies,<br /> + My Father-land?</p> +<p>And where are warriors like thine own,<br /> +Who in the battle’s front have shown<br /> + So firm a stand?<br /> +Who fought against the Romans’ skill,<br /> +“The conquerors of the world,” until<br /> +They found thou wert “invincible,”<br /> + My Father-land?</p> +<p>And where are hills like thine, or where<br /> +Are vales so sweet, or scenes so fair,<br /> + Such praise command?<br /> +There towering Snowdon, first in height,<br /> +Or Cader Idris, dreary sight,<br /> +And lonely Clwyd? Oh! how bright,<br /> + My Father-land!</p> +<p><!-- page 70--><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>Oh! +how I love thee, though I mourn<br /> +That cold neglect should on thee turn,<br /> + Thy name to brand;<br /> +And oft the scalding tear will start<br /> +Raining its dew-drops from the heart,<br /> +To think how far we are apart,<br /> + My Father-land.</p> +<p>And when my days are almost done,<br /> +And, faltering on, I’ve nearly run<br /> + Life’s dreary sand;<br /> +Still, still my fainting breath shall be<br /> +Bestowed upon thy memory,<br /> +My soul shall wing its way to thee,<br /> + My Father-land!</p> +<h3>MY NATIVE LAND.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By the Rev. D. Evans</span>, B.D.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Translated by Miss Lydia Jones</span>.</p> +<p>My soul is sad, my spirit fails,<br /> +And sickness in my heart prevails,<br /> +Whilst chill’d with grief, it mourns and wails<br /> + For my old Native Land.</p> +<p>Gold and wine have power to please,<br /> +And Summer’s pure and gentle breeze,—<br /> +But ye are dearer far than these,<br /> + Hills of my Native Land.</p> +<p>Lovely to see the sun arise,<br /> +Breaking forth from eastern skies;<br /> +But oh! far lovelier in my eyes<br /> + Would be my Native Land.</p> +<p><!-- page 71--><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>As +pants the hart for valley dew,<br /> +As bleats the lambkin for the ewe,<br /> +Thus I lament and long to view<br /> + My ancient Native Land.</p> +<p>What, what are delicacies, say,<br /> +And large possessions, what are they?<br /> +What the wide world and all its sway<br /> + Out of my Native Land?</p> +<p>O should I king of India be,<br /> +Might Europe to me bend the knee,<br /> +Such honours should be nought to me<br /> + Far from my Native Land.</p> +<p>In what delightful country strays<br /> +Each gentle friend of youthful days?<br /> +Where dwelleth all I love or praise?<br /> + O! in my Native Land.</p> +<p>Where are the fields and gardens fair<br /> +Where once I sported free as air,<br /> +Without despondency or care?<br /> + O! in my Native Land.</p> +<p>Where is each path and still retreat<br /> +Where I with song held converse sweet<br /> +With true poetic fire replete?<br /> + O! in my Native Land.</p> +<p>Where do the merry maidens move,<br /> +Who purely live and truly love—<br /> +Whose words do not deceitful prove?<br /> + O! in my Native Land.</p> +<p>And where on earth that friendly place,<br /> +Where each presents a brother’s face,<br /> +Where frowns or anger ne’er debase!<br /> + O! ’tis my Native Land.</p> +<p><!-- page 72--><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>And +O! where dwells that dearest one<br /> +My first affections fix’d upon,<br /> +Dying with grief that I am gone?<br /> + O! in my Native Land.</p> +<p>Where do they food to strangers give?<br /> +Where kindly, liberally relieve?<br /> +Where unsophisticated live?<br /> + O! in my Native Land.</p> +<p>Where are the guileless rites retain’d,<br /> +And customs of our sires maintain’d?<br /> +Where has the ancient Welsh remain’d?<br /> + O! in my Native Land.</p> +<p>Where is the harp of sweetest string?<br /> +Where are songs read in bardic ring?<br /> +Genius and inspiration sing<br /> + Within my Native Land.</p> +<p>Once Zion’s sons their harps unstrung,<br /> +On Babylonian willows hung,<br /> +And mute their songs—with sorrow wrung,<br /> + They mourn’d their Native Land.</p> +<p>Captives, the Babylonians cry,<br /> +Awake Judæan melody,—<br /> +There is no music they reply,<br /> + Out of our Native Land.</p> +<p>And thus when I in misery<br /> +Beseech my muse to visit me,<br /> +She echo’s—there’s no hope for thee<br /> + Out of thy Native Land.</p> +<p>A bard how dull in Indian groves,<br /> +Distant from the land he loves!<br /> +The muse to melody ne’er moves<br /> + Far from her Native Land.</p> +<p><!-- page 73--><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>Day +and night I ceaseless groan<br /> +Among these foreigners, alone;<br /> +Yet not for fame or gold I moan,<br /> + But for my Native Land.</p> +<p>Oft to the rocky heights I haste,<br /> +And gaze intent, while tears flow fast,<br /> +Over old ocean’s troubled waste,<br /> + Towards my Native Land.</p> +<p>Then breaks my heart with grief to see<br /> +The mountain waves o’erspread the sea,<br /> +Which widely separates from me<br /> + My charming Native Land.</p> +<p>To see the boiling ocean near,<br /> +Whose waves as if they joy’d appear,<br /> +Rolling betwixt me and my dear<br /> + Enchanting Native Land.</p> +<p>O had I wings! to cure my pain<br /> +I’d flee across the widening main,<br /> +To view the extensive vales again<br /> + Of my dear Native Land.</p> +<p>There I would lay me down secure,<br /> +And cheerfully my wants endure:<br /> +The wealth of worlds could not allure<br /> + Me from my Native Land.</p> +<h3><!-- page 74--><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>ODE +TO CAMBRIA.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By the Rev. John Walters</span>.</p> +<p>Cambria, I love thy genius bold;<br /> +Thy dreadful rites, and Druids old;<br /> +Thy bards who struck the sounding strings,<br /> +And wak’d the warlike souls of kings;<br /> +Those kings who, prodigal of breath,<br /> +Rush’d furious to the fields of death;<br /> +Thy maids for peerless beauty crown’d,<br /> +In songs of ancient fame renown’d,<br /> +Pure as the gem of Arvon’s caves,<br /> +Bright as the foam of Menai’s waves,<br /> +With sunny locks and jetty eyes,<br /> +Of valour’s deeds the glorious prize,<br /> +Who tam’d to love’s refin’d delight<br /> +Those chiefs invincible in fight.<br /> +Thy sparkling horns I next recall<br /> +In many a hospitable hall<br /> +Circling with haste, whose boundless mirth<br /> +To many an amorous lay gave birth,<br /> +And many a present to the fair,<br /> +And many a deed of bold despair.<br /> +I love thy harps with well-rank’d strings,<br /> +Heard in the stately halls of kings,<br /> +Whose sounds had magic to bestow<br /> +Or sunny joy, or dusky woe.<br /> +I love thy fair Silurian vales<br /> +Fann’d by Sabrina’s temperate gales,<br /> +That fir’d the Roman to engage<br /> +The scythed cars of Arvirage.<br /> +Oft to the visionary skies<br /> +I see thy ancient genius rise,<br /> +Who mounts the chariot of the wind,<br /> +And leaves our mortal steeds behind;<br /> +<!-- page 75--><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>And +while to rouse the drooping land<br /> +He strikes the harp with glowing hand,<br /> +Light spirits with aërial wings<br /> +Dance upon the trembling strings.<br /> +Oh, lead me thou in strains sublime<br /> +Thy sacred hill of oaks to climb,<br /> +To haunt thy old poetic streams,<br /> +And sport in fiction’s fairy dreams,<br /> +There let the rover fancy free,<br /> +And breathe the soul of poesy!<br /> +To think upon thy ravish’d crown,<br /> +Thy warlike deeds of old renown;<br /> +Thy valiant sons at Maelor slain, <a name="citation75a"></a><a href="#footnote75a">{75a}</a><br /> +The stubborn fight of Bangor’s plain, <a name="citation75b"></a><a href="#footnote75b">{75b}</a><br /> +A thousand banners waving high<br /> +Where bold Tal Moelvre meets the sky! <a name="citation75c"></a><a href="#footnote75c">{75c}</a></p> +<p> Nor seldom, Cambria, I explore<br /> +Thy treasures of poetic store,<br /> +And mingle with thy tuneful throng,<br /> +And range thy realms of ancient song,<br /> +That like thy mountains, huge and high,<br /> +Lifts its broad forehead to the sky;<br /> +Whence Druids fanes of fabling time,<br /> +And ruin’d castles frown sublime,<br /> +Down whose dark sides torn rocks resound,<br /> +Eternal tempests whirling round;<br /> +With many a pleasant vale between,<br /> +Where Nature smiles attir’d in green,<br /> +Where Innocence in cottage warm<br /> +Is shelter’d from the passing storm,<br /> +<!-- page 76--><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>Stretch’d +on the banks of lulling streams<br /> +Where fancy lies indulging dreams,<br /> +Where shepherds tend their fleecy train,<br /> +Where echoes oft the pleading strain<br /> +Of rural lovers. O’er my soul<br /> +Such varied scenes in vision roll,<br /> +Whether, O prince of bards, I see<br /> +The fire of Greece reviv’d in thee,<br /> +That like a deluge bursts away;<br /> +Or Taliesin tune the lay;<br /> +Or thou, wild Merlin, with thy song<br /> +Pour thy ungovern’d soul along;<br /> +Or those perchance of later age<br /> +More artful swell their measur’d rage,<br /> +Sweet bards whose love-taught numbers suit<br /> +Soft measures and the Lesbian lute;<br /> +Whether, Iolo, mirtle-crown’d,<br /> +Thy harp such amorous verse resound<br /> +As love’s and beauty’s prize hath won;<br /> +Or led by Gwilym’s plaintive song,<br /> +I hear him teach his melting tale<br /> +In whispers to the grove and gale.</p> +<p> But since thy once harmonious shore<br /> +Resounds th’ inspiring strain no more,<br /> +That snatch’d in fields of ancient date,<br /> +The palm from number, strength, and fate;<br /> +Since to thy grove no more belong<br /> +The sacred eulogies of song;<br /> +Since thou hast rued the waste of age,<br /> +And war, and Scolan’s fiercer rage;—<a name="citation76"></a><a href="#footnote76">{76}</a><br /> +The spirit of renown expires,<br /> +<!-- page 77--><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>The +brave example of thy sires<br /> +Is lost; thy high heroic crest<br /> +Oblivion and inglorious rest<br /> +Have torn with rude rapacious hand;<br /> +And apathy usurps the land.<br /> +Lo! silent as the lapse of time<br /> +Sink to the earth thy towers sublime;<br /> +Where whilom harp’d the minstrel throng,<br /> +The night-owl pours her feral song:<br /> +For ever sinks blest Cambria’s fame,<br /> +By ignorance, and sword, and flame<br /> +Laid with the dust, amidst her woes<br /> +The taunt of her ungenerous foes;<br /> +For ever sleeps her warlike praise,<br /> +Her wealth, dominion, language, lays.</p> +<h3>AN ODE ON THE DEATH OF HOEL.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Aneurin</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Translated by Thomas Gray</span>, Esq. <a name="citation77"></a><a href="#footnote77">{77}</a></p> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p>Had I but the torrent’s might,<br /> +With headlong rage, and wild affright,<br /> +Upon Deïra’s squadrons hurl’d,<br /> +To rush and sweep them from the world!<br /> +Too, too secure in youthful pride,<br /> +By them my friend, my Hoel, dy’d,<br /> +Great Cian’s son; of Madoc old,<br /> +He ask’d no heaps of hoarded gold;<br /> +Alone in Nature’s wealth array’d<br /> +He asked and had the lovely maid.</p> +<p> <!-- page 78--><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>To +Cattraeth’s vale, in glitt’ring row,<br /> +Twice two hundred warriors go;<br /> +Ev’ry warrior’s manly neck<br /> +Chains of regal honour deck,<br /> +Wreath’d in many a golden link:<br /> +From the golden cup they drink<br /> +Nectar that the bees produce,<br /> +Or the grape’s ecstatic juice.<br /> +Flush’d with mirth and hope they burn,<br /> +But none from Cattraeth’s vale return,<br /> +Save Aeron brave and Conan strong,<br /> +(Bursting through the bloody throng,)<br /> +And I, the meanest of them all,<br /> +That live to weep and sing their fall.</p> +<h3>THE DEATH OF OWAIN.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Aneurin</span>.</p> +<p>Lo! the youth, in mind a man,<br /> +Daring in the battle’s van;<br /> +See the splendid warrior’s speed<br /> +On his fleet and thick-maned steed,<br /> +As his buckler, beaming wide,<br /> +Decks the courser’s slender side,<br /> +With his steel of spotless mould,<br /> +Ermined vest and spurs of gold!<br /> +Think not, youth, that e’er from me<br /> +Hate or spleen shall flow to thee;<br /> +Nobler deeds thy virtues claim,<br /> +Eulogy and tuneful fame.<br /> +Ah! much sooner comes thy bier<br /> +Than thy nuptial feast, I fear;<br /> +Ere thou mak’st the foe to bleed,<br /> +Ravens on thy corse shall feed.<br /> +Owain, lov’d companion, friend,<br /> +To birds a prey—is this thy end!<br /> +Tell me, steed, on what sad plain<br /> +Thy ill-fated lord was slain.</p> +<h3><!-- page 79--><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>RODERIC’S +LAMENT.</h3> +<p>Farewell every mountain<br /> + To memory dear,<br /> +Each streamlet and fountain<br /> + Pelucid and clear;<br /> +Glad halls of my father,<br /> + From banquets ne’er freed,<br /> +Where chieftains would gather<br /> + To quaff the bright mead,<br /> +Each valley and woodland<br /> + Whose coverts I knew,<br /> +Lov’d haunts of my childhood<br /> + For ever, adieu!</p> +<p>The mountains are blasted<br /> + And burnt the green wood,<br /> +The fountain untasted<br /> + Flows crimsoned with blood,<br /> +The halls are deserted,<br /> + Their glory appear<br /> +Like dreams of departed<br /> + And desolate years,<br /> +The wild wood and valley,<br /> + The covert, the glade,<br /> +Bereft of their beauty,<br /> + Invaded! betrayed!</p> +<p>Farewell hoary minstrel,<br /> + Gay infancy’s friend,<br /> +What roof will protect thee?<br /> + What chieftain defend?<br /> +Alas for the number,<br /> + And sweets of their song,<br /> +<!-- page 80--><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>Soon, +soon they must slumber,<br /> + The mountains among;<br /> +The breathing of pleasure<br /> + No more will aspire,<br /> +For changed is the measure,<br /> + Of liberty’s lyre!</p> +<p>Adieu to the greeting<br /> + Of damsel and dame,<br /> +When home from the beating<br /> + Of foemen we came,<br /> +If Edward the daughters<br /> + Of Walia would spare,<br /> +He dooms them the fetters<br /> + Of vassals to wear;<br /> +To hear the war rattle,<br /> + To see the land burn,<br /> +While foes from the battle<br /> + In triumph return.</p> +<p>Farewell, and for ever,<br /> + Dear land of my birth,<br /> +Again we shall never<br /> + Know revels or mirth,<br /> +The cloud mantled castle,<br /> + My ancestors’ pride,<br /> +The pleasure and wassail<br /> + In rapture allied;<br /> +The preludes of danger<br /> + Approach thee from far,<br /> +The spears of strangers,<br /> + The beacons of war.</p> +<p>Farewell to the glory<br /> + I dreamed of in vain;<br /> +Behold on the story<br /> + A blood tinctured stain!<br /> +Nor this the sole token<br /> + The records can blast,<br /> +Our lances are broken,<br /> + Our trophies are lost;<br /> +<!-- page 81--><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>The +children of freedom,<br /> + The princely, the brave,<br /> +Have none to succeed them<br /> + Their country to save.</p> +<p>Yet still there are foemen<br /> + The tyrant to meet,<br /> +Will laugh at each omen<br /> + Of death and defeat;<br /> +Despise every warning<br /> + His mandate may bring<br /> +The promises scorning<br /> + Of Loegria’s king:<br /> +Who seek not to vary<br /> + Their purpose or change,<br /> +But firm as Eryri <a name="citation81"></a><a href="#footnote81">{81}</a><br /> + Are fixed for revenge.</p> +<p>Between the rude barriers<br /> + Of yonder dark hill,<br /> +A few gallant warriors<br /> + Are lingering still;<br /> +While fate pours her phials,<br /> + Unmoved they remain,<br /> +Resolved on the trial<br /> + Of battle again;<br /> +Resolved on their honour,<br /> + Which yet they can boast,<br /> +To rescue their banner<br /> + They yesterday lost.</p> +<p>Shall Roderic then tremble,<br /> + And cowardly leave<br /> +The faithful assembly<br /> + To fight for a grave?<br /> +Regardless of breathing<br /> + The patriot’s law,<br /> +His country forsaking<br /> + And basely withdraw<br /> +<!-- page 82--><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>From +liberty’s quarrel,<br /> + Forgetting his vow,<br /> +And tarnish the laurel<br /> + That circles his brow?</p> +<p>But art thou not, Helen,<br /> + Reproving this stay,<br /> +While fair sails are swelling<br /> + To bear thee away?<br /> +And must we then sever,<br /> + My country, my home?<br /> +Thus part and for ever<br /> + Submit to our doom?<br /> +Ah! let me not linger<br /> + Thus long by the way<br /> +Lest memory’s finger<br /> + Unman me for aye!</p> +<p>Hark, hart, yonder bugle!<br /> + ’Tis Gwalchmai’s shrill blast<br /> +Exclaiming one struggle,<br /> + Then all will be past,<br /> +Another, another!<br /> + It peals the same note<br /> +As erst when together<br /> + Delighted we fought!<br /> +But then it resounded<br /> + With victory’s swell,<br /> +While now it hath sounded,<br /> + Life, liberty’s knell!</p> +<p>Adieu, then my daughter<br /> + Loved Helen adieu,<br /> +The summons of slaughter<br /> + Is pealing anew;<br /> +Yet can I thus leave thee,<br /> + Defenceless and lorn,<br /> +No home to receive you,<br /> + A by-word and scorn?<br /> +’Tis useless reflection,<br /> + All soon will be o’er,<br /> +<!-- page 83--><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>Heaven +grant you protection<br /> + When Roderic’s no more</p> +<p>Cease, Saxons, your scorning<br /> + Prepare for the war;<br /> +So Roderic’s returning<br /> + To battle once more!<br /> +The vulture and raven<br /> + Are tracking his breath;<br /> +For fate has engraven<br /> + A record of death:<br /> +They mark on his weapon<br /> + From many a breast,<br /> +A stream that might deepen<br /> + The crimsonest crest!</p> +<p>While darkness benighting<br /> + Engirdled the zone,<br /> +The chieftain was fighting<br /> + His way to renown;<br /> +But ere morn had risen<br /> + In purple and gold,<br /> +The heart’s blood was frozen,<br /> + Of Roderic the bold!<br /> +The foemen lay scattered<br /> + In heaps round his grave;<br /> +His buckler was battered<br /> + And broke was his glaive!</p> +<p>And fame the fair daughter<br /> + Of victory came,<br /> +And loud ’mid the slaughter<br /> + Was heard to proclaim,<br /> +“A hero is fallen!<br /> + A warrior’s at rest,<br /> +The banner of Gwynedd<br /> + Enshrouded his breast,<br /> +His name shall inherit<br /> + The conqueror’s prize,<br /> +His purified spirit<br /> + Ascend to the skies.”</p> +<h3><!-- page 84--><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>THE +BATTLE OF GWENYSTRAD.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Taliesin</span>.</p> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p>If warlike chiefs with dawning day<br /> +At Cattraeth met in dread array,<br /> +The song records their splendid name;<br /> +But who shall sing of Urien’s fame?<br /> +His patriot virtues far excel<br /> +Whate’er the boldest bard can tell:<br /> +His dreadful arm and dauntless brow<br /> +Spoil and dismay the haughty foe.</p> +<p> Pillar of Britain’s regal line!<br /> +’Tis his in glorious war to shine;<br /> +Despair and death attend his course,<br /> +Brave leader of the Christian force!</p> +<p> See Prydyn’s men, a valiant train,<br /> +Rush along Gwenystrad’s plain!<br /> +Bright their spears for war addrest,<br /> +Raging vengeance fires their breast;<br /> +Shouts like ocean’s roar arise,<br /> +Tear the air, and pierce the skies.<br /> +Here they urge their tempest force!<br /> +Nor camp nor forest turns their course:<br /> +Their breath the shrieking peasants yield<br /> +O’er all the desolated field.</p> +<p> <!-- page 85--><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>But +lo, the daring hosts engage!<br /> +Dauntless hearts and flaming rage;<br /> +And, ere the direful morn is o’er,<br /> +Mangled limbs and reeking gore,<br /> +And crimson torrents whelm the ground,<br /> +Wild destruction stalking round;<br /> +Fainting warriors gasp for breath,<br /> +Or struggle in the toils of death.</p> +<p> Where the embattled fortress rose,<br /> +(Gwenystrad’s bulwark from the foes,)<br /> +Fierce conflicting heroes meet—<br /> +Groans the earth beneath their feet.</p> +<p> I mark, amidst the rolling flood,<br /> +Where hardy warriors stain’d with blood<br /> +Drop their blunt arms, and join the dead,<br /> +Grey billows curling o’er their head:<br /> +Mangled with wounds, and vainly brave,<br /> +At once they sink beneath the wave.</p> +<p> Lull’d to everlasting rest,<br /> +With folded arms and gory breast—<br /> +Cold in death, and ghastly pale,<br /> +Chieftains press the reeky vale,<br /> +Who late, amidst their kindred throng,<br /> +Prepar’d the feast, and join’d the song;<br /> +Or like the sudden tempest rose,<br /> +And hurl’d destruction on the foes.</p> +<p> Warriors I saw who led the fray,<br /> +Stern desolation strew’d their way;<br /> +Aloft the glitt’ring blade they bore,<br /> +Their garments hung with clotted gore.<br /> +The furious thrust, the clanging shield,<br /> +Confound the long-disputed field.</p> +<p> But when Rheged’s chief pursues,<br /> +His way through iron ranks he hews;<br /> +Hills pil’d on hills, the strangers bleed:<br /> +Amaz’d I view his daring deed!<br /> +<!-- page 86--><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>Destruction +frowning on his brow,<br /> +Close he urg’d the panting foe,<br /> +’Till hemm’d around, they met the shock,<br /> +Before Galysten’s hoary rock.<br /> +Death and torment strew’d his path;<br /> +His dreadful blade obey’d his wrath:<br /> +Beneath their shields the strangers lay,<br /> +Shrinking from the fatal day.</p> +<p> Thus in victorious armour bright,<br /> +Thou brave Euronwy, pant for fight:<br /> +With such examples in thine eyes,<br /> +Haste to grasp the hero’s prize.</p> +<p> And till old age has left me dumb—<br /> +Till death has call’d me to the tomb—<br /> +May cheerful joys ne’er crown my days,<br /> +Unless I sing of Urien’s praise!</p> +<h3>TALIESIN’S PROPHECY. <a name="citation86"></a><a href="#footnote86">{86}</a></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Mrs. Hemans</span>.</p> +<p>A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among,<br /> +O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung,<br /> +The path of unborn ages is trac’d upon my soul,<br /> +The clouds, which mantle things unseen, away before me roll.</p> +<p>A light, the depths revealing, hath o’er my spirit passed;<br /> +A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful on the blast,<br /> +And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue,<br /> +To which the harp of Mona’s woods by Freedom’s hand was +strung.</p> +<p><!-- page 87--><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>Green +island of the mighty! <a name="citation87a"></a><a href="#footnote87a">{87a}</a> +I see thine ancient race<br /> +Driv’n from their fathers’ realm, to make the rocks their +dwelling place!<br /> +I see from Uthyr’s <a name="citation87b"></a><a href="#footnote87b">{87b}</a> +kingdom the sceptre pass away,<br /> +And many a line of bards and chiefs, and princely men decay.</p> +<p>But long as Arvon’s mountains shall lift their sovereign forms,<br /> +And wear the crown to which is giv’n dominion o’er the storms,<br /> +So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue,<br /> +To which the harp of Mona’s woods by Freedom’s hand was +strung.</p> +<h3>THE MONARCHY OF BRITAIN. <a name="citation87c"></a><a href="#footnote87c">{87c}</a></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Mrs. Hemans</span>.</p> +<p>Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time,<br /> +Ere spoilers had breath’d the free air of your clime!<br /> +All that its eagles beheld in their flight<br /> +Was yours from the deep to each storm-mantled height!<br /> +Though from your race that proud birthright be torn,<br /> +Unquench’d is the spirit for monarchy born.<br /> +<!-- page 88--><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>Darkly +though clouds may hang o’er us awhile,<br /> +The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle! <a name="citation88"></a><a href="#footnote88">{88}</a><br /> +Ages may roll ere your children regain<br /> +The land for which heroes have perish’d in vain.<br /> +Yet in the sound of your names shall be pow’r,<br /> +Around her still gath’ring, till glory’s full hour.<br /> +Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep,<br /> +Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep.<br /> +Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile,<br /> +Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle!</p> +<h3>FAREWELL TO WALES.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Mrs. Hemans</span>.</p> +<p>The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear;<br /> +Farewell; and a blessing be with thee, Greenland;<br /> +In thy halls, thy hearths, in thy pure mountain air,<br /> +On the strings of the harp and the minstrel’s free hand;<br /> +From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,<br /> +Whilst I leave thee, O land of my home and my dead.</p> +<p>I bless thee; yet not for the beauty which dwells<br /> +In the heart of thy hills, in the waves of thy shore;<br /> +And not for the memory set deep in thy dells<br /> +Of the bard and the warrior, the mighty of yore;<br /> +And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled,<br /> +Greenland, Poetland of my home and my dead.</p> +<p>I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat,<br /> +Where e’er a low hamlet smiles, under thy skies,<br /> +For thy peasant hearths burping the stranger to greet,<br /> +For the soul that looks forth from thy children’s bright eyes,<br /> +May the blessing, like sunshine, around thee be spread,<br /> +Greenland of my childhood, my home and my dead.</p> +<h3><!-- page 89--><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>THE +CASTLES OF WALES.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Rev. Daniel Evans</span>, B.D.</p> +<p>Ye fortresses grey and gigantic<br /> + I see on the hills of my land,<br /> +To my mind ye appear terrific,<br /> + When I muse on your ruins so grand;<br /> +Your walls were a shelter the strongest<br /> + From the enemies’ countless array,<br /> +When they spilt with the blood of the bravest,<br /> + Your sides in our ancestors’ day.</p> +<p>Around you the war-horse was neighing,<br /> + And pranced his rich trappings to feel,<br /> +While through you were frightfully gleaming<br /> + Bright lances and spears of steel;<br /> +The fruits of the rich-laden harvest,<br /> + Were ruthlessly trod by the foe,<br /> +And the thunder of battle was loudest,<br /> + To herald its message of woe.</p> +<p>While viewing your dilapidation,<br /> + My memory kindles with joy,<br /> +To think that the foes of our nation,<br /> + No longer these valleys destroy;<br /> +By sowing his fields in the winter,<br /> + In hope of a rich harvest-home,<br /> +The husbandman now feels no terror<br /> + Of war with its havoc to come.</p> +<p>When I look at the sheep as they shelter<br /> + In safety beneath your rude walls,<br /> +Where erst the dread agents of slaughter<br /> + Fell’d thousands, nor heeded their calls;<br /> +<!-- page 90--><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>The +hillock where crossed the sharp spears<br /> + Now shadows the ewe and its lamb,<br /> +While seeing the peace of these years,<br /> + My heart is with gratitude warm.</p> +<p>Ye towers that saw the wild ravens,<br /> + And the eagles with hunger impell’d,<br /> +Exultingly gorge ’mid your ruins.<br /> + On corpses of men which they held;<br /> +How sweet for you now ’tis to hear<br /> + The shepherd, so peaceful and meek,<br /> +Tune his reed with a melody clear,<br /> + While his flock in you shelter do seek.</p> +<p>Upon your battlements sitting,<br /> + To view the bright landscape below,<br /> +My heart becomes sad when remembering<br /> + That silent in death is the foe,<br /> +And the friends who bravely did combat,<br /> + And raised your grey towers so steep,<br /> +Declaring their life-blood should stagnate,<br /> + Ere ever in chains they would weep.</p> +<p>When I think of their purpose so pure,<br /> + The tear must fast trickle from me,<br /> +Their hearts did Providence allure<br /> + To their country, and her did they free;<br /> +We now live beneath a meek power,<br /> + And feel the full blessings of peace,<br /> +While on us abundantly shower,<br /> + The mercies of Heaven with increase.</p> +<h3><!-- page 91--><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>THE +EISTEDDFOD,</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson</span>. <a name="citation91"></a><a href="#footnote91">{91}</a></p> +<p>Strike the harp: awake the lay!<br /> +Let Cambria’s voice be heard this day<br /> + In music’s witching strain!<br /> +Wide let her ancient “soul of song,”<br /> +The echo of its notes prolong,<br /> + O’er valley, hill, and plain!<br /> +Minstrels! awake your harps aloud,<br /> +Bid Cambria’s nobles hither crowd,<br /> +Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud,<br /> + Nor shall the call be vain!</p> +<p>Let gen’rous wine around be pour’d!<br /> +To many a chief in mem’ry stored,<br /> + Of Cambria’s ancient day!<br /> +Sons of the mountain and the flood,<br /> +Who shed for her their dearest blood,<br /> + Nor own’d a conqueror’s sway!<br /> +Be they extolled in music’s strain,<br /> +Remembered, when the cup we drain,<br /> +And let their deeds revive again<br /> + In ev’ry minstrel’s lay!</p> +<p>’Tis now the feast of soul and song!<br /> +As roll the festive hours along,<br /> + Here wealth and pow’r combine<br /> +With beauty’s smiles, (a rich reward,)<br /> +To cheer the rugged mountain bard,<br /> + And honour Cambria’s line!<br /> +Then, minstrels! wake your harps aloud,<br /> +Behold her nobles hither crowd,<br /> +Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud,<br /> + Like gems around they shine!</p> +<h3><!-- page 92--><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>LLYWARCH +HEN’S LAMENT ON CYNDDYLAN.</h3> +<p>[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 +<i>hen</i>, or the aged. Twelve poems of this bard remain, but +all are imbued with the melancholy of the poet’s life.]</p> +<p>Cynddylan’s hearth is dark to-night,<br /> + Cynddylan’s halls are lone;<br /> +War’s fire has revell’d o’er their might,<br /> + And still’d their minstrel’s tone;<br /> +And I am left to chant apart<br /> +One murmur of a broken heart!</p> +<p>Pengwern’s blue spears are gleamless now,<br /> + Her revelry is still;<br /> +The sword has blanched his chieftain’s brow,<br /> + Her fearless sons are chill:<br /> +And pagan feet to dust have trod<br /> +The blue-robed messengers of God. <a name="citation92"></a><a href="#footnote92">{92}</a></p> +<p>Cynddylan’s shield, Cynddylan’s pride,<br /> + The wandering snows are shading,<br /> +One palace pillar stands to guide<br /> + The woodbine’s verdant braiding;<br /> +And I am left, from all apart,<br /> +The minstrel of the broken heart!</p> +<h3><!-- page 93--><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>THE +LAMENT OP LLYWARCH HEN.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Mrs. Hemans</span>.</p> +<p>The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing<br /> + With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom;<br /> +But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing,<br /> + The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb!</p> +<p>Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding,<br /> + Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave?<br /> +Why smile the waste flow’rs, my sad footsteps surrounding?<br /> + My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!</p> +<p>Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing,<br /> + As on to the fields of your glory you trod!<br /> +Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing,<br /> + Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod!</p> +<p>I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding,<br /> + Which rouses ye not, oh, my lovely, my brave!<br /> +When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding,<br /> + I turn from heav’n’s light, for it smiles on +your grave!</p> +<h3>THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Mrs. Hemans</span>.</p> +<p>The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night,<br /> +I weep, for the grave has extinguished its light;<br /> +The beam of its lamp from the summit is o’er,<br /> +The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more!</p> +<p>The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still,<br /> +The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill!<br /> +Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene,<br /> +Nor let e’en an echo recall what hath been!</p> +<p><!-- page 94--><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>The +Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare,<br /> +No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there!<br /> +Oh! where are the warriors who circled its board?—<br /> +The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour’d.</p> +<p>The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night,<br /> +Since he is departed whose smile made it bright:<br /> +I mourn, but the sigh of my soul shall be brief,<br /> +The pathway is short to the grave of my chief!</p> +<h3>THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR. <a name="citation94a"></a><a href="#footnote94a">{94a}</a></h3> +<p>I called on the sun, in his noonday height,<br /> + By the power and spell a wizard gave:<br /> +Hast thou not found, with thy searching light,<br /> + The island monarch’s grave?</p> +<p>“I smile on many a lordly tomb,<br /> + Where Death is mock’d by trophies fair;<br /> +I pierce the dim aisle’s hallow’d gloom;<br /> + King Arthur sleeps not there.”</p> +<p>I watched for the night’s most lovely star,<br /> + And, by that spell, I bade her say,<br /> +If she had been, in her wand’rings far,<br /> + Where the slain of Gamlan lay. <a name="citation94b"></a><a href="#footnote94b">{94b}</a></p> +<p>“Well do I love to shine upon<br /> + The lonely cairn on the dark hill’s side,<br /> +And I weep at night o’er the brave ones gone,<br /> + But not o’er Britain’s pride.”</p> +<p><!-- page 95--><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>I +bent o’er the river, winding slow<br /> + Through tangled brake and rocky bed:<br /> +Say, do thy waters mourning flow<br /> + Beside the mighty dead?</p> +<p>The river spake through the stilly hour,<br /> + In a voice like the deep wood’s evening sigh:<br /> +“I am wand’ring on, ’mid shine and shower,<br /> + But that grave I pass not by.”</p> +<p>I bade the winds their swift course hold,<br /> + As they swept in their strength the mountain’s bre’st:<br /> +Ye have waved the dragon banner’s fold,<br /> + Where does its chieftain rest?</p> +<p>There came from the winds a murmured note,<br /> + “Not ours that mystery of the world;<br /> +But the dragon banner yet shall float<br /> + On the mountain breeze unfurl’d.”</p> +<p>Answer me then, thou ocean deep,<br /> + Insatiate gulf of things gone by,<br /> +In thy green halls does the hero sleep?<br /> + And the wild waves made reply:</p> +<p>“He sleeps not in our sounding cells,<br /> + Our coral beds with jewels pearl’d;<br /> +Not in our treasure depths it dwells,<br /> + That mystery of the world.</p> +<p>“Long must the island monarch roam,<br /> + The noble heart and the mighty hand;<br /> +But we shall bear him proudly home<br /> + To his father’s mountain land.”</p> +<h3><!-- page 96--><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>THE +VENGEANCE OF OWAIN. <a name="citation96"></a><a href="#footnote96">{96}</a></h3> +<p>[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.]</p> +<blockquote><p> “It may be bowed<br /> +With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb<br /> +That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud<br /> +Might gather o’er her beauty, and a gloom<br /> +In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom,<br /> +Heaven gives its favourites—early death.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><span class="smcap">childe harold</span>.</p> +<p>“Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth,<br /> + Thy name is gone, thy rights invaded,<br /> +And hopelessly the strong oak pineth,<br /> + Where the tall sapling faded;<br /> +<!-- page 97--><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>The +mountain eagle idly cowers<br /> + Beside his slaughtered young,<br /> +Our sons must bow to other powers,<br /> + Must learn a stranger tongue.<br /> +Pride, valour, freedom, treasures that have been,<br /> +Do they all slumber in the grave of Rhûn?”</p> +<p>Thus sad and low the murmurs spread<br /> + Round Owain’s stately walls,<br /> +While he, a mourner o’er the dead,<br /> + Sate lonely in his halls;<br /> +And not the hardiest warrior there,<br /> + Unpitying, might blame<br /> +The reckless frenzy of despair<br /> + Which shook that iron frame;<br /> +Eyes that had coldly gazed on woman’s grief,<br /> +Wept o’er the anguish of their stern old chief.</p> +<p>Not all unheard those murmurs past,<br /> + They reached a lady’s bower,<br /> +Where meekly drooped beneath the blast<br /> + Proud Gwynedd’s peerless flower;<br /> +And she, the hero’s widow’d bride,<br /> + Has roused her from her sorrow’s spell,<br /> +And vowed one effort should be tried<br /> + For that fair land he loved so well.</p> +<p>There came a footstep, light and lone,<br /> + To break the Chieftain’s solitude,<br /> +And, bending o’er a harp’s low tone,<br /> + A form of fragile beauty stood;<br /> +More like the maid, in fairy lay, <a name="citation97"></a><a href="#footnote97">{97}</a><br /> + Whose very being was of flowers,<br /> +Than creature, moulded from the clay,<br /> + To dwell in this cold sphere of ours.</p> +<p><!-- page 98--><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>Her +snowy brow through dark locks gleamed,<br /> + And long and shadowy lashes curled,<br /> +O’er eyes whose deep’ning radiance seemed<br /> + Caught from the light of another world;<br /> +And on her cheek there was a glow,<br /> + Like clouds that kiss the parting sun;<br /> +Death’s crimson banner, spread to show<br /> + His mournful triumph was begun.</p> +<p>Has grief so dulled Prince Owain’s ear,<br /> +Her melody he may not hear?<br /> +No kindly look, or word, or token,<br /> +His trance of wretchedness has broken,<br /> +Yet knows she, in that lonely spot,<br /> +Her presence felt, tho’ greeted not;<br /> +Knows that no foot, save hers, unbidden;<br /> + Had dared to tread the living tomb,<br /> +No other hand had waked, unchidden,<br /> + The echoes of that sullen gloom;<br /> +And now her voice’s gentle tone<br /> +Blends with the harp, in dirge-like moan:</p> +<p>“I mourn for Rhûn; the spider’s patient trail<br /> +Hangs fairy cordage round his useless mail;<br /> + The pennon, never seen to yield,<br /> + Bends in the light breeze, idly gay,<br /> + And rusted spear, and riven shield<br /> + Tell of a warrior past away.</p> +<p>“I mourn for Rhûn; alas! the damp earth lies<br /> +Heavy and chill on those unconscious eyes;<br /> + Around those cold and powerless fingers,<br /> + The earthworm coils her slimy rings;<br /> + Above his grave the wild bird lingers,<br /> + And many a requiem o’er it sings.</p> +<p>“I mourn for Rhûn; doth not the stranger tread,<br /> +With spurning foot, upon his lowly bed?<br /> + <!-- page 99--><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>Doth +not his spirit wailing roam,<br /> + The land his dying wishes bless’d?<br /> + And finds, within the Cymry’s home,<br /> + But the oppressor and oppress’d.”</p> +<p>The minstrel pauses in her strain,<br /> + To gaze on Owain’s altered brow,<br /> +Where shame and sorrow, pride and pain,<br /> + Are striving for the mastery now.</p> +<p>Not long the pause, again she flings<br /> +Her fingers o’er the sounding strings;<br /> +Mournfully still, yet hurriedly,<br /> +Waking a bolder melody;<br /> +Her form assumes a loftier height,<br /> +Her dark eyes flash more wildly bright,<br /> +And the voice, that seem’d o’er the ear to float,<br /> +Now stirs the heart like a trumpet’s note.</p> +<p>“Whence is the light on my spirit cast,<br /> +A glance of the future, a dream of the past?<br /> +There’s a coming sound in the shelter’d glen,<br /> +Like the measur’d tread of warlike men,<br /> +And the mingled hum of a gathering crowd,<br /> +And the war-cry echoing far and loud.</p> +<p>“I hear their shields and corselets clashing,<br /> +I see the gleam of their blue spears flashing,<br /> +And the sun on plume-deck’d helmets glance,<br /> +And the banners that on the free wind dance,<br /> +And the steed of the chief in his gallant array<br /> +As he rushes to glory, away, away!”</p> +<p>“Sweep on, sweep on, in your crushing might,<br /> +Bear ye that banner o’er hill and height!<br /> +Sweep on, sweep on, in your ’whelming wrath,<br /> +The far-scented raven shall follow your path;<br /> +<!-- page 100--><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>Let +him track the step of the mountain ranger,<br /> +And his beak shall be red with the blood of the stranger.</p> +<p>“On, for the fortress, whose gloomy height<br /> +Looks down on the valley in scornful might,<br /> +Leave not one stone on another to tell<br /> +That the Saxon has dwelt where no more he shall dwell;<br /> +Let the green weed o’ershadow the desolate hearth<br /> +That has rung to the spoiler’s exulting mirth.</p> +<p>“On! When the strife grows fierce and high,<br /> +Vengeance and Rhûn be your battle-cry!<br /> +Star of the Cymry! can it be<br /> +They go to conquer and not with thee?<br /> +Thy blood is on the foeman’s glaive,<br /> +My lost, my beautiful, my brave!”</p> +<p>The song has ceased, but ere its close,<br /> + The lustre from those eyes is gone,<br /> +The cheek has lost its crimson rose,<br /> +The voice has changed its thrilling tone,<br /> +Till the last notes in murmurs die,<br /> +Faint as the echo of a sigh.</p> +<p>The task is done, the spell is cast,<br /> + And, left in silent loneliness,<br /> +The o’erwrought spirit breaks at last,<br /> + Her hands her throbbing temples press,<br /> +And tears are gushing fast and bright,<br /> +Down those small palms and fingers slight.</p> +<p>Oh, human love! how beautiful thou art,<br /> + Shading the ruin, clinging round the tomb,<br /> +And ling’ring still, tho’ all beside depart;<br /> + Can the cold sceptic, with his creed of gloom,<br /> +Deem that thy final dwelling is the dust,<br /> +Thy faith but folly, nothingness thy trust?</p> +<p><!-- page 101--><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>The +Saxon feasted high that night,<br /> + In Wyddgrug’s fortress proud,<br /> +Where countless torches lent their light,<br /> + And the song of mirth was loud;<br /> +And ruby juice of Southern vine<br /> +Sparkled in cups of golden shine.</p> +<p>Sudden there rose a fearful cry,<br /> +That drowned the voice of revelry,<br /> +And then a glare so fiercely bright,<br /> +It paled the torches’ waning light,<br /> +And as its blaze more redly glowed,<br /> + Leaving no niche or grey stone darkling,<br /> +A deep and deadly current flowed<br /> + To mingle with the wine-cup’s sparkling.</p> +<p>And, in that triumph’s wild’ring hour<br /> +Of sated vengeance, grappled power,<br /> +Owain has lost the show of grief,<br /> +Once more his Cymry’s warlike chief,<br /> +With dauntless mien he proudly stands,<br /> +The centre of his faithful bands,<br /> +Who gladly view the haughty brow,<br /> +Whence care and pain seem banished now,<br /> +And little reck what deeper lies,<br /> +All is not joy that wears its guise,<br /> +And, not, ’mid valour’s trophies won,<br /> +Can he forget his slaughtered son.</p> +<p>Forget! no, time and absence have estranged<br /> + Those who in sundered paths must tread,<br /> +We may forget the distant or the changed,<br /> + But not—oh, not the dead:<br /> +All other things, that round us come and pass,<br /> + Some with’ring chance or change have proved,<br /> +But they still bear, in mem’ry’s magic glass,<br /> + The semblance we have loved.</p> +<p><!-- page 102--><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>The +morning breaks all calm and bright<br /> + On ruins stern and bloody plain,<br /> +Flinging her rich and growing light<br /> + O’er many a ghastly heap of slain;<br /> +And pure and fresh her lustre showers<br /> + On shattered helm and dinted mail,<br /> +As when her coming wakes the flowers<br /> + In some peace-hallow’d vale.</p> +<p>But where is she, whose voice had power<br /> + To rouse the war storm’s awful might?<br /> +Glad eager footsteps seek her bower,<br /> + With tidings of the glorious fight;<br /> +On her loved harp her head is bowed,<br /> + One slender arm still round it clings,<br /> +And her dark tresses in a cloud,<br /> + Are clust’ring o’er the silent strings.<br /> +They clasp her hands, they call her name,<br /> + They bid her strike the harp once more,<br /> +And sing of victory, and fame,<br /> + The song she loved in days of yore.<br /> +Vain, vain, there comes no breath or sound<br /> + Those faded lips to sever,<br /> +The broken heart its rest hath found,<br /> + The harp is hushed for ever.</p> +<h2><!-- page 105--><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>PART +IV. THE HUMOROUS.</h2> +<h3>OLD MORGAN AND HIS WIFE.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By the Rev. Evan Evans</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Translated by T. W. Harris, Esq., and another</span>.</p> +<p>Hus.—Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs,<br /> +Their cry is not so fine:<br /> +And if you have not, don’t delay,<br /> +’Tis nearly half-past nine.</p> +<p>Wife.—There, now your noisy din begins,<br /> +Ding, ding, and endless ding,<br /> +I do believe your scolding voice<br /> +Me to the grave will bring.</p> +<p>H.—Were you to drop in there to-day,<br /> +This day would end my sorrow.</p> +<p>W.—But I shall not to please you, Mog,<br /> +To-day, nor yet to-morrow.</p> +<p>H.—Oh! were you, Jane, to leave this world,</p> +<p>W.—And you to beg and borrow,</p> +<p>H.—Stop, Jane, talk not so silly, Jane,</p> +<p>W.—Not at your bidding, never;<br /> +I’d talk as long as I thought fit,<br /> +Were I to live for ever.</p> +<p><!-- page 106--><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>H.—Your +voice if raised a little more,<br /> +Would rouse the very dead,<br /> +A pretty noise, because I ask’d<br /> +If you the pigs had fed.</p> +<p>W.—I’ll raise my voice, Mog, louder still,<br /> +As sure as you were born,<br /> +Why should you ask “How many loaves<br /> +Came from the peck of corn?”</p> +<p>H.—Should not the master of the house<br /> +Know every undertaking?</p> +<p>W.—And wear his wife’s own crinoline,<br /> +And try his hand at baking!</p> +<p>H.—The breeches you would like to wear!</p> +<p>W.—What vulgar jests you’re making!</p> +<p>H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, don’t speak so loud,<br /> +Your noise will stun the cattle!</p> +<p>W.—The only noise that could do that<br /> +Is your continued rattle.</p> +<p>H.—As sounds a bee upon her back,<br /> +So does this wasp I’ve got,<br /> +And all because I ask’d if she<br /> +Had fed the pigs or not.</p> +<p>W.—Your peevish growling, Mog, is worse,<br /> +Yes, ten times worse and more,<br /> +Still asking, “How this churning gave<br /> +Less than the one before?”</p> +<p>H.—You know the butter pays our rent,<br /> +And many another matter.</p> +<p><!-- page 107--><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>W.—I +know that if the cows are starved<br /> +They won’t get any fatter!</p> +<p>H.—I give the cows enough to eat.</p> +<p>W.—Well do, and hold your clatter.</p> +<p>H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, confound your noise,<br /> +’Twould shame a barrel organ.</p> +<p>W.—If I were half as loud as you,<br /> +I think it would, Old Morgan!</p> +<p>H.—Your temper, Jane, will drive me soon<br /> +To share a soldier’s lot,<br /> +To march with gun and martial tune<br /> +’Midst powder, smoke, and shot.</p> +<p>W.—What! you a soldier? never, Mog!<br /> +Your heart is coward too,<br /> +You’ll fight with no one but with me,<br /> +You’ve then enough to do!</p> +<p>H.—I’ll go and fight the mighty Czar,<br /> +To aid the Turkish nation.</p> +<p>W.—Then go, a greater Turk than you<br /> +Breathes not within creation!</p> +<p>H.—For shame, to call your husband Turk.</p> +<p>W.—Such is my pledg’d relation.</p> +<p>H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, let’s now shake hands<br /> +And we’ll be henceforth friends.</p> +<p>W.—No, not till you have stopp’d will I,<br /> +Be still, or make amends.</p> +<h3><!-- page 108--><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>SONG +OF THE FOSTER-SON, LOVE.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Rev. Daniel evans</span>, B.D.</p> +<p>I got a foster-son, whose name was Love,<br /> +From one endued with beauty from above.<br /> +To bring him up with fond and <i>tender</i> care—<br /> +Was an obligation from my fair.—</p> +<p>And for the guileless, beaming star’s sweet sake<br /> +Him to my bosom did I kindly take,<br /> +Him warmly cherished and with joy caress’d,<br /> +Like Philomela in the parent breast!</p> +<p>Thus on my breast, and sipping from my cup,<br /> +With food and nurture did I bring him up;<br /> +He grew a winged stripling, plump and fair,<br /> +And yet he filled and fills my soul with care!</p> +<p>Foster-son, indeed, a rebel has become,<br /> +Morose, insubordinate and glum,<br /> +A peevish, wayward, wanton, wicked swain:<br /> +To strive against the darts of love is vain.</p> +<p>And now with his ruthless, vengeful bow,<br /> +He points it at me and shoots high and low.<br /> +Ah! whither shall I from his anger flee;<br /> +Where from his darts and wily snares be free?</p> +<p>All fickle is the foster-son, indeed;<br /> +He leads me on to the flowery mead,<br /> +When all is peace and harmony around<br /> +He wrings my ears with doleful sound.</p> +<p><!-- page 109--><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>And +woe betide if e’er he sees one dare<br /> +A single word exchange with the fair,<br /> +He forthwith casts his vengeance like a dart,<br /> +And thrusts his pointed dagger through my heart.</p> +<p>One day, when feeling somewhat brisk and strong<br /> +On summer-morn, I strolled the meads along,<br /> +A curious thought upon my mind did flash<br /> +That I would try this foster-boy to thrash.</p> +<p>With this intent I straightway armed myself,<br /> +My oaken cudgel drew to chase the elf;<br /> +When lo! the elf felt not the slightest stroke,<br /> +But in return the tendrils of my heart he broke!</p> +<p>I am father to a foster-son<br /> +Most cruel since this earth began to run:<br /> +Oh, thousand times how sorely have I said,<br /> +“The fates may take him, foster’d on my bread.”</p> +<p>Then must I live in sorrow evermore<br /> +No hope to cheer my spirit as of yore?<br /> +And is despair, dark, sullen, on my heart<br /> +To plant its talons with a fatal dart?</p> +<p>No, there yet will beam a brilliant day<br /> +To chase these lurid, murky clouds away!<br /> +Arise, sweet soul, thy sorrows cast away,<br /> +Blow off thy cares, like ocean’s shifting spray.</p> +<p>There is a blushing rose that blooms unseen<br /> +In yonder valley decked with leaflets green,<br /> +’Twill healthy heart, tho’ shatter’d and forlorn,<br /> +Like scented balm from distant Gilead borne.</p> +<p>’Tis there my darling Dora makes her home;<br /> +’Tis there my wand’ring glances fondly roam;<br /> +’Tis there my star of beauty mildly shines;<br /> +’Tis there the chain of life my soul entwines.</p> +<p><!-- page 110--><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>’Tis +there where kind maternal fondness dwells,<br /> +And sister gentleness the bosom swells,<br /> +’Tis there where now the lovely lily grows<br /> +Beside the purling brook that ever flows.</p> +<p>There’s one, and only one to cheer my soul,<br /> +To heal my anguish, and my grief control;<br /> +’Tis she who did the foster-boy impart<br /> +To nestle deeply in my restless heart.</p> +<p>And if, indeed, the fair one will not pay<br /> +For time and nurture, anguish and delay,<br /> +Unless a guerdon in her smiles I see<br /> +Then must I from her arms for ever flee.</p> +<h3>PENNILLION.</h3> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p>Many an apple will you find<br /> + In hue and bloom so cheating,<br /> +That, search what grows beneath its rind,<br /> + It is not worth your eating.<br /> +Ere closes summer’s sultry hour,<br /> +This fruit will be the first to sour.</p> +<p>* * * * * *</p> +<p>Those wild birds see, how bless’d are they!<br /> + Where’er their pleasure leads they roam,<br /> +O’er seas and mountains far away,<br /> + Nor chidings fear when they come home.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p><!-- page 111--><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>Thou +dearest little Gwen, kindest maiden of all,<br /> +With cheeks fair and ruddy, and teeth white and small,<br /> +With thy blue sparkling eyes, and thy eye-brows so bright,<br /> +Ah, how I would love thee, sweet girl, if I might!</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Place on my breast, if still you doubt,<br /> + Your hand, but no rough pressure making,<br /> +And, if you listen, you’ll find out,<br /> + How throbs a little heart when breaking.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Both old maids and young ones, the witless and wise<br /> +Gain husbands at pleasure, while none will me prize;<br /> +Ah! why should the swains think so meanly of me,<br /> +And I full as comely as any they see!</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>From this world all in time must move,<br /> + ’Tis known to every simple swain;<br /> +And ’twere as well to die of love<br /> + As any other mortal pain.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>’Tis noised abroad, where’er one goes,<br /> + And I am fain to hear,<br /> +That no one in the country knows<br /> + The girl to me most dear:<br /> +And, ’tis so true, that scarce I wot,<br /> +If I know well myself or not.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>What noise and scandal fill my ear,<br /> + One half the world to censure prone!<br /> +Of all the faults that thus I hear,<br /> + None yet have told me of their own.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Varied the stars, when nights are clear,<br /> + Varied are the flowers of May,<br /> +Varied th’ attire that women wear,<br /> + Truly varied too are they.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p><!-- page 112--><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>To +rest to-night I’ll not repair,<br /> +The one I love reclines not here:<br /> +I’ll lay me on the stone apart,<br /> +If break thou wilt, then break my heart.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>In praise or blame no truth is found,<br /> +Whilst specious lies do so abound;<br /> +Sooner expect a tuneful crow,<br /> +Than man with double face to know.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>My speech until this very day,<br /> +Was ne’er so like to run astray:<br /> +But now I find, when going wrong,<br /> +My teeth of use to atop my tongue.</p> +<h3>TRIBANAU.</h3> +<p>[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 <i>Tribanau</i>, which +are most of them, like these, remarkable for their quaintness, as well +as for the epigrammatic point in which they terminate.”]</p> +<p>No cheat is it to cheat the cheater,<br /> +No treason to betray the traitor,<br /> +Nor is it theft, I’m not deceiving,<br /> +To thieve from him who lives by thieving.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Three things there are that ne’er stand still;<br /> +A pig upon a high-topt hill,<br /> +A snail the naked stones among,<br /> +And Tom the Miller’s rattling tongue.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Three things ’tis difficult to scan;<br /> +The day, an aged oak, and man:<br /> +The day is long, the oak is hollow,<br /> +And man—he is a two fac’d fellow.</p> +<h2><!-- page 115--><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>PART +V. THE SENTIMENTAL.</h2> +<h3>THE ROSE OF LLAN MEILEN.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Dafydd Ab Gwilym</span>.</p> +<p>Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget<br /> +That ever in moments of pleasure we met;<br /> +You bid me remember no longer a name<br /> +The muse hath already companioned with fame;<br /> + And future ap Gwilyms, fresh wreaths who compose,<br /> + Shall twine with the chaplet of song for the brows<br /> + Of each fair Morvida, Llan Meilen’s sweet Rose.</p> +<p>Had the love I had loved been inconstant or gay,<br /> +Enduring at most but a long summer’s day,<br /> +Growing cold when the splendour of noontide hath set,<br /> +I might have forgotten that ever we met.<br /> + But long as Eryri its peak shall expose<br /> + To the sunshine of summer, or winter’s cold snows,<br /> + My love will endure for Llan Meilen’s sweet Rose.</p> +<p>Then bid me not, maiden, remember no more<br /> +A name which affection and love must adore,<br /> +’Till affection and love become one with the breath<br /> +Of life in the silent oblivion of death,<br /> + Perchance in that hour of the spirit’s repose,<br /> + But not until then, when the dark eyelids close,<br /> + Can this fond heart forget thee, Llan Meilen’s sweet +Rose.</p> +<h3><!-- page 116--><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>MY +NATIVE COT.</h3> +<p>The white cot where I spent my youth<br /> + Is on yon lofty mountain side,<br /> +The stream which flowed beside the door<br /> + Adown the mossy slope doth glide;<br /> +The holly tree that hid one end<br /> + Is shaken by the moaning wind,<br /> +Like as it was in days of yore<br /> + When ’neath its boughs I shade did find.</p> +<p>Clear is the sky of morning tide,<br /> + Bright is the season time of youth,<br /> +Before the mid-day clouds appear,<br /> + And fell deceit obliterates truth;<br /> +Black tempest in the evening lowers,<br /> + The rain descends with whirlwind force,<br /> +And long ere midnight’s hour nears<br /> + Full is the heart of deep remorse.</p> +<p>Where are my old companions dear,<br /> + Who in those days with me did play?<br /> +The green graves in the parish yard<br /> + Will soon the mournful answer say:<br /> +Farewell therefore ye pleasures light,<br /> + Which in my youth I did enjoy,<br /> +Dark evening’s come with all its trials,<br /> + And these the bliss of life destroy.</p> +<h3><!-- page 117--><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>UNDER +THE ORCHARD TREE.</h3> +<p>Under the deep-laden boughs of the orchard<br /> + Walks a maid that is fairer than all its rich fruit,<br /> +And little I doubt if I stood beneath them,<br /> + To which of the objects I’d offer my suit.<br /> +’Twas little I thought when I was a stripling<br /> + While gazing upon the apples so sweet,<br /> +I ever should see beneath the green branches<br /> + An object which yet I much sooner would greet.</p> +<p>Thy father was careful about his rich orchard,<br /> + To fence well and strong lest the neighbours should stray,<br /> +For now there doth, wander amid its green arbours<br /> + A maiden more lovely than aught in the way;<br /> +Its fruit I would leave to the one who may wish it,<br /> + But her, who moves so majestic between,<br /> +I’d steal from the orchard without a misgiving,<br /> + And never would touch its apples so green.</p> +<h3>THE BANKS OF THE DEE.</h3> +<p>One morning in May, when soft breezes were blowing<br /> + O’er Dee’s pleasant tide with a ripple and +swell,<br /> +A shepherdess tended her flock that was feeding<br /> + Upon the green meadows that lay in the dell,<br /> +Her blue eye she raised, and she looked all around her,<br /> + As if she’d fain see some one far on the lea,<br /> +And spite of its brightness, I saw the salt tear<br /> + For one who was far from the banks of the Dee.</p> +<p><!-- page 118--><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>The +maiden I thought was preparing to solace<br /> + Her stay with a song amid the fair scene,<br /> +Nor long was I left in suspense of her object,<br /> + Before she broke forth with a melody clean;<br /> +The tears she would wipe away with her napkin,<br /> + While often a sigh would escape from her breast,<br /> +And as she sent forth the notes of her mourning,<br /> + I could find that to love the lay was address’d:</p> +<p>“Four summers have pass’d since I lost my sweet William,<br /> + And from this fair valley he mournful did go;<br /> +Four autumns have shower’d their leaves on the meadows<br /> + Since he on these eyelids a smile did bestow;<br /> +Four winters have sped with their snowflakes and tempest<br /> + Since he by my side did sing a light glee;<br /> +But many more springs will be sown for the harvest<br /> + Ere William revisit the banks of the Dee.”</p> +<h3>GWILYM GLYN AND RUTH OF DYFFRYN.</h3> +<p>In the depth of yonder valley,<br /> +Where the fields are bright and sunny,<br /> +Ruth was nurtured fair and slender<br /> +Neath a mother’s eye so tender.</p> +<p>Listening to the thrush’s carols.<br /> +Was her pleasure in her gambols,<br /> +And ere she grew up a maiden<br /> +Gwilym’s voice was sweet in Dyffryn.</p> +<p>Together did they play in childhood,<br /> +Together ramble in the greenwood,<br /> +Together dance upon the meadow,<br /> +Together pluck the primrose yellow.</p> +<p><!-- page 119--><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>Both +grew up in youthful beauty<br /> +On the lap of peace and plenty,<br /> +And before they could discover<br /> +Love had linked its silent fetter.</p> +<p>Ruth had riches—not so Gwilym,<br /> +Her stern sire grew cold unto him,<br /> +And at length forbade him coming<br /> +Any more to visit Dyffryn.</p> +<p>Gwilym thence would roam the wild-wood,<br /> +Where he wander’d in his childhood,<br /> +And would shun his home and hamlet,<br /> +Pensive sitting in the thicket.</p> +<p>Ruth would, weeping, walk the garden,<br /> +And survey the blank horizon<br /> +For a passing glimpse of Gwilym—<br /> +But all vain her tears and wailing.</p> +<p>Gwilym said, “I’ll cross the ocean,<br /> +And abide among the heathen,<br /> +In the hope of getting riches,<br /> +Which alone the father pleases.”</p> +<p>But, before he left his country,<br /> +Once, by stealth, he met the lady,<br /> +And beneath the beech’s shadow<br /> +Vow’d undying love in sorrow.</p> +<p>Much the weeping—sad the sighing,<br /> +When they parted in the gloaming,<br /> +Gwilym for a distant region,<br /> +Ruth behind in desolation.</p> +<p>Time flew fast, and many a wooer<br /> +Came to Ruth an ardent lover;<br /> +But in vain they sought the maiden,<br /> +For she held her troth unbroken.</p> +<p><!-- page 120--><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>Owain +Wynn had wealth in plenty,<br /> +Earnest was his deep entreaty,<br /> +And tho’ favour’d by the father,<br /> +Yet all vain was his endeavour.</p> +<p>Years now pass’d since Ruth saw Gwilym,<br /> +But her dreams were always of him,<br /> +And tho’ morning undeceived her,<br /> +Nightly did she see him near.</p> +<p>One fair evening Ruth was sitting<br /> +In the spot of their last parting,<br /> +When she thought she saw her Gwilym<br /> +Cross the meadows green of Dyffryn.</p> +<p>Was it fact or apparition?<br /> +Slow she mov’d to test the vision,<br /> +Who was there but her own true love<br /> +Come to claim her in the green grove.</p> +<p>Gwilym now possessed abundance,<br /> +Gold and pearls displayed their radiance,<br /> +Soon the father gave him welcome<br /> +To his house and daughter handsome.</p> +<p>Quick the wedding-day was settled,<br /> +Ruth to Gwilym then was married,<br /> +Long they lived in bliss and plenty,<br /> +Pride and envy of the valley.</p> +<h3><!-- page 121--><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>THE +LORD OF CLAS.</h3> +<p>The Lord of Clâs to his hunting is gone,<br /> + Over plain and sedgy moor;<br /> +The glare of his bridle bit has shone<br /> + On the heights of wild Benmore.</p> +<p>Why does he stay away from hound?<br /> + Nor urge the fervid chase?<br /> +Where is the shrill blast of his bugle sound?<br /> + And the bloom of his radiant face?</p> +<p>The Lord of Clâs has found other game<br /> + Than the buck and timid roe;<br /> +His heart is warm’d by other flame,<br /> + His eyes with love-light glow.</p> +<p>On the mountain side a damsel he met<br /> + Collecting flowers wild;<br /> +Her eyes like diamonds were set,<br /> + And modest as a child.</p> +<p>Fair was her face, and lovely to see<br /> + Her form of slender mould,<br /> +Her dark hair waved in tresses free<br /> + On shoulders arch and bold.</p> +<p>The Lord of Clâs did blush and sigh<br /> + When the lovely maid he saw;<br /> +He stoutly tried to pass her by;<br /> + His bridle rein did draw.</p> +<p>But his heart quick flutter’d in his breast,<br /> + The rein fell from his hand,<br /> +In accents weak the maid address’d,<br /> + While trembling did he stand.</p> +<p><!-- page 122--><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>“Fair +lady, may I ask your name?<br /> + And what your purpose here?<br /> +From what bright homestead far you came?<br /> + And is your guardian near?”</p> +<p>Answer’d the maid with haughty mien,<br /> + That show’d her high estate:<br /> +“I know not, sir, why you should glean<br /> + Such knowledge as you prate.</p> +<p>I ask’d not your name, or whence you came?<br /> + Nor on you deign’d a look;<br /> +Wherefore should you my wrath inflame,<br /> + By taking me to book?”</p> +<p>The chieftain high was now subdu’d,<br /> + And lower’d was his crest;<br /> +With deep humility imbued<br /> + The maid he thus address’d:</p> +<p>“My lady fair, your beauteous mien<br /> + My heart has deep impress’d;<br /> +Altho’ I hear the chase so keen,<br /> + My thoughts with you do rest.</p> +<p>I did essay to pass your charms,<br /> + And spurr’d my steed to flight,<br /> +But your dazzling beauty numb’d my arms,<br /> + And chain’d me to your sight.</p> +<p>If I may humbly crave your love,<br /> + I’ll tell you my degree:<br /> +I am the Lord of yonder grove<br /> + And of this mountain free.</p> +<p>These broad lands will your dowry be,<br /> + If you my suit receive,<br /> +And ye shall urge the chase with me<br /> + From morn to winter eve.”</p> +<p><!-- page 123--><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>The +maid’s reply was firm, yet bland,<br /> + And in a calmer mood:<br /> +“I thank you, sir, for your offer’d hand,<br /> + With dowry large and good.</p> +<p>I thank you for all your praises fair,<br /> + And for your gallant grace;<br /> +Had we but met an earlier year<br /> + I might be Lady Clâs.</p> +<p>Behold this ring on my finger worn—<br /> + A token of plighted love;<br /> +Lo, he who plac’d it there this morn<br /> + Sits on yon cairn above.”</p> +<p>The chieftain look’d to the lonely cairn<br /> + And saw the Knight of Lleyn!<br /> +Like mountain deer he flew o’er the sarn,<br /> + And there no more was seen!</p> +<h3>THE ROSE OF THE GLEN.</h3> +<p>Although I’ve no money or treasure to give,<br /> +No palace or cottage wherein I may live,<br /> +Altho’ I can’t boast of high blood or degree,<br /> +Than all these my sweet Rose is dearer to me.</p> +<p>The lambs on the mountain are frisky and gay,<br /> +The birds in the forest are restless with play,<br /> +The maidens rejoice at the advent of spring,<br /> +Yet my fair Rose to me more enjoyment can bring.</p> +<h3><!-- page 124--><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>THE +MOUNTAIN GALLOWAY.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Madoc Mervyn</span>.</p> +<p>My tried and trusty mountain steed,<br /> +Of Aberteivi’s hardy breed,<br /> +Elate of spirit, low of flesh,<br /> +That sham’st thy kind of vallies fresh;<br /> +And three score miles and twelve a day<br /> +Hast sped, my gallant galloway.</p> +<p>Like a sea-boat, firm and tight,<br /> +Dancing on the ocean, light,<br /> +That the spirit of the wind<br /> +Actuates to heart and mind<br /> +Elastic, buoyant, proud, and gay,<br /> +Art thou, my mountain galloway.</p> +<p>Thou’st borne me, like a billow’s sweep,<br /> +O’er mountains high and vallies deep,<br /> +Oft drank at lake and waterfall,<br /> +Pass’d sunless gulfs whose glooms appall,<br /> +And shudder’d oft at ocean’s spray,<br /> +Where breakers roar’d, destruction lay.</p> +<p>And thou hast snuff’d sulphureous fumes<br /> +’Mid rural nature’s charnel tombs;<br /> +Thou hast sped with eye unscar’d<br /> +Where Merthyr’s fields of fire flar’d;<br /> +And thou wert dauntless on thy way,<br /> +My faithful mountain galloway.</p> +<p>There is a vale, ’tis far away,<br /> +But we must reach that vale to-day;<br /> +There is a mansion in that vale,<br /> +Its white walls well the eye regale!<br /> +And there’s a hand more white they say,<br /> +Shall pat my gallant galloway.</p> +<p><!-- page 125--><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>And +she is young, and she is fair,<br /> +The lovely one who sojourns there;<br /> +Oh, truly dear is she to me!<br /> +As thou art mine, she’ll welcome thee:<br /> +Then off we go, at break of day,<br /> +On, on! my gallant galloway.</p> +<h3>GLAN GEIRIONYDD.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">From the Rev. Evan Evans</span>.</p> +<p>One time upon a summer day<br /> + I saunter’d on the shore<br /> +Of swift Geirionydd’s waters blue,<br /> + Where oft I walked before<br /> +In youth’s bright season gone,<br /> + And spent life’s happiest morn<br /> +In drawing from its crystal waves<br /> + The trout beneath the thorn,<br /> +When every thought within my breast<br /> + Was light as solar ray,<br /> +Enjoying every pastime dear<br /> + Throughout the livelong day.</p> +<p>The breeze would soften on the lake,<br /> + Unruffled be its deep,<br /> +And all surrounding nature be<br /> + As calm as silent sleep,<br /> +Except the raven’s dismal shriek<br /> + Upon the lofty spray,<br /> +And bleat of sheep beside the bush<br /> + Where light their lambkins play,<br /> +And noise made by the busy mill<br /> + Upon the river shore,<br /> +With cuckoo’s song perch’d in the ash<br /> + To show that winter’s o’er.</p> +<p>The impressive scene would rather tend<br /> + To nurse reflection deep,<br /> +<!-- page 126--><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>Than +cast the gay and sprightly fly<br /> + Beneath the rocky steep;<br /> +’Twould fill my spirit now subdued<br /> + With sober earnest thought,<br /> +Of other days, and other things,<br /> + My youthful hands had wrought;<br /> +The tears would spring into my eyes,<br /> + My heart with heaving fill,<br /> +To think of all that I had been,<br /> + And all that I am still.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>The sober stillness would beget<br /> + Thoughts of departed friends,<br /> +Who not long since companions were<br /> + Upon the river’s bends;<br /> +And soon will come the sombre day<br /> + When I shall meet their doom,<br /> +And ’stead of fishing by the lake,<br /> + I shall be in the tomb.<br /> +Some brother bard may chance to stray<br /> + And ask for Ieuan E’an?—<br /> +“Geirionydd lake is still the same,<br /> + But here no Ieuan’s seen.”</p> +<h3>THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD AFTER ITS FATHER’S DEATH.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By the Rev. Daniel Evans</span>, B.D.</p> +<p>My gentle child, thou dost not know<br /> +Why still on thee I am gazing so,<br /> +And trace in meditation deep<br /> +Thy features fair in silent sleep.</p> +<p>Thy mien, my babe, so full of grace,<br /> +Reminds me of thy father’s face;<br /> +Although he rests beneath the tree,<br /> +His features all survive in thee.</p> +<p><!-- page 127--><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>Thou +knowest not, my gentle child,<br /> +The deep remorse that makes me wild,<br /> +Nor why sometimes I can’t bestow<br /> +A smile for smile when thine doth glow.</p> +<p>Thy father, babe, lies in the clay,<br /> +Lock’d in the tomb, his prison gray;<br /> +And yet methinks he still doth live,<br /> +When on thy face a glance I give.</p> +<p>And dost thou smile, my baby fair,<br /> +Before my face so pale with care?<br /> +What for the world and its deceit,<br /> +With myriad snares for youthful feet?</p> +<p>These are before thee, while the aid<br /> +Of father’s counsel is deep laid;<br /> +And soon thy mother wan may find<br /> +A last home there—and thou behind.</p> +<p>Thy sad condition then will be<br /> +Like some lone flower upon the lea,<br /> +Without a cover from the wind,<br /> +Or winter’s hail and snow unkind.</p> +<p>But smile thou on—in heaven above<br /> +Thy father lives, and He is love;<br /> +He knows thy lot, and well doth care<br /> +For all, and for thee will prepare.</p> +<p>If through His help, Jehovah good!<br /> +Thou smilest now in blissful mood;<br /> +May I not think, safe in His hand<br /> +Thou mayest travel through this land?</p> +<p>Smile on, my child, for thou wilt find<br /> +In Him a friend and father kind;<br /> +He’ll guide the orphan on his way,<br /> +Nor ever will his trust betray.</p> +<p>At last in the eternal land<br /> +We all shall meet a joyous band,<br /> +Without ought danger more to part,<br /> +Or tear or sigh to heave the heart.</p> +<h3><!-- page 128--><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>WOMAN.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Rev. Daniel Evans</span>, B.D.</p> +<p>Gentle Woman! thou most perfect<br /> +Work of the Divine Architect;<br /> +Pearl and beauty of creation,<br /> +Rose of earth by all confession.</p> +<p>Myriad times thy smiles are sweeter<br /> +Than the morning sun doth scatter,<br /> +All the loveliness of Nature<br /> +Into thee almost doth enter.</p> +<p>The rose’s hues and of the lily,<br /> +Verdant spring in all its beauty,<br /> +Brighter yet among the flowers<br /> +Is fair woman in her bowers.</p> +<p>As the water fills the river,<br /> +Full of feeling is her temper,<br /> +And her love, once it doth settle,<br /> +Truer than the steel its mettle.</p> +<p>Full of tenderness her bosom,<br /> +Deep affection there doth blossom,<br /> +Gentle Woman! who can wonder<br /> +After thee man’s heart doth wander?</p> +<p>I have seen without emotion<br /> +Fields of blood and desolation,<br /> +But I never saw the tear<br /> +On woman’s eye and mine not water.</p> +<p>From her lips a word of soothing<br /> +Will disarm all angry feeling,<br /> +On her tongue a balm of comfort,<br /> +Great its virtue, strong its support.</p> +<p><!-- page 129--><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>Pleasant +is it for the traveller<br /> +On his way to meet with succour,<br /> +Sweeter far when at his own home,<br /> +To receive fair woman’s welcome.</p> +<p>Woman cheerful in a family<br /> +Makes the group around so happy,<br /> +And her voice filled with affection,<br /> +Yields an Eden of communion.</p> +<p>Poor the man that roams creation<br /> +Without woman for companion,<br /> +Destitute of all protection,<br /> +Without her to bless his station.</p> +<p>Gentle Woman! all we covet<br /> +Without thee would be but wretched,<br /> +Without thy voice to banish sorrow,<br /> +Or sweet help from thee to borrow.</p> +<p>Thou art light to cheer our progress,<br /> +Star to brighten all our darkness,<br /> +For the troubled soul an anchor<br /> +On each stormy sea of terror.</p> +<h3>THE FAITHFUL MAIDEN.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Rev. Daniel Evans</span>, B.D.</p> +<p>At the dawning of day on a morning in May,<br /> +When the birds through the forests were skipping so gay;<br /> +While crossing the churchyard of a parish remote,<br /> +In a district of Cambria, whose name I don’t note:</p> +<p>I saw a fair maiden so rich in attire,<br /> +Second but to an angel her mien did appear;<br /> +Quick were her footsteps in tripping the sand,<br /> +And flowers resplendent were borne in her hand.</p> +<p><!-- page 130--><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>I +fled to concealment that I might best learn<br /> +Her object and wish in a place so forlorn,<br /> +Without a companion—so early the hour—<br /> +For a region so gloomy thus leaving her bower.</p> +<p>Anon she advanced to a new tomb that lay<br /> +By the churchyard path, and there kneeling did stay,<br /> +While she planted the flowers with hands so clear,<br /> +And her looks were replete of meekness and fear.</p> +<p>The tears she would dry from eyelids fair<br /> +With a napkin so snow-white its hue and so rare;<br /> +And I heard a voice, that sadden’d my mind,<br /> +While it smote the breeze with words of this kind:—</p> +<p>“Here lieth in peace and quiet the one<br /> +I loved as dear as the soul of my own;<br /> +But death did us part to my endless woe,<br /> +Just when each to the other his hand would bestow.</p> +<p>Here resteth from turmoil, and sorrow to be,<br /> +The whole that in this world was precious to me;<br /> +Grow sweetly, ye flowers! and fair on his tomb,<br /> +Altho’ you’ll ne’er rival his beauty and bloom.</p> +<p>He erst received from me gifts that were more dear,<br /> +My hand for a promise—and a lock of my hair,<br /> +With total concurrence my portion to bear<br /> +Of his weal or his woe, whether cloudy or fair.</p> +<p>While sitting beside him how great my content,<br /> +In this place where my heart is evermore bent;<br /> +If I should e’er travel the wide globe around,<br /> +To this as their centre my thoughts would rebound.</p> +<p>Altho’ from the earth thou dost welcome nor chide,<br /> +Nor smilest as once thou didst smile on thy bride;<br /> +And yet my beloved! ’tis comfort to me,<br /> +To sit but a moment so near to thee.</p> +<p><!-- page 131--><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>Thy +eyes bright and tender my mind now doth see,<br /> +And remembers thy speech like the honey to me;<br /> +Thy grave I’ll embrace though the whole world beheld,<br /> +That all may attest the love we once held.”</p> +<h3>THE EWE.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By rev. Daniel Evans</span>, B.D.</p> +<p>So artless art thou, gentle ewe!<br /> + Thy aspect kindles feeling;<br /> +And every bosom doth bedew,<br /> + Each true affection stealing.</p> +<p>Thou hast no weapon of aught kind<br /> + Against thy foes to combat;<br /> +No horn or hoof the dog to wound<br /> + That worries thee so steadfast.</p> +<p>No, nought hast thou but feeble flight,<br /> + Therein thy only refuge;<br /> +And every cur within thy sight<br /> + Is swifter since the deluge.</p> +<p>And when thy lambkin weak doth fail,<br /> + Tho’ often called to follow,<br /> +Thy best protection to the frail<br /> + Wilt give through death or sorrow.</p> +<p>Against the ground her foot will beat,<br /> + Devoutly pure her purpose;<br /> +Full many a time the sight thus meet<br /> + Brought tears to me in billows.</p> +<p>But if wise nature did not give<br /> + To her sharp tooth or weapon,<br /> +She compensation doth receive<br /> + From human aid and reason.</p> +<p><!-- page 132--><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 132</span>She +justly has from man support<br /> + ’Gainst wounds and tribulation;<br /> +And has the means without distort<br /> + To yield him retribution.</p> +<p>Yea, of more value is her gift<br /> + Than priceless mines of silver<br /> +Or gold which from the depth they lift<br /> + Through India’s distant border.</p> +<p>To man she gives protection strong<br /> + From winds and tempests howling,<br /> +From pelting rain, and snow-drifts long,<br /> + When storms above are beating.</p> +<p>The mantle warm o’er us the night<br /> + Throughout the dismal shadows;<br /> +What makes our hearts so free and light?<br /> + What but the sheep so precious!</p> +<p>Then let us not the Ewe forget<br /> + When winter bleak doth hover;<br /> +When rains descend—and we safe set—<br /> + Let us be grateful to her.</p> +<p>Her cloak to us is comfort great<br /> + When by the ditch she trembles;<br /> +Let us then give her the best beat<br /> + For her abode and rambles.</p> +<h3><!-- page 133--><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>THE +SONG OF THE FISHERMAN’S WIFE.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Rev. John Blackwell</span>, B.A.</p> +<p>Restless wave! be still and quiet,<br /> +Do not heed the wind and freshet,<br /> +Nature wide is now fast sleeping,<br /> +Why art thou so live and stirring?<br /> +All commotion now is ending,<br /> +Why not thou thy constant rolling?</p> +<p>Rest thou sea! upon thy bosom<br /> +Is one from whom my thoughts are seldom,<br /> +Not his lot it is to idle,<br /> +But to work while he is able;<br /> +Be kind to him, ocean billow!<br /> +Sleep upon thy sandy pillow!</p> +<p>Wherefore should’st thou still be swelling?<br /> +Why not cease thy restless heaving?<br /> +There’s no wind to stir the bushes,<br /> +And all still the mountain breezes:<br /> +Be thou calm until the morning<br /> +When he’ll shelter in the offing.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Deaf art thou to my entreaty,<br /> +Ocean vast! and without mercy.<br /> +I will turn to Him who rules thee,<br /> +And can still thy fiercest eddy:<br /> +Take Thou him to Thy protection<br /> +Keep him from the wave’s destruction!</p> +<h3><!-- page 134--><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 134</span>THE +WITHERED LEAF.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Rev. John Blackwell</span>, B.A.</p> +<p>Dry the leaf above the stubble,<br /> +Soon ’twill fall into the bramble,<br /> +But the mind receives a lesson<br /> +From the leaf when it has fallen.</p> +<p>Once it flourished in deep verdure,<br /> +Bright its aspect in the arbour,<br /> +Beside myriad of companions,<br /> +Once it danc’d in gay rotations.</p> +<p>Now its bloom is gone for ever,<br /> +’Neath the morning dew doth totter,<br /> +Sun or moon, or breezes balmy<br /> +Can’t restore its verdant beauty.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Short its glory! soon it faded,<br /> +One day’s joy, and then it ended;<br /> +Heaven declared its task was over,<br /> +It then fell, and that for ever.</p> +<h3>SAD DIED THE MAIDEN.</h3> +<p>Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew<br /> + The anguish she felt in expiring,<br /> +The moonbeams were weeping the evening dew<br /> + When the life of the Maiden was sinking.</p> +<p>Sad died the Maiden! beside the fast door,<br /> + With her head resting low on the flagging,<br /> +And the raindrops froze as they fell in store<br /> + On a bosom that lately was bleeding.</p> +<p><!-- page 135--><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>She +died on the sill of her father’s dear home,<br /> + From which he had forc’d her to wander,<br /> +While her clear white hands were trying to roam<br /> + In search of the latch and warm shelter.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>She died! and her end will for ever reveal<br /> + A father devoid of affection,<br /> +While her green grave will always testify well<br /> + To the strength of love and devotion.</p> +<h3>THE WORLD AND THE SEA: A COMPARISON.</h3> +<p>Like the world and its dread changes<br /> +Is the ocean when it rages,<br /> +Sometimes full and sometimes shallow,<br /> +Sometimes green and sometimes yellow.</p> +<p>Salt the sea to all who drink it,<br /> +Bitter is the world in spirit,<br /> +Deep the sea to all who fathom,<br /> +Deep the world and without bottom.</p> +<p>Unsupporting in his danger<br /> +Is the sea unto the sailor,<br /> +Less sustaining to the traveller<br /> +Is the world through which he’ll wander.</p> +<p>Full the sea of rocky places,<br /> +Shoals and quicksands in its mazes,<br /> +Full the world of sore temptation<br /> +Charged with sorrow and destruction.</p> +<h3><!-- page 136--><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 136</span>THE +POOR MAN’S GRAVE.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By the Rev. J. Emlym Jones</span>, M.A., LL.D.</p> +<p>’Neath the yew tree’s gloomy branches,<br /> + Rears a mound its verdant head,<br /> +As if to receive the riches<br /> + Which the dew of heaven doth spread;<br /> +Many a foot doth inconsiderate<br /> + Tread upon the humble pile,<br /> +And doth crush the turf so ornate:—<br /> + That’s the Poor Man’s Grave the while.</p> +<p>The paid servants of the Union<br /> + Followed mute his last remains,<br /> +Piling the earth in fast confusion,<br /> + Without sigh, or tear or pains;<br /> +After anguish and privation,<br /> + Here at last his troubles cease,<br /> +Quiet refuge from oppression<br /> + Is the Poor Man’s Grave of peace.</p> +<p>The tombstone rude with two initials,<br /> + Carved upon its smoother side,<br /> +By a helpmate of his trials,<br /> + Is now split and sunder’d wide;<br /> +And when comes the Easter Sunday,<br /> + There is neither friend nor kin<br /> +To bestow green leaves or nosegay<br /> + On the Poor Man’s Grave within.</p> +<p>Nor doth the muse above his ashes<br /> + Sing a dirge or mourn his end,<br /> +And ere long time’s wasting gashes<br /> + Will the mound in furrows rend:<br /> +Level with the earth all traces,<br /> + Hide him in oblivion deep;<br /> +Yet, for this, God’s angel watches,<br /> + O’er the Poor Man’s Grave doth weep.</p> +<h3><!-- page 137--><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>THE +BARD’S LONG-TRIED AFFECTION FOR MORFYDD.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Dafydd ap Gwilym</span>.</p> +<p>All my lifetime I have been<br /> +Bard to Morfydd, “golden mien!”<br /> +I have loved beyond belief,<br /> +Many a day to love and grief<br /> +For her sake have been a prey,<br /> +Who has on the moon’s array!<br /> +Pledged my truth from youth will now<br /> +To the girl of glossy brow.<br /> +Oh, the light her features wear,<br /> +Like the tortured torrent’s glare!<br /> +Oft by love bewildered quite,<br /> +Have my aching feet all night<br /> +Stag-like tracked the forest shade<br /> +For the foam-complexioned maid,<br /> +Whom with passion firm and gay<br /> +I adored ’mid leaves of May!<br /> +’Mid a thousand I could tell<br /> +One elastic footstep well!<br /> +I could speak to one sweet maid—<br /> +(Graceful figure!)—by her shade.<br /> +I could recognize till death,<br /> +One sweet maiden by her breath!<br /> +From the nightingale could learn<br /> +Where she tarries to discern;<br /> +There his noblest music swells<br /> +Through the portals of the dells!</p> +<p> <!-- page 138--><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 138</span>When +I am from her away,<br /> +I have neither laugh nor lay!<br /> +Neither soul nor sense is left,<br /> +I am half of mind bereft;<br /> +When she comes, with grief I part,<br /> +And am altogether heart!<br /> +Songs inspired, like flowing wine,<br /> +Rush into this mind of mine;<br /> +Sense enough again comes back<br /> +To direct me in my track!<br /> +Not one hour shall I be gay,<br /> +Whilst my Morfydd is away!</p> +<h3>THE GROVE OF BROOM.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Dafydd ap Gwilym</span>.</p> +<p>The girl of nobler loveliness<br /> +Than countess decked in golden dress,<br /> +No longer dares to give her plight<br /> +To meet the bard at dawn or night!<br /> +To the blythe moon he may not bear<br /> +The maid, whose cheeks the daylight wear—<br /> +She fears to answer to his call<br /> +At midnight, underneath yon wall—<br /> +Nor can he find a birchen bower<br /> +To screen her in the morning hour;<br /> +And thus the summer days are fleeting<br /> +Away, without the lovers meeting!<br /> +But stay! my eyes a bower behold,<br /> +Where maid and poet yet may meet,<br /> +Its branches are arrayed in gold,<br /> +Its boughs the sight in winter greet<br /> +With hues as bright, with leaves as green,<br /> +As summer scatters o’er the scene.<br /> +(To lure the maiden) from that brake,<br /> +For her a vesture I will make,<br /> +<!-- page 139--><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>Bright +as the ship of glass of yore,<br /> +That Merddin o’er the ocean bore;<br /> +O’er Dyfed’s hills there was a veil<br /> +In ancient days—(so runs the tale);<br /> +And such a canopy to me<br /> +This court, among the woods, shall be;<br /> +Where she, my heart adores, shall reign,<br /> +The princess of the fair domain.</p> +<p> To her, and to her poet’s eyes,<br /> +This arbour seems a paradise;<br /> +Its every branch is deftly strung<br /> +With twigs and foliage lithe and young,<br /> +And when May comes upon the trees<br /> +To paint her verdant liveries,<br /> +Gold on each threadlike sprig will glow,<br /> +To honour her who reigns below.<br /> +Green is that arbour to behold,<br /> +And on its withes thick showers of gold!<br /> +Joy to the poet and the maid,<br /> +Whose paradise is yonder shade!<br /> +Oh! flowers of noblest splendour, these<br /> +Are summer’s frost-work on the trees!<br /> +A field the lovers now possess,<br /> +With saffron o’er its verdure roll’d,<br /> +A house of passing loveliness,<br /> +A fabric of Arabia’s gold—<br /> +Bright golden tissue, glorious tent,<br /> +Of him who rules the firmament,<br /> +With roof of various colours blent!<br /> +An angel, ’mid the woods of May,<br /> +Embroidered it with radiance gay—<br /> +That gossamer with gold bedight—<br /> +Those fires of God—those gems of light!<br /> +’Tis sweet those magic bowers to find,<br /> +With the fair vineyards intertwined;<br /> +Amid the wood their jewels rise,<br /> +Like gleams of starlight o’er the skies—<br /> +Like golden bullion, glorious prize!<br /> +How sweet the flowers which deck that floor,<br /> +<!-- page 140--><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>In +one unbroken glory blended—<br /> +Those glittering branches hovering o’er—<br /> +Veil by an angel’s hand extended.<br /> +Oh! if my love will come, her bard<br /> +Will, with his case, her footsteps guard,<br /> +There, where no stranger dares to pry,<br /> +Beneath yon Broom’s green canopy!</p> +<h3>ADDRESS TO A BIRCH TREE,</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">that had been converted into a may-pole in the +town of llanidloes, in montgomeryshire</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">By Dafydd ap Gwilym</span>.</p> +<p>Ah! birch tree, with the verdant locks,<br /> +And reckless mind—long hast thou been<br /> +A wand’rer from thy native rocks;<br /> +With canopy of tissue green,<br /> +And stem that ’mid the sylvan scene<br /> +A sceptre of the forest stood—<br /> +Thou art a traitress to the wood!<br /> +How oft, in May’s short nights of old,<br /> +To my love-messenger and me<br /> +Thou didst a couch of leaves unfold!<br /> +Thou wert a house of melody,—<br /> +Proud music soared from every bough;<br /> +Ah! those who loved thee sorrow now!<br /> +Thy living branches teemed and rang<br /> +With every song the woodlands know,<br /> +And every woodland flow’ret sprang<br /> +To life—thy spreading tent below.<br /> +Proud guardian of the public way,<br /> +Such wert thou, while thou didst obey<br /> +The counsel of my beauteous bride—<br /> +And in thy native grove reside!<br /> +But now thy stem is mute and dark,<br /> +No more by lady’s reverence cheered;<br /> +<!-- page 141--><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 141</span>Rent +from its trunk, torn from its park,<br /> +The luckless tree again is reared—<br /> +(Small sign of honour or of grace!)<br /> +To mark the parish market-place!<br /> +Long as St. Idloes’ town shall be<br /> +A patroness of poesy—<br /> +Long as its hospitality<br /> +The bard shall freely entertain,<br /> +My birch! thy lofty stature shall remain!</p> +<h3>THE HOLLY GROVE.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Dafydd ap Gwilym</span>.</p> +<p>Sweet holly grove, that soarest<br /> +A woodland fort, an armed bower!<br /> +In front of all the forest<br /> +Thy coral-loaded branches tower.<br /> +Thou shrine of love, whose depth defies<br /> +The axe—the tempest of the skies;<br /> +Whose boughs in winter’s frost display<br /> +The brilliant livery of May!<br /> +Grove from the precipice suspended,<br /> +Like pillars of some holy fane;<br /> +With notes amid thy branches blended,<br /> +Like the deep organ’s solemn strain.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>House of the birds of Paradise,<br /> +Round fane impervious to the skies;<br /> +On whose green roof two nights of rain<br /> +May fiercely beat and beat in vain!<br /> +I know thy leaves are ever scathless;<br /> +The hardened steel as soon will blight;<br /> +When every grove and hill are pathless<br /> +With frosts of winter’s lengthened night,<br /> +No goat from Hafren’s <a name="citation141"></a><a href="#footnote141">{141}</a> +banks I ween,<br /> +From thee a scanty meal may glean!<br /> +<!-- page 142--><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>Though +Spring’s bleak wind with clamour launches<br /> +His wrath upon thy iron spray;<br /> +Armed holly tree! from thy firm branches<br /> +He will not wrest a tithe away!<br /> +Chapel of verdure, neatly wove,<br /> +Above the summit of the grove!</p> +<h3>THE SWAN.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Dafydd ap Gwilym</span>.</p> +<p>Thou swan, upon the waters bright,<br /> +In lime-hued vest, like abbot white!<br /> +Bird of the spray, to whom is giv’n<br /> +The raiment of the men of heav’n;<br /> +Bird of broad hand, in youth’s proud age,<br /> +Syvaddon was thy heritage!<br /> +Two gifts in thee, fair bird, unite<br /> +To glean the fish in yonder lake,<br /> +And bending o’er yon hills thy flight<br /> +A glance at earth and sea to take.<br /> +Oh! ’tis a noble task to ride<br /> +The billows countless as the snow;<br /> +Thy long fair neck (thou thing of pride!)<br /> +Thy hook to catch the fish below;<br /> +Thou guardian of the fountain head,<br /> +By which Syvaddon’s waves are fed!<br /> +Above the dingle’s rugged streams,<br /> +Intensely white thy raiment gleams;<br /> +Thy shirt like crystal tissue seems;<br /> +Thy doublet, and thy waistcoat bright,<br /> +Like thousand lilies meet the sight;<br /> +Thy jacket is of the white rose,<br /> +Thy gown the woodbine’s flow’rs compose, <a name="citation142"></a><a href="#footnote142">{142}</a><br /> +Thou glory of the birds of air,<br /> +Thou bird of heav’n, oh, hear my pray’r!<br /> +<!-- page 143--><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>And +visit in her dwelling place<br /> +The lady of illustrious race:<br /> +Haste on an embassy to her,<br /> +My kind white-bosomed messenger—<br /> +Upon the waves thy course begin,<br /> +And then at Cemaes take to shore;<br /> +And there through all the land explore,<br /> +For the bright maid of Talyllyn,<br /> +The lady fair as the moon’s flame,<br /> +And call her “Paragon” by name;<br /> +The chamber of the beauty seek,<br /> +And mount with footsteps slow and meek;<br /> +Salute her, and to her reveal<br /> +The cares and agonies I feel—<br /> +And in return bring to my ear<br /> +Message of hope, my heart to cheer!<br /> +Oh, may no danger hover near<br /> +(Bird of majestic head) thy flight!<br /> +Thy service I will well requite!</p> +<h3>MAY AND NOVEMBER.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Dafydd ap Gwilym</span>.</p> +<p>Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves<br /> +Thy hand for thy wild band of choristers weaves;<br /> +Proud knight, that subduest with glory and power,<br /> +Each glen into verdure, to joy every bower;<br /> +That makest the wilderness laugh and rejoice,<br /> +In the chains of thy love, in thy cuckoo’s shrill voice;<br /> +That fillest the heart of the lover with glee,<br /> +And bringest my Morfydd’s dear image to me.</p> +<p> Alas! that dark Winter thy mansions should blight,<br /> +With his chill mottled show’rs, and his flickering light,<br /> +His moon that gleams wanly through snows falling fast,<br /> +His pale mist that floats on the wings of the blast:<br /> +With the voice of each river more fearfully loud—<br /> +Every torrent all foam, and the heaven all cloud!<br /> +Alas! that stern Winter has power to divide<br /> +Each lover from hope—from the poet his bride.</p> +<h3><!-- page 144--><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 144</span>THE +CUCKOO’S TALE.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Dafydd ap Gwilym</span>.</p> +<p>Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav’n is thy home;<br /> +With the tidings of summer thy bright pinions roam—<br /> +The summer that thickens with foliage the glade,<br /> +And lures to the woodland the poet and maid.<br /> +Sweet as “sack,” gentle bird, is thy beautiful voice,<br /> +In thy accents the lover must ever rejoice:<br /> +Oh! tell me at once, in thy musical lay,<br /> +Where tarries the girl whose behest I obey.</p> +<p>“Poor bard,” said the cuckoo, “what anguish and +pain<br /> +Hast thou stored for thyself, all thy cares are in vain,<br /> +All hopes of the maid thou awaitest resign,<br /> +She has wedded another, and ne’er can be thine.”</p> +<p>“For the tale thou hast told”—to the cuckoo I cried,<br /> +“For thus singing to me of my beautiful bride<br /> +These strains of thy malice—may winter appear<br /> +And dim the sun’s light—stay the summer’s career;<br /> +With frost all the leaves of the forest boughs fill,<br /> +And wither the woods with his desolate chill,<br /> +And with cold in the midst of thy own forest spray,<br /> +Take thy life and thy song, foolish cuckoo, away!”</p> +<h3><!-- page 145--><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>DAFYDD +AP GWILYM’S ADDRESS TO MORFYDD AFTER SHE MARRIED HIS RIVAL.</h3> +<p>Too long I’ve loved the fickle maid,<br /> +My love is turned to grief and pain;<br /> +In vain delusive hopes I stray’d,<br /> +Through days that ne’er will dawn again;<br /> +And she, in beauty like the dawn,<br /> +From me has now her heart withdrawn!<br /> +A constant suitor—on her ear<br /> +My sweetest melodies I pour’d;<br /> +Where’er she wander’d I was near;<br /> +For her whose face my soul ador’d<br /> +My wealth I madly spent in wine,<br /> +And gorgeous jewels of the mine.<br /> +I deck’d her arms with lovely chains,<br /> +With bracelets wove of slender gold;<br /> +I sang her charms in varied strains,<br /> +Her praise to every minstrel told:<br /> +The bards of distant Keri know<br /> +That she is spotless as the snow.<br /> +These proofs of love I hoped might bind<br /> +My Morfydd to be ever true:<br /> +Alas! to deep despair consign’d,<br /> +My bosom’s blighted hopes I rue,<br /> +And the base craft that gave her charms,<br /> +Oh, anguish! to another’s arms!</p> +<h2><!-- page 149--><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>PART +VI. THE RELIGIOUS.</h2> +<h3>FROM THE HYMNS OF THE REV. WILLIAM WILLIAMS, PANTYCELYN.</h3> +<p>[The Reverend William Williams, styled of “Pantycelyn,” +a tenement which he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish +of Llanfair-on-the-hill, in Carmarthenshire, in the year 1717. +He was educated for the ministry, and appointed to the Curacy of Llanwrtyd +and Abergwesyn, in Breconshire, in 1740. After serving for about +three years he became a convert to the Welsh Puritanism of the period, +introduced by the eloquence and piety of the Revs. Daniel Rowlands of +Llangeitho, and Howel Harris of Trevecca, both theretofore eminent ministers +of the Established Church, with whom he became a successful co-operator, +not only as an eloquent preacher, but especially as the most celebrated +Hymnist of Wales. This eminent man died in 1791, and his hymns +were published by his son in 1811, and Mr. Mackenzie, of Glasgow, issued +a superb edition of his works with biography in 1868.]</p> +<p>Hasten, Israel! from the desert<br /> + After tarrying there so long,<br /> +Milk and honey, wine and welcome<br /> + Wait you ’mong the ransom’d throng;<br /> +Wear your arms, advance to warfare,<br /> + Onward go, and bravely fight,<br /> +Fair the land, and there shall lead you<br /> + Cloud by day and flame by night.</p> +<p>Babel’s waters are so bitter,<br /> + There is nought but weeping still,<br /> +Zion’s harps, so sweet and tuneful,<br /> + Do my heart with rapture fill:<br /> +Bring thou us a joyful gathering<br /> + From the dread captivity,<br /> +And until on Zion’s mountain<br /> + Let there be no rest for me.</p> +<p><!-- page 150--><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>In +this land I am a stranger,<br /> + Yonder is my native home,<br /> +Far beyond the stormy billows,<br /> + Where the flowers of Canaan bloom:<br /> +Tempests wild from sore temptation<br /> + Did my vessel long detain,<br /> +Speed, ye gentle southern breezes,<br /> + Aid me soon to cross the main.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Jesus—thou my only pleasure,<br /> + Naught like thee this world contains;<br /> +In thy name is greater treasure,<br /> + Than in India’s golden plains;<br /> + And this treasure,<br /> + Jesus’ love for me obtains.</p> +<p>Jesus, lovely is the aspect<br /> + Of thy gracious face divine;<br /> +Eye hath seen no fairer object,<br /> + On this beauteous world of thine,<br /> + Rose of Sharon,<br /> + Heaven’s glories in thee shine.</p> +<p>Jesus, shield from sin’s dark errors,<br /> + Name which every foe o’ercomes;<br /> +Death, the dreaded king of terrors,<br /> + Death itself to thee succumbs.<br /> + Thou hast conquered,<br /> + Joyful praise my soul becomes.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Fix, O Lord, a tent in Goshen,<br /> + Thither come and there abide,<br /> +Bow thyself from light celestial,<br /> + And with sinful man reside.<br /> +Dwell in Zion, there continue,<br /> + Where the holy tribes ascend;<br /> +Do not e’er desert thy people,<br /> + Till the world in flames shall end.</p> +<p><!-- page 151--><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 151</span>I +am through the lone night waiting,<br /> + For the dawning of the day;<br /> +When my prison door is opened,<br /> + When my fetters fall away;<br /> + O come quickly,<br /> + Happy day of jubilee.</p> +<p>Let me still be meekly wakeful,<br /> + Trusting that to all my woes,<br /> +By thy mighty hand, Redeemer,<br /> + Shall be given a speedy close;<br /> + Keep me watching,<br /> + For the joyful jubilee.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>O’er the gloomy hills of darkness,<br /> + Look, my soul, be still and gaze;<br /> +All the promises do travail,<br /> + With a glorious day of grace;<br /> + Blessed jubilee,<br /> + May thy morning dawn apace.</p> +<p>Let the Indian, let the Negro,<br /> + Let the rude Barbarian see<br /> +That divine and Godlike conquest,<br /> + Once obtained on Calvary;<br /> + Let the gospel,<br /> + Loud resound from pole to pole.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Kingdoms wide, that sit in darkness,<br /> + Grant them, Lord, the saving light;<br /> +And from eastern coast to western,<br /> + May the morning chase the night;<br /> + Pouring radiance,<br /> + As if one day sevenfold bright.</p> +<p><!-- page 152--><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 152</span>Blessed +Saviour, spread thy gospel,<br /> + Ride and conquer, never cease;<br /> +May thy wide, thy vast dominions,<br /> + Multiply and still increase;<br /> + Sway thy sceptre,<br /> + Saviour, all the world around.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>O’er the earth, in every nation,<br /> + Reign, Jehovah, in each place;<br /> +Take all kingdoms in possession,<br /> + Heathen darkness thence displace;<br /> + Fill each people,<br /> + Sun of Righteousness, with grace.</p> +<p>Oh! ye heralds of salvation,<br /> + Jesus’ mercy far proclaim;<br /> +Bear, ye seas, the sacred mission,<br /> + Till the pagan bless his name;<br /> + Let the gospel<br /> + Fly on wings of heavenly flame.</p> +<p>Let all those in deserts dwelling,<br /> + All on hills—in dales around,<br /> +Those who live ’midst oceans swelling,<br /> + Jesus’ glorious praises sound;<br /> + Till the echo<br /> + Of his name the world surround.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Ride in triumph, holy Saviour,<br /> + Go and conquer o’er the land;<br /> +Earth and hell, with all their forces,<br /> + Now before thee cannot stand;<br /> +At the radiance of thy glory,<br /> + Every foe must flee away;<br /> +All creation thrills with terror<br /> + Under thine eternal sway.</p> +<p><!-- page 153--><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>Aid +me, Lord, always to tarry<br /> + In my Father’s courts below;<br /> +Live in light divine and glorious,<br /> + Without darkness, without woe;<br /> +Live without the sun’s departure,<br /> + Live without a cloud or pain;<br /> +Live on Jesus’ love unconquer’d,<br /> + Who on Calvary was slain.</p> +<p>Let me view the great atonement,<br /> + And the kingdom that is mine,<br /> +Which thy blood hath purchased for me,<br /> + Sealed also as divine;<br /> +Let me daily strive to find it,<br /> + Let this be my chief employ;<br /> +On my way I ask no favour<br /> + But thy presence to enjoy.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Great Redeemer, Friend of sinners,<br /> + Thou hast glorious power to save,<br /> +Grant me light and still conduct me<br /> + Over each tempestuous wave;<br /> +May my soul with sacred transport<br /> + View the dawn while yet afar,<br /> +And until the sun arises,<br /> + Lead me by the morning star.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>O what madness, O what folly,<br /> + That my thoughts should go astray,<br /> +After toys and empty pleasures,<br /> + Pleasures only for a day;<br /> +This vain world with all its treasures,<br /> + Very soon will be no more,<br /> +There’s no object worth admiring,<br /> + But the God whom I adore.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>I look beyond the distant hills,<br /> + My Saviour dear to see;<br /> +<!-- page 154--><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 154</span>O +come, Beloved, ere the dusk,<br /> + My sun doth set on me.</p> +<p>Methinks that were my feet released<br /> + From these afflicting chains,<br /> +I would but sing of Calvary,<br /> + Nor think of all my pains.</p> +<p>I long for thy divine abode,<br /> + Where sinless myriads dwell,<br /> +Who ceaseless sing thy boundless love,<br /> + And all thy glories tell.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>My soul’s delight I will proclaim,<br /> + O! Jesus ’tis thy face;<br /> +Each letter of thy holy name,<br /> + Is full of life and grace.</p> +<p>Beneath thy wing, thou Saviour meek,<br /> + I would for ever be;<br /> +No other pleasure vainly seek,<br /> + My God, than loving thee.</p> +<p>Thy strength alone supports each day<br /> + My footsteps, lest I fall;<br /> +And thy salvation is my stay,<br /> + My joy, my song, my all.</p> +<p>Than combs of honey sweeter is<br /> + Thy favour to enjoy;<br /> +In life, in death, no joy than this<br /> + Will last without alloy.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Angelic throngs unnumbered,<br /> + As dawn’s bright drops of dew,<br /> +Present their crowns before Him<br /> + With praises ever new;<br /> +<!-- page 155--><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>But +saints and angels blending<br /> + Their songs above the sun,<br /> +Can ne’er express the glories<br /> + Of God with man made one.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p> Direct unto my God,<br /> + With speed, my cry ascend;<br /> +Present to Him this urgent plea:—<br /> + “In mercy, Lord, attend!<br /> + Fulfil thy gracious word,<br /> + To bring me to thy rest;<br /> +In Salem soon my place prepare,<br /> + And make me ever blest!”</p> +<p> Down in a vale of tears,<br /> + Where dwelt my Christ I mourn,<br /> +And in the conflict with my foes,<br /> + My tender heart is torn;<br /> + O heal each bleeding wound,<br /> + With thy life-giving tree;<br /> +In Salem, Lord, above the strife,<br /> + A place prepare for me!”</p> +<h3><!-- page 156--><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>TRANSLATIONS +FROM MISCELLANEOUS WELSH HYMNS.</h3> +<p>Had I but the wings of a dove,<br /> + To regions afar I’d repair,<br /> +To Nebo’s high summit would rove,<br /> + And look on a country more fair;<br /> +My eyes gazing over the flood,<br /> + I’d spend the remainder of life<br /> +Beholding the Saviour so good,<br /> + Who for sinners expired in strife.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Once I steered through the billows,<br /> + On a dark, relentless night,<br /> +Stripped of sail—the surge so heinous,<br /> + And no refuge within sight.<br /> +Strength and skill alike were ended,<br /> + Nought, but sinking in the tide,<br /> +While amid the gloom appeared<br /> + Bethlehem’s star to be my guide.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p> Of all the ancient race,<br /> + Not one be left behind,<br /> +But each, impell’d by secret grace,<br /> + His way to Canaan find.</p> +<p> Rebuilt by His command,<br /> + Jerusalem shall rise;<br /> +Her temple on Moriah stand<br /> + Again, and touch the skies.</p> +<p> Send then thy servants forth,<br /> + To call the Hebrews home;<br /> +From east and west, and south and north,<br /> + Let all the wanderers come.</p> +<p> <!-- page 157--><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>With +Israel’s myriads seal’d<br /> + Let all the nations meet,<br /> +And show the mystery fulfill’d,<br /> + The family complete.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Teach me Aaron’s thoughtful silence<br /> + When corrected by the rod;<br /> +Teach me Eli’s acquiescence,<br /> + Saying, “Do thy will, my God;”<br /> +Teach me Job’s confiding patience,<br /> + Dreading words from pride that flow,<br /> +For thou, Lord, alone exaltest,<br /> + And thou only layest low.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Who cometh from Edom with might,<br /> + Far brighter than day at its dawn?<br /> +He routed and conquered his foes,<br /> + And trampled the giants alone;<br /> +His garments were dyed with their blood,<br /> + His sword and his arrows stood strong,<br /> +His beauty did fill the whole land,<br /> + While travelling in greatness along.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>He who darts the winged light’ning,<br /> + Walks upon the foaming wave;<br /> +Send forth arrows of conviction,<br /> + Here exert thy power to save;<br /> +Burst the bars of Satan’s prison,<br /> + Snatch the firebrand from the flame,<br /> +Fill the doubting with assurance,<br /> + Teach the dumb to sing thy name.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>The clouds, O Lord, do scatter,<br /> + Between me and thy face;<br /> +Reveal to me the glory<br /> + Of thy redeeming grace;<br /> +Speak thou in words of mercy,<br /> + While in distress I call;<br /> +And let me taste forgiveness,<br /> + Through Christ, my all-in-all.</p> +<h3><!-- page 158--><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>THE +FARMER’S PRAYER.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Rev. Rees Prichard</span>, M.A.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Translated by the Rev. William Evans</span>.</p> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p>O Thou! by whom the universe was made,<br /> +Mankind’s support, and never failing aid,<br /> + Who bid’st the earth her various products bear,<br /> +Who waterest the soft’ned soil with rain,<br /> +Who givest vegetation to the grain,<br /> + Unto a peasant’s ardent pray’r give ear!</p> +<p>I now intend, with care, my land to dress,<br /> + And in its fertile womb to sow my grain;<br /> +Which, if, O God! thou deignest not to bless,<br /> + I never shall receive, or see again.</p> +<p><!-- page 159--><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 159</span>In +vain it is to plant, in vain to sow,<br /> + In vain to harrow well the levell’d plain,<br /> +If thou wilt not command the seed to grow,<br /> + And shed thy blessing on the bury’d grain.</p> +<p>For not a single corn will rush to birth<br /> + Of all that I’ve entrusted to the earth,<br /> +If thou dost not enjoin the blade to spring<br /> + And the young shoot to full perfection bring.</p> +<p>I therefore beg thy blessing on my lands,<br /> + O Lord! and on the labour of my hands,<br /> +That I thereby, may as a Christian, live,<br /> + And my support, and maintenance receive!</p> +<p>Open the windows of the skies, and pour<br /> + Thy blessings on them in a genial show’r;<br /> +My corn with earth’s prolific fatness feed,<br /> + And give increase to all my cover’d seed!</p> +<p>Let not the skies, like brass in fusion, glow,<br /> + Nor the earth, with heat, as hard as iron grow,<br /> +Let not our pastures and our meads of hay,<br /> + For our supine neglect of Thee, decay!</p> +<p>But give us in good time and measure meet,<br /> + A temp’rate season, and sufficient heat,<br /> +Give us the former and the latter rains,<br /> + Give peace and plenty to the British swains.</p> +<p>The locust and the cankerworm restrain,<br /> + The dew that blights and tarnishes the grain,<br /> +The drought, the nipping winds, the lightning’s glare,<br /> + Which to the growing corn pernicious are.</p> +<p>O, let the year be with thy goodness crown’d,<br /> + Let it with all thy choicest gifts abound,<br /> +Let bleating flocks each fertile valley fill,<br /> + And lowing herds adorn each rising hill.</p> +<p><!-- page 160--><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>Give +to the sons of men their daily bread,<br /> + Give grass to the mute beasts, that crop the mead,<br /> +Give wine and oil to those that till the field,<br /> + And let thy heritage abundance yield.</p> +<p>Give us a harvest with profusion crown’d,<br /> + Let ev’ry field and fold with corn abound,<br /> +Let herbs each garden, fruit each orchard fill,<br /> + Let rocks their honey, kine their milk distill.</p> +<p>Prosper our handy work thou gracious God,<br /> + And further our endeavours with success:<br /> +So, on our knees, shall we thy name applaud,<br /> + And night and morn our benefactor bless.</p> +<h3>THE PRAISE AND COMMENDATION OF A GOOD WOMAN.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Rev. Rees Prichard</span>, M.A.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Translated by the Rev. William Evans</span>.</p> +<p>As a wise child excells the sceptr’d fool<br /> +Who of conceit and selfishness is full—<br /> +As a good name exceeds the best perfume,<br /> +And richest balms that from the Indies come.</p> +<p>A virtuous, cheerful, and obliging wife<br /> +Is better far than all the pomp of life,<br /> +Better than houses, tenements and lands,<br /> +Than pearls and precious stones, and golden sands.</p> +<p>She is a ship with costly wares well-stow’d,<br /> +A pearl, with virtues infinite endow’d,<br /> +A gem, beyond all value and compare:<br /> +Happy the man, who has her to his share!</p> +<p><!-- page 161--><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 161</span>She +is a pillar with rich gildings grac’d,<br /> +And on a pedestal of silver plac’d,<br /> +She is a turret of defence, to save<br /> +A weak and sickly husband from the grave,<br /> +She is a gorgeous crown, a glorious prize,<br /> +And ev’ry grace, in her, concent’red lies!</p> +<h3>TWENTY THIRD PSALM.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Rev. Rees Prichard</span>, M.A.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Translated by the Rev. William Evans</span>.</p> +<p>My shepherd is the Lord above,<br /> +Who ne’er will suffer me to rove;<br /> +In Him I’ll trust, he is so good,<br /> +He’ll never let me want for food.</p> +<p>To pastures green and flow’ry meads,<br /> +His happy flock he gently leads,<br /> +Where water in abundance flows,<br /> +And where luxuriant herbage grows.</p> +<p>When o’er my bounds I chance to roam,<br /> +My shepherd finds and brings me home;<br /> +And when I wander o’er the plain,<br /> +He drives me to the fold again.</p> +<p>Or should I hap to lose my way,<br /> +And in death’s gloomy valley stray,<br /> +I need not ever be dismay’d,<br /> +For God himself will be my aid.</p> +<p>In whate’er pasture I abide,<br /> +He still is present at my side;<br /> +His rod, his crook, his shepherd’s staff,<br /> +In every path shall keep me safe.</p> +<p><!-- page 162--><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>My +soul with comfort overflows,<br /> +In spite of all my numerous foes;<br /> +And thou with richness hast, O Lord!<br /> +And plenty crown’d my crowded board.</p> +<p>His precious balms, my God hath shed,<br /> +Upon my highly favoured head:<br /> +And with the blessings of the Lord,<br /> +My larder is completely stor’d.</p> +<p>His bounty and his mercies past,<br /> +Shall follow me unto the last;<br /> +And, for his favours shown to me,<br /> +His house, my home shall ever be.</p> +<p>To God, the Father—and the Son—<br /> +And Holy Spirit—Three-in-one,<br /> +Let us our bounden homage pay,<br /> +Each hour, each moment of the day!</p> +<h3>SHORT IS THE LIFE OF MAN.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By Rev. Rees Prichard</span>, M.A.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Translated by the Rev. W. Evans</span>.</p> +<p>Man’s life, like any weaver’s shuttle, flies,<br /> +Or, like a tender flow’ret, droops and dies,<br /> +Or, like a race, it ends without delay,<br /> +Or, like a vapour, vanishes away,</p> +<p>Or, like a candle, in each moment wastes,<br /> +Or, like a packet under sail, it hastes,<br /> +Or, like a courier, travels very fast,<br /> +Or, like the shadow of a cloud, ’tis past.</p> +<p>Strong is our foe, but very weak the fort,<br /> +Our death is certain, and our time is short;<br /> +But as the hour of death’s a secret still,<br /> +Let us be ready, come He when he will.</p> +<h3><!-- page 163--><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>CONCERNING +THE DIVINE PROVIDENCE.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">By the Rev. Rees Prichard</span>, M.A.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Translated by the Rev. William Evans</span>.</p> +<p>God doth withhold no good from those<br /> + Who meekly fear him here below;<br /> +On them he grace and fame bestows,<br /> + Nor loss, nor cross they e’er shall know.</p> +<p>Cast thou on him thy troubles all,<br /> + And he will thee with plenty feed;<br /> +He will not let the righteous fall,<br /> + Nor ever suffer them to need.</p> +<p>God says (of that advantage make)!<br /> + “Open thy mouth, I will thee feed;”<br /> +Pains in some honest calling take,<br /> + And all thy labours shall succeed.</p> +<p>Though lions, and their young beside,<br /> + Are oft distress’d for want of food;<br /> +Yet they, who in their God confide,<br /> + Shall never want for aught that’s good.</p> +<p>God gives the sinful pagan food,<br /> + Supplies the Ethiopian’s need,<br /> +His very foes he fills with good,<br /> + And shall he not his servants feed?</p> +<p><!-- page 164--><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>At +too much riches never aim,<br /> + But be content with what is thine;<br /> +God never will those folks disclaim,<br /> + Who duly keep his laws divine.</p> +<p>Implore God’s help in every ill,<br /> + He is the Giver of all good;<br /> +But should’st thou trust thy wit and skill,<br /> + Thou’lt lose the prize that by thee stood.</p> +<p>Full many a man still lives in need,<br /> + Because on God he ne’er rely’d;<br /> +Full many a one still begs his bread,<br /> + Who did in his own strength confide.</p> +<p>Since God is always to them kind,<br /> + Why do they die for want of aid?<br /> +Because they on their strength reclin’d,<br /> + And ne’er for his assistance pray’d.</p> +<p>God never knows the least repose,<br /> + But for his servants still prepares;<br /> +Whilst at our ease we sweetly doze,<br /> + He daily for his household cares.</p> +<p>Say, can a mother e’er forget<br /> + Her charge, her sucking babe neglect?<br /> +Should even maternal fondness set,<br /> + God will his servants recollect.</p> +<p>Ere thou shalt woe or want behold,<br /> + (If thou dost truly God obey)<br /> +He’ll tell a fish to fetch thee gold,<br /> + Thy just expenses to defray.</p> +<p>Though, like the widow’s meal, thy store<br /> + Should be but small—yet in a trice<br /> +(If thou dost strictly God adore)<br /> + He’ll make that little store suffice.</p> +<p><!-- page 165--><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>Do +not on thy own arm rely,<br /> + Thy strength or thy superior skill,<br /> +But on thy friend, the Lord most high!<br /> + If thou would’st be preserv’d from ill.</p> +<p>God feeds the warblers of the wood,<br /> + And clothes the lilies of the plain;<br /> +God gives to all things living food,<br /> + And will he not his sons sustain?</p> +<p>The ravens neither sow nor reap,<br /> + They have no barns to house their seed;<br /> +Yet God does even the ravens keep,<br /> + And them, through every season, feed.</p> +<p>Observe the lily, and the rose,<br /> + To toil and spin they ne’er were given;<br /> +Yet God on them a robe bestows,<br /> + More rich than monarch’s vesture even.</p> +<p>On God, each living creature’s eyes<br /> + Are fix’d—he, with a parent’s care,<br /> +The wants of all the world supplies,<br /> + And gives to each its proper share.</p> +<p>He opes his bounteous hand full wide,<br /> + And feeds each animal that lives,<br /> +And ne’er leaves any unsupplied,<br /> + But to them all due measure gives.</p> +<p>He to the lion’s cubs gives food,<br /> + To each fierce rambler of the wild,<br /> +To the black raven’s glossy brood,<br /> + And shall he not to every child?</p> +<p>Thou dost not drop a single hair,<br /> + Without a providence divine;<br /> +No sparrow tumbles from the air,<br /> + Nought haps which God did not design.</p> +<p><!-- page 166--><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>Already +has God’s providence<br /> + To thee, breath, being, strength allow’d—<br /> +Health, knowledge, reason, memory, sense,<br /> + Will he not, think’st thou, give thee food?</p> +<p>Two sparrows, as they are so small,<br /> + Are purchas’d for a single mite;<br /> +Though little, yet God feeds them all,<br /> + Art thou less precious in his sight?</p> +<p>Though God, for all his creatures here<br /> + With a most lib’ral hand provides;<br /> +Yet is the soul of man more dear<br /> + To him, than all his works besides.</p> +<p>On God, thy cares and troubles lay—<br /> + For thee, he always is in pain;<br /> +If Christ thou truly dost obey,<br /> + A sure reward thou shalt obtain.</p> +<h2>Footnotes:</h2> +<p><a name="footnote59"></a><a href="#citation59">{59}</a> The +Goryn Ddû (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.</p> +<p><a name="footnote61"></a><a href="#citation61">{61}</a> 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.</p> +<p><a name="footnote62"></a><a href="#citation62">{62}</a> Anglesey.</p> +<p><a name="footnote65"></a><a href="#citation65">{65}</a> King +of the Fairies.</p> +<p><a name="footnote75a"></a><a href="#citation75a">{75a}</a> +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.</p> +<p><a name="footnote75b"></a><a href="#citation75b">{75b}</a> +The battle of the Britons and Saxons at Bangor Is Coed, in the 7th century.</p> +<p><a name="footnote75c"></a><a href="#citation75c">{75c}</a> +“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<br /> +Welsh Bards, p. 26.</p> +<p><a name="footnote76"></a><a href="#citation76">{76}</a> 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.</p> +<p><a name="footnote77"></a><a href="#citation77">{77}</a> The +poet, and author of the elegy written in a country churchyard.</p> +<p><a name="footnote81"></a><a href="#citation81">{81}</a> Snowdon.</p> +<p><a name="footnote86"></a><a href="#citation86">{86}</a> This +prophecy of Taliesin relating to the Ancient Britons is still extant, +and has been strikingly verified:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Their God they’ll adore,<br /> +Their language they’ll keep,<br /> +Their country they’ll lose,<br /> +Except wild Wales.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="footnote87a"></a><a href="#citation87a">{87a}</a> +<i>Ynys Cedeirn</i>, or Isle of the Mighty, an ancient name given to +Britain.</p> +<p><a name="footnote87b"></a><a href="#citation87b">{87b}</a> +Uthyr Pendragon, King of Britain, supposed to have been the father of +Arthur.</p> +<p><a name="footnote87c"></a><a href="#citation87c">{87c}</a> +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 +<span class="smcap">Jones’s</span> <i>Historical Account of the +Welsh Bards</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote88"></a><a href="#citation88">{88}</a> Ynys +Prydain, the ancient name of Britain, signifies the Fair, or Beautiful +Island.</p> +<p><a name="footnote91"></a><a href="#citation91">{91}</a> This +lady was born near the beautiful Breidden hills in Montgomeryshire.</p> +<p><a name="footnote92"></a><a href="#citation92">{92}</a> The +bards.</p> +<p><a name="footnote94a"></a><a href="#citation94a">{94a}</a> +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.</p> +<p><a name="footnote94b"></a><a href="#citation94b">{94b}</a> +A great battle was fought at Gamlan, between the Welsh and Saxons in +512, where King Arthur was slain.</p> +<p><a name="footnote96"></a><a href="#citation96">{96}</a> The +death of Rhûn 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.</p> +<p><a name="footnote97"></a><a href="#citation97">{97}</a> Flower +Aspect, vide the Mabinogion.</p> +<p><a name="footnote141"></a><a href="#citation141">{141}</a> +“Hafren,” the river Severn.</p> +<p><a name="footnote142"></a><a href="#citation142">{142}</a> +These words “doublet,” “jacket,” &c., are +English words applied sportively by the poet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">john pryse</span>, <span class="smcap">printer</span>, +<span class="smcap">llanidloes</span>.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETRY OF WALES***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 18523-h.htm or 18523-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/5/2/18523 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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