Chapter 7 Welsh Poems

* * *

THE ODES TO THE MONTHS

(After Aneurin, a sixth-century warrior bard)

Month of Janus, the coom is smoke-fuming;

Weary the wine-bearer; minstrels far roaming;

Lean are the kine; the bees never humming;

Milking-folds void; to the kiln no meat coming;

Gaunt every steed; no pert sparrows strumming;

Long the night till the dawn; but a glimpse is the gloaming.

Sapient Cynfelyn, this was thy summing;

"Prudence is Man's surest guide, by my dooming."

* * *

Month of Mars; the birds become bolder;

Wounding the wind upon the cape's shoulder;

Serene skies delay till the young crops are older;

Anger burns on, when grief waxes colder;

Every man's mind some dread may unsolder;

Each bird wins the may that hath long been a scolder;

Each seed cleaves the clay, though for long months amoulder,

Yet the dead still must stay in the tomb, their strong holder.

* * *

Month of Augustus-the beach is a-spray;

Blithesome the bee and the hive full alway;

Better work than the bow hath the sickle to-day;

Fuller the stack than the House of the Play;

The Churl who cares neither to work nor to pray

Now why should he cumber the earth with his clay?

Justly St. Breda, the sapient, would say

"As many to evil as good take the way."

* * *

[73]

Month of September-benign planets shiver;

Serene round the hamlet are ocean and river;

Not easy for men and for steeds is endeavour;

Trees full of fruit, as of arrows the quiver.

A Princess was born to us, blessed for ever,

From slavery's shackles our land's freedom-giver.

Saith St. Berned the Saint, ripe Wisdom's mouth ever;

"In sleep shall God nod, Who hath sworn to deliver?"

Month of October-thin the shade is showing;

Yellow are the birch-trees; bothies empty growing;

Full of flesh, bird and fish to the market going;

Less and less the milk now of cow and goat is flowing,

Alas! for him who meriteth disgrace by evil-doing;

Death is better far than extravagance's strowing.

Three acts should follow crime, to true repentance owing-

Fasting and prayer and of alms abundance glowing.

* * *

Month of December-with mud the shoe bemired;

Heavy the land, the sun in heaven tired;

Bare all the trees, little force now required;

Cheerful the cock; by dark the thief inspired.

Whilst the Twelve Months thus trip in dance untired,

Round youthful minds Satan still weaves his fetter.

Justly spake Yscolan, Wisdom's sage begetter,

"Than an evil prophecy God is ever better."

[74]

* * *

THE TERCETS

(After Llywarch Hen, a sixth-century prince and poet)

Set is the snare, the ash clusters glow,

Ducks plash in the pools; breakers whiten below;

More strong than a hundred is the heart's hidden woe.

Long is the night; resounding the shore,

Frequent in crowds a tumultuous roar,

The evil and good disagree evermore.

Long is the night; the hill full of cries;

O'er the tree-tops the wind whistles and sighs,

Ill nature deceives not the wit of the wise.

The greening birch saplings asway in the air

Shall deliver my feet from the enemy's snare.

It is ill with a youth thy heart's secrets to share.

The saplings of oak in yonder green glade

Shall loosen the snare by an enemy laid.

It is ill to unbosom thy heart to a maid.

The saplings of oak in their full summer pride

Shall loosen the snare by the enemy tied.

It is ill to a babbler thy heart to confide.

The brambles with berries of purple are dressed;

In silence the brooding thrush clings to her nest,

In silence the liar can never take rest.

Rain is without-wet the fern plume;

White the sea gravel-fierce the waves spume.

There is no lamp like reason man's life to illume.

Rain is without, but the shelter is near;

Yellow the furze, the cow-parsnip is sere,

God in Heaven, how couldst Thou create cowards here!

[75]

* * *

HAIL, GLORIOUS LORD!

(From a twelfth-century MS., "The Black Book of Carmarthen")

Hail, all glorious Lord! with holy mirth

May Church and chancel bless Thy good counsel!

Each chancel and church,

All plains and mountains,

And ye three fountains-

Two above wind,

And one above earth!

May light and darkness bless Thee!

Fine silk, green forest confess Thee!

Thus did Abraham father

Of faith with joy possess Thee.

Bird and bee-song bless Thee,

Among the lilies and roses!

All the old, all the young

Laud thee with joyful tongue,

As Thy praise was once sung

By Aaron and Moses.

Male and female,

The days that are seven,

The stars of heaven,

The air and the ether,

Every book and fair letter;

Fish in waters fair-flowing,

And song and deed glowing!

Grey sand and green sward

Make your blessing's award!

And all such as with good

Have satisfied stood!

While my own mouth shall bless Thee

And my Saviour confess Thee.

Hail, glorious Lord!

[76]

* * *

MY BURIAL

(After Dafydd ab Gwilym, the most famous Welsh lyrical poet, 1340-1400)

When I die, O, bury me

Within the free young wild wood;

Little birches, o'er me bent,

Lamenting as my child would!

Let my surplice-shroud be spun

Of sparkling summer clover;

While the great and stately treen

Their rich rood-screen hang over!

For my bier-cloth blossomed may

Outlay on eight green willows!

Sea-gulls white to bear my pall

Take flight from all the billows.

Summer's cloister be my church

Of soft leaf-searching whispers,

From whose mossed bench the nightingale

To all the vale chants vespers!

Mellow-toned, the brake amid,

My organ hid be cuckoo!

Paters, seemly hours and psalm

Bird voices calm re-echo!

Mystic masses, sweet addresses,

Blackbird, be thou offering;

Till God His Bard to Paradise

Uplift from sighs and suffering.

[77]

* * *

THE LAST CYWYDD

(After Dafydd ab Gwilym)

Memories fierce like arrows pierce;

Alone I waste and languish,

And make my cry to God on high

To ease me of mine anguish.

If heroic was my youth,

In truth its powers are over;

With brain dead and force sped,

Love sets at naught the lover!

The Muse from off my lips is thrust,

'Tis long since song has cheered me;

Gone is Ivor, counsellor just,

And Nest, whose grace upreared me!

Morfydd, all my world and more,

Lies low in churchyard gravel;

While beneath the burthen frore

Of age alone I travel.

Mute, mute my song's salute,

When summer's beauties thicken;

Cuckoo, nightingale, no art

Of yours my heart can quicken!

Morfydd, not thy haunting kiss

Or voice of bliss can save me

From the spear of age whose chill

Has quenched the thrill love gave me.

My ripe grain of heart and brain

The sod sadly streweth;

Its empty chaff with mocking laugh

The wind of death pursueth!

Dig my grave! O, dig it deep

To hide my sleeping body,

So but Christ my spirit keep,

Amen! ab Gwilym's ready!

[78]

* * *

THE LABOURER

(After Iolo Goch, "Iowerlt the Red," a fourteenth-century bard and son of the Countess of Lincoln)

When the folk of all the Earth,

For the weighing of their worth,

Promised by his Ancient Word,

Freely flock before The Lord-

And His Judgment-seat is set

High on mighty Olivet,

Forthright then shall be the tale

Of the Plougher of the Vale,

If so be his tithes were given

Justly to the King of Heaven;

If he freely shared his store

With the sick or homeless poor-

When his soul is at God's feet

Rich remembrance it shall meet.

He who turns and tills the sod

Leans by Nature on his God.

Save his plough-beam naught he judgeth,

None he angereth, or grudgeth,

Strives with none, takes none in toils,

Crushes none and none despoils;

Overbeareth not, though strong,

Doth not even a little wrong.

"Suffering here," he saith, "is meet,

Else were Heaven not half so sweet."

Following after goad and plough,

With unruffled breast and brow,

Is to him an hundred-fold

Dearer than, for treasured gold,

Even in King Arthur's form,

Castles to besiege and storm.

[79]

If the labourer were sped,

Where would be Christ's Wine and Bread?

Certes but for his supply,

Pope and Emperor must die,

Every wine-free King and just,

Yea! each mortal turn to dust.

Blest indeed is he whose hands

Steer the plough o'er stubborn lands.

How through far-spread broom and heath

Tear his sharp, smooth coulter's teeth-

Old-time relic, heron-bill,

Rooting out fresh furrows still,

With a noble, skilful grace

Smoothing all the wild land's face,

Reaching out a stern, stiff neck

Each resisting root to wreck.

* * *

Behind his oxen on his path

Thus he strides the healthy strath,

Chanting many a godly rhyme

To the plough-chain's silver chime.

All the crafts that ever were

With the Ploughman's ill compare.

Ploughing, in an artful wise,

Earth's subduing signifies,

Far as Baptism and Creed,

Far as Christendom hath speed.

By God, who is man's Master best,

And Mary may the plough be blest.

[80]

* * *

THE ELEGY ON SION GLYN, A CHILD OF FIVE YEARS OF AGE

(By his Father, Lewis Glyn Cothi, 1425-1486)

One wee son, woe worth his sire!

My treasure was and heart's desire;

But evermore I now must pine,

Mourning for that wee son of mine,

Sick to the heart, day out and in,

Thinking and thinking of Johnny Glynn,

My fairy prince for ever fled,

Leaving life's Mabinogion dead.

A rosy apple, pebbles white,

And dicky-birds were his delight,

A childish bow with coloured cord,

A little brittle wooden sword.

From bagpipes or the bogy-man

Into his mother's arms he ran,

There coaxed from her a ball to throw

With his daddy to and fro.

His own sweet songs he'd then be singing,

Then for a nut with a shout be springing;

Holding my hand he'd trot about with me,

Coax me now, and now fall out with me,

Now, make it up again, lip to lip,

For a dainty die or a curling chip.

Would God my lovely little lad

A second life, like Lazarus, had!

St. Beuno raised from death at once

St. Winifred and her six nuns;

Would to God the Saint could win

An eighth from death in Johnny Glynn!

Ah, Mary! my merry little knave,

Coffined and covered in the grave!

To think of him beneath the slab

[81] Deals my lone heart a double stab.

Bright dream beyond my own life's shore,

Proud purpose of my future's store,

My hope, my comfort from annoy,

My jewel and my glowing joy,

My nest of shade from out the sun,

My lark, my soaring, singing one,

My golden shaft of faithful love

Shot at the radiant round above,

My intercessor with Heaven's King,

My boyhood's second blossoming,

My little, laughing, loving John,

For you I'm sunk in shadow wan!

Good-bye, good-bye, for evermore

My little lively squirrel's store,

The happy bouncing of his ball,

His carol up and down the hall!

Adieu, my little dancing one,

Adieu, adieu, my son, my son!

[82]

* * *

THE NOBLE'S GRAVE

(After Sion Cent, 1386-1420, priest of Kentchurch, in Hereford)

Premier Peer but yesterday,

Lone within the tomb to-morrow;

For his silken garments gay,

Grave-clothes in a gravelled furrow.

No love-making, homage none;

From his mines no golden mintage;

No rich traffic in the sun;

No more purple-purling vintage.

No more usherings out of Hall

By obsequious attendant;

No more part, however small,

In the Pageant's pomp resplendent!

Just a perch of churchyard clay

All the soil he now possesses;

Heavily its burthen grey

On his pulseless bosom presses.

[83]

* * *

THE BARD'S DEATH-BED CONFESSION

(After Huw Morus, 1622-1709, a Welsh Cavalier poet)

Lord, hear my confession of life-long transgression!

Weak-willed and too filled with Earth's follies am I

To reach by the strait way of faith to Heaven's gateway,

If Thou light not thither my late way.

From Duty's hard high road by Beauty's soft by-road

To Satan's, not Thy road, I wandered away.

Thou hast seen, Father tender, Thou seest what a slender

Return for Thy Talents I render.

Thy pure Eyes pierced through me and probed me and knew me,

Not flawless but lawless, when put to the proof.

In ease or in cumber, day-doings or slumber,

What ills of mine wouldst Thou not number!

From Thy Holy Hand's Healing, contrition annealing

And Faith's oil of healing grant, Lord, I beseech;

These only can cure me and fresh life assure me,

These only Thy Peace can procure me!

To the blood freely flowing of The Lamb life-bestowing

This wonder is owing that washes out sin;

Thy Love to us lent Him, Thy Love to death sent Him,

That man through Thy Love should repent him.

Lord God, Thy Protection, Lord Christ, Thy Affection,

Holy Ghost, Thy Direction so govern my heart,

That all promptings other than Love's it may smother,

As a babe is subdued to its mother.

[84]

For that treasure of treasures that all price outmeasures,

Pure Faith, on whose pleasures life-giving we feed-

Let Kings in their places, let all the earth's races

Sing aloud in a crowd of glad faces.

Yea! all mouths shall bless Thee, all hearts shall confess Thee

The bounteous Fountain of mercy and love;

Each gift we inherit of pure, perfect merit,

Dear God, overflows from Thy Spirit.

[85]

* * *

QUICK, DEATH!

(After Huw Morus)

This room an antechamber is:

Beyond-the Hall of Very Bliss!

Quick, Death! for underneath thy door

I see the glimmering of Heaven's floor.

[86]

* * *

COUNSEL IN VIEW OF DEATH

(After Elis Wyn, 1671-1734, one of the Welsh Classics)

Leave your land, your goods lay down!

Life's green tree shall soon grow brown.

Pride of birth and pleasure gay

Renounce or they shall own you!

Manly strength and beauty fair,

Dear-bought sense, experience rare,

Learning ripe, companions fond

Yield, lest their bond ensnare you!

Is there then no sure relief,

Thou arch-murderer and thief,

Death, from thine o'ermastering law-

Thy monstrous maw can none shun?

O ye rich, in all your pride

Through the ages would ye bide,

Wherefore not with Death compound,

Ere underground he hide you?

Lusty athlete, light of foot,

Death, the Bowman's fell pursuit

Challenge! O, the laurels won,

If thou but shun his shooting!

Travellers by sea and land

On remotest mount or strand,

Have ye found one secret spot

Where Death is not commanding?

Learned scholar, jurist proud,

Lifted god-like o'er the crowd,

Can your keenest counsel's aid

Dispel Death's shade enshrouding?

Fervent faith, profound repentance,

Holy hours of stern self-sentence-

These alone can victory bring

When Death's dread sting shall wring us.

[87]

* * *

FROM "THE LAST JUDGMENT"

(After Goronwy Owen, 1728-1769, next to Dafydd ab Gwilym, the greatest poet who sang in the old Welsh metres)

Day of Doom, at thy glooming

May Earth be but meet for thee!

Day, whose hour of louring

Not angels in light foresee!

To Christ alone and the Father

'Tis known when thy hosts of might

Swift as giants shall gather,

Yet stealthy as thieves at night.

Then what woe to the froward,

What joy to the just and kind!

When the Seraph band comes streaming

Christ's gleaming banner behind;

Heavenly blue shall its hue be

To a myriad marvelling eyes;

Save where its heart encrimsons

The cross of the sacrifice!

Rocks in that day's black fury

Like leaves shall be whirled in the blast;

Hoary-headed Eryri

Prone to the plough-lands cast!

Then shall be roaring and warring

And ferment of sea and firth,

Ocean, in turmoil upboiling,

Confounding each bound of earth.

The flow of the Deluge of Noah

Were naught by that fell Flood's girth!

Then Heaven's pure self shall offer

Her multitudinous eyes,

Cruel blinding to suffer,

As her sun faints out of the skies;

And the bright-faced Moon shall languish

[88] And perish in such fierce pain

As darkened and shook with anguish

All Life, when the Lamb was slain.

[89]

* * *

A GOOD WIFE

(After the Vicar Pritchard, 1569-1644)

Wise yokel foolish King excelleth;

Good name than spikenard sweeter smelleth!

What's gold to prudence? Strength to grace?

Man's more than goods; God first in place.

What though her dowry be but meagre,

Far better wise, God-fearing Igir,

Than yonder vain and brainless doll,

Helpless her fortune to control.

A wife that's true and kind and sunny

Is better than a mint of money;

Better than houses, land and gold

Or pearls and gems to have and hold.

A ship is she with jewels freighted,

Her price beyond all rubies rated,

A hundred-virtued amulet

To such as her in marriage get.

Gold pillar to a silver socket;

The weakling's tower of strength, firm-lockèd,

The very golden crown of life;

Grace upon grace-a virtuous wife.

[90]

* * *

"MARCHOG JESU!"

(Hymn sung at the Investiture of the Prince of Wales, the Welsh words by Pantycelyn, the famous eighteenth-century hymn-writer)

Lord, ride on in triumph glorious,

Gird Thy sword upon Thy Thigh!

Earth shall own Thy Might Victorious,

Death and Hell confounded lie.

Yea! before Thine Eye all-seeing,

All Thy foes shall fly aghast;

Nature's self, through all her being,

Tremble at Thy Trampling Past.

Pierce, for Thou alone art able,

Pierce our dungeon with Thy day;

Shatter all the gates of Babel,

Rend her iron bars away!

Till, as billows thunder shoreward,

All the Ransomed Ones ascend,

Into freedom surging forward

Without number, without end.

Who are these whose praises pealing

From beyond the Morning Star

Earthward solemnly are stealing

Down the distance faint and far?

These are they, the Ever Living,

All in glistening garments gone,

Palm in hand, with proud Thanksgiving

Up before the Great White Throne.

[91]

* * *

THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM

(After Eben Fardd, 1802-1863, one of the leading Welsh poets of the nineteenth century)

RACHEL MOURNING

Rachel, ah me! most wretchedly

Mourns, meekest, worthiest woman,

Her husband dear hurled to his bier

By Roman fiends inhuman.

Tremulously now murmurs she:

"Naught's here but naked horror;

Black despond and blind despair,

Mad turmoil, murderous terror!

Free he rose, his hero blows

Gave Rome black cause to rue him;

Ten to one, then they run

Their poisonous poignards through him.

Thus took flight thy tortured sprite,

Dear heart, from my fond seeing!

Now stars on high in stark dawn die,

We too must far be fleeing.

Children dear, I thrill with fear

To hear your hungry crying!

Away, away! one more such day-

And we're too weak for flying."

THE BURNING TEMPLE

The savage foes of this lost land of ours

Conspire to fire Antonius' shapely towers.

Ere long the Temple proud, surpassing all

Art's fairest gems, shall unto earth be bowed!

Lo! through the lurid gloom the lightning's lash!

And hark the unnatural thunder crash and boom!

Moriah's marvellous fane is leaning low;

[92] With cries of woe her rafters rend in twain;

For our Imperial One is brought to naught.

Yea, even where most cunningly she was wrought,

The fire has cleft its way each coign into,

For wood and stone searching her bosom through.

Astonishingly high she took the blue,

Yet weeping molten dross shall meet the ground-

A sight for grief profound to gaze across.

Flame follows flame, each like a giant worm,

To feast and batten on her beauteous form.

Through gold and silver doors they sinuous swarm

And crop the carven flowers with gust enorme;

Till all is emptiness.

Then with hellish shout

The embruted Gentiles in exultant rout

Into her Holy of Holies profanely press!

One streaming flood of steaming blood-

Shudders her sacred pavement!

[93]

* * *

LOVE DIVINE

(From "Emanuel." After Gwilym Hiraethog, 1802-1880.)

When the angel trumpet sounded.

Through the unbounded ether blown,

Star on star danced on untiring,

Choiring past the Great White Throne;

Then as, every globe outglancing,

Earth's entrancing orb went by,

Love Divine in blushing pleasure

Steeped the azure of the sky.

Wisdom, when she saw Earth singled

From the bright commingled band,

Whispered Mercy: "That green wonder

Yonder is thy promised land!"

Mercy looked and loved Earth straightway,

At Heaven's gateway smiling set.

Ah! that glance of tender yearning

She is turning earthward yet.

[94]

* * *

BEHIND THE VEIL

(After Islwyn, 1832-1878, the Welsh Wordsworth)

What say ye, can we charge a master soul

With error, when beyond all life's experience

Between the cradle and the grave, it rises,

Whispering of things unutterable, breaks its bond

With outward sense and sinks into itself,

As fades a star in space? Hath not that soul

A history in itself, a refluent tide

Of mystery murmuring out of unplumbed deeps,

On distant inaccessible strands, whereon

Memory lies dead amid the monstrous wreckage

Of jarring worlds? Are yonder stars above

As spiritually, magnificently bright

As Poesy feigns? May not some slumbering sense,

A memory dim of those diviner days,

When all the Heavens were yet aglow with God,

Transfuse them through and through with glimmering grace

And glory? Still the Stars within us shine,

And Poesy is but a recollection

Of Something greater gone, a presage proud

Of Something greater yet to be. What soul

But sometimes thrills with hauntings of a world

For long forgotten, at a glimpse begotten

Once more, then gone again? Imaginations?

Nay why not memories of a life than ours

A thousand times more blest within us buried

So deeply, the divine all-searching breath

Of Poesy alone can lure it forth.

All hail that hour when God's Redeeming Face

Shall so illume our past existences,

That through them all man's spirit shall see plain,

And to his blessed past relink Life's broken chain.

[95]

* * *

THE REIGN OF LOVE

(After Ceiriog, to a Welsh Air. Ceiriog, 1832-1887, was the Welsh Burns; his songs to old Welsh Airs are the best of their kind.)

Love that invites, love that delights,

From hedgerow lush and leafy heights

Is flooding all the air;

Their forest harps the breezes strum,

The happy brooks their burden hum;

There's nothing deaf, there's nothing dumb,

But music everywhere!

Above the airy steep

Their lyres of gold the angels sweep,

Glad holiday with earth to keep

Before the Great White Throne.

Then, when Heaven and earth and sea

Are joining in Love's jubilee;

While morning stars make melody,

Shall man be mute alone?

Naught that hath birth matches the worth

Of Love, in God's own Heaven and Earth,

For through His power divine

Love opes the golden eye of day,

Love guides the pale moon's lonely way,

Love lights the glow-worm's glimmering ray

Amid the darkling bine.

Heavenly hue and form

Above, around, are glowing warm,

From His right hand Who rides the storm,

Yet paints the lily's cheek.

Yea! whereso'er man lifts his eyes

To wood or wave or sunset skies,

A myriad magic shapes arise

Eternal Love to speak.

[96]

* * *

PLAS GOGERDDAN

(After Ceiriog to a Welsh Air)

"Without thy Sire hast thou returned?"

In grief the Princess cried!

"Go back!-or from my sight be spurned-

To battle by his side.

I gave thee birth; but struck to earth

I'd sooner see thee lie,

Or on thy bier come carried here,

Than thus a craven fly!

"Seek yonder hall, and pore on all

The portraits of thy race;

The courage high that fires each eye

Canst thou endure to face?"

"I'll bring no blame on thy fair name,

Or my forefathers slight!

But kiss and bless me, mother dear,

Ere I return to fight."

He fought and fell-his stricken corse

They bore to her abode;

"My son!" she shrieked, in wild remorse;

"Forgive me, O! my God!"

Then from the wall old voices fall:

"Rejoice for such a son!

His deed and thine shall deathless shine,

Whilst Gwalia's waters run!"

[97]

* * *

ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

Ar Hyd y Nos

(After Ceiriog to this Welsh Air)

Fiery day is ever mocking

Man's feeble sight;

Darkness eve by eve unlocking

Heav'n's casket bright;

Thence the burdened spirit borrows

Strength to meet laborious morrows,

Starry peace to soothe his sorrows,

All through the night.

Planet after planet sparkling,

All through the night,

Down on Earth, their sister darkling,

Shed faithful light.

In our mortal day's declining,

May our souls, as calmly shining,

Cheer the restless and repining,

Till lost in sight.

[98]

* * *

DAVID OF THE WHITE ROCK

Dafydd y Garreg Wen

(After Ceiriog to this Welsh Air)

"All my powers wither,

Death presses me hard;

Bear my harp hither!"

Sighed David the Bard.

"Thus while life lingers,

In one lofty strain

O, let my fond fingers

Awake it again.

"Last night an angel

Cried, 'David, come sound

Christ's dear Evangel

Death's valley around!'"

Wife and child harkened

His harp's solemn swell;

Till his eye darkened,

And lifeless he fell.

[99]

* * *

THE HIGH TIDE

(After Elvet Lewis, a contemporary Welsh poet)

A balmy air blows; the waterflags shiver,

On, on the Tide flows, on, on, up the river!

To no earth or sky allegiance he oweth;

He comes, who knows why? unless the Moon knoweth.

The Tide flows and flows; by hill and by hollow,

White rose upon rose, the foam flowers follow.

He spreads broad and full from margent to margent,

The wings of the gull are his bannerets argent.

The Tide flows and flows; Atlantic's loud charges

Mix in murmurous close with the wash of the barges.

With wondering ear the children cease playing;

The voice that they hear, what can it be saying?

Too well they shall know, when amid the wild brattle

Of the waters below, they enter life's battle.

The Tide flows apace; the ship that lies idle

Trips out with trim grace, like a bride to her bridal.

What hath she in store? shall Fate her boon give her?

Or must she no more return to the river?

The flood has gone past! Ah me! one was late for it,

And friends cry aghast: "How long must he wait for it?"

Young eyes that to-night are darkened for sorrow

Shall hail with delight their dear ship to-morrow.

Amid the sea-wrack the barque, tempest battered,

At length staggers back, like a prodigal tattered!

[100]

What if she be scarred or scoffers make light of her?

Though blemished and marred, how blest is the sight of her!

The Tide flows and flows, far past the grey towers;

And whispering goes through the wheat and the flowers.

And now his pulse takes the calm heart of the valley

And lifts, till it shakes, the low bough of the sally.

Slow, and more slow is his flow-he has tarried-

The blue Ocean's pilgrim, outwearied, miscarried!

Far, far from home, in wandering error,

A dim rocky dome beshrouding his mirror.

But hark! a voice thrills the traveller erring;

In the heart of the hills its sea-call is stirring:

And home, ever home, to its passionate pleading,

One whirl of white foam, with the ebb he is speeding.

[101]

* * *

"ORA PRO NOBIS"

(After Eifion Win, 1867- . He lies as a poet between Elfed and the "New Bards")

A sudden shower lashes

The darkening pane;

The voice of the tempest

Is lifted again.

The centuried oaks

To their very roots rock;

And crying, for shelter

Course cattle and flock.

Our Father, forget not

The nestless bird now;

The snow is so near,

And so bare is the bough!

A great flood is flashing

Athwart the wide lee;

Like a storm-struck encampment,

The clouds rend and flee;

At the scourge of the storm

My cot quakes with affright;

Far better the hearth

Than the pavement to-night!

Our Father, forget not

The homeless outcast;

So thin is his raiment,

So bitter Thy blast!

The foam-flakes are whirling

Below on the strand,

As white as the pages

I turn with my hand;

And the curlew afar,

From his storm-troubled lair,

Laments with the cry

[102] Of a soul in despair.

Our Father, forget not

Our mariners' state;

Their ships are so slender,

Thy seas are so great.

[103]

* * *

A FLOWER-SUNDAY LULLABY

(After Eifion Win, the contemporary Welsh poet)

Though the blue slab hides our laddy,

Slumber, free of fear!

Well we know it, I and daddy,

Naught can harm you here.

You and all the little sleepers,

Their small graves within,

Have bright angels for door-keepers.

Sleep, Goronwy Wyn!

Ah, too well I now remember,

Darling, when you slept,

How the children from your chamber

Jealously I kept.

Now how willingly to wake you

I would let them in,

If their merry noise could make you

Move, Goronwy Wyn!

Sleep, though mother is not near you,

In God's garden green!

Flower-Sunday gifts we bear you,

Lovely to be seen;

Six small primroses to show us

Summer-time is ours;

Though, alas! locked up below us,

Lies our flower of flowers.

Sleep! to mother's love what matters

Passing time or tide?

On my ear your footstep patters,

Still my babe you bide.

All the others moving, moving,

Still disturb my breast;

But the dead have done with roving,

You alone have rest.

[104]

Then, beneath the primrose petals,

Sleep, our heart's delight!

Darkness o'er us deeply settles;

We must say "Good night!"

Your new cradle needs no shaking

On its quiet floor.

Sleep, my child! till you are waking

In my arms once more.

[105]

* * *

THE BALLAD OF THE OLD BACHELOR OF TY'N Y MYNYDD

(After W.J. Gruffydd, 1880- , one of the leading "New Bards")

Strongest swept his sickle through the whin-bush,

Straightest down the ridge his furrows sped;

Early on the mountain ranged his reapers,

Above his mattock late he bowed his head.

Love's celestial rapture once he tasted,

Then a cloud of suffering o'er him crept.

Out along the uplands, in the dew-fall,

He mourned the maid who in the churchyard slept,

With the poor he shared his scanty earnings,

To the Lord his laden heart he breathed;

On his rustic heart fell two worlds' sunshine,

And two worlds' blossoms round his footsteps wreathed.

Much he gloried in Young Gwalia's doings,

Yet more dearly loved her early lore,

Catching ever from her Triple Harpstrings

The far, faint echoes of her ancient shore.

Yestereven he hung up his sickle,

Ne'er again to trudge his grey fields o'er,

Ne'er again to plough the stony ridges,

To sow the home of thorns, alas! no more.

[106]

* * *

THE QUEEN'S DREAM

(To a Welsh Air of the name)

From the starving City

She turned her couch to seek,

With pearls of tender pity

On her queenly cheek;

There in restless slumber

She dreamt that she was one

Of that most piteous number

By distress undone.

In among that sullen brood,

In homeless want she glided,

While in mock solicitude

Her fate they thus derided:

"Queen, now bear thee queenly,

In destiny's despite!

If thou wilt starve serenely,

We poor wretches might."

But, amid their mocking,

"The King, the King!" they cry,

And forward they run flocking

While He passes by;

With the crowd she mixes

Her cruel shame to hide;

When, O, what wonder fixes

The surging human tide?

There One stood, with thorn-crown'd head,

Hands of supplication,

Multiplying mystic bread

For her famished nation.

"Children thus remember

My poor and Me!" He spoke,

And in her palace chamber

Weeping she awoke.

[107]

* * *

THE WELSH FISHERMEN

(To the air of "The Song of the Bottle")

Up, up with the anchor,

Round, round for the harbour mouth!

Wind, boys, and a spanker

Racing due south!

Where 'ood you be going?

How, now can ye hoist your sails?

When blossoms be blowing

Over Welsh Wales!

Dear hearts for the herring,

Sure, after the herring,

Hot after the herring,

Each ship of us sails.

Up, up with the anchor,

Round, round for the harbour mouth!

Wind boys and a spanker,

Racing due south.

"Men, when you go rocking,

Out under the angry gale,

Wives' hearts begin knocking,

Lasses turn pale.

Oh, why start a-fishing

Far, far and across the foam?

Give way to our wishing;

Stay, stay at home!"

"Now, but for King Herring,

What 'ood you be wearing,

How 'ood you be faring

How keep ye warm?

Lest loaves should be failing,

Lest children for want take harm,

Men still will go sailing

Out into the storm."

[108]

Then men, since it must be,

Then men, since it must be so,

Christ, Christ shall our trust be,

When the winds blow.

Once when He was sleeping,

"Save Lord!" the disciples cried,

"Wild waters are leaping

Over the side!"

See He has awoken!

Hark, hark, He has spoken,

"Peace, peace," and in token

Down the storm died.

Lord God of the billows,

Still succour the fishing smack!

Give peace to our pillows,

Bring our men back!

[109]

* * *