A Celtic Psaltery Part 13

For lo, the Dane defaces With fire Thy holy places, He hews Thy priests in pieces, Our maids more than die.

Up, Lord, with storm and thunder, Pursue him with his plunder, And smite his ships in sunder, Lord G.o.d Most High!

THE SONG OF THE WOODS

(To an Irish Air of the same name)

Not only where Thy blessed bells Peal afar for praise and prayer, Or where Thy solemn organ swells, Lord, not only art Thou there.

Thy voice of many waters From out the ocean comfort speaks, Thy Presence to a radiant rose Thrills a thousand virgin peaks.

And here, where in one wondrous woof-- Aisle on aisle and choir on choir-- To rear Thy rarest temple roof, Pillared oak and pine aspire; Life-weary here we wander, When lo! the Saviour's gleaming stole!

'Tis caught unto our craving lips, Kissed and straightway we are whole.

THE ENCHANTED VALLEY

(To an Irish Air of the same name)

I will go where lilies blow Beside the flow of languid streams, Within that vale of opal glow, Where bright-winged dreams flutter to and fro, Fain am I its magic peace to know.

Beware! beware of that valley fair!

All dwellers there to phantoms turn, For joys and griefs they have none to share, Tho' ever they yearn life's burdens to bear, Ah! of that valley beware, beware!

REMEMBER THE POOR

(Founded on an Irish Ballad of the name)

Oh! remember the poor when your fortune is sure, And acre to acre you join; Oh! remember the poor, though but slender your store And you ne'er can go gallant and fine.

Oh! remember the poor when they cry at your door In the raging rain and blast; Call them in! Cheer them up with the bite and the sup, Till they leave you their blessing at last.

The red fox has his lair, and each bird of the air With the night settles warm in his nest, But the King Who laid down His celestial crown For our sakes--He had nowhere to rest.

Oh! the poor were forgot till their pitiful lot He bowed Himself to endure; If your souls ye would make, for His Heavenly sake, Oh! remember, remember the poor.

II. WELSH POEMS

THE ODES TO THE MONTHS

(After Aneurin, a sixth-century warrior bard)

Month of Ja.n.u.s, 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 c.u.mber the earth with his clay?

Justly St. Breda, the sapient, would say "As many to evil as good take the way."

Month of September--benign planets shiver; Serene round the hamlet are ocean and river; Not easy for men and for steeds is endeavour; Trees full of fruit, as of arrows the quiver.

A Princess was born to us, blessed for ever, From slavery's shackles our land's freedom-giver.

Saith St. Berned the Saint, ripe Wisdom's mouth ever; "In sleep shall G.o.d 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 c.o.c.k; 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 G.o.d is ever better."

THE TERCETS

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

Set is the snare, the ash cl.u.s.ters glow, Ducks plash in the pools; breakers whiten below; More strong than a hundred is the heart's hidden woe.