The Poetry of Wales Part 17

Once it flourished in deep verdure, Bright its aspect in the arbour, Beside myriad of companions, Once it danc'd in gay rotations.

Now its bloom is gone for ever, 'Neath the morning dew doth totter, Sun or moon, or breezes balmy Can't restore its verdant beauty.

Short its glory! soon it faded, One day's joy, and then it ended; Heaven declared its task was over, It then fell, and that for ever.

SAD DIED THE MAIDEN.

Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish she felt in expiring, The moonbeams were weeping the evening dew When the life of the Maiden was sinking.

Sad died the Maiden! beside the fast door, With her head resting low on the flagging, And the raindrops froze as they fell in store On a bosom that lately was bleeding.

She died on the sill of her father's dear home, From which he had forc'd her to wander, While her clear white hands were trying to roam In search of the latch and warm shelter.

She died! and her end will for ever reveal A father devoid of affection, While her green grave will always testify well To the strength of love and devotion.

THE WORLD AND THE SEA: A COMPARISON.

Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it rages, Sometimes full and sometimes shallow, Sometimes green and sometimes yellow.

Salt the sea to all who drink it, Bitter is the world in spirit, Deep the sea to all who fathom, Deep the world and without bottom.

Unsupporting in his danger Is the sea unto the sailor, Less sustaining to the traveller Is the world through which he'll wander.

Full the sea of rocky places, Shoals and quicksands in its mazes, Full the world of sore temptation Charged with sorrow and destruction.

THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE.

BY THE REV. J. EMLYM JONES, M.A., LL.D.

'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound its verdant head, As if to receive the riches Which the dew of heaven doth spread; Many a foot doth inconsiderate Tread upon the humble pile, And doth crush the turf so ornate:-- That's the Poor Man's Grave the while.

The paid servants of the Union Followed mute his last remains, Piling the earth in fast confusion, Without sigh, or tear or pains; After anguish and privation, Here at last his troubles cease, Quiet refuge from oppression Is the Poor Man's Grave of peace.

The tombstone rude with two initials, Carved upon its smoother side, By a helpmate of his trials, Is now split and sunder'd wide; And when comes the Easter Sunday, There is neither friend nor kin To bestow green leaves or nosegay On the Poor Man's Grave within.

Nor doth the muse above his ashes Sing a dirge or mourn his end, And ere long time's wasting gashes Will the mound in furrows rend: Level with the earth all traces, Hide him in oblivion deep; Yet, for this, G.o.d's angel watches, O'er the Poor Man's Grave doth weep.

THE BARD'S LONG-TRIED AFFECTION FOR MORFYDD.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden mien!"

I have loved beyond belief, Many a day to love and grief For her sake have been a prey, Who has on the moon's array!

Pledged my truth from youth will now To the girl of glossy brow.

Oh, the light her features wear, Like the tortured torrent's glare!

Oft by love bewildered quite, Have my aching feet all night Stag-like tracked the forest shade For the foam-complexioned maid, Whom with pa.s.sion firm and gay I adored 'mid leaves of May!

'Mid a thousand I could tell One elastic footstep well!

I could speak to one sweet maid-- (Graceful figure!)--by her shade.

I could recognize till death, One sweet maiden by her breath!

From the nightingale could learn Where she tarries to discern; There his n.o.blest music swells Through the portals of the dells!

When I am from her away, I have neither laugh nor lay!

Neither soul nor sense is left, I am half of mind bereft; When she comes, with grief I part, And am altogether heart!

Songs inspired, like flowing wine, Rush into this mind of mine; Sense enough again comes back To direct me in my track!

Not one hour shall I be gay, Whilst my Morfydd is away!

THE GROVE OF BROOM.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

The girl of n.o.bler loveliness Than countess decked in golden dress, No longer dares to give her plight To meet the bard at dawn or night!

To the blythe moon he may not bear The maid, whose cheeks the daylight wear-- She fears to answer to his call At midnight, underneath yon wall-- Nor can he find a birchen bower To screen her in the morning hour; And thus the summer days are fleeting Away, without the lovers meeting!

But stay! my eyes a bower behold, Where maid and poet yet may meet, Its branches are arrayed in gold, Its boughs the sight in winter greet With hues as bright, with leaves as green, As summer scatters o'er the scene.

(To lure the maiden) from that brake, For her a vesture I will make, Bright as the ship of gla.s.s of yore, That Merddin o'er the ocean bore; O'er Dyfed's hills there was a veil In ancient days--(so runs the tale); And such a canopy to me This court, among the woods, shall be; Where she, my heart adores, shall reign, The princess of the fair domain.

To her, and to her poet's eyes, This arbour seems a paradise; Its every branch is deftly strung With twigs and foliage lithe and young, And when May comes upon the trees To paint her verdant liveries, Gold on each threadlike sprig will glow, To honour her who reigns below.

Green is that arbour to behold, And on its withes thick showers of gold!

Joy to the poet and the maid, Whose paradise is yonder shade!

Oh! flowers of n.o.blest splendour, these Are summer's frost-work on the trees!

A field the lovers now possess, With saffron o'er its verdure roll'd, A house of pa.s.sing loveliness, A fabric of Arabia's gold-- Bright golden tissue, glorious tent, Of him who rules the firmament, With roof of various colours blent!

An angel, 'mid the woods of May, Embroidered it with radiance gay-- That gossamer with gold bedight-- Those fires of G.o.d--those gems of light!

'Tis sweet those magic bowers to find, With the fair vineyards intertwined; Amid the wood their jewels rise, Like gleams of starlight o'er the skies-- Like golden bullion, glorious prize!

How sweet the flowers which deck that floor, In one unbroken glory blended-- Those glittering branches hovering o'er-- Veil by an angel's hand extended.

Oh! if my love will come, her bard Will, with his case, her footsteps guard, There, where no stranger dares to pry, Beneath yon Broom's green canopy!

ADDRESS TO A BIRCH TREE,