Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century Part 2

GLASYNYS.

Owen Wyn Jones was born near Carnarvon, March 4th, 1828. His father was a quarryman, and the future poet followed the same calling till his love for literature became too strong for him. He was ordained deacon in 1860, and held curacies in Anglesey and Monmouthshire. He died at Towyn, April 4, 1870. His works are unpublished, but Mr. O. M. Edwards promises us an edition, which will be not the least among the invaluable services he has rendered to Welsh literature.

Blodeuwedd and Hywel.

Oh how sweet on fair spring morning, 'neath its cloke of h.o.a.rfrost peering, 'Tis to see the tiny blossom with its smile the earth adorning, Oh yes 'tis sweet, oh yes 'tis sweet.

But the smiles of Hywel slender, and the kindness of his bearing, When my ice-bound heart he's thawing with his honeyed kisses tender, Are sweeter far a thousand times, oh sweeter far.

Sweet the violet on the swelling bank when first it shyly bloweth, Pale and wan but cheerly smiling on its lonely sheltered dwelling, That is sweet, oh that is sweet.

But the sight of Hywel coming, sweeter is than flower that groweth, On his cheeks a rarer beauty, near the fold at hour of gloaming, Sweeter is a thousand times, oh sweeter far.

Laughing ever in the sunlight, primrose brakes the hillside cover, April breezes stir the petals till they smile e'en in the twilight; They are sweet, oh they are sweet.

So in spite of opposition, true and constant is my lover, Ne'er a moment he forgets me, in the night of persecution, Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine.

Sweet the countless daisies flecking gra.s.s-green glade and meadow dewy, Like some rare and precious jewels nature's verdant garments decking, They are sweet, oh they are sweet.

But the eyes of Hywel glowing, 'neath his forehead broad and ruddy, When the tears--love's best enchantment--fill them full to over-flowing, Are sweeter far a thousand times, oh, sweeter far.

Roses white and lilies tender, marigolds and all sweet posies Scenting all the air together, fair are they in summer weather, O lilies white, O roses fair!

But like every summer blossom, lilies fade and so do roses, There's one flower that fadeth never, bloom of love will last for ever, Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine.

Leafy beech in verdant hollow--mighty oak with branches h.o.a.ry, Sycamores--all proudly wearing autumn garb of russet yellow, These are fair, oh these are fair.

But when darling Hywel's near me, what care I for woodland glory?

Fairer far than all the greenwood is my sweetheart's face to cheer me, Fairer far a thousand times, oh fairer far.

Sweet the song of thrushes filling all the air with shake and quiver, While the feathered songsters, vying each with each, their songs are trilling, Sweet the sound, oh sweet the sound.

But to me my love's caressing words and looks are sweeter ever, Would this moment I were near him, and my lips to his were pressing, Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine.

G.o.d in heaven be Thou his sentry. Guard him from the tempests wintry, Sheep and shepherd ever tending--such my prayer to heaven ascending, O hear my cry and guard my love.

Loving Saviour, stay beside us; let Thy Holy Spirit guide us, Keep our feet from rock and mire, till within Thy heavenly choir, We shall rest with Thee above.

IOAN EMLYN.

John Jones was born at Newcastle Emlyn in 1818, and apprenticed to a watchmaker at Crickhowel. He did a good deal of journalistic work and entered the Baptist ministry in 1853. After holding various charges in South Wales, he died Jan., 1873. His fame rests almost entirely on lyric, "The Pauper's Grave," which is one of the most popular in the language.

The Pauper's Grave.

Lo! a gra.s.sy mound, where lowers Branching wide a sombre yew, Rises as to catch the showers, Jewelled showers, of heaven-sent dew.

Many a one with foot unheeding, Tramples down its verdure brave, Hurrying onward, careless treading,-- It is but a pauper's grave.

Workhouse hirelings from the Union Bore him to his last, lone bed, "Dust to dust," that sad communion Woke no grief, no tear was shed.

Worn by woes and life's denials, Only rest he now would crave: Quiet haven from all trials To the pauper is his grave.

E'en the rough-hewn stone is broken, Where some rude, untutored hand Carved two letters, as a token Of their boyhood's scattered band, And when bright Palm Sunday neareth, When the dead remembrance crave, Friend nor brother garland beareth For the pauper's squalid grave.

Not for him the Muse which weepeth, Carved in marble rich and rare; Even now time's ploughshare creepeth Through the gra.s.s which groweth there.

O'er the place where he is sleeping Soon will roll oblivion's wave: Still G.o.d's angel will be keeping Ward above the pauper's grave.

TREBOR MAI.

Robert Williams was born May 25, 1830, and followed his father's trade as a tailor. He published two small volumes in his lifetime, "Fy Noswyl" in 1861, and "Y Geninen" in 1869. The contents of these with large additions were published after his death--which took place August 5, 1877--under the t.i.tle of "Gwaith Barddonol Trebor Mai" (Isaac Ffoulkes, Liverpool, 1883).

The Shepherd's Love.

Adown Llewelyn's Cairn there creep Cloud shadows in the failing light, From far off dingles flock the sheep To seek their shelter for the night.

My dog about me as of yore Plays seek and fetch as we go home; But, Ellen, why dost thou no more To meet me in the gloaming come?

The heart I gave thee free from thorn Why seek to wound with coldness, sweet?

If lasts thine anger and thy scorn Death's coming I will gladly greet.

Yet if to lose thee be my fate My life I cannot all regret, To see thy face doth compensate Though weary storms await me yet.

Across thy memory's golden gate Let not my faithlessness appear, Nor think upon my failings great, Forget them--for I love thee, dear.

But if of good I aught have done, Oh that with eyes of kindness mark, And let it shine--as when the sun Spreads wings of gold to chase the dark.

Thou rulest all my phantasy With thy fair face and eyes divine, The form, which in my sleep I see Mid dreamland's mazy fields, is thine.

Oh if thy sweet companionship I may not win, nor call thee wife-- Then all my future let me sleep, And one long dream be all my life.

Baby.

His cradle's his castle, and dainty his fare, And all the world crowds just to see him lie there.

Whole volumes of rapture around him are heard, But he keeps his counsel and says not a word.

His mother while hushing her baby to rest Foretells for him all that can make a man blest.

But still he lies silent--his pride is not stirred For all her fond visions, he says not a word.

His father feigns anger and swears that his son Is cross and ill-tempered, and scolds him in fun But though he speaks loud and demands to be heard For threats as for praises, he says not a word.

A glance at the strange world around him he throws-- Whence came he? He knows not--nor whither he goes.

Vague memories of angels within him are stirred, Too deep for mere speech--so he says not a word.