Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century Part 8

Hughes & Son, Wrexham. He died at Cemmaes, July 14th, 1877.

When comes my Gwen.

When comes my Gwen, More glorious then The sun in heaven appeareth; And summer's self To meet this elf A smile more radiant weareth.

When comes my love, The moon above Shines bright and ever brighter; And all the black And sullen wrack Grows in a moment lighter.

When comes my queen, The treetops green Bow down to earth to greet her; And tempests high That rend the sky Disperse, ashamed to meet her.

When comes my sweet Her love to greet, My cares and sorrows vanish; For on her face Rests heavenly grace, Which troubles all doth banish.

When comes my dear, The darkness drear 'Twixt G.o.d and me is riven; Her loving eyes Reveal the skies And point the way to heaven.

A Nocturne.

The mournful eve, a weary moan upraising, Low lays her head adown in honeyed sleep; And flame-enshrouded all the hills are praising The G.o.d who ward o'er man doth keep: On high the cloudwrack sailing Its golden skirts is trailing; Floats sound of summer song the evening airs along: Says the light Breeze, "Good night."

The tiny flowers, with silvery dewdrops dripping, Before the queen of night bow one and all, Who shod with feathery sandals satin-soft comes tripping To hide the world beneath her shadowy pall; From many a quiet hearth Over the darkling earth Is borne along the sound of song: Says the light Breeze, "Good night."

Come to the Boat, Love.

Come to the boat, love, Come let us row, So all the day, love, Floating we'll go.

Low sinks the sun, love, Crimson the sky, See the pale moon, love, Rises on high.

Now through the sky, love, Stars of the night, O'er thy fair head, love, Smiling shine bright.

But they are dim, love, By the true light, Which in thine eyes, love, Burns day and night.

Deep in the wood, love, Curtained with shade, Birds to the sun, love, Sing serenade.

Faint is their song, love, Nought to mine ear, When from thy lips, love, Sweet words I hear.

Gaze on the tide, love, Sleeping at rest, Mirrored thy face, love, See on its breast.

So in my heart, love, Carved is thy mien, Where thou shalt reign, love, Throned as my queen.

At the foot of the Stairs.

Maidenlike, love's question waiving, Nought she said, While I stood my answer craving, Half afraid.

Coldly she with hand extended, Said, "Good night,"

And ere well the words were ended, Took to flight Past me, deep obeisance making.

Well she knew She with her my heart was taking Torn in two.

At the stairway's foot half dreaming Still I stayed; From my heart my love poured streaming Towards the maid.

For one blissful moment standing Paused she there; Fell the lamplight from the landing On her hair, And her eyes, like starlight sparkling, Clear were seen, But, alas! the staircase darkling Lay between.

Down the staircase through the gloaming, Smiled she then, As though heaven itself were coming Down to men!

Raised her hand and from her tresses Plucked a rose Which amid her locks' caresses, Found repose, Breathed upon it love's own dower, Kisses sweet, And for answer dropped the flower At my feet.

OSSIAN GWENT.

John Davies was born at Cardigan in 1834, and died April 24, 1892. He was, I believe, a carpenter by trade. He published one little volume, "Caniadau Ossian Gwent" (Hughes & Son, Wrexham), but he left a large ma.s.s of unpublished matter. No one of our poets is simpler or purer, or writes so lovingly of birds and flowers.

The Lark.

Oh hark!

With fluttering wing and dewy breast, Soars upward like a spirit strong, From reedy nest, The gentle lark, To tune on high his matin song.

Alway A nameless charm flows from thy lay, Melodious bird!

Whose music heard Drives care and sorrow far away.

Beneath, The sleeping world lies still as death; Above, we hear thee singing clear, 'Mid'st morning rays, Unsullied praise, Which speaks of peace to mortal ear.

How free And blithesome is thy joyous flight!

In floods of sunshine sparkling bright, From skies serene Thy song unseen Angelic music seems to me.

The Bible.

Like stars beside the sun, So by this book Earth's volumes look: Their glory fades before its light, For on its leaves the splendour bright Of G.o.d's own face hath shone.

'Tis like some fair seash.e.l.l-- Bend down thine ear And thou shalt hear The river on the golden strand And sound of harps in that fair land-- Or wail of souls in h.e.l.l!

The Lake.

Oh fair the glade where dewy primrose bloweth, And fair the quiet slope of hillside clear, Which, girdled with the sheen Of glorious summer green, Its smiling face like some tall seraph showeth, And in its sunlit lap the modest mere.

O lake most lovely, ringed about with flowers And girt around its marge with nodding reeds; Like guardian angels o'er The circle of its sh.o.r.e Great trees their branches spread, whose leafy bowers Wave gently 'neath the wind that onward speeds.