Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century by Edmund O. Jones
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Edmund O. Jones >> Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century
LONDON: Simpkin, Marshall & Co., Limited
BANGOR: Javis & Foster, Lorne House
MDCCCXCVI
CONTENTS.
DEDICATION
PREFACE
ALUN
i. The Fisherman's Wife
ii. Dolly
iii. Tintern Abbey
iv. The Nightingale
IEUAN GLAN GEIRIONYDD
i. Morfa Rhuddlan
ii. The Shepherd of Cwmdyli
iii. Why should we weep
GLASYNYS
Blodeuwedd and Hywel
IOAN EMLYN
The Pauper's Grave
TREBOR MAI
i. The Shepherd's Love
ii. Baby
CALEDFRYN
The Cuckoo
GWILYM MARLES
i. New Year Thoughts
ii. Who in this new God's acre
IEUAN GWYNEDD
i. The Cottages of Wales
ii. Go and dig a grave
CEIRIOG
i. Songs of Wales
ii. Myfanwy
iii. Liberty
iv. Climb the hillside
v. Change and Permanence
vi. Homewards
vii. Daybreak
viii. The White Stone
ix. The Traitors of Wales
x. A Mother's Message
xi. Mountain Rill
xii. Llewelyn's Grave
xiii. Rhuddlan Strand
xiv. The Steed of Dapple Grey
xv. A Lullaby
ISLWYN
i. Night
ii. The Vision and the Faculty Divine
iii. Thought
iv. The Variety of Wales
v. The Sick Minister
vi. Life like the Heavens
vii. The Poets of Wales
viii. The Lighthouse
MYNYDDOG
i. When comes my Gwen
ii. A Nocturne
iii. Come to the Boat, Love
iv. At the foot of the Stairs
OSSIAN GWENT
i. The Lark
ii. The Bible
iii. The Lake
iv. A Morning Greeting
ROBERT OWEN
i. De profundis
ii. A Prayer
TO MY MOTHER.
They flout me as half-English--a disgrace
For which scarce all your virtues can atone,
Mother, in whom I find no flaw but one,
That you are Saxon!--but this fault of race
Fell not on me nor yet, I fear, your grace
Of English speech, else had more smoothly run
These echoes of Welsh Lyrics, and your son
Need not have flinched before the critic's face.
Such as they are, from your far Yorkshire home
Perchance they may in fancy bid you come,
Pondering past memories, to my native land,
Once more to see fair Mawddach from the bridge,
To mark how Cader rises, ridge on ridge,
Or, where Llanaber guards our dead, to stand.
_July_, 1896.
PREFACE.
The words "First Series" which appear on the Title Page are intended to
show, firstly, that I do not at all consider the present collection in
any sense a representative anthology of the Welsh Lyrics of the Century,
and secondly, that if this effort meets with approval, I hope to bring
out two or three further instalments, one of them, if possible, being
from poems written in the "_mesurau caethion_." My aim, in fact, is to
publish by degrees a collection of translations which might eventually be
gathered together in a single volume (with a general introduction and
critical notices on each author) so as to form a more or less adequate
anthology of our nineteenth century poets. "So runs my dream": whether
it can ever be realized depends of course in a great measure on the
reception this first series meets with. That it has many serious defects
I well know, nor can I attempt to disarm criticism by pointing out the
immense difficulties which confront the man who tries to put Welsh poetry
into English rhyme, especially when that man has never written a line of
English verse before. But I should be most grateful to readers for any
hints or suggestions, by which the faults and imperfections of the
present volume may be avoided in a second series. I have retained the
metres of the originals with but trifling variations, except in those
cases where there was nothing specially characteristic to make this
desirable (as _e.g._, in the case of Islwyn, where I have thrown some
of my translations into sonnet form) or where--as in the Song of the
Fisherman's Wife--the metre, even if it could be reproduced, would not in
English harmonise with the meaning. I ought perhaps to ask pardon
beforehand for the audacity with which I have treated Ieuan Glan
Geirionydd's famous "Morfa Rhuddlan."
I very gratefully acknowledge the courtesy of the owners of copyright,
especially Messrs. Hughes & Son, Wrexham, Mr. O. M. Edwards, and Mr.
James Lewis, New Quay (to whom my translation of the "Pauper's Grave"
belongs).
My most cordial thanks are also due to Mr. W. Lewis Jones, Lecturer in
English at the University College of North Wales, who though an entire
stranger has given me his valuable assistance and advice in seeing these
pages through the press.
EDMUND O. JONES.
VICARAGE, LLANIDLOES,
July 23, 1896.
ALUN.
John Blackwell (Alun), was born of very poor parents at Mold in 1797.
Beginning life as a shoe-maker, his successes at the Eisteddfods of
Ruthin and Mold in 1823 attracted the attention of the gentry of the
neighbourhood, and a fund was formed to send him to the University. He
took his degree from Jesus College, Oxford, in 1828, and died rector of
Manordeifi 1840. His works were published under the title of "Ceinion
Alun," in 1851 (Isaac Clarke, Ruthin), and his poems were re-published in
1879, by Mr. Isaac Foulkes of Liverpool, in the "Cyfres y Ceinion."
Song of the Fisherman's Wife.
Hush, restless wave! and landward gently creeping,
No longer sullen break;
All nature now is still and softly sleeping,
And why art thou awake?
The busy din of earth will soon be o'er,
Rest thee, oh rest upon thy sandy shore.
Peace, restless sea; e'en now my heart's best treasure
Thou bearest on thy breast;
On thee he spends a life that knows no leisure
A scanty wage to wrest.
Be kind, O sea, whose limits boundless are,
And rest, oh rest, upon thy sandy bar.
Ah, cease to murmur: stay thy waves from warring,
And bid thy steeds be still;
Why should'st thou rage, when not a breeze is stirring
The treetops on the hill?
To sheltered haven bring my husband's bark
Ere yet the shadows fall and night grows dark.
Full well may women weep, we wives and daughters
Whose men are on the deep;
But who can tell our anguish when thy waters
In stormy anger leap?
Be gentle to him, sea, and rage no more,
But rest, oh rest, upon thy sandy shore.
Thou heedest not, O sea without compassion,
But ravenest for thy prey;
I turn to One who can control thy passion,
And wildest waves allay;
And He will take my loved one 'neath His care,
And make thee rest upon thy sandy bar.
An Idyll.
DEWI.
Do you know--have you seen--my sweet Dolly,
Who pastures her flocks on Eryri?
Her eyes like a dart,
Have pierced my heart,
Oh, sweeter than honey is Dolly.
HYWEL.
Oh, yes, I know well your sweet Dolly,
Whose cot's at the foot of Eryri,
No tongue upon earth
Can tell of her worth,
So lovely, so winning is Dolly.
For tender and bashful is Dolly,
Not fairer nor purer the lily,
No name under heaven
So fitly is given
For the harpist to sing of as Dolly.
DEWI.
Not tender, not tender to Dewi!
No maiden so cruel as Dolly!
With many a tear
I beseech her to hear,
But deaf to my wooing is Dolly.
I have done all I could for her pleasing,
I have gathered her goats for the milking,
'Twas surely no sin,
If I hoped I might win,
Sweet kisses in payment from Dolly.
Her breast's like the snowflakes when falling,
So white--and so cold to my pleading.
My heart will soon break
For very love's sake,
So cold, so bewitching is Dolly.
Three wishes, no more, I would utter--
God bless my sweet Dolly for ever,
May I gaze on her face
Till I finish life's race,
Then die--in the arms of my Dolly.
Tintern Abbey
Here how many a heart hath broken,
Closed how many a dying eye,
Here how many in God's acre,
E'en their names forgotten, lie!
Here how oft for lauds or vespers
Down the glen the bell hath rung,
In these walls how many an ave,
Creed, and pater have been sung.
On the timeworn pavement yonder,
Even now I seem to see,
At the shrine where once he worshipped,
Some old saint on bended knee;
Seems to rise the smoke of incense,
In a column faint and dim,
Still the organ through the rafters
Seems to peal the vesper hymn.
But where once the anthem sounded,
Silence now her dwelling finds,
And the church from porch to chancel
Knows no music but the wind's;
Perish so all superstition!
Let the world the Truth obey,
Long may Peace and Love increasing,
O'er our fatherland hold sway.
The Nightingale.
When night first spreads her sable wings,
All earthly things to darken,
The woodland choir grows mute and still,
To thy sweet trill to hearken;
Though 'gainst thy breast there lies a thorn,
And thou woeworn art bleeding,
Yet, till the bright day dawns again,
Thou singest, pain unheeding.
And like to thee the helpmeet fair,
Her true-love's rarest treasure,
When 'neath the clouds the sun has fled,
And hope is dead and pleasure,
When all the friends of daylight flee,
Most faithfully she clingeth,
And through the night of pain and wrong,
Her sweetest song she singeth.
Though 'neath the blight of sorrow's smart,
Her woman's heart oft faileth,
She moaneth not but with fond wiles
Her pain in smiles she veileth;
So sings she through the live-long night,
Till hope's bright light appeareth,
Which glittering like a radiant eye,
Through dawn's shy lashes peereth.
IEUAN GLAN GEIRIONYDD.
Evan Evans was born at Trefriw in 1795, his father being, or having been,
a shipwright. He, like Alun, was of Nonconformist parentage, and like
him, attracted attention by his successes at this or that Eisteddfod. He
went to S. Bees, and was ordained in 1826. He died January 21, 1855,
without having obtained preferment in his own country, until within a few
months of his death. His poetical works were published under the title
of "Geirionydd" (Isaac Clarke, Ruthin). As is too often the case with
books published in Wales, the title page bears no date.
The Strand of Rhuddlan.
I.
Low sinks the sun to rest
Over the lofty crest
Of dim Eryri;
Now over moor and dale
Night spreads her darkening veil,
While from the rustling trees
Softly the evening breeze
Dieth and fleeteth;
Fainter upon mine ear
Falls from the ocean near,
Its murmur weary;
Only within my breast,
Tossing in strange unrest,
Loud my heart beateth;
Beateth with rage and pain,
Beateth as once again
I muse and ponder
On that accursed hour,
When 'neath the Saxon power,
Welshmen who freedom sought,
Fell as they bravely fought,
On Rhuddlan yonder.
II.
See, through the gathering gloom
Dimly there seems to loom
The sheen of targes;
Hark, with a swift rebound,
Loudly the weapons sound
Upon them falling;
While from each rattling string
Death-dealing arrows ring,
Hissing and sighing;
Trembles the bloodstained plain,
Trembles and rings again,
Beneath the charges;
But through the deafening roar,
And moans of those who sore
Wounded are lying,
Rises Caradog's cry,
Rises to heaven on high,
His warriors calling--
"Welshmen! we ne'er will sell
Country we love so well!
Turn we the foe to flight,
Or let the moon this night
Find all our warriors bold
On Rhuddlan stark and cold,
For Cymru dying."
III.
Hearing his high behest,
Swells every Briton's breast,
Red as their lance in rest
Their faces glowing;
See, through the Saxon band,
Many a strong right hand
Once and again strikes home,
As in their might they come,
A broad lane mowing.
Britons from far and near
Loud raise their voice in prayer,
"In this our hour of need
To Thee, O God, we plead,
Send help from heaven!
Guard now our fatherland,
Strengthen each Briton's hand,
And now on Rhuddlan's strand
Be victory given."
IV.
Ah! through my trembling heart
Pierce, like a bitter dart,
Anguish and terror;
Hark to the foemen's vaunt,
Boasting and bitter taunt
Of Saxon warrior.
Nay, do not triumph so,
Do not rejoice as though
Your deeds were glorious;
Not your own valour brave,
Numbers, not courage, have
Made you victorious.
Those who on every side,
Have marked the battle's tide,
Praying for Cymru's arms,
Filled now with wild alarms,
The heights are scaling.
Old men and children flee,
As in amaze they see,
Their chosen warriors yield,
On Rhuddlan's bloody field,
The foe prevailing.
V.
Mountain and lonely dell,
Dingle and rock and fell,
Echo with wailing;
E'en Snowdon's slopes on high
Ring with the bitter cry,
All unavailing!
Cymru's great heart is now
Bleeding with bitter woe--
Woe for her children dead,
Woe for her glory fled,
And fallen nation;
On great Caradog's hall
Anguish and terror fall,
Loud lamentation;
"Weep for our warrior slain,
Ne'er shall we see again,
Our mighty captain."
Rises the harpist old,
Calls for his harp of gold,
Sweeps through its mournful strings,
And loud the music rings,
The dirge of Rhuddlan.
The Shepherd of Cwmdyli.
Cloke of mist hath passed away,
Sweetheart mine,
Which has veiled the heights all day,
Sweetheart mine,
See, the sun shines clear and bright,
Gilding all the hills with light,
To the arbour let us go,
Closely clinging, sweetheart mine.
Listen! from the rocks on high,
Sweetheart mine,
Echo mocks the cuckoo's cry,
Sweetheart mine,
From each hillock low the steers,
Bleat of lambs falls on our ears,
In the bushes, sweet and low,
Birds are singing, sweetheart mine.
But Cwmdyli soon will be,
Sweetheart mine,
Lone and drear, bereft of thee,
Sweetheart mine,
I shall hear thy voice no more,
Never see thee cross the moor,
With thy pail at morn or eve
Tripping gaily, sweetheart mine.
'Mid the city's din be true,
Sweetheart mine.
When new lovers come to woo,
Sweetheart mine,
Oh, remember one who'll be,
Ever filled with thoughts of thee.
In Cwmdyli lone I'll grieve
For thee daily, sweetheart mine.
Why should we Weep?
Why should we weep for those we love,
Who in the faith of Christ have died?
Set free from bonds of sin and pain,
They are living still--the other side.
From wave to wave they once were tossed
On this world's sea, by storm and tide:
Within the haven calm and still
They are resting now--the other side.
When gloomy Jordan roared and swelled,
The great High Priest was there to guide,
And safe above the stormy waves
He bore them--to the other side.
What though their bodies in the earth
We laid to wait the Judgment-tide?
Themselves are fled--they are not there
But living still--the other side.
The winds that murmur o'er their graves,
To us who still on earth abide,
Bring echoes faint of that sweet song
They ever sing--the other side.
What though in spite of rain and dew
The lilies on their grave have died?
The palms they bear can never fade
Nor wither--on the other side.
May we not dream they feel with us
When we by various ills are tried,
That when we triumph over sin,
They triumph too--the other side?
May we not hope that more and more
The day for which we long have sighed
They long for too--that we with them
May praise the Lamb--the other side?
And when we reach fair Sion's hill,
Where angel hosts in bliss abide,
Shall we not clasp the hands of those
Whom once we lost--the other side?
Then ever with them we shall dwell
By grief untouched, by sin untried,
And join with them in that sweet song
That never ends--the other side.
But friendship there shall purer be,
No love betrayed, no vows denied;
Nor pain nor death shall part us more
From those we love--the other side!
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 hoarfrost
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 grass-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 hoary,
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.
God 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 grassy 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 grass which groweth there.
O'er the place where he is sleeping
Soon will roll oblivion's wave:
Still God'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 title 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.
Yet answer there comes and as clear as can be,
In his eyes bright and sparkling his soul you can see.
To all that is said of him, all that is heard
He looks his reply, though he says not a word.
CALEDFRYN.
William Williams was born at Denbigh February 6th, 1801. A weaver by
trade, he showed signs of fitness for the ministry, was sent to Rotherham
College, and was ordained minister of the Independent body at
Llanerchymedd in 1829. He died at Groeswen, Glamorganshire, March 29,
1869. He published a volume of his poems in 1856, "Caniadau Caledfryn."
The Cuckoo.
Dear playmate of the verdant spring,
We greet thee and rejoice,
Nature with leaves thy pathway decks,
The woodlands need thy voice.
No sooner come the daisies fair
To fleck the meadows green,
Than thy untrammelled notes are heard
Rising the brakes between.
Hast thou some star in yonder heights
To guide thee on thy way,
And warn thee of the changing years
And seasons, day by day?
Fair visitant, the time of flowers,
We welcome now with thee,
When all the birds' unnumbered choir
Warbles from every tree.
The schoolboy on his truant quest
For flowers, wandering by,
Leaps as he hears thy welcome note
And echoes back thy cry.
To visit other lands afar
Thou soon wilt flying be;
Thou hast another spring than ours
To cheerly welcome thee.
For thee the hedgerows aye are green,
Thy skies are always clear,
There is no sorrow in thy song,
Nor winter in thy year!
GWILYM MARLES.
William Thomas was born in Carmarthenshire, 1834. After graduating at
the University of Glasgow, he entered the Unitarian ministry. He died
December 11th, 1879. He seems to have published one volume of poetry in
1859, but most of his works are still in MS. Judging from the specimens
given in the "Llenor" No. 3 (July, 1895), their publication would be a
real service to Welsh literature.
New Year Thoughts.
As to the dying year I bade farewell,
Within my hands she left a mantle dark,
Whereon mine eyes did mark
Loved names I scarce for blinding tears could read;
But from its folds fresh blushing flow'rets fell
Of that fair spring-tide I had mourned as dead.
And now her youngest sister draweth nigh,
'Neath modest starlight and with noiseless feet,
Whom thousands flock to greet--
Thousands of every age, who fain would know,
As in her face each peereth wistfully,
What fate she bringeth--happiness or woe?
She answereth not, but pointeth silently
To where far off the hidden future lies,
All dark to mortal eyes,
Save where, from out the gloom, faint stars appear.
She will not linger--haste and thou shalt see
From chaos order as thou drawest near.