Transcribed from the 1873 Houlston & Sons edition, by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
THE POETRY OF WALES.
EDITED BY
JOHN JENKINS, Esq.
"I offer you a bouquet of culled flowers, I did not grow, only collect
and arrange them."--PAR LE SEIGNEUR DE MONTAIGNE.
LONDON: HOULSTON & SONS, PATERNOSTER SQUARE
LLANIDLOES: JOHN PRYSE.
1873.
[_Cheap Edition_.--_All Rights Reserved_.]
PREFACE.
The Editor of this little Collection ventures to think it may in some
measure supply a want which he has heard mentioned, not only in the
Principality, but in England also. Some of the Editor's English
friends--themselves being eminent in literature--have said to him, "We
have often heard that there is much of value in your literature and of
beauty in your poetry. Why does not some one of your literati translate
them into English, and furnish us with the means of judging for
ourselves? We possess translated specimens of the literature, and
especially the poetry of almost every other nation and people, and should
feel greater interest in reading those of the aborigines of this country,
with whom we have so much in common." It was to gratify this wish that
the Editor was induced to give his services in the present undertaking,
from which he has received and will receive no pecuniary benefit; and his
sole recompense will be the satisfaction of having attempted to extend
and perpetuate some of the treasures and beauties of the literature of
his native country.
INTRODUCTION.
The literature of a people always reflects their character. You may
discover in the prose and poetry of a nation its social condition, and in
their different phases its political progress. The age of Homer was the
heroic, in which the Greeks excelled in martial exploits; that of Virgil
found the Romans an intellectual and gallant race; the genius of Chaucer,
Spencer and Sidney revelled in the feudal halls and enchanted vistas of
the middle ages; Shakespeare delineated the British mind in its grave and
comic moods; Milton reflected the sober aspect and spiritual aspirations
of the Puritanical era; while at later periods Pope, Goldsmith and Cowper
pourtrayed the softer features of an advanced civilization and milder
times.
Following the same rule, the history of Wales is its literature. First
came the odes and triads, in which the bards recited the valour,
conquests and hospitality of their chieftains, and the gentleness, beauty
and virtue of their brides. This was the age of Aneurin, of Taliesin and
Llywarch Hen. Next came the period of love and romance, wherein were
celebrated the refined courtship and gay bridals of gallant knights and
lovely maids. This was the age of Dafydd ap Gwilym, of Hywel ap Einion
and Rhys Goch. In later times appeared the moral songs and religious
hymns of the Welsh Puritans, wherein was conspicuous above all others
William Williams of Pantycelyn, aptly denominated "The Sweet Psalmist of
Wales."
The Principality, like every other country, has had and has its orators,
its philosophers and historians; and, much as they are prized by its
native race, we venture to predict that the productions of none will
outlive the language in which their prose is spoken and writ. Not that
there is wanting either eloquence or grandeur or force in their orations
and essays, depth or originality in their philosophical theories, or
truthfulness, research or learning in their historic lore; but that
neither the graces of the first, the novelty of the next, or the fidelity
of the last will in our opinion justify a translation into more widely
spoken tongues, and be read with profit and interest by a people whose
libraries are filled with all that is most charming in literature, most
profound in philosophy and most new and advanced in science and art.
Our evil prophecy of its prose does not however extend to the poetry of
Wales, for like all other branches of the Celtic race, the ancient
Britons have cultivated national song and music with a love, skill and
devotion which have produced poems and airs well deserving of extensive
circulation, long life and lasting fame. The poetic fire has inspired
the nation from the most primitive times, for we find that an order of
the Druidical priests were bards who composed their metres among
aboriginal temples and spreading groves of oak. The bard was an
important member of the royal household, for the court was not complete
without the Bard President, the Chief of Song, and the Domestic Bard. The
laws of Hywel the Good, King or Prince of Wales in the tenth century,
enact:--
"If there should be fighting, the bard shall sing 'The Monarchy of
Britain' in front of the battle."
"The Bard President shall sit at the Royal Table."
"When a bard shall ask a gift of a prince, let him sing one piece;
when he asks of a baron, let him sing three pieces."
"His land shall be free, and he shall have a horse in attendance from
the king."
"The Chief of Song shall begin the singing in the common hall."
"He shall be next but one to the patron of the family."
"He shall have a harp from the king, and a gold ring from the queen
when his office is secured to him. The harp he shall never part
with."
"When a song is called for, the Bard President should begin; the first
song shall be addressed to God, the next to the king. The Domestic
Bard shall sing to the queen and royal household."
The bard therefore in ancient times performed important functions. In
peace he delighted his lord with songs of chivalry, love and friendship.
In war he accompanied his prince to battle, and recited the might and
prowess of his leader and the martial virtue of his hosts. No court or
hall was complete without the presence of the bard, who enlivened the
feast with his minstrelsy and song. We also see that the Welsh bard,
like the primitive poets of Greece, and the troubadours of southern
France, sang his verses to the harp, whose dulcet strings have always
sent forth the national melodies. The chief bards were attached to the
courts and castles of their princes and chieftains; but a multitude of
inferior minstrels wandered the country singing to their harps, and were
in those primitive times received with open arms and welcome hospitality
in the houses of the gentry, and whither soever they went. Even within
living memory the English tourist has often met in the lonely dells and
among the mountain passes of Wales the wayworn minstrel, with harp strung
to his shoulders, ever ready to delight the traveller with the bewitching
notes of his lyre and song. But the modern bard of Wales is the
counterpart of his Scottish brother, of whom Scott wrote:--
"The way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheeks and tresses gray
Seemed to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
* * * * *
No more on prancing palfry borne,
He carolled light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caress'd,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He poured to lord and lady gay
The unpremeditated lay."
Nor will the modern visitor to the castles and halls of the Principality,
not to mention its principal hotels, often miss the dulcet strains of the
national lyre.
The song and minstrelsy of Wales have from the earliest period of its
history been nurtured by its eisteddfodau. It is ascertained that the
Prince Bleddyn ap Kynfyn held an eisteddfod in A.D. 1070, which was
attended by the bards and chief literati of the time. This eisteddfod
made rules for the better government of the bardic order. This annual
assemblage of princes, bards and literati has been regularly held through
the intervening centuries to the present time. Within living memory
royalty has graced this national gathering of the ancient British race.
The ceremonies attendant upon this national institution are well known.
The president or chief, followed by the various grades of the bardic
order, walk in procession (_gorymdaith_) to the place appointed, where
twelve stones are laid in a circle, with one in the centre, to form a
_gorsedd_ or throne. When the whole order is assembled, the chief of
bards ascends the _gorsedd_, and from his laurel and flower-bedecked
chair opens the session, by repeating aloud the mottoes of the order,
viz.: "_Y gwir yn erbyn y byd_, _yn ngwyneb haul a llygad goleuni_," or
"The truth against the world, in the face of the sun and the eye of
light," meaning that the proceedings, judgments and awards of the order
are guided by unswerving truth, and conducted in an open forum beneath
the eyes of the public. Then follow verses laudatory of the president.
Poetical compositions, some of a very high order, are then rehearsed or
read, interspersed with singing and lyric music. The greater part of the
poets and musical performers compete for prizes on given subjects, which
are announced beforehand on large placards throughout the Principality.
The subjects for competition are for the most part patriotic, but
religion and loyalty are supreme throughout the eisteddfod. The
successful competitors are crowned or decorated by the fair hands of lady
patronesses, who distribute the prizes. This yearly gathering of the
rank, beauty, wealth and talent of the Principality, to commemorate their
nationality and foster native genius, edified and delighted by the gems
of Welsh oratory, music and song, cannot but be a laudable institution as
well as pleasant recreation. Some of the foremost English journals, who
devote columns of their best narrative talent to record a horse race, a
Scottish highland wrestle, or hideous prize fight with all their
accompaniments of vice and brutality, may surely well spare the ridicule
and contempt with which they visit the pleasant Welsh eisteddfod. Their
shafts, howsoever they may irritate for the time, ought surely not to
lower the Welshman's estimate of his eisteddfod, seeing the antiquity of
its origin, the praiseworthiness of its objects, the good it has done,
the talent it has developed,--as witness, a Brinley Richards and Edith
Wynne,--and the delight it affords to his country people. Enveloped in
the panoply of patriotism, truth and goodness, he may well defy the
harmless darts of angry criticism and invective, emanating from writers
who are foreign in blood, language, sympathy and taste. When the Greeks
delighted in their olympic games of running for a laurel crown, the
Romans witnessed with savage pleasure the deadly contentions of their
gladiators, the Spaniards gazed with joy on their bloody bull fights, and
the English crowded to look at the horse race or prize fight, the Cymry
met peaceably in the recesses of their beautiful valleys and mountains to
rehearse the praises of religion and virtue, to sing the merits of
beauty, truth and goodness, and all heightened by the melodious strains
of their national lyre.
It is often asked, what is poetry? Prose, we assume to be a simple or
connected narrative of ordinary facts or common circumstances. Poetry,
on the other hand, is a grouping of great, grand or beautiful objects in
nature, or of fierce, fine or lofty passions, or beautiful sentiments, or
pretty ideas of the human heart or mind, and all these premises expressed
in suitable or becoming language. Poetry is most indulged in the infancy
of society when nature is a sealed book, and the uneducated mind fills
creation with all sorts of beings and phantoms. There is then wide scope
for the rude imagination to wander at will through the unknown universe,
and to people it with every description of mythical beings and
superstitious objects. Poetry is most powerful in the infancy of
civilization, and enjoys a license of idea and language which would shock
the taste of more advanced times. The Hindustani poetry as furnished by
Sir William Jones, that of the Persian Hafiz, the early ballads of the
Arabians, Moors and Spaniards, the poems of Ossian, besides the primitive
Saxon ballads, and the triads of Wales, all indicate the extravagant
imagery and rude license of poetry in the early ages of society. The
history of those several nations also attests the magical influence of
their early poetry upon the peoples. We find that Tallifer the Norman
trouvere, who accompanied William to the invasion of England, went before
his hosts at Hastings, reciting the Norman prowess and might, and flung
himself upon the Saxon phalanx where he met his doom. We read that the
example of the trouvere aroused the Norman hosts to an enthusiasm which
precipitated them upon the Saxon ranks with unwonted courage and frenzy.
We also find that the Welsh bard always accompanied his prince to battle,
and rehearsed in song the ancient valour and conquests of the chieftain
and army in front of the enemy.
The progress of philosophy and science dissipates the myths and spectres
of the poetical creation, just as the advance of a July sun dispels the
mist and cloud which hung over the earlier hours of day and veiled the
mountains and valleys from the eye of man. Poetry becomes now shorn of
its greatest extravangancies and wildest flights, instead of soaring with
the eagle to the extremities of space, it flies like the falcon within
human sight. In lieu of a Homer, a Shakespeare and a Milton, we have a
Pope, a Thomson and a Campbell.
The poetry of Wales may be classified into six parts, viz.: the sublime,
the beautiful, the patriotic, the humourous, the sentimental and
religious. Much of the poetry of the Principality consists of the first
class, and is specially dedicated to description and praise of the
Supreme Being, the universe and man. As the great objects of creation,
like the sun and moon, the planetary world and stars first attract the
attention of man and always enlist his deepest feelings, so they furnish
the great themes for the poetry of all nations, more especially in its
ruder stages. The Welsh poet is no exception to the rule. On the
contrary, he indulges in the highest flights of imagination, and borrows
the grandest imagery and choicest description to set forth the Most High
and his wonderful works. No translation can convey to the English reader
the interest and effect which this class of poetry has and produces upon
the Welsh mind, simply because their trains of thought are so entirely
different. The power and expressiveness of the Welsh language, which
cannot be transferred into any English words, also add materially to the
effect of this class of poetry upon the native mind. The Cymric is
unquestionably an original language, and possesses a force and expression
entirely unknown to any of the derivative tongues. The finer parts of
scripture, as the Book of Job and the Psalms, are immeasurably more
impressive in the Welsh than English language. The native of the
Principality, who from a long residence in the metropolis or other parts
of England, and extensive acquaintance with its people, followed often by
mercantile success, so as almost to become Anglicised, no sooner returns
to his native hills, either for a visit or residence, and upon the
Sabbath morn enters the old parish church or chapel to hear the bible
read in the native tongue, than he feels a transport of delight and joy,
to which his heart has been foreign since he crossed the border, mayhap
in youth. Much of this may be owing to a cause similar to that which
fires the Swiss soldier on foreign service when he hears the chant of his
own mountain "_Rans des vaches_." Something may doubtless be laid to the
account of early association; but, we think, more is justly due to the
great impressiveness and power of his native tongue. The poems, original
and translated, contained in the first part of the ensuing collection,
may convey to the English reader some idea of this class of Welsh poetry.
The love of the beautiful is natural to man, but of all nations the
Greeks entertained the best ideals and cultivated the faculty to the
highest perfection. Their temples have formed models of architectural
beauty for all nations, and the grace and elegance of their statuary have
found students among every people. Much of this taste for the beautiful
mingled with their poetry, which is kin sister to the imitative arts. In
recent times the Italians have inherited the faculty of beauty, and
introduced it into their fine cathedrals and capitols, as well as their
statuary. The French also have displayed the highest ideals of beauty in
their manufactures and fine arts. The Spaniards have introduced into
their poetry some of the inimitable grace and beauty of their Alhambra.
The Latin races appear in modern times to have been pre-distinguished in
the fine arts. Much of the taste for beauty is inherent in the Celtic
races, and this element is very perceptible in the poetry of the Cymric
branch, as will appear from the illustrations contained in the second
part of this collection.
Patriotism, or love of country, is characteristic of all nations, and
manifests itself in their poetical effusions, more especially of the
earlier date. It is but natural that man should feel a profound
attachment to the land of his fathers, to the valley where he spent the
early and happier years of his life, to the hills which bounded that
plain, to the church or chapel where he worshipped in youth, and in whose
cemetery rest the ashes of his kin, to the language of his childhood, its
literature, history and traditions, and more especially to the kind
family, neighbours and friends who watched over his infancy, and
entertained his maturer years. This attachment, which is no other than
patriotism, is only deepened by his removal into a distant land, and
among a strange people. Perhaps no people in modern times have
cultivated their patriotic songs more ardently or even more successfully
than the Scotch; though probably most of this may be owing to their great
minstrel Scott, who transformed their rude ballads into immortal song.
Moore did a similar, though smaller, service for the Irish branch of the
Celtic race. And we most truly think that a Welsh Scott or Moore is only
wanting to marry the lays of Wales to undying verse. The third part of
this collection will contain some of the most spirited of the patriotic
poems of Wales.
Humour is inherent in every people, and is more or less characteristic of
every nation. Cervantes among the Spaniards, the Abbate Casti among the
Italians, Jean Paul Richter among the Germans, Voltaire among the French,
Samuel Butler, the author of Hudibras, and Dr. John Wolcot among the
English, Jonathan Swift among the Irish, and Robert Burns among the
Scotch, have introduced humorous writing into the literature of their
respective countries with more or less of success. Nor was it possible
that a people so lively, so susceptible of contrast, and possessed of so
keen a sense of the ridiculous in manners and conversation as the Welsh,
should not spice their literature with examples of humorous writing. We
shall furnish in the fourth part of this collection a few specimens from
the writings of some of the humorists of Wales.
Sentiment, which may be defined as the emotion of the human heart, mixes
freely in verse and sentimental poetry, forms a considerable portion of
the lays of every country. There is in this particular no distinction
between the early and modern history of nations, for sentiment enters the
metrical effusions of every period alike. Pathos and taste appear to be
the foster mothers of this quality, which is a distinguishing trait of
the poetry of Wales, as shown by the examples furnished in the fifth part
of this collection.
If any trait be more distinctive of the Welshman than another, it is his
love for his bible, his chapel and church, and this has furnished the
richest store of spiritual song. The hymnists of Wales are many; but
distinguished beyond and above every other, is the celebrated Williams of
Pantycelyn, whose hymns are sung in every chapel and cottage throughout
the Principality, and are now as refreshing to the religious tastes and
emotions of the people as at their first appearance; and, from their
intrinsic beauty and warmth, they are not likely to be lost so long as
the Welsh language remains a spoken or written tongue. The sixth part of
this collection will furnish the reader with an insight into the
transcendent merit and fervour of this prince of religious song.
PART I. THE SUBLIME.
SNOWDON.
King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow
Thou rearest in the clouds, as if to mock
The littleness of human things below;
The tempest cannot harm thee, and the shock
Of the deep thunder falls upon thy head
As the light footfalls of an infant's tread.
The livid lightning's all destroying flame
Has flashed upon thee harmlessly, the rage
Of savage storms have left thee still the same;
Thou art imperishable! Age after age
Thou hast endured; aye, and for evermore
Thy form shall be as changeless as before.
The works of man shall perish and decay,
Cities shall crumble down to dust, and all
Their "gorgeous palaces" shall pass away;
Even their lofty monuments shall fall;
And a few scattered stones be all to tell
The place where once they stood,--where since they fell!
Yet, even time has not the power to shiver
One single fragment from thee; thou shalt be
A monument that shall exist for ever!
While the vast world endures in its immensity,
The eternal snows that gather on thy brow
Shall diadem thy crest, as they do now.
Thy head is wrapt in mists, yet still thou gleam'st,
At intervals, from out the clouds, that are
A glorious canopy, in which thou seem'st
To shroud thy many beauties; now afar
Thou glitterest in the sun, and dost unfold
Thy giant form, in robes of burning gold.
And, when the red day dawned upon thee, oh! how bright
Thy mighty form appeared! a thousand dies
Shed o'er thee all the brilliance of their light,
Catching their hues from the o'er-arching skies,
That seemed to play around thee, like a dress
Sporting around some form of loveliness.
And when the silver moonbeams on thee threw
Their calm and tranquil light, thou seem'st to be
A thing so wildly beautiful to view,
So wrapt in strange unearthly mystery,
That the mind feels an awful sense of fear
When gazing on thy form, so wild and drear.
The poet loves to gaze upon thee when
No living soul is near, and all are gone
Wooing their couches for soft sleep; for then
The poet feels that he is _least_ alone,--
Holding communion with the mighty dead,
Whose viewless shadows flit around thy head.
Say, does the spirit of some warrior bard,
With unseen form, float on the misty air,
As if intent thy sacred heights to guard?
Or does he breathe his mournful murmurs there,
As if returned to earth, once more to dwell
On the dear spot he ever lov'd so well.
Perhaps some Druid form, in awful guise,
With words of wond'rous import, there may range,
Making aloud mysterious sacrifice,
With gestures incommunicably strange,
Praying to the gods he worshipped, to restore
His dear lov'd Cymru to her days of yore.
Or does thy harp, oh, Hoel! sound its strings,
With chords of fire proclaim thy country's praise;
And he of "Flowing Song's" wild murmurings
Breathe forth the music of his warrior lays;
And Davydd, Caradoc--a glorious band--
Tune their wild harps to praise their mountain land?
Thou stand'st immovable, and firmly fixed
As Cambria's sons in battle, when they met
The Roman legions, and their weapons mixed,
And clash'd as bravely as they can do yet.
The Saxon, Dane, and Norman, knew them well,
And found them--as they are--invincible!
Majestic Snowdon! proudly dost thou stand,
Like a tall giant ready for the fray,
The guardian bulwark of thy mountain land;
Old as the world thou art! As I survey
Thy lofty altitude, strange feelings rise,
Of the unutterable mind's wild sympathies.
Thou hast seen many changes, yet hast stood
Unaltered to the last, remained the same
Even in the wildness of thy solitude,
Even in thy savage grandeur; and thy name
Acts as a spell on Cambria's sons, that brings
Their heart's best blood to flow in rapid springs.
And must I be the only one to sing
Thy dear loved name? and must the task be mine,
To the insensate mind thy name to bring?
Oh! how I grieve to think, when songs divine
Have echoed to thy praises night and day,
I can but offer thee so poor a lay.
THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.
BY GORONWY OWAIN.
[This poet, who was born in 1722, obtained great celebrity in Wales; he
was a native of Anglesea, and entered the Welsh Church, but removed to
Donington in Shropshire, where he officiated as Curate for several years.
There the following poem was composed and afterwards translated by the
poet. The poem has been copied from a MS of the poet, and is now, it is
believed, published for the first time.]
Almighty God thy heavenly aid bestow,
O'er my rapt soul bid inspiration flow;
Let voice seraphic, mighty Lord, be mine,
Whilst I unfold this awful bold design.
No less a theme my lab'ring breast inspires,
Than earth's last throes and overwhelming fires,
Than man arising from his dark abode
To meet the final sentence of his God!
The voice of ages, yea of every clime,
The hoary records of primeval time;
The saints of Christ in glowing words display,
The dread appearance of that fateful day!
Oh! may the world for that great day prepare
With ceaseless diligence and solemn care,
No human wisdom knows, no human power
Can tell the coming of that fatal hour.
No warning sign shall point out nature's doom;
Resistless, noiseless it shall surely come,
Like a fierce giant rushing to the fight,
Or silent robber in the shades of night.
What heart unblenched can dare to meet this day,
A day of darkness and of dire dismay?
What sinner's eye can fearless then--behold
The day of horrors on his sight unfold,
But to the good a day of glorious light,
A day for chasing all the glooms of night.
For then shall burst on man's astonished eyes
The Christian banner waving in the skies,
Borne by angelic bands supremely fair,
By countless seraphs through the pathless air.
The heavenly sky shall Christ's proud banner form,
A sky unruffled by a cloud or storm;
The bloody cross aloft in awful pride
Shall float triumphant o'er the airy tide.
Then shall the King with splendour cloth'd on high
Ride through the glories of the golden sky,
With power resistless guide his awful course,
And curb the whirlwinds in their wildest force.
The white robed angels shall resound the praise,
Ten thousand saints their choral songs shall raise
Now through the void a louder shout shall roar
Than surges dashing on a rocky shore.
An awful silence reigns!--the angels sound
The final sentence to the worlds around;
Loud through the heavens the echoing blast shall roll,
And nature, startled, shake from Pole to Pole.
All flesh shall tremble at the fearful sign,
And dread to approach the judgment seat divine;
The loftiest hills, which 'mid the tempest reign,
Shall sink and totter, levelled with the plain.
The hideous din of rushing torrents far
Augment the horrors of this final war;
The glorious sun, the gorgeous eye of day,
Shall faint and sicken in this vast decay.
From our struck view his golden beams shall hide,
As when the Saviour on Calvaria died;
The lovely moon no more in beauty gleam,
Or tinge the ocean with her silv'ry beam;
Ten thousand stars shall from their orbits roll,
In dread confusion through the empty pole.
At the loud blasts hell's barriers fall around,
Even Satan trembles at the awful sound!
Far down he sinks, deep in the realms of night,
And strives to shun the glorious Son of Light.
"Rise from your tomb," the mighty angel cries,
"Ye sleeping mortals, and approach the skies,
For Christ is thron'd upon his Judgment Seat,
And for his mercy may ye all be meet!"
The roaring ocean from its inmost caves
Shall send forth thousands o'er the foaming waves;
From earth the countless myriads shall arise,
Like corn-land springing 'neath benignant skies;
For all must then appear--we all shall meet
In dread array before Christ's Judgment Seat!
All flesh shall stand full in its Maker's view--
The past, the present, and the future too;
Not one shall fail, for rise with one accord
Shall saint and sinner, vassal and his lord.
Then Mary's Son, in heavenly pomp's array,
Shall all his glory to the world display;
The faithful twelve with saintly vesture graced,
Friends of his cross around his throne are placed;
The impartial judge the book of fate shall scan,
The unerring records of the deeds of man.
The book is opened! mark the anxious fear
That calls the sigh and starts the bitter tear;
The good shall hear a blessed sentence read,
All mourning passes--all their griefs are fled.
No more their souls with racking pains are riven,
Their Lord admits them to the peace of heaven;
The sinner there, with guilty crime oppressed,
Bears on his brow the fears of hell confess'd.
Behold him now--his guilty looks--I see
His God condemns, and mercy's God is He;
No joy for him, for him no heaven appears
To bid him welcome from a vale of tears.
Hark! Jesu's voice with awful terrors swell,
It shakes even heaven, it shakes the nether hell:
"Away ye cursed from my sight, retire
Down to the depths of hell's eternal fire,
Down to the realms of endless pain and night,
Ye fiends accursed, from my angry sight
Depart! for heaven with saintly inmates pure
No crime can harbour or can sin endure,
Away! away where fiends infernal dwell,
Down to your home and taste the pains of hell.
Behold his servants--Lo, the virtuous bands
Await the sentence which the life demands;
All blameless they their course in virtue run
Have for their brows a crown of glory won.
Their Saviour's voice, a sound of heavenly love,
Admits them smiling to the realms above:
"Approach, ye faithful, to the heaven of peace,
Where worldly sorrows shall for ever cease.
Come, blessed children, share my bright abode,
Rest in the bosom of your King and God,
Where thousand saints in grateful concert sing
Loud hymns of glory to th' Eternal King."
For you, beloved, I hung upon the tree,
That where I am there also ye might be;
The infernal god (ye trembling sinners quake)
Shall hurl you headlong on the burning lake,
There shall ye die, nor dying shall expire,
Rolled on the waves of everlasting fire,
Whilst Christ shall bid his own lov'd flock rejoice,
And lead them upward with approving voice,
Where countless hosts their heavenly Lord obey,
And sing Hosannas in the courts of day.
O gracious God! each trembling suppliant spare--
Grant each the glory of that song to share;
May Christ, my God, a kind physician be,
And may He grant me bless'd Eternity!
THE IMMOVABLE COVENANT.
[The Reverend David Lewis Pughe, who translated the following piece from
the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist Church, and was
possessed of extensive learning, and a highly critical taste. After
officiating as Minister at a Church in Swansea and other places, he
finally settled at Builth, where he died at an early age.]
Ye cloud piercing mountains so mighty,
Whose age is the age of the sky;
No cold blasts of winter affright ye,
Nor heats of the summer defy:
You've witness'd the world's generations
Succeeding like waves on the sea;
The deluge you saw, when doom'd nations,
In vain to your summits would flee.
You challenge the pyramids lasting,
That rolling milleniums survive;
Fierce whirlwinds, and thunderbolts blasting,
And oceans with tempests alive!
But lo! there's a day fast approaching,
Which shall your foundations reveal,--
The powers of heaven will be shaking,
And earth like a drunkard shall reel!
Proud Idris, and Snowdon so tow'ring,
Ye now will be skipping like lambs;
The Alps will, by force overpow'ring
Propell'd be disporting like rams!
The breath of Jehovah will hurl you--
Aloft in the air you shall leap:
Your crash, like his thunder's who'll whirl you,
Shall blend with the roars of the deep.
All ties, and strong-holds, with their powers,
Shall, water-like, melting be found;
Earth's palaces, temples, and towers,
Shall then be all dash'd to the ground:
But were this great globe plunged for ever
In seas of oblivion, or prove
Untrue to its orbit, yet never,
My God, will thy covenant move!
The skies, as if kindling with ire and
Resentment, will pour on this ball
A deluge of sulphurous fire, and
Consume its doom'd elements all!
But though heaven and earth will be passing
Away on time's Saturday eve;
The covenant-bonds, notwithstanding,
Are steadfast to all that believe!
I see--but no longer deriding--
The sinner with gloom on his brow:
He cries to the mountains to hide him,
But nothing can shelter him now!
He raves--all but demons reject him!
But not so the Christian so pure;
The covenant-arms will protect him,
In these he'll be ever secure!
Thus fixed, while his triumphs unfolding,
Enrapture his bosom serene:
In sackcloth the heavens he's beholding,
And nature dissolving is seen;
He mounts to the summits of glory,
And joins with the harpers above,
Whose theme is sweet Calvary's story--
The issue of covenant love.
Methinks, after ages unnumber'd
Have roll'd in eternity's flight,
I see him, by myriads surrounded,
Enrob'd in the garments of light;
And shouting o'er this world's cold ashes--
"Thy covenant, my God, still remains:
No tittle or jot away passes,
And thus it my glory sustains."
He asks, as around him he glances,
"Ye sov'reigns and princes so gay,
Where are your engagements and pledges?
Where are they--where are they to-day?
Where are all the covenants sacred
That mortal with mortals e'er made?"
A silent voice whispers,--"Departed--
'Tis long since their records did fade!"
I hear him again, while he's winging
His flight through the realms of the sky,
Th' immovable covenant singing
With voice so melodious and high
That all the bright mountains celestial
Are dancing, as thrill'd with delight:
Too lofty for visions terrestial--
He vanishes now from my sight.
Blest Saviour, my rock, and my refuge,
I fain to thy bosom would flee;
Of sorrows an infinite deluge
On Calv'ry thou barest for me:
Thou fountain of love everlasting--
High home of the purpose to save:
Myself on the covenant casting,
I triumph o'er death and the grave.
AN ODE TO THE THUNDER.
TRANSLATED BY THE REV. R. HARRIES JONES, M.A.
[The author of the following poem, Mr. David Richards, better known by
his bardic name of Dafydd Ionawr, was born in the year 1751 at Glanmorfa,
near Towyn, Merionethshire, and died in 1827. He was educated at
Ystradmeurig Grammar School, with a view to entering the Welsh Church,
but his academic career was cut short by the death of his parents, and he
devoted himself to tuition. He composed two long poems, viz.: an "Ode to
the Trinity," and an "Ode to the Deluge," besides a number of minor
poems, and were first published in 1793. This poet is designated the
Welsh Milton, by reason of the grandeur of his conceptions and the force
of his expression.]
Swift-flying courser of the ambient skies!
Thy trackless bourne no mortal ken espies!
But in thy wake the swelling echoes roll
While furious torrents pour from pole to pole;
The thunder bellows forth its sullen roar
Like seething ocean on the storm-lashed shore;
The muttering heavens send terror through the vale,
And awe-struck mountains shiver in the gale;
An angry, sullen, overwhelming sound
That shakes each craggy hollow round and round,
And more astounding than the serried host
Which all the world's artillery can boast;--
And fiercely rushing from the lurid sky
From pregnant clouds and murky canopy
The deluge saturates both hill and plain--
The maddened welkin groaning with the strain:
The torrents dash from upland moors along
Their journey to the main, in endless throng,
And restless, turbid rivers seethe and rack,
Like foaming cataracts, their bounding track;
A devastating flood sweeps o'er the land,
Tartarean darkness swathes the sable strand!
O'er wolds and hills, o'er ocean's chafing waves
The wild tornado's bluster wierdly raves;
The white-heat bolt of every thundering roar
The pitchy zenith coruscating o'er;
The vast expanse of heaven pours forth its ire
'Mid swarthy fogs streaked with candescent fire!
The sombre meadows can be trod no more
Nor beetling brow that over-laps the shore;
The hailstones clattering thro' field and wood--
The rain, the lightning and the scouring flood,
The dread of waters and the blazing sky
Make pensive captives all humanity;
Confusion reigns o'er all the seething land,
From mountain peak to ocean's clammy strand;
As if--it seemed--but weak are human words,
The rocks of Christendom were rent to sherds:
They clash, they dash, they crash, above, around,
The earth-quake, dread, splits up and rasps the ground!
Tell me, my muse, my goddess from above,
Of dazzling sheen, and clothed in robes of love,
What this wild rage--this cataclysmic fall--
What rends the welkin, and, Who rules them all?
"'Tis God! The Blest! All elements are his
Who rules the unfathonable dark abyss.
'Tis God commands! His edicts are their will!
Be silent, heavens! The heavens are hushed and still!"
These are the wail of elemental life;
The fire and water wage supernal strife;
The blasting fire, with scathing, angry glare,
Gleamed like an asphalte furnace in the air:
Around, above it swirled the water's sweep,
And plunged its scorching legions in the deep!
The works of God are good and infinite,
The perfect offsprings of his love and might,
And wonderful, beneficient in every land--
With wisdom crowned the creatures of His hand;
And truly, meekly, lowly must we bow
To worship Him who made all things below,
For from His holy, dazzling throne above
He gives the word, commanding, yet in love,--
"Ye fogs of heaven, ye stagnant, sluggard forms
That float so laggardly amid the storms!
Disperse! And hie you to yon dormant shores!
Your black lair lies where ocean's caverns roar!"
The fogs of heaven o'er yonder sun-tipped hill
Their orcus-journey rush, and all is still.
In brilliant brightness breaks the broad expanse
Of firmament! Heaven opens to our glance;
And day once more out-pours its silvery sheen,
A couch pearl-decked, fit for its orient queen; (aurora)
The sun beams brightly over hill and dale
Its glancing rays enliven every vale:
Its face effulgent makes the heaven to smile
Thro' dripping rain-drops yet it smiles the while,
Its warmth makes loveable the teeming world,
Hill, dale, where'er its royal rays are hurled;
Sweet nature smiles, and sways her magic wand,
And sunshine gleams, beams, streams upon the strand;
And warbling birds, like angels from above
Do hum their hymns and sing their songs of love!--
THE DELUGE.
BY DAVID RICHARDS, ESQ.
* * * * *
Whether to the east or west
You go, wondrous through all
Are the myriad clouds;
Dense and grim they appear--
Black and fierce the firmament,
Dark and horrid is all.
A ray of light's not seen,
But light'ning white and flashy,
Thunder throughout the heavens,
A torrent from on high.
A thousand cascades roar
Boiling with floods of hate,
Rivers all powerful
With great commotion rush.
The air disturb'd is seen,
While the distant sea's in uproar:
The heaving ocean bounds,
Within its prison wild;
Great thundering throughout
The bottomless abyss.
Some folk, simple and bewilder'd,
For shelter seek the mountains;
Shortly the raging waters
Drown their loftiest summits.
Where shall they go, where flee
From the eternal torrent?
Conscience, a ready witness,
Having been long asleep,
Mute among mortals,
Now awakens with stinging pangs.
* * * * *
THE SHIPWRECK.
BY REV. W. WILLIAMS.
[The Rev William Williams, whose bardic name was _Gwilym Caledfryn_, was
a Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet. His Ode on the
wreck of the ship Rothsay Castle, off Anglesea, is a very graphic and
forcible Poem, and won the chief prize at an Eisteddfod held at Beaumaris
in 1839, which was honoured by the presence of Her Majesty the Queen,
then the Princess Victoria, who graciously invested the young bard, with
the appropriate decoration.]
Boiling and tearing was the fearful deep,
Its raging waves aroused from lengthened sleep
Together marching like huge mountains;
The swell how great--nature bursting its chains!
The bounding spray dashed 'gainst the midnight stars
In its wild flight shedding salt tears.
Again it came a sweeping mighty deluge,
Washing the firmament with breakers huge;
Ripping the ocean's bosom so madly,
Wondrous its power when roaring so wildly,
The vessel was seen immersed in the tide,
While all around threatened destruction wide.
God, ruler of the waters,
His words of might now utters,
His legions calls to battle:
No light of sun visible,
The firmament so low'ring,
With tempest strong approaching.
Loud whistling it left its recesses,
Threats worlds with wreck, so fearful it rages,
While heaven unchaining the surly billows,
Both wind and wave rush tumultuous,
Sweeping the main, the skies darkening,
While Rothsay to awful destruction is speeding.
Anon upon the wave she's seen,
Reached through struggles hard and keen:
Again she's hurled into the abyss,
While all around tornados hiss,
Through the salt seas she helpless rolls,
While o'er her still the billow falls:
Alike she was in her danger
To the frail straw dragg'd by the river.
The ocean still enraged in mountains white,
Would like a drunkard reel in sable night,
While she her paddles plies against the wave,
Yet all in vain the sweeping tide to brave:
Driven from her course afar by the loud wind,
Then back again by breezes from behind;
Headlong she falls into the fretful surge,
While weak and broken does she now emerge.
The inmates are now filled with fear,
Destruction seeming so near;
The vessel rent in awful chasms,
Waxing weaker, weaker she seems.
* * * * *
Anon is heard great commotion,
Roaring for spoil is the lion;
The vessel's own final struggles
Are fierce, while the crew trembles.
The hurricane increasing
Over the grim sea is driving,
Drowning loud moans, burying all
In its passage dismal.
How hard their fate, O how they wept
In that sad hour of miseries heap'd;
Some sighed, others prayed fervently,
Others mad, or in despair did cry.
Affrighted they ran to and fro,
To flee from certain death and woe;
While _he_, with visage grim and dark,
Would still surround the doomed bark.
Deep night now veiled the firmament,
While sombre clouds thicker were sent
To hide each star, the ocean's rage
No cries of grief could even assuage.
The vessel sinks beneath the might
Of wind, and wave, and blackest night,
While through the severed planks was heard
The breaker's splash, with anger stirred.