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 accursèd 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.