“ This is but a world of woe:
Vanish all the joys of life,
Like the clouds which come and go:
And the weary finds no rest
Save within the grave’s cold breast.
Go and dig a grave for me,
Weary pilgrim here am I,
Through life’s dark and stormy ways
Wandering with a mournful cry.
Nought to clasp to my poor breast
Save the staff whereon I rest.
Go and dig a grave for me,
’Neath some green and shady tree,
Where the kindly breeze will make
Mournful music over me.
Oh how pleasant ’twill be there
For the weak, lone wanderer!
Go and dig a grave for me,
For my journey’s nearly o’er ”

“ Each day’s a world where good or ill holds sway:
For through life’s spacious vistas as we stray
Hour after hour we sow with varying grain.
Sown even to the wayside, down the plane
Of Time thus passes every flying day—
Never, till Time’s brief seasons fade away
Into Eternity, to rise again.
But ’neath the ripening rays of righteous fate,
To blade and ear the seed grows silently,
’Gainst that great day whose reapers angels are:
When all Time’s hours before the Throne laid bare,
World heaped on world, shall for the sickle wait
Of endless death—or immortality.
The Poets of Wales. ”

“ Far from home my song I sing;
But my heart is on the mountain
With the birds amid the ling.
Llewelyn’s Grave.
The earth has sunk low on the grave of Llewelyn,
The rainpools lie o’er it unruffled and still;
The moon at her rising, the sun at his setting,
Blush red as they look o’er the slope of the hill.
O Cymru, my land, dost know of this ill?
And where is the patriot hiding his face?
The tears of the cloudwrack know well where he lieth,
The birds of the mountain can tell of the place. ”

“ O’er the ebbing waves of the dying day,
When the reddening west, ’twixt the sun and the sea,
Seems to open the door of eternity.
When it will, it comes,
Like the stars that are driven
O’er the cloudwrack riven.
When it will—to the world it owes no debt,
No times, no seasons for it are set.
When it will—like all that belongs to heaven.
Not so the sea
That hath its laws and rules and door:
Whose ebb and whose flow
In the ears of men beat evermore,
Like time’s great pendulum to and fro. ”

“ 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? ”

“ 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. ”

“ To cry that Wales is free!
O hills which guard our liberties,
With outstretched arms to where you rise
In all your pride, I turn my eyes
And echo, “Wales is free!”
O’er Giant Idris’ lofty seat,
O’er Berwyn and Plynlimon great
And hills which round them lower meet,
Blow winds of liberty.
And like the breezes high and strong,
Which through the cloudwrack sweep along
Each dweller in this land of song
Is free, is free, is free!
Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleep
Over that wretch’s eyelids creep
Who bears with wrong and shame. ”

“ Where fell the last hero who fought for his sake;
The breezes are moaning, the earth is complaining,
That the heart of old Cymru is feeble and weak.
’Tis aliens only their pilgrimage make
Where low lies our prince by the side of his glaive.
Thank God for the tears which are falling from heaven,
And the grass that grows green by the edge of the grave.
The Strand of Rhuddlan.
Frowned the dark heavens on the cause of the righteous,
Bondage has swept our free warriors away,
Vain were our prayers as our dreams had been baseless,
Sword of the foeman has carried the day. ”

“ Thy triumph song of joy and praise
To God—that thou art free!
Climb the hillside.
Climb the hillside in the morning—
When the radiant dawn is seen
Blushing shyly on the mountains
Like a maiden of thirteen.
“Quench the lamps of right,
Fill the earth with light
Wander o’er the lofty hills,
Fringe each brightening fold
Of the clouds with gold,”
This the hest shy dawn fulfils.
Climb the hillside in the evening
When the sun is sinking low—
You shall see day’s radiant monarch
Falling bloodstained ’neath the foe. ”

“ The whole round world with hidden strings resoundeth,
Which endless praise distil to God in heaven.
A Morning Greeting.
Arise, my beloved! the birds’ merry chorus
Is heard ’mid the bourgeoning buds of the wold
Which smiles on the breast of the valley, while o’er us
The sun tips the dewladen branches with gold.
There comes from the meadows the scent of the clover,
The banks are all hidden by daisies from sight,
Each nook with bright yellow the primroses cover,
The trees in the orchards are curtained with white. ”

“ The voice of Nature breathes in every song
And we may read therein thy features kind
As in some tarn that nestles ’neath thy hills.
II.
Thy fragrant breezes wander through the maze
Of all their songs as through a woodland reach:
Their odes drop sweetness like the ripening peach
In laden orchards on late summer days.
Their work is Nature’s own—not theirs the praise
By culture won which midnight studies teach. ”

“ The God 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.” ”

“ 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? ”

“ O pleasant cots of Cymru, within, at dawn’s first rays,
As in the wood around them, are heard glad hymns of praise,
And early in the morning the birds and goodwife sing
Their matin song of gratitude to God, their Lord and King.
Dear cottages of Cymru, what country holds their peer?
Long may they stand unshaken, nor ill their hearths draw near!
God keep, as fair and fragrant as on the hills and dales
The flowers which smile and blossom, the cottages of Wales. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 ”

“ And bathed are the mountains in myriads of rays,
The woodland its harp for the noon is preparing
And hark, from its strings bursts a torrent of praise.
O rouse thee, my darling! Come, let us be going,
So soft is the breeze and so fragrant the air,
New health and new strength through our veins will be flowing,
And sorrow will vanish and sadness and care!
O banish the charms with which sloth would ensnare us,
Far purer the joy in the sunshine that lurks,
All nature her pinions is spreading to bear us,
And show us her Maker, revealed in His works. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Hid be thy strand ’neath the snows everlasting,
Frozen the waters that over thee break!
Come to defend, O thou God of all mercies,
Cause of the righteous and home of the weak.
Slain is our leader, and he who has slain him,
Prince of the foemen, will reign in his stead. ”

“ And smite the arm of tyranny,
And lay its haunts aflame.
Rather than peace which makes thee slave,
Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive,
Lay foul oppression in its grave,
No more the light to see. ”

“ Song of shepherd as of yore.
Still the countless daisies grow
On the hills, beneath the rocks,
But new swains, strange shepherds now
On our mountains feed their flocks.
Cymru’s customs day by day
Change with changing fortune’s wheel,
Friends of youth have passed away,
Strangers now their places fill ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ Evan Jones was born near Dolgelley, September 20th, 1820. He was ordained to the Independent ministry in 1845. Always weakly, he found a pastoral charge too great a strain on his health, and he devoted himself to literary pursuits, but he died Feb. 23, 1852, having in his short life served his country well. His Life and Works were published in 1876, “Hanes Bywyd a Gweithiau Barddonol Ieuan Gwynedd” (Hughes & Son, Wrexham) .
The Cottages of Wales.
Fair cottages of Cymru, with walls of gleaming white,
Whose smoke curls round the valley and up the mountain height ”

“ 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.” ”

“ 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. ”