The Poetry of Wales Part 21

His precious balms, my G.o.d hath shed, Upon my highly favoured head: And with the blessings of the Lord, My larder is completely stor'd.

His bounty and his mercies past, Shall follow me unto the last; And, for his favours shown to me, His house, my home shall ever be.

To G.o.d, the Father--and the Son-- And Holy Spirit--Three-in-one, Let us our bounden homage pay, Each hour, each moment of the day!

SHORT IS THE LIFE OF MAN.

BY REV. REES PRICHARD, M.A.

TRANSLATED BY THE REV. W. EVANS.

Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a tender flow'ret, droops and dies, Or, like a race, it ends without delay, Or, like a vapour, vanishes away,

Or, like a candle, in each moment wastes, Or, like a packet under sail, it hastes, Or, like a courier, travels very fast, Or, like the shadow of a cloud, 'tis past.

Strong is our foe, but very weak the fort, Our death is certain, and our time is short; But as the hour of death's a secret still, Let us be ready, come He when he will.

CONCERNING THE DIVINE PROVIDENCE.

BY THE REV. REES PRICHARD, M.A.

TRANSLATED BY THE REV. WILLIAM EVANS.

G.o.d doth withhold no good from those Who meekly fear him here below; On them he grace and fame bestows, Nor loss, nor cross they e'er shall know.

Cast thou on him thy troubles all, And he will thee with plenty feed; He will not let the righteous fall, Nor ever suffer them to need.

G.o.d says (of that advantage make)!

"Open thy mouth, I will thee feed;"

Pains in some honest calling take, And all thy labours shall succeed.

Though lions, and their young beside, Are oft distress'd for want of food; Yet they, who in their G.o.d confide, Shall never want for aught that's good.

G.o.d gives the sinful pagan food, Supplies the Ethiopian's need, His very foes he fills with good, And shall he not his servants feed?

At too much riches never aim, But be content with what is thine; G.o.d never will those folks disclaim, Who duly keep his laws divine.

Implore G.o.d's help in every ill, He is the Giver of all good; But should'st thou trust thy wit and skill, Thou'lt lose the prize that by thee stood.

Full many a man still lives in need, Because on G.o.d he ne'er rely'd; Full many a one still begs his bread, Who did in his own strength confide.

Since G.o.d is always to them kind, Why do they die for want of aid?

Because they on their strength reclin'd, And ne'er for his a.s.sistance pray'd.

G.o.d never knows the least repose, But for his servants still prepares; Whilst at our ease we sweetly doze, He daily for his household cares.

Say, can a mother e'er forget Her charge, her sucking babe neglect?

Should even maternal fondness set, G.o.d will his servants recollect.

Ere thou shalt woe or want behold, (If thou dost truly G.o.d obey) He'll tell a fish to fetch thee gold, Thy just expenses to defray.

Though, like the widow's meal, thy store Should be but small--yet in a trice (If thou dost strictly G.o.d adore) He'll make that little store suffice.

Do not on thy own arm rely, Thy strength or thy superior skill, But on thy friend, the Lord most high!

If thou would'st be preserv'd from ill.

G.o.d feeds the warblers of the wood, And clothes the lilies of the plain; G.o.d gives to all things living food, And will he not his sons sustain?

The ravens neither sow nor reap, They have no barns to house their seed; Yet G.o.d does even the ravens keep, And them, through every season, feed.

Observe the lily, and the rose, To toil and spin they ne'er were given; Yet G.o.d on them a robe bestows, More rich than monarch's vesture even.

On G.o.d, each living creature's eyes Are fix'd--he, with a parent's care, The wants of all the world supplies, And gives to each its proper share.

He opes his bounteous hand full wide, And feeds each animal that lives, And ne'er leaves any unsupplied, But to them all due measure gives.

He to the lion's cubs gives food, To each fierce rambler of the wild, To the black raven's glossy brood, And shall he not to every child?

Thou dost not drop a single hair, Without a providence divine; No sparrow tumbles from the air, Nought haps which G.o.d did not design.

Already has G.o.d's providence To thee, breath, being, strength allow'd-- Health, knowledge, reason, memory, sense, Will he not, think'st thou, give thee food?

Two sparrows, as they are so small, Are purchas'd for a single mite; Though little, yet G.o.d feeds them all, Art thou less precious in his sight?

Though G.o.d, for all his creatures here With a most lib'ral hand provides; Yet is the soul of man more dear To him, than all his works besides.

On G.o.d, thy cares and troubles lay-- For thee, he always is in pain; If Christ thou truly dost obey, A sure reward thou shalt obtain.

Footnotes:

{59} The Goryn Ddu (black crown), is surmounted by a circular ancient British station, in a very perfect state, about a mile from Trwst Llywelyn, on the other side of the river, up the vale: like the ancient Mathraval, it is situated in a wood.

{61} Trwst Llywelyn is only four or five miles from the nearest point of Shrops.h.i.+re; and the inhabitants, except the very old people, do not understand the Welsh language.

{62} Anglesey.

{65} King of the Fairies.