Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Mountain ling, whose flower and fragrance Sorest longing to me bring To be ever on the mountains-- Oh that I were like the ling!
Mountain bird, whose joyous singing On the wholesome breeze is heard, Flitting hither, flitting thither-- Oh that I were like the bird!
Mountain child am I, and lonely 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.
By chance comes a Welshman and carelessly gazes, 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 G.o.d for the tears which are falling from heaven, And the gra.s.s 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.
Hid be thy strand 'neath the snows everlasting, Frozen the waters that over thee break!
Come to defend, O thou G.o.d 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.
Fallen our harp with the fall of Caradoc, Ay! let it fall as he fell and lay dead!
Yet can I look on the field of the slaughter, G.o.d was not mocked, nor was freedom denied.
Better than that 'twas to die--there on Rhuddlan Better to sink in the free flowing tide.
The Steed of Dapple Grey.
Caradoc calls his warriors, And loud the bugles blow; On rushed the brave Silurians, And fell beneath the foe.
Back shrank his men retreating, But on her steed of dapple grey There rides the stately queen that way Her spouse, Caradoc, meeting.
There's tumult in the dingle, As sinks the sun o'erhead; And many a stalwart hero Lies for his country dead.
One host the waters cover, But on her steed of dapple grey There rides the stately queen that day To seek her royal lover.
Then saw the Romans only A steed of dapple grey; But saw the Britons riding Their stately queen that way.
The bugles sound the rally!
The Britons backward turn--to fight, The Romans backward reel--in flight, Before that last grim sally.
A Lullaby.
Sleep, sleep, sleep!
All nature now is steeping Her sons in sleep,--their eyelids close, All living things in sweet repose Are sleeping, sleeping.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Peace o'er thee watch be keeping, If from my bosom thou art torn, Low in the grave I'll lie forlorn, Sleeping, ah, sleeping.
ISLWYN.
William Thomas was born April 3, 1832, and very early showed signs of poetic talent. He published a volume of poems, 'Caniadau Islwyn'
(Messrs. Hughes & Son, Wrexham), about 1867, some of the finest pieces in which, including "Thought" and "The Vision and Faculty Divine," are extracted from a long poem "The Storm," which has never yet been published. A complete edition of his works is now in the press. He died Nov. 20, 1878.
Night.
Come, Night, with all thy train Of witnesses. I love The stars' deep eloquence, That with the morning hours Grows mute again.
Thy stillness cries to human sense, "There is a G.o.d above, And worlds more fair than ours."
The day is night which hides the stars from sight!
Our night for day is given To make more plain the path to heaven.
It is the Sun That at its rising makes the infidel, And all day long the world alone Its tale can tell.
Oh welcome, Night, that bid'st the world be still, That through the stars eternity may speak.
Too early, Dawn, too early dost thou wake: Too early climbest up the Eastern hill: Too early! stay: so quiet is the Night, And in her pensive breeze such sympathy, She shows us suns that suffer no eclipse, O'er which the grave's dark shadow ne'er can lie.
Nay! come not yet, O Dawn: thy laughing lips, Thy wanton glance, and frolic songs of glee, The convocation of those holier spheres profane, And when night vanishes, heaven is hid again.
Come, balmy Night! O peaceful hours, When on its axis sleeps the untiring wheel, And from this loud-voiced world of ours No taint of earth can on the breezes steal.
The weary sailor, when time's tempests rage, Joys when he sees, on the far sh.o.r.es of heaven, The fiery line of stars, as beacons given To guide him to the eternal anchorage.
The Vision and the Faculty Divine.
When it will, it comes, Like the rain or the bow Or the nightingale's lay By the lake below: As free from restraint as the seraph that roams 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.
