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How through far-spread broom and heath Tear his sharp, smooth coulter's teeth-- Old-time relic, heron-bill, Rooting out fresh furrows still, With a n.o.ble, skilful grace Smoothing all the wild land's face, Reaching out a stern, stiff neck Each resisting root to wreck.
Behind his oxen on his path Thus he strides the healthy strath, Chanting many a G.o.dly rhyme To the plough-chain's silver chime.
All the crafts that ever were With the Ploughman's ill compare.
Ploughing, in an artful wise, Earth's subduing signifies, Far as Baptism and Creed, Far as Christendom hath speed.
By G.o.d, who is man's Master best, And Mary may the plough be blest.
THE ELEGY ON SION GLYN, A CHILD OF FIVE YEARS OF AGE
(By his Father, Lewis Glyn Cothi, 1425-1486)
One wee son, woe worth his sire!
My treasure was and heart's desire; But evermore I now must pine, Mourning for that wee son of mine, Sick to the heart, day out and in, Thinking and thinking of Johnny Glynn, My fairy prince for ever fled, Leaving life's Mabinogion dead.
A rosy apple, pebbles white, And d.i.c.ky-birds were his delight, A childish bow with coloured cord, A little brittle wooden sword.
From bagpipes or the bogy-man Into his mother's arms he ran, There coaxed from her a ball to throw With his daddy to and fro.
His own sweet songs he'd then be singing, Then for a nut with a shout be springing; Holding my hand he'd trot about with me, Coax me now, and now fall out with me, Now, make it up again, lip to lip, For a dainty die or a curling chip.
Would G.o.d my lovely little lad A second life, like Lazarus, had!
St. Beuno raised from death at once St. Winifred and her six nuns; Would to G.o.d the Saint could win An eighth from death in Johnny Glynn!
Ah, Mary! my merry little knave, Coffined and covered in the grave!
To think of him beneath the slab Deals my lone heart a double stab.
Bright dream beyond my own life's sh.o.r.e, Proud purpose of my future's store, My hope, my comfort from annoy, My jewel and my glowing joy, My nest of shade from out the sun, My lark, my soaring, singing one, My golden shaft of faithful love Shot at the radiant round above, My intercessor with Heaven's King, My boyhood's second blossoming, My little, laughing, loving John, For you I'm sunk in shadow wan!
Good-bye, good-bye, for evermore My little lively squirrel's store, The happy bouncing of his ball, His carol up and down the hall!
Adieu, my little dancing one, Adieu, adieu, my son, my son!
THE n.o.bLE'S GRAVE
(After Sion Cent, 1386-1420, priest of Kentchurch, in Hereford)
Premier Peer but yesterday, Lone within the tomb to-morrow; For his silken garments gay, Grave-clothes in a gravelled furrow.
No love-making, homage none; From his mines no golden mintage; No rich traffic in the sun; No more purple-purling vintage.
No more usherings out of Hall By obsequious attendant; No more part, however small, In the Pageant's pomp resplendent!
Just a perch of churchyard clay All the soil he now possesses; Heavily its burthen grey On his pulseless bosom presses.
THE BARD'S DEATH-BED CONFESSION
(After Huw Morus, 1622-1709, a Welsh Cavalier poet)
Lord, hear my confession of life-long transgression!
Weak-willed and too filled with Earth's follies am I To reach by the strait way of faith to Heaven's gateway, If Thou light not thither my late way.
From Duty's hard high road by Beauty's soft by-road To Satan's, not Thy road, I wandered away.
Thou hast seen, Father tender, Thou seest what a slender Return for Thy Talents I render.
Thy pure Eyes pierced through me and probed me and knew me, Not flawless but lawless, when put to the proof.
In ease or in c.u.mber, day-doings or slumber, What ills of mine wouldst Thou not number!
From Thy Holy Hand's Healing, contrition annealing And Faith's oil of healing grant, Lord, I beseech; These only can cure me and fresh life a.s.sure me, These only Thy Peace can procure me!
To the blood freely flowing of The Lamb life-bestowing This wonder is owing that washes out sin; Thy Love to us lent Him, Thy Love to death sent Him, That man through Thy Love should repent him.
Lord G.o.d, Thy Protection, Lord Christ, Thy Affection, Holy Ghost, Thy Direction so govern my heart, That all promptings other than Love's it may smother, As a babe is subdued to its mother.
For that treasure of treasures that all price outmeasures, Pure Faith, on whose pleasures life-giving we feed-- Let Kings in their places, let all the earth's races Sing aloud in a crowd of glad faces.
Yea! all mouths shall bless Thee, all hearts shall confess Thee The bounteous Fountain of mercy and love; Each gift we inherit of pure, perfect merit, Dear G.o.d, overflows from Thy Spirit.
QUICK, DEATH!
(After Huw Morus)
This room an antechamber is: Beyond--the Hall of Very Bliss!
Quick, Death! for underneath thy door I see the glimmering of Heaven's floor.
COUNSEL IN VIEW OF DEATH
