The Poetry of Wales | Page 5

Butler, the author of Hudibras, and Dr. John
Wolcot among the English, Jonathan Swift among the Irish, and Robert

Burns among the Scotch, have introduced humorous writing into the
literature of their respective countries with more or less of success. Nor
was it possible that a people so lively, so susceptible of contrast, and
possessed of so keen a sense of the ridiculous in manners and
conversation as the Welsh, should not spice their literature with
examples of humorous writing. We shall furnish in the fourth part of
this collection a few specimens from the writings of some of the
humorists of Wales.
Sentiment, which may be defined as the emotion of the human heart,
mixes freely in verse and sentimental poetry, forms a considerable
portion of the lays of every country. There is in this particular no
distinction between the early and modern history of nations, for
sentiment enters the metrical effusions of every period alike. Pathos
and taste appear to be the foster mothers of this quality, which is a
distinguishing trait of the poetry of Wales, as shown by the examples
furnished in the fifth part of this collection.
If any trait be more distinctive of the Welshman than another, it is his
love for his bible, his chapel and church, and this has furnished the
richest store of spiritual song. The hymnists of Wales are many; but
distinguished beyond and above every other, is the celebrated Williams
of Pantycelyn, whose hymns are sung in every chapel and cottage
throughout the Principality, and are now as refreshing to the religious
tastes and emotions of the people as at their first appearance; and, from
their intrinsic beauty and warmth, they are not likely to be lost so long
as the Welsh language remains a spoken or written tongue. The sixth
part of this collection will furnish the reader with an insight into the
transcendent merit and fervour of this prince of religious song.
PART I. THE SUBLIME.
SNOWDON.
King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow
Thou rearest in the clouds, as if to mock
The littleness of human
things below;

The tempest cannot harm thee, and the shock
Of the deep thunder
falls upon thy head
As the light footfalls of an infant's tread.
The livid lightning's all destroying flame
Has flashed upon thee harmlessly, the rage
Of savage storms have left
thee still the same;
Thou art imperishable! Age after age
Thou hast endured; aye, and for
evermore
Thy form shall be as changeless as before.
The works of man shall perish and decay,
Cities shall crumble down to dust, and all
Their "gorgeous palaces"
shall pass away;
Even their lofty monuments shall fall;
And a few scattered stones be
all to tell
The place where once they stood,--where since they fell!
Yet, even time has not the power to shiver
One single fragment from thee; thou shalt be
A monument that shall
exist for ever!
While the vast world endures in its immensity,
The eternal snows that
gather on thy brow
Shall diadem thy crest, as they do now.
Thy head is wrapt in mists, yet still thou gleam'st,
At intervals, from out the clouds, that are
A glorious canopy, in
which thou seem'st
To shroud thy many beauties; now afar
Thou glitterest in the sun, and
dost unfold
Thy giant form, in robes of burning gold.
And, when the red day dawned upon thee, oh! how bright

Thy mighty form appeared! a thousand dies
Shed o'er thee all the
brilliance of their light,
Catching their hues from the o'er-arching skies,
That seemed to play
around thee, like a dress
Sporting around some form of loveliness.
And when the silver moonbeams on thee threw
Their calm and tranquil light, thou seem'st to be
A thing so wildly
beautiful to view,
So wrapt in strange unearthly mystery,
That the mind feels an awful
sense of fear
When gazing on thy form, so wild and drear.
The poet loves to gaze upon thee when
No living soul is near, and all are gone
Wooing their couches for soft
sleep; for then
The poet feels that he is _least_ alone,--
Holding communion with the
mighty dead,
Whose viewless shadows flit around thy head.
Say, does the spirit of some warrior bard,
With unseen form, float on the misty air,
As if intent thy sacred
heights to guard?
Or does he breathe his mournful murmurs there,
As if returned to
earth, once more to dwell
On the dear spot he ever lov'd so well.
Perhaps some Druid form, in awful guise,
With words of wond'rous import, there may range,
Making aloud
mysterious sacrifice,
With gestures incommunicably strange,
Praying to the gods he
worshipped, to restore
His dear lov'd Cymru to her days of yore.

Or does thy harp, oh, Hoel! sound its strings,
With chords of fire proclaim thy country's praise;
And he of "Flowing
Song's" wild murmurings
Breathe forth the music of his warrior lays;
And Davydd, Caradoc--a
glorious band--
Tune their wild harps