The Poetry of Wales | Page 5

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 to praise their mountain land?
Thou stand'st immovable, and firmly fixed
As Cambria's sons in battle, when they met?The Roman legions, and their weapons mixed,
And clash'd as bravely as they can do yet.?The Saxon, Dane, and Norman, knew them well,?And found them--as they are--invincible!
Majestic Snowdon! proudly dost thou stand,
Like a tall giant ready for the fray,?The guardian bulwark of thy mountain land;
Old as the world thou art! As I survey?Thy