Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century | Page 2

Mold in 1797.
Beginning life as a shoe-maker, his successes at the Eisteddfods of
Ruthin and Mold in 1823 attracted the attention of the gentry of the
neighbourhood, and a fund was formed to send him to the University.
He took his degree from Jesus College, Oxford, in 1828, and died
rector of Manordeifi 1840. His works were published under the title of
"Ceinion Alun," in 1851 (Isaac Clarke, Ruthin), and his poems were
re-published in 1879, by Mr. Isaac Foulkes of Liverpool, in the "Cyfres
y Ceinion."
Song of the Fisherman's Wife.
Hush, restless wave! and landward gently creeping,
No longer sullen break;
All nature now is still and softly sleeping,
And why art thou awake?
The busy din of earth will soon be o'er,

Rest thee, oh rest upon thy sandy shore.
Peace, restless sea; e'en now my heart's best treasure
Thou bearest on thy breast;
On thee he spends a life that knows no
leisure
A scanty wage to wrest.
Be kind, O sea, whose limits boundless are,

And rest, oh rest, upon thy sandy bar.
Ah, cease to murmur: stay thy waves from warring,
And bid thy steeds be still;
Why should'st thou rage, when not a
breeze is stirring
The treetops on the hill?
To sheltered haven bring my husband's bark

Ere yet the shadows fall and night grows dark.
Full well may women weep, we wives and daughters

Whose men are on the deep;
But who can tell our anguish when thy
waters
In stormy anger leap?
Be gentle to him, sea, and rage no more,
But
rest, oh rest, upon thy sandy shore.
Thou heedest not, O sea without compassion,
But ravenest for thy prey;
I turn to One who can control thy passion,
And wildest waves allay;
And He will take my loved one 'neath His
care,
And make thee rest upon thy sandy bar.
An Idyll.
DEWI.
Do you know--have you seen--my sweet Dolly,
Who pastures her
flocks on Eryri?
Her eyes like a dart,
Have pierced my heart,
Oh, sweeter than honey
is Dolly.
HYWEL.
Oh, yes, I know well your sweet Dolly,
Whose cot's at the foot of
Eryri,
No tongue upon earth
Can tell of her worth,
So lovely, so winning
is Dolly.
For tender and bashful is Dolly,
Not fairer nor purer the lily,
No name under heaven
So fitly is given
For the harpist to sing of as
Dolly.
DEWI.

Not tender, not tender to Dewi!
No maiden so cruel as Dolly!
With many a tear
I beseech her to hear,
But deaf to my wooing is
Dolly.
I have done all I could for her pleasing,
I have gathered her goats for
the milking,
'Twas surely no sin,
If I hoped I might win,
Sweet kisses in
payment from Dolly.
Her breast's like the snowflakes when falling,
So white--and so cold
to my pleading.
My heart will soon break
For very love's sake,
So cold, so
bewitching is Dolly.
Three wishes, no more, I would utter--
God bless my sweet Dolly for
ever,
May I gaze on her face
Till I finish life's race,
Then die--in the arms
of my Dolly.
Tintern Abbey
Here how many a heart hath broken,
Closed how many a dying eye,
Here how many in God's acre,
E'en their names forgotten, lie!
Here how oft for lauds or vespers
Down the glen the bell hath rung,
In these walls how many an ave,
Creed, and pater have been sung.
On the timeworn pavement yonder,

Even now I seem to see,
At the shrine where once he worshipped,
Some old saint on bended knee;
Seems to rise the smoke of incense,
In a column faint and dim,
Still the organ through the rafters
Seems to peal the vesper hymn.
But where once the anthem sounded,
Silence now her dwelling finds,
And the church from porch to
chancel
Knows no music but the wind's;
Perish so all superstition!
Let the world the Truth obey,
Long may Peace and Love increasing,
O'er our fatherland hold sway.
The Nightingale.
When night first spreads her sable wings,
All earthly things to darken,
The woodland choir grows mute and
still,
To thy sweet trill to hearken;
Though 'gainst thy breast there lies a
thorn,
And thou woeworn art bleeding,
Yet, till the bright day dawns again,
Thou singest, pain unheeding.
And like to thee the helpmeet fair,
Her true-love's rarest treasure,
When 'neath the clouds the sun has
fled,

And hope is dead and pleasure,
When all the friends of daylight flee,
Most faithfully she clingeth,
And through the night of pain and
wrong,
Her sweetest song she singeth.
Though 'neath the blight of sorrow's smart,
Her woman's heart oft faileth,
She moaneth not but with fond wiles
Her pain in smiles she veileth;
So sings she through the live-long
night,
Till hope's bright light appeareth,
Which glittering like a radiant eye,
Through dawn's shy lashes peereth.
IEUAN GLAN GEIRIONYDD.
Evan Evans was born at Trefriw in 1795, his father being, or having
been, a shipwright. He, like Alun, was of Nonconformist parentage, and
like him, attracted attention by his successes at this or