Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century | Page 4

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The day for which we long have sighed
They long for too--that we
with them
May praise the Lamb--the other side?

And when we reach fair Sion's hill,
Where angel hosts in bliss abide,
Shall we not clasp the hands of
those
Whom once we lost--the other side?
Then ever with them we shall dwell
By grief untouched, by sin untried,
And join with them in that sweet
song
That never ends--the other side.
But friendship there shall purer be,
No love betrayed, no vows denied;
Nor pain nor death shall part us
more
From those we love--the other side!
GLASYNYS.
Owen Wyn Jones was born near Carnarvon, March 4th, 1828. His
father was a quarryman, and the future poet followed the same calling
till his love for literature became too strong for him. He was ordained
deacon in 1860, and held curacies in Anglesey and Monmouthshire. He
died at Towyn, April 4, 1870. His works are unpublished, but Mr. O. M.
Edwards promises us an edition, which will be not the least among the
invaluable services he has rendered to Welsh literature.
Blodeuwedd and Hywel.
Oh how sweet on fair spring morning, 'neath its cloke of hoarfrost
peering,
'Tis to see the tiny blossom with its smile the earth adorning,
Oh yes 'tis sweet, oh yes 'tis sweet.
But the smiles of Hywel slender,
and the kindness of his bearing, When my ice-bound heart he's thawing

with his honeyed kisses tender,
Are sweeter far a thousand times, oh sweeter far.
Sweet the violet on the swelling bank when first it shyly bloweth, Pale
and wan but cheerly smiling on its lonely sheltered dwelling,
That is sweet, oh that is sweet.
But the sight of Hywel coming,
sweeter is than flower that groweth, On his cheeks a rarer beauty, near
the fold at hour of gloaming,
Sweeter is a thousand times, oh sweeter far.
Laughing ever in the sunlight, primrose brakes the hillside cover, April
breezes stir the petals till they smile e'en in the twilight;
They are sweet, oh they are sweet.
So in spite of opposition, true and
constant is my lover,
Ne'er a moment he forgets me, in the night of
persecution,
Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine.
Sweet the countless daisies flecking grass-green glade and meadow
dewy, Like some rare and precious jewels nature's verdant garments
decking,
They are sweet, oh they are sweet.
But the eyes of Hywel glowing,
'neath his forehead broad and ruddy, When the tears--love's best
enchantment--fill them full to over-flowing,
Are sweeter far a thousand times, oh, sweeter far.
Roses white and lilies tender, marigolds and all sweet posies Scenting
all the air together, fair are they in summer weather,
O lilies white, O roses fair!
But like every summer blossom, lilies
fade and so do roses, There's one flower that fadeth never, bloom of
love will last for ever,

Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine.
Leafy beech in verdant hollow--mighty oak with branches hoary,
Sycamores--all proudly wearing autumn garb of russet yellow,
These are fair, oh these are fair.
But when darling Hywel's near me,
what care I for woodland glory? Fairer far than all the greenwood is my
sweetheart's face to cheer me,
Fairer far a thousand times, oh fairer far.
Sweet the song of thrushes filling all the air with shake and quiver,
While the feathered songsters, vying each with each, their songs are
trilling,
Sweet the sound, oh sweet the sound.
But to me my love's caressing
words and looks are sweeter ever, Would this moment I were near him,
and my lips to his were pressing,
Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine.
God in heaven be Thou his sentry. Guard him from the tempests wintry,
Sheep and shepherd ever tending--such my prayer to heaven ascending,
O hear my cry and guard my love.
Loving Saviour, stay beside us; let
Thy Holy Spirit guide us, Keep our feet from rock and mire, till within
Thy heavenly choir,
We shall rest with Thee above.
IOAN EMLYN.
John Jones was born at Newcastle Emlyn in 1818, and apprenticed to a
watchmaker at Crickhowel. He did a good deal of journalistic work and
entered the Baptist ministry in 1853. After holding various charges in
South Wales, he died Jan., 1873. His fame rests almost entirely on lyric,
"The Pauper's Grave," which is one of the most popular in the
language.

The Pauper's Grave.
Lo! a grassy mound, where lowers
Branching wide a sombre yew,
Rises as to catch the showers,
Jewelled showers, of heaven-sent dew.
Many a one with foot
unheeding,
Tramples down its verdure brave,
Hurrying onward, careless
treading,--
It is but a pauper's grave.
Workhouse hirelings from the Union
Bore him to his last, lone bed,
"Dust to dust," that sad communion
Woke no grief, no tear was shed.
Worn by woes and life's denials,
Only rest he now would crave:
Quiet haven from all trials
To the pauper is his grave.
E'en the