Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century | Page 5

rough-hewn stone is broken,
Where some rude, untutored hand
Carved two letters, as a token
Of their boyhood's scattered band,
And when bright Palm Sunday
neareth,
When the dead remembrance crave,
Friend nor brother garland
beareth
For the pauper's squalid grave.
Not for him the Muse which weepeth,

Carved in marble rich and rare;
Even now time's ploughshare
creepeth
Through the grass which groweth there.
O'er the place where he is
sleeping
Soon will roll oblivion's wave:
Still God's angel will be keeping
Ward above the pauper's grave.
TREBOR MAI.
Robert Williams was born May 25, 1830, and followed his father's
trade as a tailor. He published two small volumes in his lifetime, "Fy
Noswyl" in 1861, and "Y Geninen" in 1869. The contents of these with
large additions were published after his death--which took place August
5, 1877--under the title of "Gwaith Barddonol Trebor Mai" (Isaac
Ffoulkes, Liverpool, 1883).
The Shepherd's Love.
Adown Llewelyn's Cairn there creep
Cloud shadows in the failing light,
From far off dingles flock the
sheep
To seek their shelter for the night.
My dog about me as of yore
Plays seek and fetch as we go home;
But, Ellen, why dost thou no
more
To meet me in the gloaming come?
The heart I gave thee free from thorn
Why seek to wound with coldness, sweet?
If lasts thine anger and thy
scorn

Death's coming I will gladly greet.
Yet if to lose thee be my fate
My life I cannot all regret,
To see thy face doth compensate
Though weary storms await me yet.
Across thy memory's golden gate
Let not my faithlessness appear,
Nor think upon my failings great,
Forget them--for I love thee, dear.
But if of good I aught have done,
Oh that with eyes of kindness mark,
And let it shine--as when the sun
Spreads wings of gold to chase the dark.
Thou rulest all my phantasy
With thy fair face and eyes divine,
The form, which in my sleep I see
Mid dreamland's mazy fields, is thine.
Oh if thy sweet companionship
I may not win, nor call thee wife--
Then all my future let me sleep,
And one long dream be all my life.
Baby.
His cradle's his castle, and dainty his fare,
And all the world crowds
just to see him lie there.
Whole volumes of rapture around him are
heard,
But he keeps his counsel and says not a word.
His mother while hushing her baby to rest
Foretells for him all that
can make a man blest.
But still he lies silent--his pride is not stirred

For all her fond visions, he says not a word.
His father feigns anger and swears that his son
Is cross and

ill-tempered, and scolds him in fun
But though he speaks loud and
demands to be heard
For threats as for praises, he says not a word.
A glance at the strange world around him he throws--
Whence came
he? He knows not--nor whither he goes.
Vague memories of angels
within him are stirred,
Too deep for mere speech--so he says not a
word.
Yet answer there comes and as clear as can be,
In his eyes bright and
sparkling his soul you can see.
To all that is said of him, all that is
heard
He looks his reply, though he says not a word.
CALEDFRYN.
William Williams was born at Denbigh February 6th, 1801. A weaver
by trade, he showed signs of fitness for the ministry, was sent to
Rotherham College, and was ordained minister of the Independent
body at Llanerchymedd in 1829. He died at Groeswen, Glamorganshire,
March 29, 1869. He published a volume of his poems in 1856,
"Caniadau Caledfryn."
The Cuckoo.
Dear playmate of the verdant spring,
We greet thee and rejoice,
Nature with leaves thy pathway decks,
The woodlands need thy voice.
No sooner come the daisies fair
To fleck the meadows green,
Than thy untrammelled notes are heard
Rising the brakes between.
Hast thou some star in yonder heights

To guide thee on thy way,
And warn thee of the changing years
And seasons, day by day?
Fair visitant, the time of flowers,
We welcome now with thee,
When all the birds' unnumbered choir
Warbles from every tree.
The schoolboy on his truant quest
For flowers, wandering by,
Leaps as he hears thy welcome note
And echoes back thy cry.
To visit other lands afar
Thou soon wilt flying be;
Thou hast another spring than ours
To cheerly welcome thee.
For thee the hedgerows aye are green,
Thy skies are always clear,
There is no sorrow in thy song,
Nor winter in thy year!
GWILYM MARLES.
William Thomas was born in Carmarthenshire, 1834. After graduating
at the University of Glasgow, he entered the Unitarian ministry. He
died December 11th, 1879. He seems to have published one volume of
poetry in 1859, but most of his works are still in MS. Judging from the
specimens given in the "Llenor" No. 3 (July, 1895), their publication
would be a real service to Welsh literature.
New Year