Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century | Page 6

Thoughts.

As to the dying year I bade farewell,
Within my hands she left a
mantle dark,
Whereon mine eyes did mark
Loved names I scarce for blinding tears
could read;
But from its folds fresh blushing flow'rets fell
Of that
fair spring-tide I had mourned as dead.
And now her youngest sister draweth nigh,
'Neath modest starlight
and with noiseless feet,
Whom thousands flock to greet--
Thousands of every age, who fain
would know,
As in her face each peereth wistfully,
What fate she
bringeth--happiness or woe?
She answereth not, but pointeth silently
To where far off the hidden
future lies,
All dark to mortal eyes,
Save where, from out the gloom, faint stars
appear.
She will not linger--haste and thou shalt see
From chaos
order as thou drawest near.
Who in this new God's acre?
Who in this new God's acre first shall rest?
Or gallant youth, or baby
from the breast?
Or age, beneath it's crown of snow-white hair?
Or
queen of smiles and charms, some maiden fair?
Time only can the
answer give--and God,
Who first shall lie beneath the upturned sod.
It matters not; whom e'er death first may reap
Here in a Father's arms
shall quiet sleep,
The tender flowers shall grow above his head
And
drink the dews that fall upon his bed.
The silent grave is safe from
foolish sneer
And persecutor's rage is baffled here.
Who first shall rest here? Ah! the days soon come,
When all the love
of many a village home
Shall centre round this spot, where kith and
kin
Are laid to rest, this virgin soil within.
From far and near men

by the graves shall stand
Of friends who rest within the Better Land.
Who first shall rest here? God o'er all doth reign,
The life He gave us
we must give again.
Our chiefest duty here to work and strive
To
His great glory while we are alive,
And He some resting place will
then provide,
Or far from town or by the Cletwr's tide.
IEUAN GWYNEDD.
Evan Jones was born near Dolgelley, September 20th, 1820. He was
ordained to the Independent ministry in 1845. Always weakly, he found
a pastoral charge too great a strain on his health, and he devoted
himself to literary pursuits, but he died Feb. 23, 1852, having in his
short life served his country well. His Life and Works were published
in 1876, "Hanes Bywyd a Gweithiau Barddonol Ieuan Gwynedd"
(Hughes & Son, Wrexham).
The Cottages of Wales.
Fair cottages of Cymru, with walls of gleaming white,
Whose smoke
curls round the valley and up the mountain height; The bees hum 'neath
the gable or sheltering garden wall,
While all around grow flowers,
red rose and lily tall.
Oh lowly cots of Cymru, blest, yea, thrice blest are ye!
Ye know not
this world's greatness nor earthly dignity;
Yet dwell within you ever,
the love and peaceful rest
Which fly from hall and palace of those the
world holds blest.
Oh lovely cots of Cymru, that smile beside the rill,
Your rooms the
children gladden, as flowers your gardens fill; Their eyes are bright and
sparkling, like water in the sun, Their cheeks are like the roses, red rose
and white in one.
Grey cottages of Cymru, that nestle 'mid the leaves,
No marble walls
surround you, straw thatched your lowly eaves, Yet thither many an

angel in love delights to come,
And watch in joy and gladness the
heirs of his bright home.
O quiet cots of Cymru, far from the city's din,
Your peace no tumult
troubles, no discord enters in;
No sound breaks on your stillness but
merry children's cry, Or murmur of the rustling leaves or brook that
babbles by.
O pleasant cots of Cymru, within, at dawn's first rays,
As in the wood
around them, are heard glad hymns of praise, And early in the morning
the birds and goodwife sing
Their matin song of gratitude to God,
their Lord and King.
Dear cottages of Cymru, what country holds their peer?
Long may
they stand unshaken, nor ill their hearths draw near! God keep, as fair
and fragrant as on the hills and dales
The flowers which smile and
blossom, the cottages of Wales.
Go and Dig a Grave for me.
Go and dig a grave for me,
This is but a world of woe:
Vanish all the joys of life,
Like the clouds which come and go:
And the weary finds no rest

Save within the grave's cold breast.
Go and dig a grave for me,
Weary pilgrim here am I,
Through life's dark and stormy ways
Wandering with a mournful cry.
Nought to clasp to my poor breast

Save the staff whereon I rest.
Go and dig a grave for me,
'Neath some green and shady tree,
Where the kindly breeze will make

Mournful music over me.
Oh how pleasant 'twill be there
For the
weak, lone wanderer!
Go and dig a grave for me,
For my journey's nearly o'er;
Of life's sweets I've freely drunk,
Of its wormwood even more.
Now to earth farewell I cry--
Weak
and faint, I long to die.