Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century | Page 9

wiles,
His lies and his love of deceiving,
Not a word of the world with its
follies and smiles
She said when her son she was leaving.
I know on my journey she
wished me all bliss,
I know that for me she was praying,
But all that I heard her lips utter
was this,
"You know what my heart, dear, is saying."
Like the sea as it plays on a dangerous rock
Is the spirit that now is in motion,
Around me are men who at Heaven
make mock,
And I'm but a drop in the ocean.
My feet are oft hasting the broad
path along
But while on the precipice straying
I am saved by the message so
tender, so strong,
"You know what my heart, dear, is saying."
'Sin not'--in the skies though this sentence I read,
In letters of fire engraven,
Though roared the loud thunder in accents
of dread,
'Transgress not the laws of high Heaven,'
Though slowed the swift
lightning to one solid flame,

My feet from ungodliness staying,
Far stronger the words from my
mother which came,
"You know what my heart, dear, is saying."
Mountain Rill.
Mountain rill, that darkling, sparkling,
Winds and wanders down the hill,
'Mid the rushes, whispering,
murmuring,
Oh that I were like the rill!
Mountain ling, whose flower and fragrance
Sorest longing to me bring
To be ever on the mountains--
Oh that I were like the ling!
Mountain bird, whose joyous singing
On the wholesome breeze is heard,
Flitting hither, flitting thither--
Oh that I were like the bird!
Mountain child am I, and lonely
Far from home my song I sing;
But my heart is on the mountain
With the birds amid the ling.
Llewelyn's Grave.
The earth has sunk low on the grave of Llewelyn,
The rainpools lie o'er it unruffled and still;
The moon at her rising,
the sun at his setting,

Blush red as they look o'er the slope of the hill.
O Cymru, my land,
dost know of this ill?
And where is the patriot hiding his face?
The tears of the cloudwrack
know well where he lieth,
The birds of the mountain can tell of the place.
By chance comes a Welshman and carelessly gazes,
Where fell the last hero who fought for his sake;
The breezes are
moaning, the earth is complaining,
That the heart of old Cymru is feeble and weak.
'Tis aliens only their
pilgrimage make
Where low lies our prince by the side of his glaive.
Thank God for
the tears which are falling from heaven,
And the grass that grows green by the edge of the grave.
The Strand of Rhuddlan.
Frowned the dark heavens on the cause of the righteous,
Bondage has swept our free warriors away,
Vain were our prayers as
our dreams had been baseless,
Sword of the foeman has carried the day.
Hid be thy strand 'neath the
snows everlasting,
Frozen the waters that over thee break!
Come to defend, O thou God
of all mercies,
Cause of the righteous and home of the weak.
Slain is our leader, and he who has slain him,

Prince of the foemen, will reign in his stead.
Fallen our harp with the
fall of Caradoc,
Ay! let it fall as he fell and lay dead!
Yet can I look on the field of the
slaughter,
God was not mocked, nor was freedom denied.
Better than that 'twas
to die--there on Rhuddlan
Better to sink in the free flowing tide.
The Steed of Dapple Grey.
Caradoc calls his warriors,
And loud the bugles blow;
On rushed the brave Silurians,
And fell beneath the foe.
Back shrank his men retreating,
But on her steed of dapple grey
There rides the stately queen that way

Her spouse, Caradoc, meeting.
There's tumult in the dingle,
As sinks the sun o'erhead;
And many a stalwart hero
Lies for his country dead.
One host the waters cover,
But on her steed of dapple grey
There rides the stately queen that day

To seek her royal lover.
Then saw the Romans only
A steed of dapple grey;
But saw the Britons riding
Their stately queen that way.
The bugles sound the rally!

The Britons backward turn--to fight,
The Romans backward reel--in
flight,
Before that last grim sally.
A Lullaby.
Sleep, sleep, sleep!
All nature now is steeping
Her sons in
sleep,--their eyelids close,
All living things in sweet repose
Are sleeping, sleeping.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Peace o'er thee watch be keeping,
If from my
bosom thou art torn,
Low in the grave I'll lie forlorn,
Sleeping, ah, sleeping.
ISLWYN.
William Thomas was born April 3, 1832, and very early showed signs
of poetic talent. He published a volume of poems, 'Caniadau Islwyn'
(Messrs. Hughes & Son, Wrexham), about 1867, some of the finest
pieces in which, including "Thought" and "The Vision and Faculty
Divine," are extracted from a long poem "The Storm," which has never
yet been published. A complete edition of his works is now in the press.
He died Nov. 20, 1878.
Night.
Come, Night, with