Richard Davies was born at Llanbrynmair, January 10th, 1833, and was brought up as a farmer, but latterly, at any rate, devoted himself almost entirely to literary and eisteddfodic pursuits. He published in 1866 “Caneuon Mynyddog,” in 1870 “Yr Ail Gynnyg,” and in 1877 “Y Trydydd Cynnyg,” which may be obtained separately or in one volume from Messrs. Hughes & Son, Wrexham. He died at Cemmaes, July 14th, 1877.
When comes my Gwen,
More glorious then
The sun in heaven appeareth;
And summer’s self
To meet this elf
A smile more radiant weareth.
When comes my love,
The moon above
Shines bright and ever brighter;
And all the black
And sullen wrack
Grows in a moment lighter.
When comes my queen,
The treetops green
Bow down to earth to greet her;
And tempests high
That rend the sky
Disperse, ashamed to meet her.
When comes my sweet
Her love to greet,
My cares and sorrows vanish;
For on her face
Rests heavenly grace,
Which troubles all doth banish.
When comes my dear,
The darkness drear
’Twixt God and me is riven;
Her loving eyes
Reveal the skies
And point the way to heaven.
The mournful eve, a weary moan upraising,
Low lays her head adown in honeyed sleep;
And flame-enshrouded all the hills are praising
The God who ward o’er man doth keep:
On high the cloudwrack sailing
Its golden skirts is trailing;
Floats sound of summer song the evening airs along:
Says the light
Breeze, “Good night.”
The tiny flowers, with silvery dewdrops dripping,
Before the queen of night bow one and all,
Who shod with feathery sandals satin-soft comes tripping
To hide the world beneath her shadowy pall;
From many a quiet hearth
Over the darkling earth
Is borne along the sound of song:
Says the light
Breeze, “Good night.”
Come to the boat, love,
Come let us row,
So all the day, love,
Floating we’ll go.
Low sinks the sun, love,
Crimson the sky,
See the pale moon, love,
Rises on high.
Now through the sky, love,
Stars of the night,
O’er thy fair head, love,
Smiling shine bright.
But they are dim, love,
By the true light,
Which in thine eyes, love,
Burns day and night.
Deep in the wood, love,
Curtained with shade,
Birds to the sun, love,
Sing serenade.
Faint is their song, love,
Nought to mine ear,
When from thy lips, love,
Sweet words I hear.
Gaze on the tide, love,
Sleeping at rest,
Mirrored thy face, love,
See on its breast.
So in my heart, love,
Carved is thy mien,
Where thou shalt reign, love,
Throned as my queen.
Maidenlike, love’s question waiving,
Nought she said,
While I stood my answer craving,
Half afraid.
Coldly she with hand extended,
Said, “Good night,”
And ere well the words were ended,
Took to flight
Past me, deep obeisance making.
Well she knew
She with her my heart was taking
Torn in two.
At the stairway’s foot half dreaming
Still I stayed;
From my heart my love poured streaming
Towards the maid.
For one blissful moment standing
Paused she there;
Fell the lamplight from the landing
On her hair,
And her eyes, like starlight sparkling,
Clear were seen,
But, alas! the staircase darkling
Lay between.
Down the staircase through the gloaming,
Smiled she then,
As though heaven itself were coming
Down to men!
Raised her hand and from her tresses
Plucked a rose
Which amid her locks’ caresses,
Found repose,
Breathed upon it love’s own dower,
Kisses sweet,
And for answer dropped the flower
At my feet.
John Davies was born at Cardigan in 1834, and died April 24, 1892. He was, I believe, a carpenter by trade. He published one little volume, “Caniadau Ossian Gwent” (Hughes & Son, Wrexham), but he left a large mass of unpublished matter. No one of our poets is simpler or purer, or writes so lovingly of birds and flowers.
Oh hark!
With fluttering wing and dewy breast,
Soars upward like a spirit strong,
From reedy nest,
The gentle lark,
To tune on high his matin song.
Alway
A nameless charm flows from thy lay,
Melodious bird!
Whose music heard
Drives care and sorrow far away.
Beneath,
The sleeping world lies still as death;
Above, we hear thee singing clear,
’Mid’st morning rays,
Unsullied praise,
Which speaks of peace to mortal ear.
How free
And blithesome is thy joyous flight!
In floods of sunshine sparkling bright,
From skies serene
Thy song unseen
Angelic music seems to me.
Like stars beside the sun,
So by this book
Earth’s volumes look:
Their glory fades before its light,
For on its leaves the splendour bright
Of God’s own face hath shone.
’Tis like some fair seashell—
Bend down thine ear
And thou shalt hear
The river on the golden strand
And sound of harps in that fair land—
Or wail of souls in hell!
Oh fair the glade where dewy primrose bloweth,
And fair the quiet slope of hillside clear,
Which, girdled with the sheen
Of glorious summer green,
Its smiling face like some tall seraph showeth,
And in its sunlit lap the modest mere.
O lake most lovely, ringed about with flowers
And girt around its marge with nodding reeds;
Like guardian angels o’er
The circle of its shore
Great trees their branches spread, whose leafy bowers
Wave gently ’neath the wind that onward speeds.
Here, too, on meadows green which dewy glisten
Cluster sweet violets nodding ’neath the breeze,
And coronals of light
With golden splendour bright
Their fragile heads adorn, which seem to listen
To merry birds that sing amid the trees.
O happy spot! I fain would linger ever
About thy honeyed stillness, mere benign.
Of gazing on thy face I weary never,
As fair and full of grace
As slumbering infant’s face,
Or angel features which yet purer shine.
Thy crystal depth with music strange resoundeth,
Heard but by those to whom pure souls are given;
For unto all on earth
Who win the second birth,
The whole round world with hidden strings resoundeth,
Which endless praise distil to God in heaven.
Arise, my beloved! the birds’ merry chorus
Is heard ’mid the bourgeoning buds of the wold
Which smiles on the breast of the valley, while o’er us
The sun tips the dewladen branches with gold.
There comes from the meadows the scent of the clover,
The banks are all hidden by daisies from sight,
Each nook with bright yellow the primroses cover,
The trees in the orchards are curtained with white.
O rouse thee, my darling! come look at the swallow
Which over the dingle is flying at will;
And hark to the song of the thrush in the hollow,
And cuckoo’s clear cry on the side of the hill.
On high in the heavens the glad lark is trilling
The song which he lays at the footstool of morn;
My heart with strange gladness his music is thrilling,
As down from the sky by the breezes ’tis borne.
Arise, my beloved! the lambs are all springing
In frolic enjoyment the meadows among;
The stream through the valley its glad song is singing,
And the young day laughs lightly its waters along.
A robe of bright azure the clear sky is wearing
And bathed are the mountains in myriads of rays,
The woodland its harp for the noon is preparing
And hark, from its strings bursts a torrent of praise.
O rouse thee, my darling! Come, let us be going,
So soft is the breeze and so fragrant the air,
New health and new strength through our veins will be flowing,
And sorrow will vanish and sadness and care!
O banish the charms with which sloth would ensnare us,
Far purer the joy in the sunshine that lurks,
All nature her pinions is spreading to bear us,
And show us her Maker, revealed in His works.
Robert Owen was born near Barmouth March 30th, 1858. The son of a farmer, he was fortunate in attracting the attention of a French gentleman who had taken up his residence in the village and who taught him French, German and Italian. He qualified as a teacher, but the seeds of consumption shewed themselves early, and he sailed, in 1879, for Australia, only to die near Harrow, Victoria, Oct. 23, 1885. His works have never yet been published—if, indeed, he wrote much. The Llenor, No. 5 (January 1896), has an interesting article on him.
Strait, strait and narrow is the vale!
Behind me riseth to the skies
What I have been: in front, but dim,
What I shall be all shrouded lies,
All shrouded by the curtain dark
Of mists which from the river rise.
Above, the clouds hide from mine eyes
The hosts of heaven.
Strait, strait and barren is the vale!
For here no tender primrose blows,
Nor daisy with its simple charm,
Nor from the yews which round me close
Comes song of thrush—but dismal shriek
Of deathbird, scattering as it goes
The stillness deep—and pales my cheek
With awe unspeakable.
Strait, strait and lonely is the vale!
Only from far falls on my ear
The murmur of the world I loved,
But death’s dark torrent roareth near.
Now ’neath my feet the path I tread
Crumbling gives way, and filled with dread
Into the waves below I hear
The fragments falling.
Strait, strait and hopeless is the vale!
Nor can I evermore regain
The days of happiness and health
Which once I knew, days free from pain,
Nor move a foot from where I stand,
And backward eyes of longing strain
A moment—ere I leave the land
And brave those waters.
Yet strait tho’ be the vale and dim,
And though the skies are dark and drear,
And though the mountains everywhere
Rise steep and rugged round me here
To bar me out from life! there lives
One Star which shineth bright and clear
From out the sky and comfort gives
To soothe my sadness.
O my God, my Friend, my Father,
Thou who knowest all the secrets
Of man’s heart and all his failings—
O forgive me for forgetting
All thy loving care towards me,
Evil child and disobedient,
And for setting up an idol
All of earth within thy temple.
And receive from hands unworthy
As a sacrifice accepted
On Thine altar, Lord a bruiséd
Contrite heart that ever suffers
Daily pangs of disappointment
Even than death itself more bitter.
Take the one love of a lifetime,
All the hopeless love and passion
Dedicated to another
Who with me Thy place had taken,
As if they to Thee were rendered.
Count it, Father, as sufficient
Chastening, that I must abandon
All my hopes my love of winning,
All I have of kin and country,
All the comforts health bestoweth,
And across the sea go seeking
All alone a grave ’mid strangers.
O, my God—for I have suffered,
Grant at last Thy peace, Thy blessing.
{66} Aregwedd—the Welsh for Cartismandua.