Chapter 5

Who are these whose praises pealing From beyond the Morning Star Earthward solemnly are stealing Down the distance faint and far? These are they, the Ever Living, All in glistening garments gone, Palm in hand, with proud Thanksgiving Up before the Great White Throne.

THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM

(After Eben Fardd, 1802-1863, one of the leading Welsh poets of the nineteenth century)

RACHEL MOURNING

Rachel, ah me! most wretchedly Mourns, meekest, worthiest woman, Her husband dear hurled to his bier By Roman fiends inhuman. Tremulously now murmurs she: "Naught's here but naked horror; Black despond and blind despair, Mad turmoil, murderous terror! Free he rose, his hero blows Gave Rome black cause to rue him; Ten to one, then they run Their poisonous poignards through him. Thus took flight thy tortured sprite, Dear heart, from my fond seeing! Now stars on high in stark dawn die, We too must far be fleeing. Children dear, I thrill with fear To hear your hungry crying! Away, away! one more such day-- And we're too weak for flying."

THE BURNING TEMPLE

The savage foes of this lost land of ours Conspire to fire Antonius' shapely towers. Ere long the Temple proud, surpassing all Art's fairest gems, shall unto earth be bowed! Lo! through the lurid gloom the lightning's lash! And hark the unnatural thunder crash and boom! Moriah's marvellous fane is leaning low; With cries of woe her rafters rend in twain; For our Imperial One is brought to naught. Yea, even where most cunningly she was wrought, The fire has cleft its way each coign into, For wood and stone searching her bosom through. Astonishingly high she took the blue, Yet weeping molten dross shall meet the ground-- A sight for grief profound to gaze across. Flame follows flame, each like a giant worm, To feast and batten on her beauteous form. Through gold and silver doors they sinuous swarm And crop the carven flowers with gust enorme; Till all is emptiness. Then with hellish shout The embruted Gentiles in exultant rout Into her Holy of Holies profanely press!

One streaming flood of steaming blood-- Shudders her sacred pavement!

LOVE DIVINE

(From "Emanuel." After Gwilym Hiraethog, 1802-1880.)

When the angel trumpet sounded. Through the unbounded ether blown, Star on star danced on untiring, Choiring past the Great White Throne; Then as, every globe outglancing, Earth's entrancing orb went by, Love Divine in blushing pleasure Steeped the azure of the sky.

Wisdom, when she saw Earth singled From the bright commingled band, Whispered Mercy: "That green wonder Yonder is thy promised land!" Mercy looked and loved Earth straightway, At Heaven's gateway smiling set. Ah! that glance of tender yearning She is turning earthward yet.

BEHIND THE VEIL

(After Islwyn, 1832-1878, the Welsh Wordsworth)

What say ye, can we charge a master soul With error, when beyond all life's experience Between the cradle and the grave, it rises, Whispering of things unutterable, breaks its bond With outward sense and sinks into itself, As fades a star in space? Hath not that soul A history in itself, a refluent tide Of mystery murmuring out of unplumbed deeps, On distant inaccessible strands, whereon Memory lies dead amid the monstrous wreckage Of jarring worlds? Are yonder stars above As spiritually, magnificently bright As Poesy feigns? May not some slumbering sense, A memory dim of those diviner days, When all the Heavens were yet aglow with God, Transfuse them through and through with glimmering grace And glory? Still the Stars within us shine, And Poesy is but a recollection Of Something greater gone, a presage proud Of Something greater yet to be. What soul But sometimes thrills with hauntings of a world For long forgotten, at a glimpse begotten Once more, then gone again? Imaginations? Nay why not memories of a life than ours A thousand times more blest within us buried So deeply, the divine all-searching breath Of Poesy alone can lure it forth. All hail that hour when God's Redeeming Face Shall so illume our past existences, That through them all man's spirit shall see plain, And to his blessed past relink Life's broken chain.

THE REIGN OF LOVE

(After Ceiriog, to a Welsh Air. Ceiriog, 1832-1887, was the Welsh Burns; his songs to old Welsh Airs are the best of their kind.)

Love that invites, love that delights, From hedgerow lush and leafy heights Is flooding all the air; Their forest harps the breezes strum, The happy brooks their burden hum; There's nothing deaf, there's nothing dumb, But music everywhere!

Above the airy steep Their lyres of gold the angels sweep, Glad holiday with earth to keep Before the Great White Throne. Then, when Heaven and earth and sea Are joining in Love's jubilee; While morning stars make melody, Shall man be mute alone?

Naught that hath birth matches the worth Of Love, in God's own Heaven and Earth, For through His power divine Love opes the golden eye of day, Love guides the pale moon's lonely way, Love lights the glow-worm's glimmering ray Amid the darkling bine.

Heavenly hue and form Above, around, are glowing warm, From His right hand Who rides the storm, Yet paints the lily's cheek. Yea! whereso'er man lifts his eyes To wood or wave or sunset skies, A myriad magic shapes arise Eternal Love to speak.

PLAS GOGERDDAN

(After Ceiriog to a Welsh Air)

"Without thy Sire hast thou returned?" In grief the Princess cried! "Go back!--or from my sight be spurned-- To battle by his side. I gave thee birth; but struck to earth I'd sooner see thee lie, Or on thy bier come carried here, Than thus a craven fly!

"Seek yonder hall, and pore on all The portraits of thy race; The courage high that fires each eye Canst thou endure to face?" "I'll bring no blame on thy fair name, Or my forefathers slight! But kiss and bless me, mother dear, Ere I return to fight."

He fought and fell--his stricken corse They bore to her abode; "My son!" she shrieked, in wild remorse; "Forgive me, O! my God!" Then from the wall old voices fall: "Rejoice for such a son! His deed and thine shall deathless shine, Whilst Gwalia's waters run!"

ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

_Ar Hyd y Nos_

(After Ceiriog to this Welsh Air)

Fiery day is ever mocking Man's feeble sight; Darkness eve by eve unlocking Heav'n's casket bright; Thence the burdened spirit borrows Strength to meet laborious morrows, Starry peace to soothe his sorrows, All through the night.

Planet after planet sparkling, All through the night, Down on Earth, their sister darkling, Shed faithful light. In our mortal day's declining, May our souls, as calmly shining, Cheer the restless and repining, Till lost in sight.

DAVID OF THE WHITE ROCK

_Dafydd y Garreg Wen_

(After Ceiriog to this Welsh Air)

"All my powers wither, Death presses me hard; Bear my harp hither!" Sighed David the Bard.

"Thus while life lingers, In one lofty strain O, let my fond fingers Awake it again.

"Last night an angel Cried, 'David, come sound Christ's dear Evangel Death's valley around!'"

Wife and child harkened His harp's solemn swell; Till his eye darkened, And lifeless he fell.

THE HIGH TIDE

(After Elvet Lewis, a contemporary Welsh poet)

A balmy air blows; the waterflags shiver, On, on the Tide flows, on, on, up the river!

To no earth or sky allegiance he oweth; He comes, who knows why? unless the Moon knoweth.

The Tide flows and flows; by hill and by hollow, White rose upon rose, the foam flowers follow.

He spreads broad and full from margent to margent, The wings of the gull are his bannerets argent.

The Tide flows and flows; Atlantic's loud charges Mix in murmurous close with the wash of the barges.

With wondering ear the children cease playing; The voice that they hear, what can it be saying?

Too well they shall know, when amid the wild brattle Of the waters below, they enter life's battle.

The Tide flows apace; the ship that lies idle Trips out with trim grace, like a bride to her bridal.

What hath she in store? shall Fate her boon give her? Or must she no more return to the river?

The flood has gone past! Ah me! one was late for it, And friends cry aghast: "How long must he wait for it?"

Young eyes that to-night are darkened for sorrow Shall hail with delight their dear ship to-morrow.

Amid the sea-wrack the barque, tempest battered, At length staggers back, like a prodigal tattered!

What if she be scarred or scoffers make light of her? Though blemished and marred, how blest is the sight of her!

The Tide flows and flows, far past the grey towers; And whispering goes through the wheat and the flowers.

And now his pulse takes the calm heart of the valley And lifts, till it shakes, the low bough of the sally.

Slow, and more slow is his flow--he has tarried-- The blue Ocean's pilgrim, outwearied, miscarried!

Far, far from home, in wandering error, A dim rocky dome beshrouding his mirror.

But hark! a voice thrills the traveller erring; In the heart of the hills its sea-call is stirring:

And home, ever home, to its passionate pleading, One whirl of white foam, with the ebb he is speeding.

"ORA PRO NOBIS"

(After Eifion Win, 1867- . He lies as a poet between Elfed and the "New Bards")

A sudden shower lashes The darkening pane; The voice of the tempest Is lifted again. The centuried oaks To their very roots rock; And crying, for shelter Course cattle and flock. Our Father, forget not The nestless bird now; The snow is so near, And so bare is the bough!

A great flood is flashing Athwart the wide lee; Like a storm-struck encampment, The clouds rend and flee; At the scourge of the storm My cot quakes with affright; Far better the hearth Than the pavement to-night! Our Father, forget not The homeless outcast; So thin is his raiment, So bitter Thy blast!

The foam-flakes are whirling Below on the strand, As white as the pages I turn with my hand; And the curlew afar, From his storm-troubled lair, Laments with the cry Of a soul in despair. Our Father, forget not Our mariners' state; Their ships are so slender, Thy seas are so great.

A FLOWER-SUNDAY LULLABY

(After Eifion Win, the contemporary Welsh poet)

Though the blue slab hides our laddy, Slumber, free of fear! Well we know it, I and daddy, Naught can harm you here. You and all the little sleepers, Their small graves within, Have bright angels for door-keepers. Sleep, Goronwy Wyn!

Ah, too well I now remember, Darling, when you slept, How the children from your chamber Jealously I kept. Now how willingly to wake you I would let them in, If their merry noise could make you Move, Goronwy Wyn!

Sleep, though mother is not near you, In God's garden green! Flower-Sunday gifts we bear you, Lovely to be seen; Six small primroses to show us Summer-time is ours; Though, alas! locked up below us, Lies our flower of flowers.

Sleep! to mother's love what matters Passing time or tide? On my ear your footstep patters, Still my babe you bide. All the others moving, moving, Still disturb my breast; But the dead have done with roving, You alone have rest.

Then, beneath the primrose petals, Sleep, our heart's delight! Darkness o'er us deeply settles; We must say "Good night!" Your new cradle needs no shaking On its quiet floor. Sleep, my child! till you are waking In my arms once more.

THE BALLAD OF THE OLD BACHELOR OF TY'N Y MYNYDD

(After W.J. Gruffydd, 1880- , one of the leading "New Bards")

Strongest swept his sickle through the whin-bush, Straightest down the ridge his furrows sped; Early on the mountain ranged his reapers, Above his mattock late he bowed his head.

Love's celestial rapture once he tasted, Then a cloud of suffering o'er him crept. Out along the uplands, in the dew-fall, He mourned the maid who in the churchyard slept,

With the poor he shared his scanty earnings, To the Lord his laden heart he breathed; On his rustic heart fell two worlds' sunshine, And two worlds' blossoms round his footsteps wreathed.

Much he gloried in Young Gwalia's doings, Yet more dearly loved her early lore, Catching ever from her Triple Harpstrings The far, faint echoes of her ancient shore.

Yestereven he hung up his sickle, Ne'er again to trudge his grey fields o'er, Ne'er again to plough the stony ridges, To sow the home of thorns, alas! no more.

THE QUEEN'S DREAM

(To a Welsh Air of the name)

From the starving City She turned her couch to seek, With pearls of tender pity On her queenly cheek; There in restless slumber She dreamt that she was one Of that most piteous number By distress undone. In among that sullen brood, In homeless want she glided, While in mock solicitude Her fate they thus derided: "Queen, now bear thee queenly, In destiny's despite! If _thou_ wilt starve serenely, We poor wretches might."

But, amid their mocking, "The King, the King!" they cry, And forward they run flocking While He passes by; With the crowd she mixes Her cruel shame to hide; When, O, what wonder fixes The surging human tide? There One stood, with thorn-crown'd head, Hands of supplication, Multiplying mystic bread For her famished nation. "Children thus remember My poor and Me!" He spoke, And in her palace chamber Weeping she awoke.

THE WELSH FISHERMEN

(To the air of "The Song of the Bottle")

Up, up with the anchor, Round, round for the harbour mouth! Wind, boys, and a spanker Racing due south! Where 'ood you be going? How, now can ye hoist your sails? When blossoms be blowing Over Welsh Wales! Dear hearts for the herring, Sure, after the herring, Hot after the herring, Each ship of us sails. Up, up with the anchor, Round, round for the harbour mouth! Wind boys and a spanker, Racing due south.

"Men, when you go rocking, Out under the angry gale, Wives' hearts begin knocking, Lasses turn pale. Oh, why start a-fishing Far, far and across the foam? Give way to our wishing; Stay, stay at home!" "Now, but for King Herring, What 'ood you be wearing, How 'ood you be faring How keep ye warm? Lest loaves should be failing, Lest children for want take harm, Men still will go sailing Out into the storm."

Then men, since it must be, Then men, since it must be so, Christ, Christ shall our trust be, When the winds blow. Once when He was sleeping, "Save Lord!" the disciples cried, "Wild waters are leaping Over the side!" See He has awoken! Hark, hark, He has spoken, "Peace, peace," and in token Down the storm died. Lord God of the billows, Still succour the fishing smack! Give peace to our pillows, Bring our men back!

III. OLD AND NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES

DAVID'S LAMENT OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN

Israel's beauty is slain Here on Gilboa's high places, How are the mighty fallen And tears upon all our faces.

Tell it not now in Gath Or in Askelon's city name it, Lest Philistia's daughters rejoice And with songs of triumph proclaim it.

Let there be no more dew, Gilboa, upon thy mountains! Over thy fields of offerings fair, Holden be all heaven's fountains.

For there the shield of the mighty, Even Saul's shield, to-day, As though he was ne'er the Anointed of God, Is vilely cast away.

Till the foe in his blood lay stricken Or cloven through and through, The bow of Jonathan turned not back, The sword of Saul still slew.

Lovely were they in their lives, In death undivided they lay, They were swifter than mountain eagles, Stronger than lions at bay.

Weep, ye daughters of Israel, Weep over Saul your King, Who clothed you with scarlet and decked you with gold And filled you with every good thing.

How are the mighty fallen, And all their boasts in vain! There on Gilboa's high places, O Jonathan, thou wast slain.

Alas! my brother Jonathan, I am sore distressed for thee; For thou hast been very pleasant, Very pleasant to me.

Beyond the love of woman Was the love that for me you bore. How are the mighty fallen And perished the weapons of war!

THE FIERY FURNACE

Bound into the furnace blazing They have cast the Children Three; But oh! miracle amazing, They arise, unscathed and free; While through paths of fire, to guide them, Paths no other foot has trod-- Lo! A Fourth is seen beside them, Shining like the Son of God.

Ah! not ours their saintly measure, Yet 'tis still our heart's desire, That Thou wouldst of Thy good pleasure, Teach us, too, to walk the fire-- Living lives of stern denial, Trusty toiler, helpmeet tried, Till grown fit for fiery trial, With our Saviour at our side.

RUTH AND NAOMI

When Judges ruled the tribes of Israel, A cruel famine on the people fell, Till even Bethlehem, the "House of Bread," For meat and drink at last was sore bestead.

Then when they called upon Jehovah's name, This answer to their heart's petition came: "Send forth your strong into the land where Lot The might of Moab and his race begot--

"Your kinsfolk they: there still the streams run quick, Still grass and corn are laughing high and thick." Therefore adventuring forth, the bold and strong Their famished flocks and herds drove each along,

Till Moab's high-set plain and warm, wide valleys Wherefrom clear-watered Arnon westward sallies, Rejoiced they reached: there welcome found and there Release from want, of wealth a goodly share.

With these Elimelech and his precious ones, His wife Naomi and his two brave sons, Mahlon and Chilion, Jordan's shrunken tide Crossed, and at Hesbon stayed and occupied.

And there they prospered for a blessed time Until Elimelech in his lordly prime, Hasting those cattle-spoilers to pursue, The ambuscading sons of Anak slew.

Then Chilion and Mahlon, by the voice Of their good mother guided, made their choice Amongst the maids of Moab for their wives: And so, a ten years' space lived joyful lives.

Till pestilence o'ertook the brothers; naught Of wives' or mothers' care availed them aught, But, blessing both, their sight was quenched in gloom; Three widows wept o'er their untimely tomb.

Then when their days of mourning now were o'er, Fresh tidings came from Jordan's further shore: "Judaea's years of famine now are passed, And joyous plenty crowns her fields at last."

Naomi then outspake: "Dear daughters lone, Yea, dearer for their sakes who now are gone Than if indeed ye were my very own Born children, hearken to Naomi's voice Who of all Moabs' maids made you her choice!

"Good wives and fond, as ever cherished Husband, were ye unto my two sons dead, Diligent weavers of their household wool, True joy-mates when their cup of bliss was full, Kind comforters in sorrow or in pain. Alloy was none, but one to mar life's golden chain.

"No child, dear Orpah, loving Ruth, have ye To suckle or to dance upon your knee, No other sons have I your hearts to woo-- Grandchildren can be none from me to you. Therefore, my daughters, O, consider well Since you are young, and fair and so excel In every homecraft, were it not more wise No longer to refuse to turn your eyes Towards the suitors brave who, now your days Of mourning are accomplished, fix their gaze Upon your goings? Verily now 'twere right That you should each a noble Moabite Espouse, till, with another's love accost, Your childless grief in motherhood be lost. And I, why should I tarry longer here To be a burden on you year by year? Kinsfolk and friends have I at Bethlehem Where plenty reigns; I will go back to them--" Then much they both besought her to remain, And yet her purpose neither could restrain; Therefore her goods to gather she began Against the passing of the caravan. But Ruth and Orpah each prepared also Beside her unto Bethlehem to go.

And now the three stand ready, full of tears To quit the haunts of happy married years, The tombs that hid their lost ones. Staunchly then Naomi spoke her purpose once again: "Daughters, turn back, each to her mother's house To take the rest that there her work allows, And in due course a second husband find, Nor be unto the future foolish--blind! Yet take a blessing from the heart of hearts Of your Naomi ere she hence departs."

She blessed them, and with voices lifted up In loud lament the dregs of sorrow's cup They drained together. Orpah, weeping, turned And slowly went, but Ruth with eyes that yearned Into Naomi's, cried aloud in pain: "Thus to forsake thee, urge me not again, Nor to return from following after thee! For where thou goest, I will surely go. And where thou lodgest, will I lodge also! Thy people shall be my people evermore, And thy God only will I now adore! And where thou diest, I will buried be! So may Jehovah strike me with his thunder, If aught but only death our lives shall sunder."

Ruth's lips have sealed that solemn covenant, Then with Naomi hand in hand she went.

But as they slept that night there came to each The selfsame vision, though they ne'er had speech Thereon, till Obed's birth, Ruth's only son And David's grandsire; for they each saw one With Mahlon's aspect seated in the skies, And on his knees a babe with Ruth's own eyes, And by the infant's side one with a face Ruddy and bold, a form of Kingly grace, And in his hand a harp wherefrom he drew Marvellous music while his songs thereto Held hosts of angels hearkening in the blue. Then figures floated o'er him faint and far Up to a Child who rode upon a star, And in the Heavenly wonder of his face, They read the Ransom of the Human Race.

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD AND THE FOWLS OF THE AIR

"Consider the lilies!" He spake as yet spake no man: "Consider the lilies, the lilies of the leas, They toil not, they spin not, like you, tired man and woman, Yet Solomon in his glory was not robed like one of these.

"Consider the lilies! Sure, if your Heavenly Father So clothe the meadow grasses that here flower free of scathe And to-morrow light the oven, now, say, shall he not rather Still of His goodness clothe you, O ye of little faith?

"Consider the fowls of the air, behind your harrows; They plough not, they reap not, nor gather grain away, Yet your Heavenly Father cares for them; then, if he feed the sparrows, Shall He not rather feed you, His children, day by day?"

THE GOOD PHYSICIAN

To find Him they flock, young and old, from their cities, With hearts full of hope: for the tidings had spread: "The proud He rebukes and the poorest He pities, Recovers the leper, upraises the dead."

So the shepherd has left his sheep lone on the mountain, The woodman his axe buried fast in the pine, The maiden her pitcher half-filled at the fountain, The housewife her loom and the fisher his line.

With their babes on their bosoms, their sick on their shoulders, Toilsomely thronging by footpath and ford, Now resting their burthens among the rude boulders, Still they come climbing in search of the Lord.