Part 4

"Tis my own son that from me you wring, _I_ deceived not the King. But slay me, even me, And let my boy be. A mother most hapless, My bosom is sapless. Mine eyes one tearful river, My frame one fearful shiver, My husband sonless ever, And I a sonless wife To live a death in life. O, my son! O, God of Truth! O, my unrewarded youth! O, my birthless sicknesses, Until doom without redress! O, my bosom's silent nest! O, the heart broke in my breast!"

_Then said another woman_:

"Murderers, obeying Herod's wicked willing, One ye would be slaying, Many are ye killing. Infants would ye smother? Ruffians ye have rather Wounded many a father, Slaughtered many a mother. Hell's black jaws your horrid deed is glutting, Heaven's white gate against your black souls shutting.

"Ye are guilty of the Great Offence! Ye have spilt the blood of innocence."

_And yet another woman said_:

"O Lord Christ come to me! Nay, no longer tarry! With my son, home to Thee My soul quickly carry! O Mary great, O Mary mild, Of God's One Son the Mother, What shall I do without my child, For I have now no other. For Thy Son's sake my son they slew, Those murderers inhuman; My sense and soul they slaughtered too, I am but a crazy woman. Yea! after that most piteous slaughter, When my babe's life ran out like water, The heart within my bosom hath become A clot of blood from this day till the Doom!"

THE KEENING OF MARY

Taken down by Patrick H. Pearse from Mary Clancy of Moycullen, who keened it with great horror in her voice, in a low sobbing recitative.

MARY. "O Peter, O Apostle, my bright Love, hast thou found him?" "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"

PETER. "Even now in the midst of His foemen I found Him." "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"

MARY. "Come hither, ye two Marys, and my bright love be keening." "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"

THE TWO MARYS. "If His body be not with us, sure our keene had little meaning." "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"

MARY. "Who is yonder stately Man on the Tree His passion showing?" "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"

CHRIST. "O Mother, thine own son, can it be thou art not knowing." "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"

MARY. "And is that the little son whom nine months I was bearing?" "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!" "And is that the little son in the stall I was caring? And is that the little son this Mary's breast was draining?" "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"

CHRIST. "Hush thee, hush thee, Mother, and be not so complaining."

MARY. "And is this the very hammer that struck the sharp nails thro' thee?" "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!" "And this the very spear that thy white side pierced and slew thee?" "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!" "And is that the crown of thorns that thy beauteous head is caging?" "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"

CHRIST. "Hush, Mother, for my sake thy sorrow be assuaging." "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!" "For thy own love's sake thy cruel sorrow smother!" "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!" "The women of my keening are unborn yet, little Mother!" "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!" "O woman, why weepest thou my death that leads to pardon?" "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!" "Happy hundreds, to-day, shall stray through Paradise Garden." "M'ochon agus m'ochon, O!"

CAOINE

(From the eighteenth-century Irish)

Cold, dark, and dumb lies my boy on his bed; Cold, dark, and silent the night dews are shed; Hot, swift, and fierce fall my tears for the dead!

His footprints lay light in the dew of the dawn As the straight, slender track of the young mountain fawn; But I'll ne'er again follow them over the lawn.

His manly cheek blushed with the sun's rising ray, And he shone in his strength like the sun at midday; But a cloud of black darkness has hid him away.

And that black cloud for ever shall cling to the skies: And never, ah, never, I'll see him arise, Lost warmth of my bosom, lost light of my eyes!

Songs to Music

BATTLE HYMN

(Written to an old Irish Air)

Above the thunder crashes, Around the lightning flashes: Our heads are heaped with ashes But Thou, God, art nigh! Thou launchest forth the levin, The storm by Thee is driven, Give heed, O Lord, from Heaven, Hear, hear our cry!

For lo, the Dane defaces With fire Thy holy places, He hews Thy priests in pieces, Our maids more than die. Up, Lord, with storm and thunder, Pursue him with his plunder, And smite his ships in sunder, Lord God Most High!

THE SONG OF THE WOODS

(To an Irish Air of the same name)

Not only where Thy blessed bells Peal afar for praise and prayer, Or where Thy solemn organ swells, Lord, not only art Thou there. Thy voice of many waters From out the ocean comfort speaks, Thy Presence to a radiant rose Thrills a thousand virgin peaks.

And here, where in one wondrous woof-- Aisle on aisle and choir on choir-- To rear Thy rarest temple roof, Pillared oak and pine aspire; Life-weary here we wander, When lo! the Saviour's gleaming stole! 'Tis caught unto our craving lips, Kissed and straightway we are whole.

THE ENCHANTED VALLEY

(To an Irish Air of the same name)

I will go where lilies blow Beside the flow of languid streams, Within that vale of opal glow, Where bright-winged dreams flutter to and fro, Fain am I its magic peace to know.

Beware! beware of that valley fair! All dwellers there to phantoms turn, For joys and griefs they have none to share, Tho' ever they yearn life's burdens to bear, Ah! of that valley beware, beware!

REMEMBER THE POOR

(Founded on an Irish Ballad of the name)

Oh! remember the poor when your fortune is sure, And acre to acre you join; Oh! remember the poor, though but slender your store And you ne'er can go gallant and fine. Oh! remember the poor when they cry at your door In the raging rain and blast; Call them in! Cheer them up with the bite and the sup, Till they leave you their blessing at last.

The red fox has his lair, and each bird of the air With the night settles warm in his nest, But the King Who laid down His celestial crown For our sakes--He had nowhere to rest. Oh! the poor were forgot till their pitiful lot He bowed Himself to endure; If your souls ye would make, for His Heavenly sake, Oh! remember, remember the poor.

II. WELSH POEMS

THE ODES TO THE MONTHS

(After Aneurin, a sixth-century warrior bard)

Month of Janus, the coom is smoke-fuming; Weary the wine-bearer; minstrels far roaming; Lean are the kine; the bees never humming; Milking-folds void; to the kiln no meat coming; Gaunt every steed; no pert sparrows strumming; Long the night till the dawn; but a glimpse is the gloaming. Sapient Cynfelyn, this was thy summing; "Prudence is Man's surest guide, by my dooming."

* * * * *

Month of Mars; the birds become bolder; Wounding the wind upon the cape's shoulder; Serene skies delay till the young crops are older; Anger burns on, when grief waxes colder; Every man's mind some dread may unsolder; Each bird wins the may that hath long been a scolder; Each seed cleaves the clay, though for long months amoulder, Yet the dead still must stay in the tomb, their strong holder.

* * * * *

Month of Augustus--the beach is a-spray; Blithesome the bee and the hive full alway; Better work than the bow hath the sickle to-day; Fuller the stack than the House of the Play; The Churl who cares neither to work nor to pray Now why should he cumber the earth with his clay? Justly St. Breda, the sapient, would say "As many to evil as good take the way."

* * * * *

Month of September--benign planets shiver; Serene round the hamlet are ocean and river; Not easy for men and for steeds is endeavour; Trees full of fruit, as of arrows the quiver. A Princess was born to us, blessed for ever, From slavery's shackles our land's freedom-giver. Saith St. Berned the Saint, ripe Wisdom's mouth ever; "In sleep shall God nod, Who hath sworn to deliver?"

Month of October--thin the shade is showing; Yellow are the birch-trees; bothies empty growing; Full of flesh, bird and fish to the market going; Less and less the milk now of cow and goat is flowing, Alas! for him who meriteth disgrace by evil-doing; Death is better far than extravagance's strowing. Three acts should follow crime, to true repentance owing-- Fasting and prayer and of alms abundance glowing.

* * * * *

Month of December--with mud the shoe bemired; Heavy the land, the sun in heaven tired; Bare all the trees, little force now required; Cheerful the cock; by dark the thief inspired.

Whilst the Twelve Months thus trip in dance untired, Round youthful minds Satan still weaves his fetter. Justly spake Yscolan, Wisdom's sage begetter, "Than an evil prophecy God is ever better."

THE TERCETS

(After Llywarch Hen, a sixth-century prince and poet)

Set is the snare, the ash clusters glow, Ducks plash in the pools; breakers whiten below; More strong than a hundred is the heart's hidden woe.

Long is the night; resounding the shore, Frequent in crowds a tumultuous roar, The evil and good disagree evermore.

Long is the night; the hill full of cries; O'er the tree-tops the wind whistles and sighs, Ill nature deceives not the wit of the wise.

The greening birch saplings asway in the air Shall deliver my feet from the enemy's snare. It is ill with a youth thy heart's secrets to share.

The saplings of oak in yonder green glade Shall loosen the snare by an enemy laid. It is ill to unbosom thy heart to a maid.

The saplings of oak in their full summer pride Shall loosen the snare by the enemy tied. It is ill to a babbler thy heart to confide.

The brambles with berries of purple are dressed; In silence the brooding thrush clings to her nest, In silence the liar can never take rest.

Rain is without--wet the fern plume; White the sea gravel--fierce the waves spume. There is no lamp like reason man's life to illume.

Rain is without, but the shelter is near; Yellow the furze, the cow-parsnip is sere, God in Heaven, how couldst Thou create cowards here!

HAIL, GLORIOUS LORD!

(From a twelfth-century MS., "The Black Book of Carmarthen")

Hail, all glorious Lord! with holy mirth May Church and chancel bless Thy good counsel! Each chancel and church, All plains and mountains, And ye three fountains-- Two above wind, And one above earth! May light and darkness bless Thee! Fine silk, green forest confess Thee! Thus did Abraham father Of faith with joy possess Thee. Bird and bee-song bless Thee, Among the lilies and roses! All the old, all the young Laud thee with joyful tongue, As Thy praise was once sung By Aaron and Moses. Male and female, The days that are seven, The stars of heaven, The air and the ether, Every book and fair letter; Fish in waters fair-flowing, And song and deed glowing! Grey sand and green sward Make your blessing's award! And all such as with good Have satisfied stood! While my own mouth shall bless Thee And my Saviour confess Thee. Hail, glorious Lord!

MY BURIAL

(After Dafydd ab Gwilym, the most famous Welsh lyrical poet, 1340-1400)

When I die, O, bury me Within the free young wild wood; Little birches, o'er me bent, Lamenting as my child would! Let my surplice-shroud be spun Of sparkling summer clover; While the great and stately treen Their rich rood-screen hang over! For my bier-cloth blossomed may Outlay on eight green willows! Sea-gulls white to bear my pall Take flight from all the billows. Summer's cloister be my church Of soft leaf-searching whispers, From whose mossed bench the nightingale To all the vale chants vespers! Mellow-toned, the brake amid, My organ hid be cuckoo! Paters, seemly hours and psalm Bird voices calm re-echo! Mystic masses, sweet addresses, Blackbird, be thou offering; Till God His Bard to Paradise Uplift from sighs and suffering.

THE LAST CYWYDD

(After Dafydd ab Gwilym)

Memories fierce like arrows pierce; Alone I waste and languish, And make my cry to God on high To ease me of mine anguish. If heroic was my youth, In truth its powers are over; With brain dead and force sped, Love sets at naught the lover! The Muse from off my lips is thrust, 'Tis long since song has cheered me; Gone is Ivor, counsellor just, And Nest, whose grace upreared me! Morfydd, all my world and more, Lies low in churchyard gravel; While beneath the burthen frore Of age alone I travel.

Mute, mute my song's salute, When summer's beauties thicken; Cuckoo, nightingale, no art Of yours my heart can quicken! Morfydd, not thy haunting kiss Or voice of bliss can save me From the spear of age whose chill Has quenched the thrill love gave me. My ripe grain of heart and brain The sod sadly streweth; Its empty chaff with mocking laugh The wind of death pursueth! Dig my grave! O, dig it deep To hide my sleeping body, So but Christ my spirit keep, Amen! ab Gwilym's ready!

THE LABOURER

(After Iolo Goch, "Iowerlt the Red," a fourteenth-century bard and son of the Countess of Lincoln)

When the folk of all the Earth, For the weighing of their worth, Promised by his Ancient Word, Freely flock before The Lord-- And His Judgment-seat is set High on mighty Olivet, Forthright then shall be the tale Of the Plougher of the Vale, If so be his tithes were given Justly to the King of Heaven; If he freely shared his store With the sick or homeless poor-- When his soul is at God's feet Rich remembrance it shall meet.

He who turns and tills the sod Leans by Nature on his God. Save his plough-beam naught he judgeth, None he angereth, or grudgeth, Strives with none, takes none in toils, Crushes none and none despoils; Overbeareth not, though strong, Doth not even a little wrong.

"Suffering here," he saith, "is meet, Else were Heaven not half so sweet." Following after goad and plough, With unruffled breast and brow, Is to him an hundred-fold Dearer than, for treasured gold, Even in King Arthur's form, Castles to besiege and storm.

If the labourer were sped, Where would be Christ's Wine and Bread? Certes but for his supply, Pope and Emperor must die, Every wine-free King and just, Yea! each mortal turn to dust.

Blest indeed is he whose hands Steer the plough o'er stubborn lands. How through far-spread broom and heath Tear his sharp, smooth coulter's teeth-- Old-time relic, heron-bill, Rooting out fresh furrows still, With a noble, skilful grace Smoothing all the wild land's face, Reaching out a stern, stiff neck Each resisting root to wreck.

* * * * *

Behind his oxen on his path Thus he strides the healthy strath, Chanting many a godly rhyme To the plough-chain's silver chime. All the crafts that ever were With the Ploughman's ill compare. Ploughing, in an artful wise, Earth's subduing signifies, Far as Baptism and Creed, Far as Christendom hath speed.

By God, who is man's Master best, And Mary may the plough be blest.

THE ELEGY ON SION GLYN, A CHILD OF FIVE YEARS OF AGE

(By his Father, Lewis Glyn Cothi, 1425-1486)

One wee son, woe worth his sire! My treasure was and heart's desire; But evermore I now must pine, Mourning for that wee son of mine, Sick to the heart, day out and in, Thinking and thinking of Johnny Glynn, My fairy prince for ever fled, Leaving life's Mabinogion dead.

A rosy apple, pebbles white, And dicky-birds were his delight, A childish bow with coloured cord, A little brittle wooden sword. From bagpipes or the bogy-man Into his mother's arms he ran, There coaxed from her a ball to throw With his daddy to and fro.

His own sweet songs he'd then be singing, Then for a nut with a shout be springing; Holding my hand he'd trot about with me, Coax me now, and now fall out with me, Now, make it up again, lip to lip, For a dainty die or a curling chip. Would God my lovely little lad A second life, like Lazarus, had! St. Beuno raised from death at once St. Winifred and her six nuns; Would to God the Saint could win An eighth from death in Johnny Glynn!

Ah, Mary! my merry little knave, Coffined and covered in the grave! To think of him beneath the slab Deals my lone heart a double stab.

Bright dream beyond my own life's shore, Proud purpose of my future's store, My hope, my comfort from annoy, My jewel and my glowing joy, My nest of shade from out the sun, My lark, my soaring, singing one, My golden shaft of faithful love Shot at the radiant round above, My intercessor with Heaven's King, My boyhood's second blossoming, My little, laughing, loving John, For you I'm sunk in shadow wan!

Good-bye, good-bye, for evermore My little lively squirrel's store, The happy bouncing of his ball, His carol up and down the hall! Adieu, my little dancing one, Adieu, adieu, my son, my son!

THE NOBLE'S GRAVE

(After Sion Cent, 1386-1420, priest of Kentchurch, in Hereford)

Premier Peer but yesterday, Lone within the tomb to-morrow; For his silken garments gay, Grave-clothes in a gravelled furrow.

No love-making, homage none; From his mines no golden mintage; No rich traffic in the sun; No more purple-purling vintage.

No more usherings out of Hall By obsequious attendant; No more part, however small, In the Pageant's pomp resplendent!

Just a perch of churchyard clay All the soil he now possesses; Heavily its burthen grey On his pulseless bosom presses.

THE BARD'S DEATH-BED CONFESSION

(After Huw Morus, 1622-1709, a Welsh Cavalier poet)

Lord, hear my confession of life-long transgression! Weak-willed and too filled with Earth's follies am I To reach by the strait way of faith to Heaven's gateway, If Thou light not thither my late way.

From Duty's hard high road by Beauty's soft by-road To Satan's, not Thy road, I wandered away. Thou hast seen, Father tender, Thou seest what a slender Return for Thy Talents I render.

Thy pure Eyes pierced through me and probed me and knew me, Not flawless but lawless, when put to the proof. In ease or in cumber, day-doings or slumber, What ills of mine wouldst Thou not number!

From Thy Holy Hand's Healing, contrition annealing And Faith's oil of healing grant, Lord, I beseech; These only can cure me and fresh life assure me, These only Thy Peace can procure me!

To the blood freely flowing of The Lamb life-bestowing This wonder is owing that washes out sin; Thy Love to us lent Him, Thy Love to death sent Him, That man through Thy Love should repent him.

Lord God, Thy Protection, Lord Christ, Thy Affection, Holy Ghost, Thy Direction so govern my heart, That all promptings other than Love's it may smother, As a babe is subdued to its mother.

For that treasure of treasures that all price outmeasures, Pure Faith, on whose pleasures life-giving we feed-- Let Kings in their places, let all the earth's races Sing aloud in a crowd of glad faces.

Yea! all mouths shall bless Thee, all hearts shall confess Thee The bounteous Fountain of mercy and love; Each gift we inherit of pure, perfect merit, Dear God, overflows from Thy Spirit.

QUICK, DEATH!

(After Huw Morus)

This room an antechamber is: Beyond--the Hall of Very Bliss! Quick, Death! for underneath thy door I see the glimmering of Heaven's floor.

COUNSEL IN VIEW OF DEATH

(After Elis Wyn, 1671-1734, one of the Welsh Classics)

Leave your land, your goods lay down! Life's green tree shall soon grow brown. Pride of birth and pleasure gay Renounce or they shall own you!

Manly strength and beauty fair, Dear-bought sense, experience rare, Learning ripe, companions fond Yield, lest their bond ensnare you!

Is there then no sure relief, Thou arch-murderer and thief, Death, from thine o'ermastering law-- Thy monstrous maw can none shun?

O ye rich, in all your pride Through the ages would ye bide, Wherefore not with Death compound, Ere underground he hide you?

Lusty athlete, light of foot, Death, the Bowman's fell pursuit Challenge! O, the laurels won, If thou but shun his shooting!

Travellers by sea and land On remotest mount or strand, Have ye found one secret spot Where Death is not commanding?

Learned scholar, jurist proud, Lifted god-like o'er the crowd, Can your keenest counsel's aid Dispel Death's shade enshrouding?

Fervent faith, profound repentance, Holy hours of stern self-sentence-- These alone can victory bring When Death's dread sting shall wring us.

FROM "THE LAST JUDGMENT"

(After Goronwy Owen, 1728-1769, next to Dafydd ab Gwilym, the greatest poet who sang in the old Welsh metres)

Day of Doom, at thy glooming May Earth be but meet for thee! Day, whose hour of louring Not angels in light foresee! To Christ alone and the Father 'Tis known when thy hosts of might Swift as giants shall gather, Yet stealthy as thieves at night.

Then what woe to the froward, What joy to the just and kind! When the Seraph band comes streaming Christ's gleaming banner behind; Heavenly blue shall its hue be To a myriad marvelling eyes; Save where its heart encrimsons The cross of the sacrifice!

Rocks in that day's black fury Like leaves shall be whirled in the blast; Hoary-headed Eryri Prone to the plough-lands cast! Then shall be roaring and warring And ferment of sea and firth, Ocean, in turmoil upboiling, Confounding each bound of earth. The flow of the Deluge of Noah Were naught by that fell Flood's girth!

Then Heaven's pure self shall offer Her multitudinous eyes, Cruel blinding to suffer, As her sun faints out of the skies; And the bright-faced Moon shall languish And perish in such fierce pain As darkened and shook with anguish All Life, when the Lamb was slain.

A GOOD WIFE

(After the Vicar Pritchard, 1569-1644)

Wise yokel foolish King excelleth; Good name than spikenard sweeter smelleth! What's gold to prudence? Strength to grace? Man's more than goods; God first in place.

What though her dowry be but meagre, Far better wise, God-fearing Igir, Than yonder vain and brainless doll, Helpless her fortune to control.

A wife that's true and kind and sunny Is better than a mint of money; Better than houses, land and gold Or pearls and gems to have and hold.

A ship is she with jewels freighted, Her price beyond all rubies rated, A hundred-virtued amulet To such as her in marriage get.

Gold pillar to a silver socket; The weakling's tower of strength, firm-lockèd, The very golden crown of life; Grace upon grace--a virtuous wife.

"MARCHOG JESU!"

(Hymn sung at the Investiture of the Prince of Wales, the Welsh words by Pantycelyn, the famous eighteenth-century hymn-writer)

Lord, ride on in triumph glorious, Gird Thy sword upon Thy Thigh! Earth shall own Thy Might Victorious, Death and Hell confounded lie. Yea! before Thine Eye all-seeing, All Thy foes shall fly aghast; Nature's self, through all her being, Tremble at Thy Trampling Past.

Pierce, for Thou alone art able, Pierce our dungeon with Thy day; Shatter all the gates of Babel, Rend her iron bars away! Till, as billows thunder shoreward, All the Ransomed Ones ascend, Into freedom surging forward Without number, without end.