Part 3

But wilt thou not from London town Journey some day to Northolt down, Song to obtain, O sweet reward, And walk the garden of the Bard?-- But thy employ, the year throughout, Is wandering the White Tower about, Moulding and stamping coin with care, The farthing small and shilling fair. Let for a month thy Mint lie still, Covetous be not, little Will; Fly from the birth-place of the smoke, Nor in that wicked city choke; O come, though money's charms be strong, And if thou come I'll give thee song, A draught of water, hap what may, Pure air to make thy spirits gay, And welcome from an honest heart, That's free from every guileful art. I'll promise--fain thy face I'd see-- Yet something more, sweet friend, to thee: The poet's cwrw {74} thou shalt prove, In talk with him the garden rove, Where in each leaf thou shalt behold The Almighty's wonders manifold; And every flower, in verity, Shall unto thee show visibly, In every fibre of its frame, His deep design, who made the same.-- A thousand flowers stand here around, With glorious brightness some are crown'd: How beauteous art thou, lily fair! With thee no silver can compare: I'll not forget thy dress outshone The pomp of regal Solomon.

I write the friend, I love so well, No sounding verse his heart to swell. The fragile flowerets of the plain Can rival human triumphs vain. I liken to a floweret's fate The fleeting joys of mortal state; The flower so glorious seen to-day To-morrow dying fades away; An end has soon the flowery clan, And soon arrives the end of man; The fairest floweret, ever known, Would fade when cheerful summer's flown; Then hither haste, ere turns the wheel! Old age doth on these flowers steal; Though pass'd two-thirds of autumn-time, Of summer temperature's the clime; The garden shows no sickliness, The weather old age vanquishes, The leaves are greenly glorious still-- But friend! grow old they must and will.

The rose, at edge of winter now, Doth fade with all its summer glow; Old are become the roses all, Decline to age we also shall; And with this prayer I'll end my lay, Amen, with me, O Parry say; To us be rest from all annoy, And a robust old age of joy; May we, ere pangs of death we know, Back to our native Mona go; May pleasant days us there await, United and inseparate! And the dread hour, when God shall please To bid our mutual journey cease, May Christ, who reigns in heaven above, Receive us to his breast of love!

THE PEDIGREE OF THE MUSE.

_From Goronwy Owen_.

OLD Homer, Grecian bard divine, He Muses had, the tuneful Nine, Of Goddesses a lovely quire, Full like to Jove their heavenly Sire; But their inventing song and strain Is but a minstrel vision vain, Nor in their birth, so proud and high, I ween is more reality.

One Muse there was and one alone, No fabled lustre round her shone, With this fair girl the maiden band Of Homer unconnected stand.

A different birth I claim for her, Far older she than Jupiter; The youths of heaven felt her power In heavenly residence of yore; And from her dwelling blest may she To a vile man propitious be. Grant to me, Lord, of her a share, That I to sing her praise may dare. Better thy help it were to gain Than thousand, thousand tongues obtain. I'll tell ye where a strain was sung Ere in its orb earth's bullet swung, Ere ocean had obtain'd its doors Which hold confin'd its watery stores, And of the world th' Almighty made The firm foundation yet was laid.

When at the word th' Almighty said The heaven above abroad was spread, The morning stars in beauty bold, Arose a concert high to hold. Yes, yes, the beauteous morning train Arose to sing a triumph strain. When ended was the work sublime They rose to sing a second time. Thousands of heaven's brightest powers Assembled from their azure bowers. The sons of heaven unitedly Pour'd out a hymn of harmony.

Completed is thy work, O God; Wise are the courses by Thee trod, Master of all Eternity. O who is great and wise like Thee? No organ's voice in sacred fane E'er rivall'd that celestial strain; A million accents all divine, But different all, therein combine. Of angel voices the accord Downward pierc'd and upward soar'd. The wandering stars who heard the strain Into their orbits leapt again. And louder, louder as it peal'd, The arch of heaven shook and reel'd. Down from the heaven's lofty blue To this low world the accents flew, In Paradise's blissful bound. Our Father Adam heard the sound; Delighted man's first father hears The praise and music of the spheres; To imitate the strain he tries, And soon succeeds in gallant guise. Delighted was his Eva dear His good and pleasant song to hear; Eva sang, so fair of feature; Adam sang, tall noble creature. Both sang from their green retreat To God until the hour of heat. From five past noon descanted they Till disappeared the orb of day.

Young Abel's song was clear and mild, And free from bursts of passion wild; But fiercely harsh the ditty rang Which Cain, red-handed ruffian, sang. The gentle Muse you'll never find United to a cruel mind; The Almighty God this gift bestows On breasts alone where virtue glows. A thing of ancient date is song, A muse to Moses did belong; A muse--a sample of its power He gave when quitting Egypt's shore. A hundred sang, and with renown, Ere we arrive at David down; He sang like heaven's minstrel prime, And harmony compos'd sublime. 'Twas he who framed the blessed psalms, To souls distrest those sovereign balms; He also many a deathless air Produc'd from harp and dulcimer; Mov'd with his hand the Muse along, That hand so fair and yet so strong. Soon as the blush of morn appear'd, The anointed poet's voice was heard: "Awake, my harp," so sang the King, "A sweet and fitting song to sing; Glory I'll give with tongue and chord, Glory and praise to heaven's Lord." His like ne'er was, and ne'er will be, For music and for minstrelsy.

A Muse, and wondrous sweet its tone, There was again to Solomon. He sang in Judah's brightest days A wondrous song, the lay of lays. His Rose of Sharon all must love, The lily and the hawthorn grove. To his effusion sweet belongs A station next to David's songs. The offspring of a pious Muse The Almighty God will not refuse, Showing his loving kindness clear To us his lowly children here.

In halls of heaven so bright and sheen The power of song is great, I ween; When there above in mighty quire With us shall join heaven's host entire, The one high God to glorify, Commingle then shall earth and sky.

O what a blest employ to raise Our voices in our Maker's praise! Let's learn, my friends, the fitting song, To sing it we may hope ere long Above in courts where angels be, Above where all is harmony, And ne'er shall cease our anthem then Of Holy, Holy Praise. Amen.

THE HARP.

_From Goronwy Owen_.

THE harp to every one is dear Who hateth vice, and all things evil; Hail to its gentle voice so clear, Its gentle voice affrights the Devil!

The Devil can not the Minstrel quell-- He by the Minstrel is confounded; From Saul was cast the spirit fell, When David's harp melodious sounded.

EPIGRAM.

On a Miser who had built a stately Mansion.

_From the Cambrian British_.

OF every pleasure is thy mansion void; To ruin-heaps may soon its walls decline. O heavens, that one poor fire's but employ'd, One poor fire only for thy chimneys nine!

Towering white chimneys--kitchen cold and drear-- Chimneys of vanity and empty show-- Chimneys unwarm'd, unsoil'd throughout the year-- Fain would I heatless chimneys overthrow.

Plague on huge chimneys, say I, huge and neat, Which ne'er one spark of genial warmth announce; Ignite some straw, thou dealer in deceit-- Straw of starv'd growth--and make a fire for once!

The wretch a palace built, whereon to gaze, And sighing, shivering there around to stray; To give a penny would the niggard craze, And worse than bane he hates the minstrel's lay.

GRIFFITH AP NICHOLAS.

By Gwilym ab Ieuan Hen.

GRIFFITH AP NICHOLAS, who like thee For wealth and power and majesty! Which most abound, I cannot say, On either side of Towy gay, From hence to where it meets the brine, Trees or stately towers of thine? The chair of judgment thou didst gain, But not to deal in judgments vain-- To thee upon thy judgment chair From near and far do crowds repair; But though betwixt the weak and strong No questions rose of right and wrong, The strong and weak to thee would hie; The strong to do thee injury, And to the weak thou wine wouldst deal And wouldst trip up the mighty heel. A lion unto the lofty thou, A lamb unto the weak and low. Much thou resemblest Nudd of yore, Surpassing all who went before; Like him thou'rt fam'd for bravery, For noble birth and high degree. Hail, captain of Kilgarran's hold! Lieutenant of Carmarthen old! Hail chieftain, Cambria's choicest boast! Hail Justice, at the Saxon's cost! Seven castles high confess thy sway, Seven palaces thy hands obey. Against my chief, with envy fired, Three dukes and judges two conspired, But thou a dauntless front did'st show, And to retreat they were not slow. O, with what gratitude is heard From mouth of thine the whispered word; The deepest pools in rivers found In summer are of softest sound; The sage concealeth what he knows, A deal of talk no wisdom shows; The sage is silent as the grave, Whilst of his lips the fool is slave; Thy smile doth every joy impart, Of faith a fountain is thy heart; Thy hand is strong, thine eye is keen, Thy head o'er every head is seen.

RICHES AND POVERTY.

By Twm o'r Nant.

_Enter_ Captain Poverty.

O RICHES,--thy figure is charming and bright, And to speak in thy praise all the world doth delight, But I'm a poor fellow all tatter'd and torn, Whom all the world treateth with insult and scorn.

Riches.

However mistaken the judgment may be Of the world which is never from ignorance free, The parts we must play, which to us are assign'd, According as God has enlighten'd our mind.

Of elements four did our Master create, The earth and all in it with skill the most great; Need I the world's four materials declare-- Are they not water, fire, earth, and air?

Too wise was the mighty Creator to frame A world from one element, water or flame; The one is full moist and the other full hot, And a world made of either were useless, I wot.

And if it had all of mere earth been compos'd, And no water nor fire been within it enclos'd, It could ne'er have produc'd for a huge multitude Of all kinds of living things suitable food.

And if God what was wanted had not fully known, But created the world of these three things alone, How would any creature the heaven beneath, Without the blest air have been able to breathe?

Thus all things created, the God of all grace, Of four prime materials, each good in its place. The work of His hands, when completed, He view'd, And saw and pronounc'd that 'twas seemly and good.

Poverty.

In the marvellous things, which to me thou hast told The wisdom of God I most clearly behold, And did He not also make man of the same Materials He us'd when the world He did frame?

Riches.

Creation is all, as the sages agree, Of the elements four in man's body that be; Water's the blood, and fire is the nature Which prompts generation in every creature.

The earth is the flesh which with beauty is rife, The air is the breath, without which is no life; So man must be always accounted the same As the substances four which exist in his frame.

And as in their creation distinction there's none 'Twixt man and the world, so the Infinite One Unto man a clear wisdom did bounteously give The nature of everything to perceive.

Poverty.

But one thing to me passing strange doth appear: Since the wisdom of man is so bright and so clear, How comes there such jarring and warring to be In the world betwixt Riches and Poverty?

Riches.

That point we'll discuss without passion or fear, With the aim of instructing the listeners here; And haply some few who instruction require May profit derive like the bee from the briar.

Man as thou knowest, in his generation Is a type of the world and of all the creation; Difference there's none in the manner of birth 'Twixt the lowliest hinds and the lords of the earth.

The world which the same thing as man we account In one place is sea, in another is mount; A part of it rock, and a part of it dale-- God's wisdom has made every place to avail.

There exist precious treasures of every kind Profoundly in earth's quiet bosom enshrin'd; There's searching about them, and ever has been, And by some they are found, and by some never seen.

With wonderful wisdom the Lord God on high Has contriv'd the two lights which exist in the sky; The sun's hot as fire, and its ray bright as gold, But the moon's ever pale, and by nature is cold.

The sun, which resembles a huge world of fire, Would burn up full quickly creation entire Save the moon with its temp'rament cool did assuage Of its brighter companion the fury and rage.

Now I beg you the sun and the moon to behold, The one that's so bright, and the other so cold, And say if two things in creation there be Better emblems of Riches and Poverty.

Poverty.

In manner most brief, yet convincing and clear, You have told the whole truth to my wond'ring ear, And I see that 'twas God, who in all things is fair, Has assign'd us the forms, in this world which we bear.

In the sight of the world doth the wealthy man seem Like the sun which doth warm everything with its beam; Whilst the poor needy wight with his pitiable case Resembles the moon which doth chill with its face.

Riches.

You know that full oft, in their course as they run, An eclipse cometh over the moon or the sun; Certain hills of the earth with their summits of pride The face of the one from the other do hide.

The sun doth uplift his magnificent head, And illumines the moon, which were otherwise dead, Even as Wealth from its station on high, Giveth work and provision to Poverty.

Poverty.

I know, and the thought mighty sorrow instils, The sins of the world are the terrible hills An eclipse which do cause, or a dread obscuration, To one or another in every vocation.

Riches.

It is true that God gives unto each from his birth Some task to perform whilst he wends upon earth, But He gives correspondent wisdom and force To the weight of the task, and the length of the course.

[_Exit_.

Poverty.

I hope there are some, who 'twixt me and the youth Have heard this discourse, whose sole aim is the truth, Will see and acknowledge, as homeward they plod, Each thing is arrang'd by the wisdom of God.

THE PERISHING WORLD.

[From "The Sleeping Bard," by Elis Wynn.]

O MAN, upon this building gaze, The mansion of the human race, The world terrestrial see! Its Architect's the King on high, Who ne'er was born and ne'er will die-- The blest Divinity. The world, its wall, its starlights all, Its stores, where'er they lie, Its wondrous brute variety, Its reptiles, fish, and birds that fly, And cannot number'd be, The God above, to show His love, Did give, O man, to thee. For man, for man, whom He did plan, God caus'd arise This edifice, Equal to heaven in all but size, Beneath the sun so fair; Then it He view'd, and that 'twas good For man, He was aware.

Man only sought to know at first Evil, and of the thing accursed Obtain a sample small. The sample grew a giantess, 'Tis easy from her size to guess The whole her prey will fall. Cellar and turret high, Through hell's dark treachery, Now reeling, rocking, terribly, In swooning pangs appear; The orchards round, are only found Vile sedge and weeds to bear; The roof gives way, more, more each day, The walls too, spite Of all their might, Have frightful cracks down all their height, Which coming ruin show; The dragons tell, that danger fell, Now lurks the house below. O man! this building fair and proud, From its foundation to the cloud, Is all in dangerous plight; Beneath thee quakes and shakes the ground; 'Tis all, e'en down to hell's profound, A bog that scares the sight. The sin man wrought, the deluge brought, And without fail A fiery gale, Before which everything shall quail, His deeds shall waken now; Worse evermore, till all is o'er, Thy case, O world, shall grow. There's one place free yet, man for thee, Where mercies reign; A place to which thou may'st attain. Seek there a residence to gain Lest thou in caverns howl; For save thou there shalt quick repair, Woe to thy wretched soul!

Towards yon building turn your face! Too strong by far is yonder place To lose the victory. 'Tis better than the reeling world; For all the ills by hell up-hurl'd It has a remedy. Sublime it braves the wildest waves; It is a refuge place Impregnable to Belial's race, With stones, emitting vivid rays, Above its stately porch; Itself, and those therein, compose The universal Church. Though slaves of sin we long have been, With faith sincere We shall win pardon there; Then in let's press, O brethren dear, And claim our dignity! By doing so, we saints below And saints on high shall be.

DEATH THE GREAT.

[From "The Sleeping Bard," by Elis Wynn.]

LEAVE land and house we must some day, For human sway not long doth bide; Leave pleasures and festivities, And pedigrees, our boast and pride.

Leave strength and loveliness of mien, Wit sharp and keen, experience dear; Leave learning deep, and much-lov'd friends, And all that tends our life to cheer.

From Death then is there no relief? That ruthless thief and murderer fell, Who to his shambles beareth down All, all we own, and us as well.

Ye monied men, ye who would fain Your wealth retain eternally, How brave 'twould be a sum to raise, And the good grace of Death to buy!

How brave! ye who with beauty beam, On rank supreme who fix your mind, Should ye your captivations muster, And with their lustre King Death blind.

O ye who are of foot most light, Who are in the height now of your spring, Fly, fly, and ye will make us gape, If ye can scape Death's cruel fling.

The song and dance afford, I ween, Relief from spleen and sorrow's grave; How very strange there is no dance, Nor tune of France, from Death can save!

Ye travellers of sea and land, Who know each strand below the sky; Declare if ye have seen a place Where Adam's race can Death defy!

Ye scholars, and ye lawyer crowds, Who are as gods reputed wise; Can ye from all the lore ye know, 'Gainst death bestow some good advice?

The world, the flesh, and Devil, compose The direst foes of mortals poor; But take good heed of Death the Great, From the Lost Gate, Destruction o'er.

'Tis not worth while of Death to prate, Of his Lost Gate and courts so wide; But O reflect! it much imports, Of the two courts in which ye're tried.

It here can little signify If the street high we cross, or low; Each lofty thought doth rise, be sure, The soul to lure to deepest woe.

But by the wall that's ne'er re-pass'd, To gripe thee fast when Death prepares, Heed, heed thy steps, for thou may'st mourn The slightest turn for endless years.

When opes the door, and swiftly hence To its residence eternal flies The soul, it matters much, which side Of the gulf wide its journey lies.

Deep penitence, amended life, A bosom rife of zeal and faith, Can help to man alone impart, Against the smart and sting of Death.

These things to thee seem worthless now, But not so low will they appear When thou art come, O thoughtless friend! Just to the end of thy career.

Thou'lt deem, when thou hast done with earth, These things of worth unspeakable, Beside the gulf so black and drear, The gulf of Fear, 'twixt Heaven and Hell.

THE HEAVY HEART.

[From "The Sleeping Bard," by Elis Wynn.]

HEAVY'S the heart with wandering below, And with seeing the things in the country of woe; Seeing lost men and the fiendish race, In their very horrible prison place; Seeing that the end of the crooked track Is a flaming lake Where dragon and snake With rage are swelling. I'd not, o'er a thousand worlds to reign, Behold again, Though safe from pain, The infernal dwelling.

Heavy's my heart, whilst so vividly The place is yet in my memory; To see so many, to me well known, Thither unwittingly sinking down. To-day a hell-dog is yesterday's man, And he has no plan, But others to trepan To Hell's dismal revels. When he reached the pit he a fiend became, In face and in frame, And in mind the same As the very devils.

Heavy's the heart with viewing the bed, Where sin has the meed it has merited; What frightful taunts from forked tongue, On gentle and simple there are flung! The ghastliness of the damned things to state, Or the pains to relate Which will ne'er abate But increase for ever, No power have I, nor others I wot: Words cannot be got; The shapes and the spot Can be pictured never.

Heavy's the heart, as none will deny, At losing one's friend, or the maid of one's eye; At losing one's freedom, one's land or wealth; At losing one's fame, or alas! one's health; At losing leisure; at losing ease; At losing peace And all things that please The heaven under. At losing memory, beauty and grace, Heart-heaviness, For a little space Can cause no wonder.

Heavy's the heart of man when first He awakes from his worldly dream accursed; Fain would he be freed from his awful load Of sin, and be reconciled with his God; When he feels for pleasures and luxuries Disgust arise, From the agonies Of the ferment unruly, Through which he becomes regenerate, Of Christ the mate, From his sinful state Springing blithe and holy.

Heavy's the heart of the best of mankind, Upon the bed of death reclined; In mind and body ill at ease, Betwixt remorse and the disease, Vext by sharp pangs and dreading more. O mortal poor! O dreadful hour! Horrors surround him! To the end of the vain world he has won; And dark and dun The Eternal One Beholds beyond him.