The Poetry of Wales Part 16

Woman cheerful in a family Makes the group around so happy, And her voice filled with affection, Yields an Eden of communion.

Poor the man that roams creation Without woman for companion, Dest.i.tute of all protection, Without her to bless his station.

Gentle Woman! all we covet Without thee would be but wretched, Without thy voice to banish sorrow, Or sweet help from thee to borrow.

Thou art light to cheer our progress, Star to brighten all our darkness, For the troubled soul an anchor On each stormy sea of terror.

THE FAITHFUL MAIDEN.

BY REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

At the dawning of day on a morning in May, When the birds through the forests were skipping so gay; While crossing the churchyard of a parish remote, In a district of Cambria, whose name I don't note:

I saw a fair maiden so rich in attire, Second but to an angel her mien did appear; Quick were her footsteps in tripping the sand, And flowers resplendent were borne in her hand.

I fled to concealment that I might best learn Her object and wish in a place so forlorn, Without a companion--so early the hour-- For a region so gloomy thus leaving her bower.

Anon she advanced to a new tomb that lay By the churchyard path, and there kneeling did stay, While she planted the flowers with hands so clear, And her looks were replete of meekness and fear.

The tears she would dry from eyelids fair With a napkin so snow-white its hue and so rare; And I heard a voice, that sadden'd my mind, While it smote the breeze with words of this kind:--

"Here lieth in peace and quiet the one I loved as dear as the soul of my own; But death did us part to my endless woe, Just when each to the other his hand would bestow.

Here resteth from turmoil, and sorrow to be, The whole that in this world was precious to me; Grow sweetly, ye flowers! and fair on his tomb, Altho' you'll ne'er rival his beauty and bloom.

He erst received from me gifts that were more dear, My hand for a promise--and a lock of my hair, With total concurrence my portion to bear Of his weal or his woe, whether cloudy or fair.

While sitting beside him how great my content, In this place where my heart is evermore bent; If I should e'er travel the wide globe around, To this as their centre my thoughts would rebound.

Altho' from the earth thou dost welcome nor chide, Nor smilest as once thou didst smile on thy bride; And yet my beloved! 'tis comfort to me, To sit but a moment so near to thee.

Thy eyes bright and tender my mind now doth see, And remembers thy speech like the honey to me; Thy grave I'll embrace though the whole world beheld, That all may attest the love we once held."

THE EWE.

BY REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

So artless art thou, gentle ewe!

Thy aspect kindles feeling; And every bosom doth bedew, Each true affection stealing.

Thou hast no weapon of aught kind Against thy foes to combat; No horn or hoof the dog to wound That worries thee so steadfast.

No, nought hast thou but feeble flight, Therein thy only refuge; And every cur within thy sight Is swifter since the deluge.

And when thy lambkin weak doth fail, Tho' often called to follow, Thy best protection to the frail Wilt give through death or sorrow.

Against the ground her foot will beat, Devoutly pure her purpose; Full many a time the sight thus meet Brought tears to me in billows.

But if wise nature did not give To her sharp tooth or weapon, She compensation doth receive From human aid and reason.

She justly has from man support 'Gainst wounds and tribulation; And has the means without distort To yield him retribution.

Yea, of more value is her gift Than priceless mines of silver Or gold which from the depth they lift Through India's distant border.

To man she gives protection strong From winds and tempests howling, From pelting rain, and snow-drifts long, When storms above are beating.

The mantle warm o'er us the night Throughout the dismal shadows; What makes our hearts so free and light?

What but the sheep so precious!

Then let us not the Ewe forget When winter bleak doth hover; When rains descend--and we safe set-- Let us be grateful to her.

Her cloak to us is comfort great When by the ditch she trembles; Let us then give her the best beat For her abode and rambles.

THE SONG OF THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE.

BY REV. JOHN BLACKWELL, B.A.

Restless wave! be still and quiet, Do not heed the wind and freshet, Nature wide is now fast sleeping, Why art thou so live and stirring?

All commotion now is ending, Why not thou thy constant rolling?

Rest thou sea! upon thy bosom Is one from whom my thoughts are seldom, Not his lot it is to idle, But to work while he is able; Be kind to him, ocean billow!

Sleep upon thy sandy pillow!

Wherefore should'st thou still be swelling?

Why not cease thy restless heaving?

There's no wind to stir the bushes, And all still the mountain breezes: Be thou calm until the morning When he'll shelter in the offing.

Deaf art thou to my entreaty, Ocean vast! and without mercy.

I will turn to Him who rules thee, And can still thy fiercest eddy: Take Thou him to Thy protection Keep him from the wave's destruction!

THE WITHERED LEAF.

BY REV. JOHN BLACKWELL, B.A.

Dry the leaf above the stubble, Soon 'twill fall into the bramble, But the mind receives a lesson From the leaf when it has fallen.