IN WILD WALES.

AT THE EISTEDDFOD.

The close-ranked faces rise,
With their watching, eager eyes,
And the banners and the mottoes blaze above;
And without, on either hand,
The eternal mountains stand,
And the salt sea river ebbs and flows again,
And through the thin-drawn bridge the wandering winds complain.

Here is the Congress met,
The bardic senate set,
And young hearts flutter at the voice of fate;
All the fair August day
Song echoes, harpers play.
And on the unaccustomed ear the strange
Penillion rise and fall through change and counter-change.

Oh Mona, land of song!
Oh mother of Wales! how long
From thy dear shores an exile have I been!
Still from thy lonely plains,
Ascend the old sweet strains,
And at the mine, or plough, or humble home,
The dreaming peasant hears diviner music come.

This innocent, peaceful strife,
This struggle to fuller life,
Is still the one delight of Cymric souls—
Swell, blended rhythms! still
The gay pavilions fill.
Soar, oh young voices, resonant and fair;
Still let the sheathed sword gleam above the bardic chair.

******

The Menai ebbs and flows,
And the song-tide wanes and goes,
And the singers and the harp-players are dumb;
The eternal mountains rise
Like a cloud upon the skies,
And my heart is full of joy for the songs that are still,
The deep sea and the soaring hills, and the steadfast
Omnipotent Will.

II.

AT THE MEETING FIELD.

Here is the complement of what I saw
When late I sojourned in the halls of song,
The greater stronger Force, the higher Law,
Of those which carry Cymric souls along.

No dim Cathedral's fretted aisles were there,
No gay pavilion fair, with banners hung:
The eloquent pleading voice, the deep hymns sung,
The bright sun, and the clear unfettered air,

These were the only ritual, this the fane,
A poor fane doubtless and a feeble rite
For those who find religion in dim light,
Strange vestments, incensed air, and blazoned pane.

But the rapt crowd, the reverent mute throng,
When the vast listening semi-circle round,
Rang to the old man's voice serenely strong,
Or swept along in stormy bursts of sound.

Where found we these in temples made with hands?
Where the low moan which marks the awakened soul?
Where, this rude eloquence whose strong waves roll
Deep waters, swift to bear their Lord's commands?

Where found we these? 'neath what high fretted dome?
I know not. I have knelt 'neath many, yet
Have heard few words so rapt and burning come,
Nor marked so many eyes divinely wet,

As here I knew—"What will you do, oh friends,
When life ebbs fast and the dim light is low,
When sunk in gloom the day of pleasure ends,
And the night cometh, and your being runs slow,

And nought is left you of your revelries,
Your drunken days, your wantonness, your ill—
And lo! the last dawn rises cold and chill,
And lo! the lightning of All-seeing eyes,

What will you do?" And when the low voice ceased,
And from the gathered thousands surged the hymn,
Some strong power choked my voice, my eyes grew dim,
I knew that old man eloquent, a priest.

There is a consecration not of man,
Nor given by laid-on hands nor acted rite,
A priesthood fixed since the firm earth began,
A dedication to the eye of Light,

And this is of them. What the form of creed
I care not, hardly the fair tongue I know,
But this I know that when the concourse freed
From that strong influence, went sedate and slow,

I thought when on the Galilean shore
By the Great Priest the multitudes were led,
The bread of life, miraculously more,
Sufficed for all who came, and they were fed.