John Davies was born at Cardigan in 1834, and died April 24, 1892. He was, I believe, a carpenter by trade. He published one little volume, “Caniadau Ossian Gwent” (Hughes & Son, Wrexham), but he left a large mass of unpublished matter. No one of our poets is simpler or purer, or writes so lovingly of birds and flowers.
The Lark.
Oh hark!
With fluttering wing and dewy breast,
Soars upward like a spirit strong,
From reedy nest,
The gentle lark,
To tune on high his matin song.
Alway
A nameless charm flows from thy lay,
Melodious bird!
Whose music heard
Drives care and sorrow far away.
Beneath,
The sleeping world lies still as death;
Above, we hear thee singing clear,
’Mid’st morning rays,
Unsullied praise,
Which speaks of peace to mortal ear.
How free
And blithesome is thy joyous flight!
In floods of sunshine sparkling bright,
From skies serene
Thy song unseen
Angelic music seems to me.
The Bible.
Like stars beside the sun,
So by this book
Earth’s volumes look:
Their glory fades before its light,
For on its leaves the splendour bright
Of God’s own face hath shone.
’Tis like some fair seashell—
Bend down thine ear
And thou shalt hear
The river on the golden strand
And sound of harps in that fair land—
Or wail of souls in hell!