Produced by Al Haines
THE DEATH OF SAUL:
AND OTHER
EISTEDDFOD PRIZE POEMS
AND
MISCELLANEOUS VERSES.
BY
J. C. MANNING
(CARL MORGANWG.
SWANSEA:
J. C. MANNING, 9, CASTLE STREET.
AND ALL BOOKSELLERS.
PRICE SIX SHILLINGS.
1877.
DEATH OF SAUL
AND
OTHER POEMS.
THE EISTEDDFOD COMMITTEE
AND THE
"DEATH OF SAUL."
Being restricted by the Wrexham Eisteddfod Committee to 200 lines, I was obliged to lop away from the bulk of the following poem just sufficient for their requirements. I have always declaimed, from a physical point of view, against the pernicious influence of light-lacing, and this being so, it was not likely I could go at once and mentally encase my delicate muse, for a permanency, in a straight waistcoat, at the behest of any committee in the world. What would she have thought of me? If, therefore, the committee, or any member of it, should by chance observe that the "Death of Saul," as I now produce it, is of a more comprehensive character than the "Death of Saul" for which they were good enough to award me the first prize, they will see the poem without the temporary stays in which I was necessitated to encase it in order to make it acceptable to them and their restrictive tastes. To squeeze a poem of nearly 400 lines into the dimensions of one of 200, is, in my opinion, an achievement worthy of a prize in itself; and as half of the original had a gold medal awarded to it, the whole of it, I should think, ought to be worth two. I trust Eisteddfod committees, when they contemplate putting the curb upon us poor poets, will think of the Wrexham National Eisteddfod, and how half the "Death of Saul" took a first prize.
TO THE PUBLIC.
Let the bright sun of Approbation shine
In warmth upon the humble rhymester's line,
And, like the lark that flutters tow'rds the light,
He spreads his pinions for a loftier flight.
The chilling frowns of critics may retard,
But cannot kill, the ardour of the Bard,
For, gaining wisdom by experience taught,
As grass grows strong from wounds by mowers wrought,
Success will come the Poet's fears to assuage,
Crowning his hopes with Poesy's perfect page.
PREFACE.
The verses which make up this volume have been written at intervals, and under the most varied and chequered circumstances, extending over a period of five-and-twenty years. If, therefore, they bear upon their surface variety of sentiment and incongruity of feeling, that fact will explain it. I am fully aware that some of the pieces are unequal in merit from a purely artistic point of view, but I have felt that my audience will be varied in its composition, and hence the introduction of variety. The tone, however, of the whole work, I believe to be healthy; and where honest maxims, combined with homely metaphor, are found to take the place of high constructive art, they will, I know, be excused by votaries of the latter, for the sake of those whose hearts and instincts are much more sensitive to homely appeals than to the charms of mere artistic effect. The pieces have all been written, together with many other effusions, at such leisure moments as have been accorded to one who, during the whole time of their composition, has had to apply himself, almost without cessation, to the performance of newspaper press duties; and those who know anything about such things need not be told that a taste for versification is, to a press-man, as a rule, what poverty is to most people—a very inconvenient and by no means a profitable companion. In my own case, however, the inconvenience has been a pleasure, and I have no reason to find fault as to profit. From the fitful excitement of journalistic duties I have turned to "making poetry," as Spenser defines the art, as a jaded spirit looks for rest, and have always felt refreshed after it. My only hope in connection with the poetry I have thus made is, that those who may incline to read what I have written will take as much pleasure in reading as I have taken in writing it, and that the result to myself will be a justification for having published the work, to be found only in that public appreciation which I hope to obtain,
SWANSEA.——J. C. MANNING.
CONTENTS.
To the Public
Preface
Dedication
The Wrexham Eisteddfod and the "Death of Saul"
Historical Note
DEATH OF SAUL
Episode the First
Episode the Second
Episode the Third
Episode the Fourth
Palm Sunday in Wales
Elegy on the late Crawshay Bailey, Esq.
Nash Vaughan Edwardes Vaughan; a Monody
Monody on the Death of Mrs. Nicholl Carne
Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of Mrs. Grenfell
In Dreams
Mewn Cof Anwyl: on the Death of John Johnes, Esq., of Dolaucothy
Elegiac
In Memoriam
To Clara
E.H.R.
A.R.
Venus and Astery
To a Royal Mourner
Beautiful Wales
Gwalia Deg
The Welsh Language: to Caradawc, of Abergavenny
Englyn i'r Iath Gymraeg
A Foolish Bird
I'd Choose to be a Nightingale: to Mary (Llandovery)
True Philanthropy: to J. D. Llewellyn, Esq., Penllergare
Disraeli
Down in the Dark: the Ferndale Explosion
DAISY MAY:—Part the First
Part the Second
Part the Third
Lines, accompanying a Purse
Forsaken
Christmas is Coming
Heart Links
The Oak to the Ivy
Epigram on a Welshwoman's Hat
Shadows in the Fire
The Belfry Old
Beautiful Barbara
Song of the Silken Shroud
A University for Wales
Griefs Untold
I Will
Dawn and Death
Castles in the Air
The Withered Rose
Wrecks of Life
Eleanor
New Year's Bells
The Vase and the Weed
A Riddle
To a Fly Burned by a Gaslight
To a Friend
Retribution
The Three Graces
The Last Rose of Summer
The Starling and the Goose
The Heroes of Alma
A Kind Word, a Smile, or a Kiss
Dear Mother, I'm Thinking of Thee
The Heron and the Weather-Vane
The Three Mirrors
The Two Clocks
Sacrifical: on the Execution of Two Greek Sailors at Swansea
Wales to "Punch"
Welcome!
Change
False as Fair
Heads and Hearts
Fall of Sebastopol
To Lord Derby
Unrequited
The Household Spirit
Had I a Heart
A Bridal Simile
Song
I would my Love
Death in Life
Song of the Strike
Nature's Heroes: the Rhondda Valley Disaster
Elegy on the Death of a Little Child
Magdalene
Love Walks with Humanity Yet
The Two Trees
Stanzas
Verses, written after Reading a Biography of His Grace the
Duke of Beaufort
A Simile
The Two Sparrows
Floating Away
A Floral Fable
Ring Down the Curtain
The Telegraph Post
Breaking on the Shore
Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps
Be Careful when you Find a Friend
Brotherly Love
England and France
Against the Stream
Wrecked in Sight of Home
Sonnet
Sebastopol is Won
Hold Your Tongue
My Mother's Portrait
Never More
Lines on the Death of the Rev. Canon Jenkins, Vicar of Aberdare
Filial Ingratitude
The Vine and the Sunflower
POETIC PROVERBS:
I.—Danger in Surety
II.—A Wise Son
III.—Hope Deferred
IV.—Virtue's Crown
V.—Sorrow in Mirth
Christmas Anticipations
Golden Tresses
Hope for the Best
Gone Before
Henry Bath: Died October 14th, 1864
Song of the Worker
The Brooklet's Ambition
St. Valentine's Eve
Lost
Lilybell
Gone
Life Dreams
Aeolus and Aurora; or, the Music of the Gods
Sonnet
Sleeping in the Snow
With the Rain
Ode, on the Death of a Friend
Lines: to a Young Lady who had jilted her Lover
Vicarious Martyrs: to a Hen-pecked Schoolmaster
Stanzas: on seeing Lady Noel Byron
To Louisa
The Orator and the Cask
The Maid of the War
Impromptu: on being asked by a Lady to write a Verse in her Album
Mary: a Monody
On the Marriage of Miss Nicholl Carne
Impromptu: on the Death of Mr. Thomas Kneath, a well-known
Teacher of Navigation, at Swansea
EXTRACTS FROM UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPT:
Humility Oppressed
Upward Strivings
Truthfulness
Love's Influence
Value of Adversity
Misguiding Appearances
Virgin Purity
Man's Destiny
Love's Incongruities
Retribution
Love's Mutability
A Mother's Advice
Sunrise in the Country
Faith in Love
Unrequited Affection
The Poet's Troubles
Echoes from the City
Love's Wiles
Hazard in Love
A Mother's Love
"The Shadow of the Cross"
Curates and Colliers: on reading in a Comic Paper absurd
comparisons between the wages of Curates and Colliers
Wanted—a Wife: a Voice from the Ladies
Sympathy
A Fragment
Law versus Theology: on an Eminent County Court Judge
The Broken Model
Impromptu: on an Inveterate Spouter
A Character
Couplet
Pause: on the hesitation of the Czar to Force a Passage of
the Danube, June, 1877
The Test of the Stick
Note: concerning Iuan Wyllt, an Eisteddfod at Neath, and
a First Prize Poem
TO THE
MOST HONOURABLE THE MARQUESS OF BUTE:
WITH A GRATEFUL SENSE OF HIS LORDSHIP'S GENEROUS AND
OTHERWISE DISINTERESTED DESIRE,
IN ACCEPTING THE DEDICATION OF THE WORK,
TO ALONE FURTHER THE VIEWS AND ENCOURAGE THE LITERARY
ASPIRATIONS OF THE WRITER,
THIS VOLUME,
BY HIS LORDSHIP'S PERMISSION,
IS DEDICATED,
WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF RESPECTFUL ADMIRATION OF HIS
TALENT AND WORTH,
BY HIS LORDSHIP'S OBLIGED AND OBEDIENT SERVANT,
THE AUTHOR.
DEATH OF SAUL.
PRIZE POEM.
WREXHAM NATIONAL EISTEDDFOD, 1876.
"The Vicar of Wrexham delivered his award on the 28 poems in English or Welsh, on 'The Death of Saul' ('Marwolaeth Saul'). The prize 5 pounds 5s. was given by Dr. Williams, Chairman of the Committee, and a gold medal was given by the Committee. The Vicar said the best composition was an English poem, signed 'David.' It was written in a style well adapted to the subject, in language dignified and sonorous, with not a little of the rhythmic cadence of Paradise Lost. It was real poetry; suggestive, and at times deeply impressive—the poetry of thought and culture, not of mere figure and fancy, and it was well calculated to do honour to its author, and to the National Eisteddfod of Wales. 'David' was among his fellow-competitors as Saul was amongst his brethren, higher than any of them from his shoulders upwards, and to him he awarded the prize which his poem well deserved."
HISTORICAL NOTE.
The design followed out in the succeeding poem has been to touch upon the leading historical incidents of Saul's career that lead up to and explain his tragic death on Mount Gilboa. With him, nearly 3,000 years ago, commenced the Monarchical government of the Israelites, who had previously been governed by a Theocracy. The Prophet Samuel, who anointed Saul, was the last of the High Priests or Judges under this Theocracy, which existed for 800 years, and died out with the acceptance of Saul, by the Israelites, as "King of all the tribes of Israel." The incidents touched upon range from the proclamation of Saul as King, by Samuel (1095 B.C.), to the fall of the hapless Monarch at the battle of Gilboa, 40 years afterwards.
Death of Saul
As through the waves the freighted argosy
Securely plunges, when the lode star's light
Her path makes clear, and as, when angry clouds
Obscure the guide that leads her on her way,
She strikes the hidden rock and all is lost,
So he of whom I sing—favoured of God,
By disobedience dimmed the light divine
That shone with bright effulgence like the sun,
And sank in sorrow, where he might have soared
Up to the loftiest peak of earthly joy
In sweet foretaste of heavenly joys to come.
Called from his flocks and herds in humble strait
And made to rule a nation; high in Heaven
The great Jehovah lighting up the way;
On earth an upright Judge and Prophet wise
Sent by the Lord to bend his steps aright;
Sons dutiful and true; no speck to mar
The noble grandeur of a proud career;
Yet, from the rays that flickered o'er his path,
Sent for his good, he wove the lightning shaft
That seared his heart, e'en as the stalwart oak,
Soaring in pride of pow'r, falls 'neath the flash,
And lies a prostrate wreck. Like one of old,
Who, wrestling with the orb whose far-off light
Gave beauty to his waxen wings, upsoared
Where angels dared not go, came to his doom,
And fell a molten mass; so, tempting Heaven,
Saul died the death of disobedient Pride
And self-willed Folly—curses of mankind!
Sins against God which wrought the Fall, and sent,
As tempests moan along the listening night,
A wail of mournful sadness drifting down
The annals of the world: unearthly strains!
Cries of eternal souls that know no rest.
Episode the First.
THE ISRAELITES DEMAND A KING, AND SAUL IS GIVEN TO RULE OVER THEM.
"God save the King!" the Israelites exclaimed, (a)
When, by the aged Prophet summoned forth
To Mizpeh, all the tribes by lot declared
That Saul should be their ruler. Since they left
The land of Egypt and its galling stripes,
Till then, the only living God had been
Their King and Governor; and Samuel old,
The last of Israel's Judges, when he brought
The man they chose to be their future King,
And said: "Behold the ruler of your choice!"
Told them of loving mercies they for years
Had from the great Jehovah's hand received,
And mourned in sorrowing tones that God their Judge
Should be by them rejected: and they cried
"A King! give us a King—for thou art old (b)
"And in those ways thou all thy life hast walked
"Walk not thy sons: lucre their idol is—
"And Judgment is perverted by the bribes
"They take to stifle justice: give us, then,
"A King to judge us. Other nations boast
"Of such a chief—a King, give us a King!"
So Saul became the crowned of Israel—
The first great King of their united tribes.
Episode the Second.
SAUL DISAPPOINTS THE EXPECTATIONS OF JEHOVAH, AND IS VISITED WITH THE ALMIGHTY'S DISPLEASURE.
Brave is the heart that beats with yearning throb
Tow'rds highest hopes, when, wandering in the vale,
Some snowy Alp gleams forth with flashing crown
Of golden glory in the morning light.
Brave is the heart that lovingly expands
And longs the far-off splendour to embrace.
Thus yearned the heart of Saul, when from his flocks
The Prophet led him forth, and, pointing up
Tow'rds Israel's crown, exclaimed: "See what the Lord
Hath done for thee!" But Saul upon the throne
Grew sorely dazed. Though brave the heart, the brain
Swam in an ecstasy of wildering light—
A helmless boat upon a troubled sea.
Men nursed in gloom can rarely brook the sun;
And many a life to sombre paths inured
The sunshine of Prosperity hath quenched,
As dewdrops glistening on the lowly sward
Like priceless jewels ere the morning breaks,
Melt into space when light and heat abound,
As though they ne'er had been. Relentless fate!
This ruthless law the world's wide ways hath fringed
With wreckage of a host of peerless lives;
And Saul is numbered 'mongst the broken drift.
Saul, though the Lord's anointed, saw not God:
But—curse of life! ingratitude prevailed.
His faith waxed weak as days of trial came:
And when, deserted by his teeming hosts
At Gilgal, he the Prophet's priestly right
In faithless haste assumed, the Prophet cried
"The Lord hath said no son of thine shall reign
O'er Israel!" (c) Yet, heedless of the voice
Of warning which a patient God vouchsafed,
With disobedience lurking in his heart,
He strove to shield the King of Amalek—
He whom the Lord commanded him to kill—
Seizing his flocks and herds for selfish gain
Beneath the garb of sacrificial faith—
Sin so distasteful to the Lord that Saul
Sat in the dark displeasure of his God. (d)
And out from this displeasure, like the dawn
From dusky night, the youthful David sprang—
The Lord's anointed, yea, the Lord's beloved:
Sweet Bard of Bethlehem! whose harp divine,
Tuned to the throbbings of a guileless heart,
Soothed the dark spirit of the sinful King,
And woke his life to light and hope again, (e)
But ah! the sling and stone his envy roused,
And envy hate begat. 'Tis ever so:
The honest fealty of a noble soul
To all that's brave, and true, and good in life,
Will meet malicious hindrance. So the King
This brave young bard and warrior of the Lord
In ruthless persecution sought to kill.
Twice, with a true nobility of heart
Which to the noble heart alone belongs,
The slayer of Goliath stayed his hand
When Saul lay at his mercy. "Take thy life;
"Thou art the Lord's anointed, sinful, though,
"And faithless to the truth as shifting sand!"
Thus David spake, and went his weary way,
An exile from the land he loved so well.
So Saul had steeled his heart and set his face
Against the living God, and thus he lay
Beneath the great Jehovah's awful ban.
Episode the Third
SAUL, DESERTED BY THE ALMIGHTY, CONSULTS THE WITCH OF ENDOR, AND HIS FALL IS FORETOLD BY THE SPIRIT OF THE DEAD PROPHET.
As o'er the earth a darkling cloud appears,
And grows in blackness till the scathing shaft
Comes forth with swelling thunder, so the cloud,
Black unto bursting with the wrath divine,
Hung o'er the head of Israel's erring King.
The light of heavenly faith from him was gone,
And life was full of dreary, dark despair.
Outstretched along the plains of Shunem lay
The army of the heathen Philistines—(f)
A countless horde, at whose relentless head
Achish, the King of Gath, with stern acclaim
Breathed war against the Israelitish host.
Heedless of help from God, the wretched Saul
Had called his tribes together, and they swarmed
Along the plains of Gilboa, whence they saw
The mighty army of their heathen foe
Lie like a drowsy panther in its lair
With limbs all wakeful for the hungry leap.
"Enquire me of the Lord!" the King had said,
Communing with the doubtings of his heart.
But answer came not. Dreams were dumb and dark—
Unfathomed mysteries. No Urim spake;
And Prophets wore the silence of the grave.
So Saul, the King, disheartened and disguised,
Went forth at night.(g) The rival armies lay
Sleeping beneath the darksome dome of Heaven,
And all was still, save when the ghostly wind
Swept o'er the plains with melancholy moan.
That night the shadowy shape of one long dead
Stood face-to-face with Saul, in lonely cave,
The Witch of Endor's haunt. Ah, me—the fall!
To degradation deep that man hath slid
Who 'gainst the Lord in stiff-necked folly strives
Choosing the path of cabalistic wiles—
The dark and turbid garniture of toads,
And philters rank of necromantic knaves—
Who spurns the hand which, by the light of Heaven,
Points clear and straight along the spacious road
Which angel feet have trod. Ah, me—the fall!
And sad the fate of him who shuns the truth:
Who, like the lonely Saul, eschews the light,
And leagues with darkness—listening for the voice
Of angels in abodes where devils dwell.
So the dead Prophet and the erring King,
By Heaven's own will, not by the witch's craft,
Confront each other in the dark retreat.
The dreamy shadow speaks: "Wherefore," it saith,
"Dost thou disquiet me!" (h) And from the earth
Came the sepulchral tones, which, floating up,
Joined the weird meanings of the hollow wind,
And swept in ghostly cadences away
Like exiled souls in pain. And Saul replied;
"I'm sore distressed: Alas! the living God
"Averts His face and answers me no more;
"What"—and the pleading voice, in trembling tones
That might have won a stony heart to tears,
Asks of the shadowy shape—"What shall I do!"
And hollow voices seem to echo back
The anguish-freighted words—"What shall I do!"
'Twas hell's own mockery! The blistering heat—
Like burning blast, hot and invisible—
That scorched the heart of Saul, was but the breath
Of Satan, gloating o'er the moral death
Of him who, chosen of Jehovah, lay
A victim to those foul Satanic wiles
Which the sworn enemy of God had planned
In inmost hate. "I cannot scale the height
"Of Him 'gainst whom eternal enmity
"I've sworn," it seemed to say: "but—soothing thought!
"Deep in the hearts of mortals He hath named
"To do His bidding, will I thrust my darts,
"And through their wounds, as His ambassadors,
"The spirit bruise of Him who sent them—thus!"
And then again, as though his breaking heart
Were cleft with red-hot blade, the voice of Saul
Is heard in mortal anguish breathing out
The soul-subduing tones—"What shall I do?"
Dead silence intervenes; and then again
The spirit of the Prophet slowly speaks:
"To-morrow thou and thine," it faintly said,
"Shalt be with me; and Israel's mighty host
"Shall be the captives of the heathen foe!"
The fateful answer smites the listener low,
And utter darkness falls upon his life.
Episode the Fourth.
BATTLE OF GILBOA AND THE DEATH OF SAUL.
The morrow came: the bloody fray began.
The sun shone fierce and hot upon the scene.
Lashed into fury like a raging sea
The wrestling multitude for vantage strove
With deadly chivalry. On Gilboa's mount
The King looked forth and watched the sanguine strife,
Clothed in the golden panoply of war.
Upon his brow the stately monarch wore
The crown of all the tribes of Israel,
A-fire with jewels flashing in the sun
In bitter mockery of his trampled heart.
Noble in mien, yet, with a sorrowing soul,
Anxious his gaze—for in the sweltering surge
Three sons of Saul were battling with the rest;
His first-born, Jonathan; Abinadab;
And Melchi-shua—idols of his life!
Around him like a hurricane of hail
The pinioned shafts with aim unerring sped,
Bearing dark death upon their feathery wings.
The clashing sword its dismal carnage made
As foe met foe; and flashing sparks out-flew
As blade crossed blade with murderous intent.
The outcry rose—"They fly! they fly!" The King
Looked down upon the fray with trembling heart.
The bloody stream along the valley ran,
And chariots swept like eagles on the wind
On deathly mission borne. The conflict fierce
Waxed fiercer—fiercer still; the rain of gore
Wetted the soddened plain, and arrows flew
Thicker and faster through the darkening air.
The barbëd spear, flung forth with stalwart arm,
Sped like a whirlwind on its flight of death.
Along the ranks the warrior's clarion call
Inspired to valorous life the struggling hosts,
And shouts of victory from contending hordes
Blended with sorrowing moans of dying men.
"Thy sons, O King!" a breathless herald cried,
Fresh from the carnage, bowing low his head,
Where Saul, heart-weary, watched the dreadful strife
On Gilboa's height. "Thy sons, O mighty King!"
The herald cried, and sank upon the ground
By haste exhausted. Saul, with fitful start,
Upraised the prostrate messenger. "My sons!
"What of them? Speak!" he gasped, with startled look,
"Dead!" moaned the herald, and an echo came,
As though deep down in some sepulchral vault
The word was spoken. From the heart of Saul
That mournful echo came—so sad and low!
"Dead! dead! Ah, woe is me!" he sadly sighed.
"My sons—my best beloved! Woe! Woe—alas!"
And as he spake, e'en while his head, gold-crowned,
Bent low in pain beneath the crushing blow,
An arrow from the foe his armour smote,
And pierced his breast, already rent with grief.
Then stepped with hurried tread a servant forth,
And plucked the arrow from its cruel feast,
Rending his robe to stanch the purple stream.
"Heed not the wound!" exclaimed the King. "Too late!
"Where Heaven smites, men's blows are light indeed."
Then bending o'er his breast his kingly head
He wept aloud: "Rejected of the Lord;
"My sons among the slain; my valorous host
"In bondage of the heathen—let me die!"
So sobbed the King, as down the bloody plain
The chariots of the foe came thundering on;
And horsemen cleft the air in hot array—
A mighty stream of chivalry and life!
The Israelites had fled, and at their heels
The roaring tumult followed like a storm
That rolls from world to world. And through the blast
Of warfare came a weak and wailing voice
Moaning in utter anguish—"Let me die!"
'Twas Saul the Anointed—Israel's fallen King:
Crushed 'neath the hand of an offended God!
"Lo!" cried the King, and raised his tearful eyes,
"The Philistines are near, pierce thou my breast!"
And, turning round, his kingly breast he bared,
Bidding his armour-bearer thrust his sword
Hilt-deep into his heart. "Better to die
"By friendly hand," he cried, "than owe my death
"To yonder hated victors. Quick! Thy sword!
"Thrust deep and quickly!" But the faltering hand
That held the sword fell nerveless. "Mighty King!
"I dare not!" spake the trembling armourer.
"Then by my own I die," exclaimed the King.
And as he spake he poised the glittering blade
Point upward from the earth, and moaning fell
Upon the thirsty steel. The ruddy gush
Came spurting through the armour that he wore,
And steamed in misty vapour to the sky
In voiceless testimony to the truth
Of words once spoken by the living God!
Aghast the faithful armour-bearer stood.
"O, mighty King! I die with thee!" he said,
And, falling on his sword, the blood of both
Commingled, as from ghastly wounds it ran
In trickling streamlets down Mount Gilboa's side. (i)
As ebbs and flows the sea with troubled throb
'Twixt shore and shore, or as the thistle-down
Halts in the eddies of the summer wind
In trembling doubt, so do the flickering souls
Of dying men float fearingly between
The earth and unseen worlds that lie beyond.
So hung the life of Saul, whose bitter cup,
Still at his lips, contained its bitterest dregs.
Prostrate he lay, by bloody sword transfixed;
A corpse his pillow; arms extended out,
And body bent in agony of pain,
The flame of life still fluttering at his heart
A waning lamp. He heard the tumult swell.
Bondage was worse than death. "They come! They come!"
He moaned. "Stand ye upon my breast," he said,
To one, a stranger, lingering near the spot,
"And force the gurgling stream back on my heart,
"To quench the life within me. Quick! They come!"
The stranger did the cruel bidding. (j) Hark!
"The King!" the foemen cry, and fiercely rusht
Upon the Royal captive, who, till then,
Had lain by them unseen. But while the shout
Swept like a storm along the swelling ranks
The soul of Saul went drifting through the dark,
Like some fair ship with sails and cordage rent,
Out from the stormy trials of his life,
To tempt the terrors of an unknown sea.
And then the cry of lamentation rose
In Israel, and the Hebrew maidens hung
Their speechless harps upon the willow branch,
And mourned the loved and lost unceasingly.
(a) Nevertheless the people refused to obey the voice of Samuel; and they said, Nay, but we will have a King over us, that we also may be like all the nations. And Samuel said to all the people, "See ye him whom the Lord hath chosen." And all the people shouted and said, "God save the King!"—I SAMUEL, viii. and ix. 19, 20, 24.
(b) And it came to pass, when Samuel was old, that he made his sons judges over Israel. And his sons walked not in his ways, but turned aside after lucre, and took bribes, and perverted judgment.—I SAMUEL, viii., 1, 2.
(c) And Saul said, "Bring hither a burnt offering," and he offered the burnt offering. And Samuel came, and Saul went out to meet him. And Samuel said, "What hast thou done? Thou hast not kept the commandment of the Lord thy God which he commanded thee, and thy kingdom shall not continue."—I SAMUEL, xiii., 10, 14.
(d) And Samuel said, "The Lord sent thee, and said go and utterly destroy the sinners, the Amalekites. Wherefore didst thou not obey the voice of the Lord, but didst fly upon the spoil?" And Saul said unto Samuel, "The people took of the spoil, sheep and oxen, to sacrifice unto the Lord thy God at Gilgal." And Samuel said, "Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken than the fat of rams. For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, he hath also rejected thee."—I SAMUEL, xv,, 18, 23.
(e) And it came to pass, when the evil spirit from God was upon Saul, that David took an harp, and played with his hand. So Saul was refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him.—I SAMUEL, xvi., 23.
(f) And the Philistines gathered themselves together, and came and pitched in Shunem; and Saul gathered all Israel together, and they pitched in Gilboa.—I SAMUEL, xxviii., 4.
(g) Then said Saul unto his servants, "Seek me a woman that hath a familiar spirit, that I may go to her and enquire of her." And his servants said to him, "Behold, there is a woman that hath a familiar spirit at Endor." And Saul disguised himself, and came to the woman by night. And he said, "I pray thee, divine unto me by the familiar spirit, and bring him up whom I shall name of thee."—I SAMUEL, xxviii., 7, 8.
(h) And Samuel said to Saul, "Why hast thou disquieted me, to bring me up?" And Saul answered, "I am sore distressed, for the Philistines make war against me, and God is departed from me, and answereth me no more. Therefore I have called thee, that thou mayest make known unto me what I shall do." And Samuel said, "Because thou obeyedst not the voice of the Lord, nor executedst not his fierce wrath upon Amalek, therefore hath the Lord done this thing unto thee this day. To-morrow shalt thou and thy sons be with me; and the Lord also shall deliver the host of Israel into the hand of the Philistines." Then Saul fell straightway all along on the earth.—I SAMUEL, xxviii., 15, 20.
(i) And the battle went sore against Saul, and the archers hit him, and he was sore wounded of the archers. Then said Saul unto his armour-bearer, "Draw thy sword, and thrust me through therewith, lest these uncircumcised come and thrust me through." But his armour-bearer would not, therefore Saul took a sword and fell upon it. And when his armour-bearer saw that Saul was dead, he fell likewise upon his sword, and died with him.—I SAMUEL, xxxi., 3, 5.
(j) And David said unto the young man, "How knowest thou that Saul and Jonathan his son be dead?" And the young man that told him said: "As I happened by chance upon Mount Gilboa, behold, Saul leaned upon his spear: and lo! the chariots and horsemen followed hard after him. And he said unto me, Stand, I pray thee, upon me, and slay me; for anguish is come upon me, because my life is yet whole within me. So I stood upon him, and slew him, because I was sure that he could not live, after that he was fallen."—II SAMUEL, i., 5, 10.
PALM SUNDAY IN WALES.
FLOWERING SUNDAY.
PRIZE POEM.
WREXHAM NATIONAL EISTEDDFOD, 1876.
Fifteen competed for the prize of 5 pounds, and a silver medal for the best English poem, never before published, upon any distinctively Welsh subject. Mr. Osborne Morgan, M.P., Mr. Trevor Parkins, and the Rev. Ll. Thomas adjudicated. The latter gave the award.
Out by the hedgerows, along by the steep;
Through the meadows; away and away,
Where the daisies, like stars, through the green grass peep,
And the snowdrops and violets, waking from sleep,
Look forth at the dawning day.
Down by the brooklet—by murmuring rills,
By rivers that glide along;
Where the lark in the heavens melodiously trills,
And the air the wild blossom with perfume fills,
The shimmering leaves among.
Through the still valley; along by the pool,
Where the daffodil's bosom of gold
So shyly expands to the breezes cool
As they murmur, like children coming from school,
In whisperings over the wold.
In the dark coppice, where fairies dwell,
Where the wren and the red-breast build;
Along the green lanes, through dingle and dell,
O'er bracken and brake, and moss-covered fell,
Where the primroses pathways gild.
Hither and thither the tiny feet
Of children gaily sped,
In the cool grey dawn of the morning sweet,
Plucking wild flowers—an offering meet
To garnish the graves of the dead.
Out from the beaten pathway, quaint and white,
The village church—a crumbling pile—is seen;
It stands in solitude midst mounds of green
Like ancient dame in moss-grown cloak bedight.
The mantling ivy clings around its form—
The patient growth of many and many a year.
As though a gentle hand had placed it there
To shield the tottering morsel from the storm.
A sombre cypress rears its mournful head
Above the porch, through which, in days gone by,
Young men and maidens sped so hopefully,
That now lie slumbering with the silent dead:
The silent dead, that round the olden pile
Crumble to dust as though they ne'er had been.
Whose graven annals, writ o'er billows green,
Though voiceless, tell sad stories all the while.
And as they speak in speechless eloquence,
The waving shadows of the cypress fall
In spectral patches on the quaint old wall,
Nodding in wise and ghostly reticence
In silent sanction at the stories told
By each decrepit, wizen-featured stone,
That seems to muse, like ancient village crone
Belost in thought o'er memories strange and old.
Outside the stunted boundary, a row
Of poplars tall—beside whose haughty mien
And silky rustlings of whose robes of green
The lowly church still humbler seems to grow.
A-near the lych-gate in the crumbling wall,
A spreading oak, grotesque and ancient, stands,
Like aged monk extending prayerful hands
In silent benediction over all,
'Twas early morn: the red sun glinted o'er
The hazy sky-line of the far-off hill:
Below, the valley slept so calm and still—
A misty sea engirt by golden shore.
Out in the dim and dreamy distance rose
A spectral range of alp-like scenery—
Mountain on mountain, far as eye could see,
Their foreheads white and hoar with wintry snows.
And as I leaned the low-built wall upon
That shut the little churchyard from the road,
Children and maidens into Death's abode,
With wild flow'rs laden, wandered one by one.
And in their midst, stooping and white with age,
Rich in their wealth of quaint old village lore,
Came ancient dames, with faces furrowed o'er,
That told of griefs in life's long pilgrimage.
The sun is rising now: the poplar tips
Are touched with liquid light: the gravestones old,
And hoary church, are flushed with fringe of gold,
As though embraced by angel's hallowed lips.
And with the morning sunshine children roam
To place wild flowers where the loved ones slept;
O'er father, mother, sister—long since swept
Away by death—with blossoms sweet they come.
Silent reminders of abiding love!
What tender language from each petal springs!
Affection's tribute! Heart's best offerings!
Wanderers, surely, from the realms above!
For heart-to-heart, and life-to-life, had been
The loves of those who were and those who are;
Till death had severed them—O, cruel bar!
Leaving a dark and unknown stream between.
And on that stream, in loving fancy tossed,
Each faithful heart its floral tribute threw,
As though the hope from out the tribute grew
To bridge the gulf the one beloved had crossed.
Near yonder grave there stands a widowed life:
Husband and son beneath the grave-stone rest:
Some laurels tell, by tender lip caressed,
The changeless love of mother and of wife.
And o'er the bright green leaflets as they lie
She scatters snowdrops with their waxen leaves,
And all the while her troubled bosom heaves
In tenderness, with many a sorrowing sigh.
Out from the light, to where the cypress shade
In mournful darkness falls, a figure crept;
And as she knelt, the morning breezes swept
A cloud of hair about her drooping head.
Her feet were small and slender, bare and white—
White as the daisy-fringe on which she trod;
Like shimmering snowdrops in the greening sod,
Or glow-worms glistening in the Summer night.
And as deep down in gloomy chasms seen
By those up-looking, stars in daylight shine,
So shone the beauty of her face divine
In the dark shadows of the cypress green.
Her girlish hands a primrose wreath enwove,
With fingers deft, and eyes with tears bedimmed:
No lovelier face the painter's art e'er limned,
No poet's thought e'er told of sweeter love
Than that young mother's, as, with tender grace,
She kissed the chaplet ere she laid it down
Upon a tiny hillock, earthy-brown—
Of first and only child the resting place.
And then the few stray blossoms that were left
She kissed and strewed upon the little mound—
Looked lingering back towards the sacred ground,
As from the shade she bore her heart bereft.
As gentle ripples, from the side we lave
Of placid lake, will reach the other side,
So, o'er Death's river—silent, dark, and wide—
Blossoms may bear the kiss that mother gave.
Or, if in fervent faith she deemed it so,
The thought to joyless lives a pleasure brings,
And who shall tell, where doting fondness clings,
The loss which hearts bereaved can only know?
And who shall doubt that to such love is given,
Borne upward, clothed in perfume to the sky,
The pow'r to reach, in death's great mystery,
Lost hearts, and add a bliss to those of Heaven?
Other sad pilgrims came. A mother here
A duteous daughter mourns, whose days had been
A ceaseless blessing—an oasis green
On life's enfevered plain: a brooklet clear,
That ran the meadows of glad lives along,
Till, like a stream that meanders to the sea,
In the dark Ocean of Eternity
Lost was their source of laughter, light, and song.
And yonder, clothed in darksome silence, grieves
A loving daughter near a mother's tomb—
Down by the stunted wall in willow-gloom
And shadows thrown by sombre cypress leaves:
And as, in life, the waving kerchief speaks
The words of friends departing which the heart
Is all too full to utter e're we part
For ever, so the sorrowing daughter seeks
In thought one recollection more to wave
To one long dead; and asks in speechless woe
Primrose and snowdrop on the mound below
To bear love's messages beyond the grave!
And in the golden sunshine children come
With prattling tongue and winsome, rosy face—
Like blossoms flowering in a lonely place—
And lay their tributes o'er each narrow home
Where lies the helpless beacon of their lives
In darkness quencht—gone ere their infant thought
Could realise the loss which Death had wrought—
The stab the stern Destroying Angel gives.
And o'er each silent grave Love's tributes fall—
The primrose, cowslip, gentle daffodil—
The snow-drop, and the tender daisy—till
God's acre sleeps beneath a flowery pall.
And now the sun in all its glory came
And lit the world up with a light divine,
Casting fresh beauty o'er each sacred shrine:
Breathing on all things an inspiring flame.
As if the God of Light had bade it be,
In sweet reward for pious rite performed;
As if, with human love and fondness charmed,
The Lord had smiled with love's benignity.
For not to this old churchyard where I stand
Is audience of the dead, through flow'rs, confined
A nation's heart—a nation's love—combined,
Make it the sweet observance of the land.
In humble cot—in proud patrician halls,
The Floral Festival fills every breast;
And o'er the grass, where'er the loved ones rest,
The lowly flow'r with choice exotic falls.
And as they fall upon the sacred spot,
Sacred to every heart that strews them there,
They seem to sing in voices low and clear:
"Though gone for evermore—forgotten not!
"Though never more—still evermore—above
"Eternal will their deathless spirits reign.
"No more until above to meet again:
"Till then send up sweet messages of love."
So sang the blossoms with their odorous breath—
Or so in fancy sang they unto me;
"No more—yet evermore, eternally!
"Though lost, alas! remembered still in death!"
ELEGY
ON THE LATE CRAWSHAY BAILEY, ESQ.,
"THE IRON KING."
PRIZE POEM:
ABERGAVENNY EISTEDDFOD, 1874.
The programme opened with a competition for the best English Elegy on the late Crawshay Bailey, Esq., for which a prize of 10 pounds was given, and a bardic chair, value 5 pounds, by Mr. William Lewis. There were twelve competitors, and each composition was confined to a limit of 200 lines.
Sadly the sea, by Mynwy's rugged shore,
Moans for the dead in many a mournful strain.
A voice from hearts bereft cries "Come again;"
But wavelets whisper softly, "Never more!"
The restless winds take up the solemn cry,
As though—an age of sorrow in each breath—
The words, "O, come again," could call back Death
From the far-off, unseen Eternity.
"Our dwellings darkened when his life went out:
"We stand in cold eclipse, for gone the light
"Which made our cottage-homes so warm and bright;
"And shadows deepen o'er the world without.
"Come back—come back!" Upon the mournful wind
These words fall weirdly as they float along,
Melting the soul to tears: for lo! the song
Rises from hearts that seek but ne'er will find:
Save one more billow on the sea of graves;
One joyaunt voice the fewer in life's throng;
One hand the less to help the world along;
One Hero more 'mongst earth's departed Braves.
For who that in life's battle-field could fight
As he has fought, whose painless victories
Transcended war's heroic chivalries,
Could in his country's heart claim nobler height?
None may the niche of glory haplier grace,
None may the crown of greatness proudlier wear,
Than he upon whose tomb the silent tear
Falls slowly down from many a drooping face.
Faces whose hard and rugged outlines show
Life's daily struggle—O, how bravely fought!
Faces to which the only gladness brought
Came from the Friend who yonder lieth low.
Let us in mournful retrospect commune
O'er what that still cold heart and brain have won:
A hymn of life in lispings first begun,
Ending in harmony's most perfect tune.
As comes the sun from out the darkling-night,
And strikes, as did the patriarch of old,
Life's barren rocks, which flush with green and gold,
And pour out waters glad with living light,
So, crowned with blessings, in the far-off days,
Like Midas, Mynwy's monarch touched the earth,
Wrought golden plenty where once reigned a dearth,
And raised an empire he alone could raise.
No service his, of slavery, to bind
With tyrant fancy vassals to his will:
All hearts beat quick with sympathetic thrill
For one who loved the humblest of their kind.
His kingdom rang with fealty from the free—
Such blessed faith as faith itself ensures.
His reign alone that sway which e'er secures
A subject's true and trustful sympathy.
So love men's love begat in bounteous flow;
It blossomed round his path as flowers bloom,
Filling his life with such a rare perfume
Of heart's devotion kings can seldom know.
His master-mind, with almost boundless reach,
Planned work so vast that mankind, wondering still,
Could scarcely compass his gigantic will
Which grasped great things as ocean clasps the beach.
His home of homes was where the Cyclops forged
Their bolts, as though for Jove to hold his own:
His fondest study where, through ages grown,
The silent ores old Cambria's mountains gorged.
Mammoth machines that, with incessant whirl,
Rolled onward ever on their ponderous way:
Gigantic marvels, deafening in their play,
And swift, industrious, never-ending swirl.
All these he loved, as men alone can love
The things that win their love: to him they shone
Instinct with living beauty all their own,
Touched with a light divine as from above.
For them, and with them, toiled he day by day
In true companionship: they were his Friends,
Bound by the tie whose influence never ends,
By faithful bonds which never pass away.
And as the sunflower looks towards the light
All through the livelong day, so did his heart
Ne'er from this bond of love play recreant part,
But every moment beat that heart aright;
A heart so large and true—true to the core;
So spacious that the great might enter in;
Yet none too poor its sympathy to win,
And every throb a pleasure at their door.
And so, through all the toilful hours of thought,
He reared a world-wide pinnacle of fame,
Whose summit reached, his heart was still the same,
Undazed by splendours which his hand had wrought.
Long stood he on the topmost peak of praise
From tongues of men, as mountains tipped with snow
Stand with their lofty foreheads all a-glow,
Lit up with beauty by the sun's bright rays.
His life was climaxed by a kinglier dower
Than even kings themselves can hope to reach;
No grander, prouder lesson can we teach,
Than win great things by self-inherent power.
Brighter examples manhood cannot show,
Than with true hand, brave heart, and sleepless mind,
To build up name and fortune 'midst their kind,
From grains and drops—as worlds and oceans grow.
So, in the rare meridian of his time,
In pride of conscious strength, he stood alone,
A king of kings upon his Iron Throne,
Wrought out from humble step to height sublime,
As shadows lengthen in the setting sun,
So spread the stature of his later life,
Which, like Colossus, o'er earth's busy strife,
Towered grandly till that life's last sand was run.
And so he passed away, as meteors die;
Leaving a trail of splendour here on earth
To mark the road he took in virtuous worth,
In sterling truth, and rare integrity.
These are the living landmarks he has left:
Bright jewels in his earthly sojourn set,
Whose brilliance seen, those looking ne'er forgot:
A glorious heritage for friends bereft.
Such gems as those who mourn may still adore,
Whose glistening rays men's footsteps lead aright
Through life's dark way, like glow-worms in the night,
Or angel-glintings from the eternal shore.
As round decaying flowers perfume clings
In silent tribute to the blossoms dead,
So memory, brooding o'er his spirit fled,
Nought but the sweetest recollection brings.
ELEGIES
NASH VAUGHAN EDWARDES VAUGHAN.
(OF RHEOLA.)
DIED SEPTEMBER 18TH, 1868. (a)
I.
Let bard on battle-field, in sounding verse,
Proclaim to distant time the warrior-deed
That makes a hero, whose triumphal hearse
Rolls graveward o'er a thousand hearts that bleed
In widowed agony. Let golden lyre
Of regal Court engaged in worldly strife
Clothe princely foibles with poetic fire,
And crown with fame a king's ignoble life.
Let chroniclers of Camp and Court proclaim
A Warrior's greatness, and a Monarch's fame.
Be mine with verse the tomb of one to grace
Whose nobler deeds deserve a nobler place.
II.
The lofty fane that cleaves the glowing sky,
And heavenward points with golden finger-tip—
Structure whence flows the sacred harmony
Of prayer and praise from Christian heart and lip:
The ranging corridors where—blest the task—
'Tis ours to soothe the fever and the pain
Of wounded natures, who, despairing, ask
For healing touch that makes them whole again.
These are the monuments that proudly stand
On corner stones—fruit of his princely hand:
Homes for the poor, wound-stricken to the sod;
And altars for the worship of his God.
III.
The blazing meteor glares along the sky;
The thunder shakes the mountain with its roar;
But meteors for a moment live—then die:
The thunder peals—and then is heard no more.
The most refreshing rains in silence fall;
The most entrancing tones are sweet and low;
The greatest, mightiest truths, are simplest all;
Life's dearest light comes forth in voiceless flow;
E'en so his heart and hand were ever found
Flinging in mute beneficence around
The germs of Truth and Charity combined,
To heal the heart and purify the mind.
(a) The life of Mr. Vaughan was one daily round of charitable deeds, in furtherance of religion and social amelioration. His munificent donation to the Swansea Hospital, offered conditionally, led to the enlarged foundation of that noble institution, which stands a silent tribute to his memory. This Elegy was written at the request of the late Mr. John Williams, proprietor of the Cambrian, Swansea, who, in the letter requesting me to write the verses, said: "Such noble qualities as Mr. Vaughan possessed deserve everything good which human tongue can say of them."
MONODY.
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. NICHOLL CARNE. (a)
Down the long vista of historic years
I look, and through the dusky haze descry
Funereal pomp, and Royal pageantry,
Gracing the tombs of queens, and kings, and peers.
I see on marble monuments deep hewn
The name and fame of mighty and of great,
Who lie in granite effigy and state,
Waiting the summons to the last Tribune.
But 'mongst the hero-host that shrouded sleep
'Neath purple banner and engraven stone,
Death hath not numbered one among his own
More regal-souled than she for whom we weep.
Though a right Royal lineage she could claim,
Proudly descendant from a Cambrian King;
She was content to let her virtues bring
Something more noble than a Royal name.
Her's was no sceptered life in queenly state:
Yet queen she was, in all that makes a Queen;
No deeds heroic marked her life serene:
Yet heroine she in all that makes us great.
Through all the phases of a blameless life
She lingered round the threshold of the poor:
Where brighter scenes less noble minds allure,
Her's was the joy to move 'midst martyr-strife.
To watch where hearts, by poverty o'ercome,
Lay weak and wailing; and to point above,
With words of hope, of comfort, and of love,
Till brighter, happier, grew each cottage home.
And wine and oil fell plenteous from her hand,
To cheer the wounded on life's weary way:
While, for the human wrecks that round her lay,
Her beacon-light beamed o'er the darkling strand.
Her's was a life of Love; then, of deep griefs,
We'll rear a monument unto her name,
More leal and lasting than the chiselled fame
Of mighty monarchs or heroic chiefs.
And see! the virtues of the parent stem
Break forth in blossom o'er the branching tree:
Long may such fair, such bright fruition be,
Of those bereaved their proudest diadem.
With sheltering arms—with hearts for ever green,
By love united, may they still unite;
So shall they gladden still the sainted sight
Of one who is not, but who once has been.
(a) Mrs. Carne, relict of the late Rev. R. Nicholl Carne, of Dimlands Castle, and mother of R. C. N. Carne, Esq., Nash Manor, and of J. W. N. Carne, Esq., Dimlands and St. Donat's Castles, died November 28th, 1866, at Dimlands, in the 94th year of her age. Deceased could claim a Royal Welsh lineage, being the 34th in unbroken descent from Ynyr, King of Gwent and Dyfed. Her long life was distinguished by unostentatious acts of charity and good works.
ELEGIAC STANZAS
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. PASCOE ST. LEGER GRENFELL, MAESTEG HOUSE, SWANSEA. DIED JANUARY 8TH, 1868.
This world heroic souls can little spare
That battle bravely with life's every ill:
When days are dark that saintly smiles can wear,
And all around with heavenly glory fill.
This world can little spare the Christian heart
That holds with tearful faith the hand of God
With never-yielding grasp; and takes full part
In works divine on earth's degenerate sod.
This world can little spare the gentle voice
That woos the sinful from the dreamy road
Of human frailties, making hearts rejoice,
Relieving souls of many a bitter load.
This world can little spare the bounteous hand
That Plenty plants where Want oft grew before;
Raising the latchet as with angel-wand,
To cheer the darksome cottage of the poor.
Virtues like these the world can little spare
That fleck life's road like snowdrops in the Spring,
Making it beautiful; and, virtue rare!
Silent and heedless of the bliss they bring.
But if the world should weep, how must they mourn
For whom her goodness bloomed a thousand-fold
More sweet in tender love? E'en as the dawn
Crowns all it looks on with a fringe of gold.
So did affection gird in rosy might
The home which by her presence was adorned,
Where came an aching void: for lo! their light
Was quencht by death and in the tomb in-urned.
Not quencht. Ah, no! For Heaven's eternal gates
Flew open, and in robes which angels wear
Her sainted spirit entered; and it waits
For those that were beloved to join it there.
IN DREAMS.
I.
When they carried away my darling
To a kingdom beyond the sky,
I knew what the angels intended,
So I stifled the tear and the sigh,
But I prayed she might send me a message
Of love from the realms of the blest,
As to me a whole life of repining
Was the cost of her Heaven of rest.
II.
Yes: I prayed she might send me a message;
One word from her mansion of bliss;
One ray from her features angelic:
From her sweet lips the saintliest kiss;
And I question the wind, as it wanders
As though from the regions above,
But it whispers in sadness, and brings me
From the absent no message of love.
III.
At night I grow weary with watching
The stars, as I sadly surmise
Which of all those bright jewels resplendent
Borrow light from my lost one's eyes:
Then I sleep—and a vision approaches;
And again all my own she would seem:
But on waking my Love has departed,
And my heart aches to find it a dream.
IV.
Oh, I prayed she might send me a message;
But nought the sweet missive will bring:
The breath of the morning, the sunlight,
The carol of birds on the wing,
Come to gladden my heart with their gladness;
But joyless and tuneless each seems;
And the only sad joy that is left me
Is to live with my dearest in dreams.
"MEWN COF ANWYL." (a)
The above words, wrought in imperishable flowers, were placed on the coffin of the late Mr. John Johnes, of Dolaucothy, at the time of his interment at Cayo, by his youngest daughter, to whom the following elegiac stanzas are respectfully inscribed.
I.
"Mewn cof anwyl."
So sings the lorn and lonely nightingale,
Sighing in sombre thicket all day long,
Weaving its throbbing heartstrings into song
For absent mate, with sorrowing unavail.
And every warble seems to say—"Alone!"
While every pause brings musical reply:
Sad Philomel! Each sweet responsive sigh
Is but the dreamy echo of its own.
II.
"Mewn cof anwyl."
So sings the West wind through the darkling eve,
In spirit-wanderings up and down the wold,
Each mournful sorrow at its heart untold,
Sighing in secret—as the angels grieve,
"Bring back my love!" sobs the bereaved wind;
And sleeping flow'rets waken at the sound,
Shedding their dewy tears upon the ground:
"She seeks," they whisper, "who shall never find!"
III.
"Mewn cof anwyl."
So sings all night the never-resting sea;
And stars look down with tender, loving eyes;
The air is filled with saddening memories
Of what was once—but ne'er again may be.
"Here lie the lost!" the ocean seems to moan;
"I yearn to clasp them to my throbbing heart
"In fond embrace: The lost—myself a part!
So near—so near—and yet I mourn alone!"
IV.
"Mewn cof anwyl."
As roses, crusht and dead, in silence leave
Their precious heritage of perfume rare,
So the good name our dear departed bear
Reflects in cheering light on those who grieve;
And memory, brooding o'er the love thus left,
In tender fancy crowns the dream with tears,
Till, as the hue that on bright rain appears,
Peace comes to comfort lonely hearts bereft.
(a) In loving memory.
ELEGIAC.
'Tis not with rude, irreverent feet,
I tread where sacred sorrows lie;
But gently raise, in accents meet,
My voice in earnest sympathy:
In sympathy with one bereaved,
Who mourns a loss which all deplore:
Whose grief by Hope is unrelieved—
For tears bring back the Past no more.
'Tis not in words the wound to heal
Which tenderest ties, when broken, make;
'Tis not in language to conceal
The griefs which snapped affection's wake
But sorrows, stinging though they be,
In sympathy some sweetness find,
Which may assuage, though slenderly,
The grief that clouds a manly mind.
IN MEMORIAM.
The blameless life of her whose grave I strew
With flow'rs of thought deep gathered from the heart
Of heavenliest things was formed the greater part:
No sentiment but love her bosom knew.
Her influence, like the sunlight from on high,
That flames with splendour every opening flower,
Stole o'er us silently: yet O, the power!
Charming our household world resplendently.
And little hearts tow'rds that sweet influence yearned;
And little voices loved to lisp her name;
For when, to them, the world was dark, she came,
Love-bright, and so their lives in beauty burned.
In beauty burned with pure and happy glow;
Their joys were her's. In thought I see her now,
Love prompted, sitting with a dreamy brow,
Planning the pleasures she might never know.
Her's was the hand that wreathed so daintily
With flow'rs each fissure Circumstance had formed,
And, by its touch, like snows by sunsets warmed,
Each rigid thought was softened rosily.
Her's was the heart, by noblest impulse moved,
That beat with earnest fondness all divine;
That filled life's cup of joy with rarest wine,
For those who proudly felt they were beloved.
But soft! God's edict 'twas, that, from above,
Laden with anguish, came with cruel blow.
'Twas Heaven's gain: the grief those only know
Who lost her just as they had learnt to love.
Ah, me: the cost to be to Heaven akin:
The harvest ripens round the Eternal gate:
The pure in soul and saintliest-hearted wait:
The Reaper comes and plucks the nearest in.
Ah, me: the cost life's fairest flower to be:
Petal and spray all elegance and grace:
Each blossom beauteous as an angel's face;
And yet, alas! the first to drop and die.
Ah, me: the cost life's tenderest chords to wake,
With sweet enchantment breaking up the air;
To know each tone will call forth many a tear:
Each tender touch a heart or spirit-ache.
Ah, me: the cost for human hearts to claim
Where God before His perfect seal had set,
Like mortals straying into Heaven unlet,
We perish gazing on celestial flame.
TO CLARA.
'Twas a short decade that thou and I
Walked hand-in-hand through the world together;
When the cruel clouds obscured our sky,
And bitter and bleak was life's daily weather.
But a brave little heart was thine—and so,
Though it might have been lighter had fortune willed it,
It battled, in boundless faith I know,
And just as the sunshine 'gan to grow
The hand of Death reached forth—and chilled it.
The blow was unkind; but Heaven knows best:
I felt that my loss was to thee a blessing;
For I knew, when I laid thee down to rest,
I was giving an angel to angels' caressing:
Thy love to my heart was ever dear,
With thy gentle voice and thy brave endeavour;
Though briefly we wandered together here,
Two souls were cemented with smile and tear,
That, one on earth, will be one for ever.
E. H. R.
DIED NOVEMBER 30TH, 1867.
She came in beauty like the sun,
And flusht with hope each heart and eye,
As roses redden into life
When Summer passes by.
And like the sun she calmly set,
With love's own golden glory crown'd,
In light whose rays for evermore
In mem'ry will abound.
A. R.
DIED APRIL 21ST, 1865.
In silent grief the blow we'll bear:
Though gone, with us she'll still abide.
Her name a shape of love will wear,
In viewless influence by our side.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
VENUS AND ASTERY
A LEGEND OF THE GODS. (a)
Ah! hapless nymph! Doomed for a time to bear
The badge which none but fickle lives should wear.
How oft the envious tongue creates the dart
That cleaves the saintly soul and breaks the heart:
How oft the hasty ear full credence gives
To words in which no grain of truth survives:
Were Juno just, her heart would now delight
Turning thy dappled wings to waxen white,
Where jealous Venus and her envious train
By falsehood fixed an undeservëd stain.
(a) Astery, one of the most beautiful of Venus's nymphs, and, as Spenser says,
"Excelling all the crew
In courteous usage and unstained hue,"
Is said to have been instructed "on a day" by her mistress to go forth with her companions gathering flowers with which to adorn her forehead. She did so, and being more industrious than the rest, gathered more flowers than any of them. On being praised by Venus, her companions, being envious of her, told the goddess that Astery had been assisted by Cupid, Venus's son, in culling the blossoms. For this supposed offence she was immediately turned by Venus into a butterfly, and her wings, which before were white, were stained with the colours of all the flowers she had gathered, "for memory of her pretended crime, though crime none were."—Spenser's "Muiopotmos", 1576.
TO A ROYAL MOURNER.
1864.
'Twere wise, O Queen, to let thy features shine
Upon thy faithful people once again;
As Summer comes to light the paths of men,
So would thy presence round our hearts entwine.
It is not meet our Queen of Queens should stay
Lifelong and tearful in the sombre glade,
Whither, to hide the wound which Heaven made,
She shrank, as shrinks the stricken deer away.
We do not ask thy heart to let us in
With all the freeness of an early day:
Nor hope to bear thy greatest grief away,
As though, with thee, that grief had never been.
But, as the silent chancel leaves the sun
To shine through mellowing windows on the floor,
So would we enter thy great heart once more,
Subdued, in reverence of the sainted one.
We wept with thee when throbbed the passing-bell,
And felt thy great affliction from afar:
We mourned that such a grief thy life should mar,
And loved thee more for loving him so well.
One pearly thought surrounds that sombre time;
One golden hope enframes the past regret:
We thank our Father thou art with us yet,
The more majestic for thy grief sublime.
BEAUTIFUL WALES.
There is a little history attached to the following lines. Twenty years ago, my friend, Mr. Arthur J. Morris, at that time an accountant at the Llwydcoed Ironworks, Aberdare, and subsequently manager at the Plymouth Ironworks, Merthyr Tydfil, but now deceased, asked me to write a song in praise of Wales. I did so, and wrote and sent him the words of "Beautiful Wales," a Welsh translation of which was made and forwarded to me by Mr. Daniel Morgan (Daniel ap Gwilym), of Aberaman, Aberdare. A short time afterwards I received a request from Mr. R. Andrews, of Manchester (whom I never saw and do not know) for permission to set the words to music, which permission I gave, and the song (English version) was published by Robert Cocks and Co., London. It has long since been out of print. I found, on receiving some copies of the music, that the tune was merely an adaptation of a well-known dance tune, and some years ago I wrote to Mr. Brinley Richards on the subject, who regretted that the words had not been wedded to more suitable music. The matter, however, was lost sight of by myself, and I was under the impression that the song had been forgotten. To my surprise it suddenly cropped up as a great favourite of the Sunday schools, and I have myself heard it sung at school anniversaries to various tunes. It would seem, therefore, that after playing the vagrant for goodness knows how long, it became a reformed character, was taken in hand by school children, and by them adopted as a pet and made a favourite of.
BEAUTIFUL WALES.
I know a land whose sunny shore
The sea's wild waves embrace,
Whose heart is full of mystic lore
That flashes from its face;
A land where cloud-kissed mountains are,
And green and flowery vales,
Where Poesy lingers like a star:
That land is sunny Wales.
Wales, the wild—the beautiful,
The beautiful—the free;
My heart and hand are thine, O land
Of magic minstrelsy.
And in this mystic land of mine
What dainty maids there be,
Whose faces shine with love divine,
Like sunlight on the sea.
The boasted fair of other climes
That live in songs and tales
Will never be more fair to me
Than those of sunny Wales.
Wales, the wild—the beautiful,
The beautiful—the free;
My heart and hand are thine, O land
Of magic minstrelsy.
GWALIA DEG.
Mi wn am wlad, a'i garw draeth
Gofleidir gan y don,
Sy'n orlawn o gyfrinawl ddysg
'R hwn draetha'i gwyneb llon:
Gwlad yw lle mae mynyddoedd ban,
A glynoedd gwyrdd eu lliw;
Lle'r erys awenyddiaeth glaer:
Hoff Walia heulawg yw.
Gwalia wyllt, wyt decaf wlad;
Wyt decaf wlad—wlad rydd!
Dy eiddo i gyd wyf fi, O dud
Y swynawl gerdd ddiludd.
Ac yn y wlad gyfrinawl hon,
Ceir merched uchel fri,
Sydd a'u gwynebau'n t'w'nu fel
Goleuni haul uwch lli.
Prydferthwch ffrostiawl gwledydd pell,
Sy'n byw yn ngerddi'r byd,
Nis byddant byth brydferthach im
Na rhai fy heulawg dud.
Gwalia wyllt, wyt decaf wlad;
Wyt decaf wlad—wlad rydd!
Dy eiddo i gyd wyf fi, O dud
Y swynawl gerdd ddiludd.
THE WELSH LANGUAGE.
My bardic friend "Caradawc," of Abergavenny, sent me the following
Englyn, with a request that I would write an English translation:
ENGLYN I'R IAITH GYMRAEG.
Iaith anwyl y Brythoniaid;—Iaith gywrain—
Iaith gara fy Enaid;
Iaith gry, iaith bery heb baid,
Gorenwog Iaith Gwroniaid.
IOAN DAFYDD A'I CANT.
To which was written and forwarded the following reply;
ON THE WELSH LANGUAGE.
A language to love—when our tongues in love speak it;
A language to hate—when 'tis spoken by fools;
A language to live—when the pure in life seek it,
A language to die—when the lying tongue rules;
A blessing—when blessings lead men to enjoy it;
A curse—when for cursing 'tis used as a rod;
The language of Satan—when devils employ it;
When angels indite it—the language of God.
A FOOLISH BIRD.
An ostrich o'er the desert wide,
With upturned beak and jaunty stride,
In stately, self-sufficient pride,
One day was gently roaming.
When—dreadful sound to ostrich ears,
To ostrich mind the worst of fears—
Our desert champion thinks he hears
The dreaded hunter coming.
Ill-fated bird! He might have fled:
Those legs of his would soon have sped
That flossy tail—that lofty head—
Far, far away from danger.
But—fatal error of his race—
In sandy bank he hid his face,
And thought by this to evade the chase
Of the ostrich-bagging ranger.
So he who, like the ostrich vain,
Is ign'rant, and would so remain,
Of what folks do, it's very plain
In folly's road he's walking.
For if in sand you hide your head
Just to escape that which you dread,
And, seeing not, say danger's fled:
'Tis worse than childish talking.
"I'D CHOOSE TO BE A NIGHTINGALE."
Answer to a Poem which appeared in a daily paper, with the above title, signed "Mary" (Llandovery.)
Gentle Mary! Do you know
What it is you crave?
Listen! As the flowers grow
O'er the dismal grave,
So, when sweetest sings the bird
Thou would'st like to be,
When in twilight's hour is heard
The magic melody,
Harshly comes the cruel thorn
Against the songster's breast,
And melting music thus is born
Of pain and sad unrest (a)
So if like Philomel thou'dst sing,
And happiness impart,
Thy breast must bear the cruel sting
That haunts the songster's heart.
(a) There is a poetic legend, which says that when the Nightingale sings the sweetest, it presses its breast against a thorn.
TRUE PHILANTHROPY.
Written on hearing that J. D. Llewelyn, Esq., of Penllergare, had refused a public Testimonial, the offer of which was evoked by his unbounded charity and unostentatious acts of philanthropy, which recognition it was desired to inaugurate in the shape of a statue of himself, placed in front of the Swansea hospital—an institution which owes so much to his munificent liberality.
MARCH 6th, 1876.
Friend of the poor, for whom thy ceaseless thought
Is as the sun, that warms the earthy clod
Into a flush of blossom beauty-fraught,
Waking in hearts by poverty distraught
Glimpses in life of Heaven and of God.
And as the sun sends forth his golden beams
In silence, all unweeting of their worth,
So from thy life in silent beauty streams
That Heaven-born charity which never seems
To know itself—and blushes at its birth.
No sculptor's art thy goodness need proclaim:
The knowledge lives in hearts that feel its power—
A love more lasting than a marbled fame:
Brooding in silence o'er thy cherished name,
As light is worshipped by the voiceless flower.
DISRAELI.
O'er the Present proudly striding
Like Colossus o'er the wave,
And a beacon-light high holding,
While the tempests loudly rave:
Laying bare in truthful teaching
Treach'rous breakers round the bay,
That the good old barque of England
May in safety sail away:
Though the tongue of fiercest Faction
In its Folly may deride,
Still he stands in lofty learning
Like a giant o'er the tide,
While the murmuring wavelets passing
Far beneath his kingly hand,
Looking upward, blindly babble
Where they cannot understand.
When his country's proudest sceptre
He was called upon to sway,
Ruled he with a noble purpose
That will never pass away:
So, the Future, of his striving
With its trumpet-tongue shall tell:
How he battled for the Bible;
How he loved old England well:
How his nature, though not faultless
(Human nature may not be),
Bore the never-dying impress
Of life's truest chivalry,
How they wrote upon the marble,
Where he lay beneath the sod:
"Faithfully he served his country,"
"Truthfully he served his God."
DOWN IN THE DARK.
A RECOLLECTION OF THE FERNDALE COLLIERY EXPLOSION. NOVEMBER, 1867.
Down in the dark—in the blinding dark;
Away from the sunshine bright above:
Away from the gaze of those they love,
They are lying stony and stark.
Down in the dark—deep down in the dark,
With the terror of death in each sightless eye,
Which tells how hard 'tis to burn and die
Down—down in the poisonous dark.
Up in the light—in the broad noon-light—
Poor hearts are breaking: hot tears are shed,
As, tenderly shrouding each cinder-like head,
It is hid from the aching sight.
Up in the light—in the soft gas-light
Of the draperied room, in luxurious guise;
In our comfort forgetting who plods and plies
Far down in eternal night.
Up in the light—further up in the light;
In the pure clear light of a Queenly crown,
A widowed monarch is looking down
Tow'rds the dark, with compassion bedight.
Up in the light—further up in the light—
From the dazzling light of a Maker's throne—
The angel of Pity came down to zone
Human hearts through that dreadful night.