Chapter II: Preface

The words "First Series" which appear on the Title Page are intended to show, firstly, that I do not at all consider the present collection in any sense a representative anthology of the Welsh Lyrics of the Century, and secondly, that if this effort meets with approval, I hope to bring out two or three further instalments, one of them, if possible, being from poems written in the "_mesurau caethion_." My aim, in fact, is to publish by degrees a collection of translations which might eventually be gathered together in a single volume (with a general introduction and critical notices on each author) so as to form a more or less adequate anthology of our nineteenth century poets. "So runs my dream": whether it can ever be realized depends of course in a great measure on the reception this first series meets with. That it has many serious defects I well know, nor can I attempt to disarm criticism by pointing out the immense difficulties which confront the man who tries to put Welsh poetry into English rhyme, especially when that man has never written a line of English verse before. But I should be most grateful to readers for any hints or suggestions, by which the faults and imperfections of the present volume may be avoided in a second series. I have retained the metres of the originals with but trifling variations, except in those cases where there was nothing specially characteristic to make this desirable (as _e.g._, in the case of Islwyn, where I have thrown some of my translations into sonnet form) or where--as in the Song of the Fisherman's Wife--the metre, even if it could be reproduced, would not in English harmonise with the meaning. I ought perhaps to ask pardon beforehand for the audacity with which I have treated Ieuan Glan Geirionydd's famous "Morfa Rhuddlan."

I very gratefully acknowledge the courtesy of the owners of copyright, especially Messrs. Hughes & Son, Wrexham, Mr. O. M. Edwards, and Mr. James Lewis, New Quay (to whom my translation of the "Pauper's Grave" belongs).

My most cordial thanks are also due to Mr. W. Lewis Jones, Lecturer in English at the University College of North Wales, who though an entire stranger has given me his valuable assistance and advice in seeing these pages through the press.

EDMUND O. JONES. VICARAGE, LLANIDLOES, July 23, 1896.

ALUN.

John Blackwell (Alun), was born of very poor parents at Mold in 1797. Beginning life as a shoe-maker, his successes at the Eisteddfods of Ruthin and Mold in 1823 attracted the attention of the gentry of the neighbourhood, and a fund was formed to send him to the University. He took his degree from Jesus College, Oxford, in 1828, and died rector of Manordeifi 1840. His works were published under the title of "Ceinion Alun," in 1851 (Isaac Clarke, Ruthin), and his poems were re-published in 1879, by Mr. Isaac Foulkes of Liverpool, in the "Cyfres y Ceinion."

Song of the Fisherman's Wife.

Hush, restless wave! and landward gently creeping, No longer sullen break; All nature now is still and softly sleeping, And why art thou awake? The busy din of earth will soon be o'er, Rest thee, oh rest upon thy sandy shore.

Peace, restless sea; e'en now my heart's best treasure Thou bearest on thy breast; On thee he spends a life that knows no leisure A scanty wage to wrest. Be kind, O sea, whose limits boundless are, And rest, oh rest, upon thy sandy bar.

Ah, cease to murmur: stay thy waves from warring, And bid thy steeds be still; Why should'st thou rage, when not a breeze is stirring The treetops on the hill? To sheltered haven bring my husband's bark Ere yet the shadows fall and night grows dark.

Full well may women weep, we wives and daughters Whose men are on the deep; But who can tell our anguish when thy waters In stormy anger leap? Be gentle to him, sea, and rage no more, But rest, oh rest, upon thy sandy shore.

Thou heedest not, O sea without compassion, But ravenest for thy prey; I turn to One who can control thy passion, And wildest waves allay; And He will take my loved one 'neath His care, And make thee rest upon thy sandy bar.

An Idyll.

DEWI.

Do you know--have you seen--my sweet Dolly, Who pastures her flocks on Eryri? Her eyes like a dart, Have pierced my heart, Oh, sweeter than honey is Dolly.

HYWEL.

Oh, yes, I know well your sweet Dolly, Whose cot's at the foot of Eryri, No tongue upon earth Can tell of her worth, So lovely, so winning is Dolly.

For tender and bashful is Dolly, Not fairer nor purer the lily, No name under heaven So fitly is given For the harpist to sing of as Dolly.

DEWI.

Not tender, not tender to Dewi! No maiden so cruel as Dolly! With many a tear I beseech her to hear, But deaf to my wooing is Dolly.

I have done all I could for her pleasing, I have gathered her goats for the milking, 'Twas surely no sin, If I hoped I might win, Sweet kisses in payment from Dolly.

Her breast's like the snowflakes when falling, So white--and so cold to my pleading. My heart will soon break For very love's sake, So cold, so bewitching is Dolly.

Three wishes, no more, I would utter-- God bless my sweet Dolly for ever, May I gaze on her face Till I finish life's race, Then die--in the arms of my Dolly.

Tintern Abbey

Here how many a heart hath broken,
Closed how many a dying eye,
Here how many in God's acre,
E'en their names forgotten, lie!
Here how oft for lauds or vespers
Down the glen the bell hath rung,
In these walls how many an ave,
Creed, and pater have been sung.

On the timeworn pavement yonder,
Even now I seem to see,
At the shrine where once he worshipped,
Some old saint on bended knee;
Seems to rise the smoke of incense,
In a column faint and dim,
Still the organ through the rafters
Seems to peal the vesper hymn.

But where once the anthem sounded,
Silence now her dwelling finds,
And the church from porch to chancel
Knows no music but the wind's;
Perish so all superstition!
Let the world the Truth obey,
Long may Peace and Love increasing,
O'er our fatherland hold sway.

The Nightingale.

When night first spreads her sable wings,
All earthly things to darken,
The woodland choir grows mute and still,
To thy sweet trill to hearken;
Though 'gainst thy breast there lies a thorn,
And thou woeworn art bleeding,
Yet, till the bright day dawns again,
Thou singest, pain unheeding.

And like to thee the helpmeet fair,
Her true-love's rarest treasure,
When 'neath the clouds the sun has fled,
And hope is dead and pleasure,
When all the friends of daylight flee,
Most faithfully she clingeth,
And through the night of pain and wrong,
Her sweetest song she singeth.

Though 'neath the blight of sorrow's smart,
Her woman's heart oft faileth,
She moaneth not but with fond wiles
Her pain in smiles she veileth;
So sings she through the live-long night,
Till hope's bright light appeareth,
Which glittering like a radiant eye,
Through dawn's shy lashes peereth.

IEUAN GLAN GEIRIONYDD.

Evan Evans was born at Trefriw in 1795, his father being, or having been, a shipwright. He, like Alun, was of Nonconformist parentage, and like him, attracted attention by his successes at this or that Eisteddfod. He went to S. Bees, and was ordained in 1826. He died January 21, 1855, without having obtained preferment in his own country, until within a few months of his death. His poetical works were published under the title of "Geirionydd" (Isaac Clarke, Ruthin). As is too often the case with books published in Wales, the title page bears no date.

The Strand of Rhuddlan.

I.

Low sinks the sun to rest Over the lofty crest Of dim Eryri; Now over moor and dale Night spreads her darkening veil, While from the rustling trees Softly the evening breeze Dieth and fleeteth; Fainter upon mine ear Falls from the ocean near, Its murmur weary; Only within my breast, Tossing in strange unrest, Loud my heart beateth; Beateth with rage and pain, Beateth as once again I muse and ponder On that accursed hour, When 'neath the Saxon power, Welshmen who freedom sought, Fell as they bravely fought, On Rhuddlan yonder.

II.

See, through the gathering gloom Dimly there seems to loom The sheen of targes; Hark, with a swift rebound, Loudly the weapons sound Upon them falling; While from each rattling string Death-dealing arrows ring, Hissing and sighing; Trembles the bloodstained plain, Trembles and rings again, Beneath the charges; But through the deafening roar, And moans of those who sore Wounded are lying, Rises Caradog's cry, Rises to heaven on high, His warriors calling-- "Welshmen! we ne'er will sell Country we love so well! Turn we the foe to flight, Or let the moon this night Find all our warriors bold On Rhuddlan stark and cold, For Cymru dying."