THAT HAD BEEN CONVERTED INTO A MAY-POLE IN THE TOWN OF LLANIDLOES, IN MONTGOMERYSHIRE.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

Ah! birch tree, with the verdant locks, And reckless mind--long hast thou been A wand'rer from thy native rocks; With canopy of tissue green, And stem that 'mid the sylvan scene A sceptre of the forest stood-- Thou art a traitress to the wood!

How oft, in May's short nights of old, To my love-messenger and me Thou didst a couch of leaves unfold!

Thou wert a house of melody,-- Proud music soared from every bough; Ah! those who loved thee sorrow now!

Thy living branches teemed and rang With every song the woodlands know, And every woodland flow'ret sprang To life--thy spreading tent below.

Proud guardian of the public way, Such wert thou, while thou didst obey The counsel of my beauteous bride-- And in thy native grove reside!

But now thy stem is mute and dark, No more by lady's reverence cheered; Rent from its trunk, torn from its park, The luckless tree again is reared-- (Small sign of honour or of grace!) To mark the parish market-place!

Long as St. Idloes' town shall be A patroness of poesy-- Long as its hospitality The bard shall freely entertain, My birch! thy lofty stature shall remain!

THE HOLLY GROVE.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed bower!

In front of all the forest Thy coral-loaded branches tower.

Thou shrine of love, whose depth defies The axe--the tempest of the skies; Whose boughs in winter's frost display The brilliant livery of May!

Grove from the precipice suspended, Like pillars of some holy fane; With notes amid thy branches blended, Like the deep organ's solemn strain.

House of the birds of Paradise, Round fane impervious to the skies; On whose green roof two nights of rain May fiercely beat and beat in vain!

I know thy leaves are ever scathless; The hardened steel as soon will blight; When every grove and hill are pathless With frosts of winter's lengthened night, No goat from Hafren's {141} banks I ween, From thee a scanty meal may glean!

Though Spring's bleak wind with clamour launches His wrath upon thy iron spray; Armed holly tree! from thy firm branches He will not wrest a t.i.the away!

Chapel of verdure, neatly wove, Above the summit of the grove!

THE SWAN.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like abbot white!

Bird of the spray, to whom is giv'n The raiment of the men of heav'n; Bird of broad hand, in youth's proud age, Syvaddon was thy heritage!

Two gifts in thee, fair bird, unite To glean the fish in yonder lake, And bending o'er yon hills thy flight A glance at earth and sea to take.

Oh! 'tis a n.o.ble task to ride The billows countless as the snow; Thy long fair neck (thou thing of pride!) Thy hook to catch the fish below; Thou guardian of the fountain head, By which Syvaddon's waves are fed!

Above the dingle's rugged streams, Intensely white thy raiment gleams; Thy shirt like crystal tissue seems; Thy doublet, and thy waistcoat bright, Like thousand lilies meet the sight; Thy jacket is of the white rose, Thy gown the woodbine's flow'rs compose, {142} Thou glory of the birds of air, Thou bird of heav'n, oh, hear my pray'r!

And visit in her dwelling place The lady of ill.u.s.trious race: Haste on an emba.s.sy to her, My kind white-bosomed messenger-- Upon the waves thy course begin, And then at Cemaes take to sh.o.r.e; And there through all the land explore, For the bright maid of Talyllyn, The lady fair as the moon's flame, And call her "Paragon" by name; The chamber of the beauty seek, And mount with footsteps slow and meek; Salute her, and to her reveal The cares and agonies I feel-- And in return bring to my ear Message of hope, my heart to cheer!

Oh, may no danger hover near (Bird of majestic head) thy flight!

Thy service I will well requite!

MAY AND NOVEMBER.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for thy wild band of choristers weaves; Proud knight, that subduest with glory and power, Each glen into verdure, to joy every bower; That makest the wilderness laugh and rejoice, In the chains of thy love, in thy cuckoo's shrill voice; That fillest the heart of the lover with glee, And bringest my Morfydd's dear image to me.

Alas! that dark Winter thy mansions should blight, With his chill mottled show'rs, and his flickering light, His moon that gleams wanly through snows falling fast, His pale mist that floats on the wings of the blast: With the voice of each river more fearfully loud-- Every torrent all foam, and the heaven all cloud!

Alas! that stern Winter has power to divide Each lover from hope--from the poet his bride.

THE CUCKOO'S TALE.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the tidings of summer thy bright pinions roam-- The summer that thickens with foliage the glade, And lures to the woodland the poet and maid.

Sweet as "sack," gentle bird, is thy beautiful voice, In thy accents the lover must ever rejoice: Oh! tell me at once, in thy musical lay, Where tarries the girl whose behest I obey.

"Poor bard," said the cuckoo, "what anguish and pain Hast thou stored for thyself, all thy cares are in vain, All hopes of the maid thou awaitest resign, She has wedded another, and ne'er can be thine."

"For the tale thou hast told"--to the cuckoo I cried, "For thus singing to me of my beautiful bride These strains of thy malice--may winter appear And dim the sun's light--stay the summer's career; With frost all the leaves of the forest boughs fill, And wither the woods with his desolate chill, And with cold in the midst of thy own forest spray, Take thy life and thy song, foolish cuckoo, away!"

DAFYDD AP GWILYM'S ADDRESS TO MORFYDD AFTER SHE MARRIED HIS RIVAL.

Too long I've loved the fickle maid, My love is turned to grief and pain; In vain delusive hopes I stray'd, Through days that ne'er will dawn again; And she, in beauty like the dawn, From me has now her heart withdrawn!

A constant suitor--on her ear My sweetest melodies I pour'd; Where'er she wander'd I was near; For her whose face my soul ador'd My wealth I madly spent in wine, And gorgeous jewels of the mine.

I deck'd her arms with lovely chains, With bracelets wove of slender gold; I sang her charms in varied strains, Her praise to every minstrel told: The bards of distant Keri know That she is spotless as the snow.

These proofs of love I hoped might bind My Morfydd to be ever true: Alas! to deep despair consign'd, My bosom's blighted hopes I rue, And the base craft that gave her charms, Oh, anguish! to another's arms!

PART VI. THE RELIGIOUS.

FROM THE HYMNS OF THE REV. WILLIAM WILLIAMS, PANTYCELYN.

[The Reverend William Williams, styled of "Pantycelyn," a tenement which he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish of Llanfair-on- the-hill, in Carmarthenshire, in the year 1717. He was educated for the ministry, and appointed to the Curacy of Llanwrtyd and Abergwesyn, in Breconshire, in 1740. After serving for about three years he became a convert to the Welsh Puritanism of the period, introduced by the eloquence and piety of the Revs. Daniel Rowlands of Llangeitho, and Howel Harris of Trevecca, both theretofore eminent ministers of the Established Church, with whom he became a successful co-operator, not only as an eloquent preacher, but especially as the most celebrated Hymnist of Wales. This eminent man died in 1791, and his hymns were published by his son in 1811, and Mr. Mackenzie, of Glasgow, issued a superb edition of his works with biography in 1868.]

Hasten, Israel! from the desert After tarrying there so long, Milk and honey, wine and welcome Wait you 'mong the ransom'd throng; Wear your arms, advance to warfare, Onward go, and bravely fight, Fair the land, and there shall lead you Cloud by day and flame by night.

Babel's waters are so bitter, There is nought but weeping still, Zion's harps, so sweet and tuneful, Do my heart with rapture fill: Bring thou us a joyful gathering From the dread captivity, And until on Zion's mountain Let there be no rest for me.

In this land I am a stranger, Yonder is my native home, Far beyond the stormy billows, Where the flowers of Canaan bloom: Tempests wild from sore temptation Did my vessel long detain, Speed, ye gentle southern breezes, Aid me soon to cross the main.