How calm in the vale by the brook-- How blithe o'er the lawn didst thou rove, To prepare the fresh bow'r in the nook For the damsel whose wishes were love: When, smiling with heaven's bright beam, Thou didst paint every hillock and field, And reflect, in the smooth limpid stream, All the elegance nature could yield.

Perfuming the rose on the bush, And arching the eglantine spray, Thou wast seen by the blackbird and thrush, And they chanted the rapturous lay: By yon river that bends o'er the plain, With alders and willows o'erhung, Each warbler perceiv'd the glad strain, And join'd in the numerous song.

Here the nightingale perch'd on the throne, The poet and prince of the grove, Inviting the lingering morn, Taught the bard the sweet descant of love: And there, from the brake by the rill, When night's sober steps have retir'd, Ten thousand gay choristers thrill Sweet confusion with rapture inspir'd.

Then the maiden, conducted by May, Persuasive adviser of love, With smiles that would rival the ray, Nimbly trips to the bow'r in the grove; Where sweetly I warble the song Which beauty's soft glances inspire; And, while melody flows from my tongue, My soul is enrapt with desire.

But how sadly revers'd is the strain!

How doleful! since thou art away; Every copse, every hillock and plain, Has been mourning for many a day: My bow'r, on the verge of the glade, Where I sported in rapturous ease, Once the haunt of the delicate maid-- She forsakes it, and--how can it please?

Nor blame I the damsel who flies, When winter with threatening gale, Loudly howls through the dark frozen skies, And scatters the leaves o'er the vale: In vain to the thicket I look For the birds that enchanted the fair, Or gaze on the wide-spreading oak; No shelter, no music, is there.

But tempests, with hideous yell, Chase the mist o'er the brow of the hill, And grey torrents in every dell Deform the soft murmuring rill: And the hail, or the sleet, or the snow, On winter's hard mandate attends: To banishment, hence may they go-- Earth's tyrants, and destiny's friend!

But thou, glorious summer, return, And visit the dest.i.tute plains; Nor suffer thy poet to mourn, Unheeded, in languishing strains: O! come on the wings of the breeze, And open the bloom of the thorn; Display thy green robe o'er the trees, And all nature with beauty adorn.

'Midst the bow'rs of the fresh blooming May, Where the odours of violets float, Each bird, on his quivering spray, Will remember his sprightliest note: Then the golden hair'd la.s.s, with a song, Will deign to revisit the grove; Then, too, my harp shall be strung, To welcome the season of love.

SONG TO ARVON.

BY THE REV. EVAN EVANS.

[The poem from which the following translation is extracted was composed by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of England, better known by his bardic name of _Ieuan Glan Geirionydd_. He was born in 1795 at a freehold of his father, situate on the banks of the river Geirionydd, in Carnarvonshire, and died in 1855. He composed a great number of poems on different subjects, religious and patriotic, several of which obtained prizes at Eisteddfodau, and one on the Resurrection gained the chair or princ.i.p.al prize. This poet's compositions are distinguished by great elegance, sweetness and pathos, and are much esteemed in the Princ.i.p.ality. Several of them have been set to music.]

Where doth the cuckoo early sing, In woodland, dell and valley?

Where streamlets deep o'er rocky cliffs Form cataracts so lofty?

On Snowdon's summits high, In Arvon's pleasant county.

Flocks of thousand sheep are fed Upon its mountains rugged, Her pastures green and meadows fair With cattle-herds are studded, Deep are the lakes in Arvon's vales Where fish in shoals are landed.

The shepherd's soft and mellow voice Is heard upon her mountain, Where oft he hums his rustic song To his beloved maiden, Resounding through the gorges deep With bleat of sheep and oxen.

On Arvon's rock-bound sh.o.r.e doth break The surge in fretful murmur, And oft when stirr'd by tempest high The ocean speaks in thunder, Spreading through town and village wide Dismay, despair and fear.

The sun is glorious when it breaks The gloom of morning darkness, Sweet are the leaves and flowers of May Succeeding winter's baldness, Yet fairer than the whole to me Are Arvon's maids so guile-less.

If to the sick there is delight To heal of his affliction, If to the traveller's weary sight Sweet is the destination, Than all these sweeter far to me The hills and dales of Arvon.

Had I the wings and speed of morn To skim o'er mount and valley, I'd hie o'er earth and sea direct To Arvon's genial country, And there in peace would end my days, Far from deceit and envy.

TO THE SPRING.

Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatter the frost from our border, All nature cries loud for the sunshine and rain, For the howl of the winter is over.

Approach gentle spring, and show the white snow Thou cans't melt it by smiles and caresses, Chase far the cold winter away from us now, And cover the fields with white daisies.

Oh, come gentle spring, alight on the trees, Renew them with life and deep verdure, Then choristers gay will replenish the breeze With their songs and musical rapture.

Oh, come gentle spring, breathe soft on the flowers, And clothe them in raiments of beauty, The rose may reopen its petals in tears, And sunbeams unfold the white lily.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

BY THE REV. JOHN BLACKWELL, B.A.

[The Rev. John Blackwell, B.A., whose bardic name was _Alun_, from the river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the year 1797, and died in 1840, in the parish of Manordeivi, Pembrokeshire, of which he was Rector. He partic.i.p.ated much in the Eisteddfodau of that period, and his poems gained many of their prizes. He also edited the "Gwladgarwr," or the Patriot, a monthly magazine, and afterwards the "Cylchgrawn," or Circle of Grapes, another magazine, under the auspices of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. The subjects of this poet's compositions were patriotic, sentimental and religious, and his poems are characterised by deep pathos, and great sweetness of diction.]

When night o'erspreads each hill and dale Beneath its darksome wing Are heard thy sweet and mellow notes Through the lone midnight ring; And if a pang within thy breast Should cause thy heart to bleed, Thou wilt not hush until the dawn Shall drive thee from the mead.

Altho' thy heart beneath the pang Should falter in its throes Thou wilt not grieve thy nestlings young, Thy song thou wilt not close.

When all the chorus of the bush By night and sleep are still, Thou then dost chant thy merriest lays, And heaven with music fill.

THE FLOWERS OF SPRING.

BY THE REV. J. EMLYN JONES, M.A., LL.D.

[The Rev. John Emlyn Jones, M.A., LL.D., the lamented author of the beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation is made, was an eloquent minister of the Baptist Church in Wales, and died on the 20th day of January, 1873, at the age of 54 years, at Beaufort, in Monmouthshire, leaving a widow and seven children to mourn their great loss. He was also an eminent poet, and one of his poems obtained the chair prize at a Royal Eisteddfod. It may be remarked that the lamented poet on his death bed (in answer to an application from the editor) desired his wife to inform him that he was welcome to publish the translations of his poems which appear in this collection.]

Oh, pleasant spring-time flowers That now display their bloom, The primrose pale, and cowslip, Which nature's face illume; The winter bleak appears When you bedeck the land, Like age bent down by years, With a posy in its hand.

Oh, dulcet spring-time flowers Sweet honey you contain, And soon the swarming beehive Your treasure will retain; The busy bee's low humming Is heard among your leaves, Like sound of distant hymning, Or reaper 'mid the sheaves.

Oh, balmy spring-time flowers, The crocus bright and rose, The lily sweet and tulip, Which bloom within the close: Anoint the pa.s.sing breezes Which sigh along the vale, And with your dulcet posies Perfume the evening gale.

Oh, wild-grown spring-time flowers That grow beside the brook, How happy once to ramble Beneath your smiling look, And of you form gay garlands To deck the docile lamb, In wreaths of colour'd neck-bands, Beside its loving dam.

Oh, pretty spring-time flowers None look so blithe and gay, While dancing in the breezes Upon the lap of May, Your fragrant petals open Beneath the balmy dew, You're nature's rich heave-offering On winter's grave anew.

Oh, wondrous spring-time flowers Tho' death stalk all around, Another spring will quicken Your bloom upon the ground, Speak hopeful, as you ripen, Of yet another spring, Where flowers never deaden And seasons have no wing.

TO MAY