A Celtic Psaltery Part 14
Long is the night; resounding the sh.o.r.e, Frequent in crowds a tumultuous roar, The evil and good disagree evermore.
Long is the night; the hill full of cries; O'er the tree-tops the wind whistles and sighs, Ill nature deceives not the wit of the wise.
The greening birch saplings asway in the air Shall deliver my feet from the enemy's snare.
It is ill with a youth thy heart's secrets to share.
The saplings of oak in yonder green glade Shall loosen the snare by an enemy laid.
It is ill to unbosom thy heart to a maid.
The saplings of oak in their full summer pride Shall loosen the snare by the enemy tied.
It is ill to a babbler thy heart to confide.
The brambles with berries of purple are dressed; In silence the brooding thrush clings to her nest, In silence the liar can never take rest.
Rain is without--wet the fern plume; White the sea gravel--fierce the waves spume.
There is no lamp like reason man's life to illume.
Rain is without, but the shelter is near; Yellow the furze, the cow-parsnip is sere, G.o.d in Heaven, how couldst Thou create cowards here!
HAIL, GLORIOUS LORD!
(From a twelfth-century MS., "The Black Book of Carmarthen")
Hail, all glorious Lord! with holy mirth May Church and chancel bless Thy good counsel!
Each chancel and church, All plains and mountains, And ye three fountains-- Two above wind, And one above earth!
May light and darkness bless Thee!
Fine silk, green forest confess Thee!
Thus did Abraham father Of faith with joy possess Thee.
Bird and bee-song bless Thee, Among the lilies and roses!
All the old, all the young Laud thee with joyful tongue, As Thy praise was once sung By Aaron and Moses.
Male and female, The days that are seven, The stars of heaven, The air and the ether, Every book and fair letter; Fish in waters fair-flowing, And song and deed glowing!
Grey sand and green sward Make your blessing's award!
And all such as with good Have satisfied stood!
While my own mouth shall bless Thee And my Saviour confess Thee.
Hail, glorious Lord!
MY BURIAL
(After Dafydd ab Gwilym, the most famous Welsh lyrical poet, 1340-1400)
When I die, O, bury me Within the free young wild wood; Little birches, o'er me bent, Lamenting as my child would!
Let my surplice-shroud be spun Of sparkling summer clover; While the great and stately treen Their rich rood-screen hang over!
For my bier-cloth blossomed may Outlay on eight green willows!
Sea-gulls white to bear my pall Take flight from all the billows.
Summer's cloister be my church Of soft leaf-searching whispers, From whose mossed bench the nightingale To all the vale chants vespers!
Mellow-toned, the brake amid, My organ hid be cuckoo!
Paters, seemly hours and psalm Bird voices calm re-echo!
Mystic ma.s.ses, sweet addresses, Blackbird, be thou offering; Till G.o.d His Bard to Paradise Uplift from sighs and suffering.
THE LAST CYWYDD
(After Dafydd ab Gwilym)
Memories fierce like arrows pierce; Alone I waste and languish, And make my cry to G.o.d on high To ease me of mine anguish.
If heroic was my youth, In truth its powers are over; With brain dead and force sped, Love sets at naught the lover!
The Muse from off my lips is thrust, 'Tis long since song has cheered me; Gone is Ivor, counsellor just, And Nest, whose grace upreared me!
Morfydd, all my world and more, Lies low in churchyard gravel; While beneath the burthen frore Of age alone I travel.
Mute, mute my song's salute, When summer's beauties thicken; Cuckoo, nightingale, no art Of yours my heart can quicken!
Morfydd, not thy haunting kiss Or voice of bliss can save me From the spear of age whose chill Has quenched the thrill love gave me.
My ripe grain of heart and brain The sod sadly streweth; Its empty chaff with mocking laugh The wind of death pursueth!
Dig my grave! O, dig it deep To hide my sleeping body, So but Christ my spirit keep, Amen! ab Gwilym's ready!
THE LABOURER
(After Iolo Goch, "Iowerlt the Red," a fourteenth-century bard and son of the Countess of Lincoln)
When the folk of all the Earth, For the weighing of their worth, Promised by his Ancient Word, Freely flock before The Lord-- And His Judgment-seat is set High on mighty Olivet, Forthright then shall be the tale Of the Plougher of the Vale, If so be his t.i.thes were given Justly to the King of Heaven; If he freely shared his store With the sick or homeless poor-- When his soul is at G.o.d's feet Rich remembrance it shall meet.
He who turns and tills the sod Leans by Nature on his G.o.d.
Save his plough-beam naught he judgeth, None he angereth, or grudgeth, Strives with none, takes none in toils, Crushes none and none despoils; Overbeareth not, though strong, Doth not even a little wrong.
"Suffering here," he saith, "is meet, Else were Heaven not half so sweet."
Following after goad and plough, With unruffled breast and brow, Is to him an hundred-fold Dearer than, for treasured gold, Even in King Arthur's form, Castles to besiege and storm.
If the labourer were sped, Where would be Christ's Wine and Bread?
Certes but for his supply, Pope and Emperor must die, Every wine-free King and just, Yea! each mortal turn to dust.
Blest indeed is he whose hands Steer the plough o'er stubborn lands.