A Celtic Psaltery Part 16
(After Elis Wyn, 1671-1734, one of the Welsh Cla.s.sics)
Leave your land, your goods lay down!
Life's green tree shall soon grow brown.
Pride of birth and pleasure gay Renounce or they shall own you!
Manly strength and beauty fair, Dear-bought sense, experience rare, Learning ripe, companions fond Yield, lest their bond ensnare you!
Is there then no sure relief, Thou arch-murderer and thief, Death, from thine o'ermastering law-- Thy monstrous maw can none shun?
O ye rich, in all your pride Through the ages would ye bide, Wherefore not with Death compound, Ere underground he hide you?
l.u.s.ty athlete, light of foot, Death, the Bowman's fell pursuit Challenge! O, the laurels won, If thou but shun his shooting!
Travellers by sea and land On remotest mount or strand, Have ye found one secret spot Where Death is not commanding?
Learned scholar, jurist proud, Lifted G.o.d-like o'er the crowd, Can your keenest counsel's aid Dispel Death's shade enshrouding?
Fervent faith, profound repentance, Holy hours of stern self-sentence-- These alone can victory bring When Death's dread sting shall wring us.
FROM "THE LAST JUDGMENT"
(After Goronwy Owen, 1728-1769, next to Dafydd ab Gwilym, the greatest poet who sang in the old Welsh metres)
Day of Doom, at thy glooming May Earth be but meet for thee!
Day, whose hour of louring Not angels in light foresee!
To Christ alone and the Father 'Tis known when thy hosts of might Swift as giants shall gather, Yet stealthy as thieves at night.
Then what woe to the froward, What joy to the just and kind!
When the Seraph band comes streaming Christ's gleaming banner behind; Heavenly blue shall its hue be To a myriad marvelling eyes; Save where its heart encrimsons The cross of the sacrifice!
Rocks in that day's black fury Like leaves shall be whirled in the blast; h.o.a.ry-headed Eryri p.r.o.ne to the plough-lands cast!
Then shall be roaring and warring And ferment of sea and firth, Ocean, in turmoil upboiling, Confounding each bound of earth.
The flow of the Deluge of Noah Were naught by that fell Flood's girth!
Then Heaven's pure self shall offer Her mult.i.tudinous eyes, Cruel blinding to suffer, As her sun faints out of the skies; And the bright-faced Moon shall languish And perish in such fierce pain As darkened and shook with anguish All Life, when the Lamb was slain.
A GOOD WIFE
(After the Vicar Pritchard, 1569-1644)
Wise yokel foolish King excelleth; Good name than spikenard sweeter smelleth!
What's gold to prudence? Strength to grace?
Man's more than goods; G.o.d first in place.
What though her dowry be but meagre, Far better wise, G.o.d-fearing Igir, Than yonder vain and brainless doll, Helpless her fortune to control.
A wife that's true and kind and sunny Is better than a mint of money; Better than houses, land and gold Or pearls and gems to have and hold.
A ship is she with jewels freighted, Her price beyond all rubies rated, A hundred-virtued amulet To such as her in marriage get.
Gold pillar to a silver socket; The weakling's tower of strength, firm-locked, The very golden crown of life; Grace upon grace--a virtuous wife.
"MARCHOG JESU!"
(Hymn sung at the Invest.i.ture of the Prince of Wales, the Welsh words by Pantycelyn, the famous eighteenth-century hymn-writer)
Lord, ride on in triumph glorious, Gird Thy sword upon Thy Thigh!
Earth shall own Thy Might Victorious, Death and h.e.l.l confounded lie.
Yea! before Thine Eye all-seeing, All Thy foes shall fly aghast; Nature's self, through all her being, Tremble at Thy Trampling Past.
Pierce, for Thou alone art able, Pierce our dungeon with Thy day; Shatter all the gates of Babel, Rend her iron bars away!
Till, as billows thunder sh.o.r.eward, All the Ransomed Ones ascend, Into freedom surging forward Without number, without end.
Who are these whose praises pealing From beyond the Morning Star Earthward solemnly are stealing Down the distance faint and far?
These are they, the Ever Living, All in glistening garments gone, Palm in hand, with proud Thanksgiving Up before the Great White Throne.
THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM
(After Eben Fardd, 1802-1863, one of the leading Welsh poets of the nineteenth century)
RACHEL MOURNING
Rachel, ah me! most wretchedly Mourns, meekest, worthiest woman, Her husband dear hurled to his bier By Roman fiends inhuman.
Tremulously now murmurs she: "Naught's here but naked horror; Black despond and blind despair, Mad turmoil, murderous terror!
Free he rose, his hero blows Gave Rome black cause to rue him; Ten to one, then they run Their poisonous poignards through him.
Thus took flight thy tortured sprite, Dear heart, from my fond seeing!
Now stars on high in stark dawn die, We too must far be fleeing.
Children dear, I thrill with fear To hear your hungry crying!