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 accursèd 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.”

III.

Hearing his high behest,
Swells every Briton’s breast,
Red as their lance in rest
   Their faces glowing;
See, through the Saxon band,
Many a strong right hand
Once and again strikes home,
As in their might they come,
   A broad lane mowing.
Britons from far and near
Loud raise their voice in prayer,
“In this our hour of need
To Thee, O God, we plead,
   Send help from heaven!
Guard now our fatherland,
Strengthen each Briton’s hand,
And now on Rhuddlan’s strand
   Be victory given.”

IV.

Ah! through my trembling heart
Pierce, like a bitter dart,
   Anguish and terror;
Hark to the foemen’s vaunt,
Boasting and bitter taunt
   Of Saxon warrior.
Nay, do not triumph so,
Do not rejoice as though
   Your deeds were glorious;
Not your own valour brave,
Numbers, not courage, have
   Made you victorious.
Those who on every side,
Have marked the battle’s tide,
Praying for Cymru’s arms,
Filled now with wild alarms,
   The heights are scaling.
Old men and children flee,
As in amaze they see,
Their chosen warriors yield,
On Rhuddlan’s bloody field,
   The foe prevailing.

V.

Mountain and lonely dell,
Dingle and rock and fell,
   Echo with wailing;
E’en Snowdon’s slopes on high
Ring with the bitter cry,
   All unavailing!
Cymru’s great heart is now
Bleeding with bitter woe—
Woe for her children dead,
Woe for her glory fled,
   And fallen nation;
On great Caradog’s hall
Anguish and terror fall,
   Loud lamentation;
“Weep for our warrior slain,
Ne’er shall we see again,
   Our mighty captain.”
Rises the harpist old,
Calls for his harp of gold,
Sweeps through its mournful strings,
And loud the music rings,
   The dirge of Rhuddlan.

The Shepherd of Cwmdyli.

Cloke of mist hath passed away,
   Sweetheart mine,
Which has veiled the heights all day,
   Sweetheart mine,
See, the sun shines clear and bright,
Gilding all the hills with light,
To the arbour let us go,
   Closely clinging, sweetheart mine.

Listen! from the rocks on high,
   Sweetheart mine,
Echo mocks the cuckoo’s cry,
   Sweetheart mine,
From each hillock low the steers,
Bleat of lambs falls on our ears,
In the bushes, sweet and low,
   Birds are singing, sweetheart mine.

But Cwmdyli soon will be,
   Sweetheart mine,
Lone and drear, bereft of thee,
   Sweetheart mine,
I shall hear thy voice no more,
Never see thee cross the moor,
With thy pail at morn or eve
   Tripping gaily, sweetheart mine.

’Mid the city’s din be true,
   Sweetheart mine.
When new lovers come to woo,
   Sweetheart mine,
Oh, remember one who’ll be,
Ever filled with thoughts of thee.
In Cwmdyli lone I’ll grieve
   For thee daily, sweetheart mine.

Why