should we Weep?

Why should we weep for those we love,
   Who in the faith of Christ have died?
Set free from bonds of sin and pain,
   They are living still—the other side.

From wave to wave they once were tossed
   On this world’s sea, by storm and tide:
Within the haven calm and still
   They are resting now—the other side.

When gloomy Jordan roared and swelled,
   The great High Priest was there to guide,
And safe above the stormy waves
   He bore them—to the other side.

What though their bodies in the earth
   We laid to wait the Judgment-tide?
Themselves are fled—they are not there
   But living still—the other side.

The winds that murmur o’er their graves,
   To us who still on earth abide,
Bring echoes faint of that sweet song
   They ever sing—the other side.

What though in spite of rain and dew
   The lilies on their grave have died?
The palms they bear can never fade
   Nor wither—on the other side.

May we not dream they feel with us
   When we by various ills are tried,
That when we triumph over sin,
   They triumph too—the other side?

May we not hope that more and more
   The day for which we long have sighed
They long for too—that we with them
   May praise the Lamb—the other side?

And when we reach fair Sion’s hill,
   Where angel hosts in bliss abide,
Shall we not clasp the hands of those
   Whom once we lost—the other side?

Then ever with them we shall dwell
   By grief untouched, by sin untried,
And join with them in that sweet song
   That never ends—the other side.

But friendship there shall purer be,
   No love betrayed, no vows denied;
Nor pain nor death shall part us more
   From those we love—the other side!

GLASYNYS.

Owen Wyn Jones was born near Carnarvon, March 4th, 1828.  His father was a quarryman, and the future poet followed the same calling till his love for literature became too strong for him.  He was ordained deacon in 1860, and held curacies in Anglesey and Monmouthshire.  He died at Towyn, April 4, 1870.  His works are unpublished, but Mr. O. M. Edwards promises us an edition, which will be not the least among the invaluable services he has rendered to Welsh literature.

Blodeuwedd and Hywel.

Oh how sweet on fair spring morning, ’neath its cloke of hoarfrost peering,
’Tis to see the tiny blossom with its smile the earth adorning,
   Oh yes ’tis sweet, oh yes ’tis sweet.
But the smiles of Hywel slender, and the kindness of his bearing,
When my ice-bound heart he’s thawing with his honeyed kisses tender,
   Are sweeter far a thousand times, oh sweeter far.

Sweet the violet on the swelling bank when first it shyly bloweth,
Pale and wan but cheerly smiling on its lonely sheltered dwelling,
   That is sweet, oh that is sweet.
But the sight of Hywel coming, sweeter is than flower that groweth,
On his cheeks a rarer beauty, near the fold at hour of gloaming,
   Sweeter is a thousand times, oh sweeter far.

Laughing ever in the sunlight, primrose brakes the hillside cover,
April breezes stir the petals till they smile e’en in the twilight;
   They are sweet, oh they are sweet.
So in spite of opposition, true and constant is my lover,
Ne’er a moment he forgets me, in the night of persecution,
   Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine.

Sweet the countless daisies flecking grass-green glade and meadow dewy,
Like some rare and precious jewels nature’s verdant garments decking,
   They are sweet, oh they are sweet.
But the eyes of Hywel glowing, ’neath his forehead broad and ruddy,
When the tears—love’s best enchantment—fill them full to over-flowing,
   Are sweeter far a thousand times, oh, sweeter far.

Roses white and lilies tender, marigolds and all sweet posies
Scenting all the air together, fair are they in summer weather,
   O lilies white, O roses fair!
But like every summer blossom, lilies fade and so do roses,
There’s one flower that fadeth never, bloom of love will last for ever,
   Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine.

Leafy beech in verdant hollow—mighty oak with branches hoary,
Sycamores—all proudly wearing autumn garb of russet yellow,
   These are fair, oh these are fair.
But when darling Hywel’s near me, what care I for woodland glory?
Fairer far than all the greenwood is my sweetheart’s face to cheer me,
   Fairer far a thousand times, oh fairer far.

Sweet the song of thrushes filling all the air with shake and quiver,
While the feathered songsters, vying each with each, their songs are trilling,
   Sweet the sound, oh sweet the sound.
But to me my love’s caressing words and looks are sweeter ever,
Would this moment I were near him, and my lips to his were pressing,
   Sweetheart mine, O sweetheart mine.

God in heaven be Thou his sentry.  Guard him from the tempests wintry,
Sheep and shepherd ever tending—such my prayer to heaven ascending,
   O hear my cry and guard my love.
Loving Saviour, stay beside us; let Thy Holy Spirit guide us,
Keep our feet from rock and mire, till within Thy heavenly choir,
   We shall rest with Thee above.

IOAN EMLYN.

John Jones was born at Newcastle Emlyn in 1818, and apprenticed to a watchmaker at Crickhowel.  He did a good deal of journalistic work and entered the Baptist ministry in 1853.  After holding various charges in South Wales, he died Jan., 1873.  His fame rests almost entirely on lyric, “The Pauper’s Grave,” which is one of the most popular in the language.

The Pauper’s Grave.

Lo! a grassy mound, where lowers
   Branching wide a sombre yew,
Rises as to catch the showers,
   Jewelled showers, of heaven-sent dew.
Many a one with foot unheeding,
   Tramples down its verdure brave,
Hurrying onward, careless treading,—
   It is but a pauper’s grave.

Workhouse hirelings from the Union
   Bore him to his last, lone bed,
“Dust to dust,” that sad communion
   Woke no grief, no tear was shed.
Worn by woes and life’s denials,
   Only rest he now would crave:
Quiet haven from all trials
   To the pauper is his grave.

E’en the rough-hewn stone is broken,
   Where some rude, untutored hand
Carved two letters, as a token
   Of their boyhood’s scattered band,
And when bright Palm Sunday neareth,
   When the dead remembrance crave,
Friend nor brother garland beareth
   For the pauper’s squalid grave.

Not for him the Muse which weepeth,
   Carved in marble rich and rare;
Even now time’s ploughshare creepeth
   Through the grass which groweth there.
O’er the place where he is sleeping
   Soon will roll oblivion’s wave:
Still God’s angel will be keeping
   Ward above the pauper’s grave.

TREBOR MAI.

Robert Williams was born May 25, 1830, and followed his father’s trade as a tailor.  He published two small volumes in his lifetime, “Fy Noswyl” in 1861, and “Y Geninen” in 1869.  The contents of these with large additions were published after his death—which took place August 5, 1877—under the title of “Gwaith Barddonol Trebor Mai” (Isaac Ffoulkes, Liverpool, 1883).

The Shepherd’s Love.

Adown Llewelyn’s Cairn there creep
   Cloud shadows in the failing light,
From far off dingles flock the sheep
   To seek their shelter for the night.
My dog about me as of yore
   Plays