seek and fetch as we go home;
But, Ellen, why dost thou no more
   To meet me in the gloaming come?

The heart I gave thee free from thorn
   Why seek to wound with coldness, sweet?
If lasts thine anger and thy scorn
   Death’s coming I will gladly greet.
Yet if to lose thee be my fate
   My life I cannot all regret,
To see thy face doth compensate
   Though weary storms await me yet.

Across thy memory’s golden gate
   Let not my faithlessness appear,
Nor think upon my failings great,
   Forget them—for I love thee, dear.
But if of good I aught have done,
   Oh that with eyes of kindness mark,
And let it shine—as when the sun
   Spreads wings of gold to chase the dark.

Thou rulest all my phantasy
   With thy fair face and eyes divine,
The form, which in my sleep I see
   Mid dreamland’s mazy fields, is thine.
Oh if thy sweet companionship
   I may not win, nor call thee wife—
Then all my future let me sleep,
   And one long dream be all my life.

Baby.

His cradle’s his castle, and dainty his fare,
And all the world crowds just to see him lie there.
Whole volumes of rapture around him are heard,
But he keeps his counsel and says not a word.

His mother while hushing her baby to rest
Foretells for him all that can make a man blest.
But still he lies silent—his pride is not stirred
For all her fond visions, he says not a word.

His father feigns anger and swears that his son
Is cross and ill-tempered, and scolds him in fun
But though he speaks loud and demands to be heard
For threats as for praises, he says not a word.

A glance at the strange world around him he throws—
Whence came he?  He knows not—nor whither he goes.
Vague memories of angels within him are stirred,
Too deep for mere speech—so he says not a word.

Yet answer there comes and as clear as can be,
In his eyes bright and sparkling his soul you can see.
To all that is said of him, all that is heard
He looks his reply, though he says not a word.

CALEDFRYN.

William Williams was born at Denbigh February 6th, 1801.  A weaver by trade, he showed signs of fitness for the ministry, was sent to Rotherham College, and was ordained minister of the Independent body at Llanerchymedd in 1829.  He died at Groeswen, Glamorganshire, March 29, 1869.  He published a volume of his poems in 1856, “Caniadau Caledfryn.”

The Cuckoo.

Dear playmate of the verdant spring,
   We greet thee and rejoice,
Nature with leaves thy pathway decks,
   The woodlands need thy voice.

No sooner come the daisies fair
   To fleck the meadows green,
Than thy untrammelled notes are heard
   Rising the brakes between.

Hast thou some star in yonder heights
   To guide thee on thy way,
And warn thee of the changing years
   And seasons, day by day?

Fair visitant, the time of flowers,
   We welcome now with thee,
When all the birds’ unnumbered choir
   Warbles from every tree.

The schoolboy on his truant quest
   For flowers, wandering by,
Leaps as he hears thy welcome note
   And echoes back thy cry.

To visit other lands afar
   Thou soon wilt flying be;
Thou hast another spring than ours
   To cheerly welcome thee.

For thee the hedgerows aye are green,
   Thy skies are always clear,
There is no sorrow in thy song,
   Nor winter in thy year!

GWILYM MARLES.

William Thomas was born in Carmarthenshire, 1834.  After graduating at the University of Glasgow, he entered the Unitarian ministry.  He died December 11th, 1879.  He seems to have published one volume of poetry in 1859, but most of his works are still in MS.  Judging from the specimens given in the “Llenor” No. 3 (July, 1895), their publication would be a real service to Welsh literature.

New Year Thoughts.

As to the dying year I bade farewell,
Within my hands she left a mantle dark,
   Whereon mine eyes did mark
Loved names I scarce for blinding tears could read;
But from its folds fresh blushing flow’rets fell
Of that fair spring-tide I had mourned as dead.

And now her youngest sister draweth nigh,
’Neath modest starlight and with noiseless feet,
   Whom thousands flock to greet—
Thousands of every age, who fain would know,
As in her face each peereth wistfully,
What fate she bringeth—happiness or woe?

She answereth not, but pointeth silently
To where far off the hidden future lies,
   All dark to mortal eyes,
Save where, from out the gloom, faint stars appear.
She will not linger—haste and thou shalt see
From chaos order as thou drawest near.

Who in this new God’s acre?

Who in this new God’s acre first shall rest?
Or gallant youth, or baby from the breast?
Or age, beneath it’s crown of snow-white hair?
Or queen of smiles and charms, some maiden fair?
Time only can the answer give—and God,
Who first shall lie beneath the upturned sod.

It matters not; whom e’er death first may reap
Here in a Father’s arms shall quiet sleep,
The tender flowers shall grow above his head
And drink the dews that fall upon his bed.
The silent grave is safe from foolish sneer
And persecutor’s rage is baffled here.

Who first shall rest here?  Ah! the days soon come,
When all the love of many a village home
Shall centre round this spot, where kith and kin
Are laid to rest, this virgin soil within.
From far and near men by the graves shall stand
Of friends who rest within the Better Land.

Who first shall rest here?  God o’er all doth reign,
The life He gave us we must give again.
Our chiefest duty here to work and strive
To His great glory while we are alive,
And He some resting place will then provide,
Or far from town or by the Cletwr’s tide.

IEUAN GWYNEDD.

Evan Jones was born near Dolgelley, September 20th, 1820.  He was ordained to the Independent ministry in 1845.  Always weakly, he found a pastoral charge too great a strain on his health, and he devoted himself to literary pursuits, but he died Feb. 23, 1852, having in his short life served his country well.  His Life and Works were published in 1876, “Hanes Bywyd a Gweithiau Barddonol Ieuan Gwynedd” (Hughes & Son, Wrexham).

The Cottages of Wales.

Fair cottages of Cymru, with walls of gleaming white,
Whose smoke curls round the valley and up the mountain height;
The bees hum ’neath the gable or sheltering garden wall,
While all around grow flowers, red rose and lily tall.

Oh lowly cots of Cymru, blest, yea, thrice blest are ye!
Ye know not this world’s greatness nor earthly dignity;
Yet dwell within you ever, the love and peaceful rest
Which fly from hall and palace of those the world holds blest.

Oh lovely cots of Cymru, that smile beside the rill,
Your rooms the children gladden, as flowers your gardens fill;
Their eyes are bright and sparkling, like water in the sun,
Their cheeks are like the roses, red rose and white in one.

Grey cottages of Cymru, that nestle ’mid the leaves,
No marble walls surround you, straw thatched your lowly eaves,
Yet thither many an angel in love delights to come,
And watch in joy and gladness the heirs of his bright home.

O quiet cots of Cymru, far from the city’s din,
Your peace no tumult troubles, no discord enters in;
No sound breaks on your stillness but merry children’s cry,
Or murmur of the