A Celtic Psaltery Part 18

Planet after planet sparkling, All through the night, Down on Earth, their sister darkling, Shed faithful light.

In our mortal day's declining, May our souls, as calmly s.h.i.+ning, Cheer the restless and repining, Till lost in sight.

DAVID OF THE WHITE ROCK

_Dafydd y Garreg Wen_

(After Ceiriog to this Welsh Air)

"All my powers wither, Death presses me hard; Bear my harp hither!"

Sighed David the Bard.

"Thus while life lingers, In one lofty strain O, let my fond fingers Awake it again.

"Last night an angel Cried, 'David, come sound Christ's dear Evangel Death's valley around!'"

Wife and child harkened His harp's solemn swell; Till his eye darkened, And lifeless he fell.

THE HIGH TIDE

(After Elvet Lewis, a contemporary Welsh poet)

A balmy air blows; the waterflags s.h.i.+ver, On, on the Tide flows, on, on, up the river!

To no earth or sky allegiance he oweth; He comes, who knows why? unless the Moon knoweth.

The Tide flows and flows; by hill and by hollow, White rose upon rose, the foam flowers follow.

He spreads broad and full from margent to margent, The wings of the gull are his bannerets argent.

The Tide flows and flows; Atlantic's loud charges Mix in murmurous close with the wash of the barges.

With wondering ear the children cease playing; The voice that they hear, what can it be saying?

Too well they shall know, when amid the wild brattle Of the waters below, they enter life's battle.

The Tide flows apace; the s.h.i.+p that lies idle Trips out with trim grace, like a bride to her bridal.

What hath she in store? shall Fate her boon give her?

Or must she no more return to the river?

The flood has gone past! Ah me! one was late for it, And friends cry aghast: "How long must he wait for it?"

Young eyes that to-night are darkened for sorrow Shall hail with delight their dear s.h.i.+p to-morrow.

Amid the sea-wrack the barque, tempest battered, At length staggers back, like a prodigal tattered!

What if she be scarred or scoffers make light of her?

Though blemished and marred, how blest is the sight of her!

The Tide flows and flows, far past the grey towers; And whispering goes through the wheat and the flowers.

And now his pulse takes the calm heart of the valley And lifts, till it shakes, the low bough of the sally.

Slow, and more slow is his flow--he has tarried-- The blue Ocean's pilgrim, outwearied, miscarried!

Far, far from home, in wandering error, A dim rocky dome beshrouding his mirror.

But hark! a voice thrills the traveller erring; In the heart of the hills its sea-call is stirring:

And home, ever home, to its pa.s.sionate pleading, One whirl of white foam, with the ebb he is speeding.

"ORA PRO n.o.bIS"

(After Eifion Win, 1867- . He lies as a poet between Elfed and the "New Bards")

A sudden shower lashes The darkening pane; The voice of the tempest Is lifted again.

The centuried oaks To their very roots rock; And crying, for shelter Course cattle and flock.

Our Father, forget not The nestless bird now; The snow is so near, And so bare is the bough!

A great flood is flas.h.i.+ng Athwart the wide lee; Like a storm-struck encampment, The clouds rend and flee; At the scourge of the storm My cot quakes with affright; Far better the hearth Than the pavement to-night!

Our Father, forget not The homeless outcast; So thin is his raiment, So bitter Thy blast!

The foam-flakes are whirling Below on the strand, As white as the pages I turn with my hand; And the curlew afar, From his storm-troubled lair, Laments with the cry Of a soul in despair.

Our Father, forget not Our mariners' state; Their s.h.i.+ps are so slender, Thy seas are so great.

A FLOWER-SUNDAY LULLABY

(After Eifion Win, the contemporary Welsh poet)