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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
And if God what was wanted had not fully known,
But created the world of these three things alone,
How would any creature the heaven beneath,
Without the blest air have been able to breathe?
Thus all things created, the God of all grace,
Of four prime materials, each good in its place.
The work of His hands, when completed, He view’d,
And saw and pronounc’d that ’twas seemly and good.
Poverty.
In the marvellous things, which to me thou hast told
The wisdom of God I most clearly behold,
And did He not also make man of the same
Materials He us’d when the world He did frame?
Riches.
Creation is all, as the sages agree,
Of the elements four in man’s body that be;
Water’s the blood, and fire is the nature
Which prompts generation in every creature.
The earth is the flesh which with beauty is rife,
The air is the breath, without which is no life;
So man must be always accounted the same
As the substances four which exist in his frame.
And as in their creation distinction there’s none
’Twixt man and the world, so the Infinite One
Unto man a clear wisdom did bounteously give
The nature of everything to perceive.
Poverty.
But one thing to me passing strange doth appear:
Since the wisdom of man is so bright and so clear,
How comes there such jarring and warring to be
In the world betwixt Riches and Poverty?
Riches.
That point we’ll discuss without passion or fear,
With the aim of instructing the listeners here;
And haply some few who instruction require
May profit derive like the bee from the briar.
Man as thou knowest, in his generation
Is a type of the world and of all the creation;
Difference there’s none in the manner of birth
’Twixt the lowliest hinds and the lords of the earth.
The world which the same thing as man we account
In one place is sea, in another is mount;
A part of it rock, and a part of it dale—
God’s wisdom has made every place to avail.
There exist precious treasures of every kind
Profoundly in earth’s quiet bosom enshrin’d;
There’s searching about them, and ever has been,
And by some they are found, and by some never seen.
With wonderful wisdom the Lord God on high
Has contriv’d the two lights which exist in the sky;
The sun’s hot as fire, and its ray bright as gold,
But the moon’s ever pale, and by nature is cold.
The sun, which resembles a huge world of fire,
Would burn up full quickly creation entire
Save the moon with its temp’rament cool did assuage
Of its brighter companion the fury and rage.
Now I beg you the sun and the moon to behold,
The one that’s so bright, and the other so cold,
And say if two things in creation there be
Better emblems of Riches and Poverty.
 Poverty.
In manner most brief, yet convincing and clear,
You have told the whole truth to my wond’ring ear,
And I see that ’twas God, who in all things is fair,
Has assign’d us the forms, in this world which we bear.
In the sight of the world doth the wealthy man seem
Like the sun which doth warm everything with its beam;
Whilst the poor needy wight with his pitiable case
Resembles the moon which doth chill with its face.
Riches.
You know that full oft, in their course as they run,
An eclipse cometh over the moon or the sun;
Certain hills of the earth with their summits of pride
The face of the one from the other do hide.
The sun doth uplift his magnificent head,
And illumines the moon, which were otherwise dead,
Even as Wealth from its station on high,
Giveth work and provision to Poverty.
Poverty.
I know, and the thought mighty sorrow instils,
The sins of the world are the terrible hills
An eclipse which do cause, or a dread obscuration,
To one or another in every vocation.
Riches.
It is true that God gives unto each from his birth
Some task to perform whilst he wends upon earth,
But He gives correspondent wisdom and force
To the weight of the task, and the length of the course.
[Exit.
 Poverty.
I hope there are some, who ’twixt me and the youth
Have heard this discourse, whose sole aim is the truth,
Will see and acknowledge, as homeward they plod,
Each thing is arrang’d by the wisdom of God.
 THE PERISHING WORLD.

[From “The Sleeping Bard,” by Elis Wynn.]

O MAN, upon this building gaze,
The mansion of the human race,
The world terrestrial see!
Its Architect’s the King on high,
Who ne’er was born and ne’er will die—
The blest Divinity.
The world, its wall, its starlights all,
Its stores, where’er they lie,
Its wondrous brute variety,
Its reptiles, fish, and birds that fly,
And cannot number’d be,
The God above, to show His love,
Did give, O man, to thee.
For man, for man, whom He did plan,
God caus’d arise
This edifice,
Equal to heaven in all but size,
Beneath the sun so fair;
Then it He view’d, and that ’twas good
For man, He was aware.
Man only sought to know at first
Evil, and of the thing accursed
Obtain a sample small.
The sample grew a giantess,
’Tis easy from her size to guess
The whole her prey will fall.
Cellar and turret high,
Through hell’s dark treachery,
Now reeling, rocking, terribly,
In swooning pangs appear;
The orchards round, are only found
Vile sedge and weeds to bear;
The roof gives way, more, more each day,
The walls too, spite
Of all their might,
Have frightful cracks down all their height,
Which coming ruin show;
The dragons tell, that danger fell,
Now lurks the house below.
O man! this building fair and proud,
From its foundation to the cloud,
Is all in dangerous plight;
Beneath thee quakes and shakes the ground;
’Tis all, e’en down to hell’s profound,
A bog that scares the sight.
The sin man wrought, the deluge brought,
And without fail
A fiery gale,
Before which everything shall quail,
His deeds shall waken now;
Worse evermore, till all is o’er,
Thy case, O world, shall grow.
There’s one place free yet, man for thee,
Where mercies reign;
A place to which thou may’st attain.
Seek there a residence to gain
Lest thou in caverns howl;
For save thou there shalt quick repair,
Woe to thy wretched soul!
Towards yon building turn your face!
Too strong by far is yonder place
To lose the victory.
’Tis better than the reeling world;
For all the ills by hell up-hurl’d
It has a remedy.
Sublime it braves the wildest waves;
It is a refuge place
Impregnable to Belial’s race,
With stones, emitting vivid rays,
Above its stately porch;
Itself, and those therein, compose
The universal Church.
Though slaves of sin we long have been,
With faith sincere
We shall win pardon there;
Then in let’s press, O brethren dear,
And claim our dignity!
By doing so, we saints below
And saints on high shall be.
 DEATH THE GREAT.

[From “The Sleeping Bard,” by Elis Wynn.]

Leave land and house we must some day,
For human sway not long doth bide;
Leave pleasures and festivities,
And pedigrees, our boast and pride.
Leave strength and loveliness of mien,
Wit sharp and keen, experience dear;
Leave learning deep, and much-lov’d friends,
And all that tends our life to cheer.
From Death then is there no relief?
That ruthless thief and murderer fell,
Who to his shambles beareth down
All, all we own, and us as well.
Ye monied men, ye who would fain
Your wealth retain eternally,
How brave ’twould be a sum to raise,
And the good grace of Death to buy!
How brave! ye who with beauty beam,
On rank supreme who fix your mind,
Should ye your captivations muster,
And with their lustre King Death blind.
O ye who are of foot most light,
Who are in the height now of your spring,
Fly, fly, and ye will make us gape,
If ye can scape Death’s cruel fling.
The song and dance afford, I ween,
Relief from spleen and sorrow’s grave;
How very strange there is no dance,
Nor tune of France, from Death can save!
Ye travellers of sea and land,
Who know each strand below the sky;
Declare if ye have seen a place
Where Adam’s race can Death defy!
Ye scholars, and ye lawyer crowds,
Who are as gods reputed wise;
Can ye from all the lore ye know,
’Gainst death bestow some good advice?
The world, the flesh, and Devil, compose
The direst foes of mortals poor;
But take good heed of Death the Great,
From the Lost Gate, Destruction o’er.
’Tis not worth while of Death to prate,
Of his Lost Gate and courts so wide;
But O reflect! it much imports,
Of the two courts in which ye’re tried.
It here can little signify
If the street high we cross, or low;
Each lofty thought doth rise, be sure,
The soul to lure to deepest woe.
But by the wall that’s ne’er re-pass’d,
To gripe thee fast when Death prepares,
Heed, heed thy steps, for thou may’st mourn
The slightest turn for endless years.
When opes the door, and swiftly hence
To its residence eternal flies
The soul, it matters much, which side
Of the gulf wide its journey lies.
Deep penitence, amended life,
A bosom rife of zeal and faith,
Can help to man alone impart,
Against the smart and sting of Death.
These things to thee seem worthless now,
But not so low will they appear
When thou art come, O thoughtless friend!
Just to the end of thy career.
Thou’lt deem, when thou hast done with earth,
These things of worth unspeakable,
Beside the gulf so black and drear,
The gulf of Fear, ’twixt Heaven and Hell.
 THE HEAVY HEART.

[From “The Sleeping Bard,” by Elis Wynn.]

Heavy’s the heart with wandering below,
And with seeing the things in the country of woe;
Seeing lost men and the fiendish race,
In their very horrible prison place;
Seeing that the end of the crooked track
Is a flaming lake
Where dragon and snake
With rage are swelling.
I’d not, o’er a thousand worlds to reign,
Behold again,
Though safe from pain,
The infernal dwelling.
Heavy’s my heart, whilst so vividly
The place is yet in my memory;
To see so many, to me well known,
Thither unwittingly sinking down.
To-day a hell-dog is yesterday’s man,
And he has no plan,
But others to trepan
To Hell’s dismal revels.
When he reached the pit he a fiend became,
In face and in frame,
And in mind the same
As the very devils.
Heavy’s the heart with viewing the bed,
Where sin has the meed it has merited;
What frightful taunts from forked tongue,
On gentle and simple there are flung!
The ghastliness of the damned things to state,
Or the pains to relate
Which will ne’er abate
But increase for ever,
No power have I, nor others I wot:
Words cannot be got;
The shapes and the spot
Can be pictured never.
Heavy’s the heart, as none will deny,
At losing one’s friend, or the maid of one’s eye;
At losing one’s freedom, one’s land or wealth;
At losing one’s fame, or alas! one’s health;
At losing leisure; at losing ease;
At losing peace
And all things that please
The heaven under.
At losing memory, beauty and grace,
Heart-heaviness,
For a little space
Can cause no wonder.
Heavy’s the heart of man when first
He awakes from his worldly dream accursed;
Fain would he be freed from his awful load
Of sin, and be reconciled with his God;
When he feels for pleasures and luxuries
Disgust arise,
From the agonies
Of the ferment unruly,
Through which he becomes regenerate,
Of Christ the mate,
 From his sinful state
Springing blithe and holy.
Heavy’s the heart of the best of mankind,
Upon the bed of death reclined;
In mind and body ill at ease,
Betwixt remorse and the disease,
Vext by sharp pangs and dreading more.
O mortal poor!
O dreadful hour!
Horrors surround him!
To the end of the vain world he has won;
And dark and dun
The Eternal One
Beholds beyond him.
Heavy’s the heart, the pressure below,
Of all the griefs I have mentioned now;
But were they together all met in a mass,
There’s one grief still would all surpass;
Hope frees from each woe, while we this side
Of the wall abide—
At every tide
’Tis an outlet cranny.
But there’s a grief beyond the bier;
Hope will ne’er
Its victims cheer,
That cheers so many.
Heavy’s the heart therewith that’s fraught;
How heavy is mine at merely the thought!
Our worldly woes, however hard,
Are trifles when with that compared:
That woe—which is not known here—that woe
The lost ones know,
And undergo
In the nether regions;
How wretched the man who, exil’d to Hell,
In Hell must dwell,
And curse and yell
With the Hellish legions!
At nought, that may ever betide thee, fret
If at Hell thou art not arrived yet;
But thither, I rede thee, in mind repair
Full oft, and observantly wander there;
Musing intense, after reading me,
Of the flaming sea,
Will speedily thee
Convert by appalling.
Frequent remembrance of the black deep
Thy soul will keep,
Thou erring sheep,
From thither falling.
 RYCE OF TWYN.

[“I’ll bet a guinea that however clever a fellow you may be, you
never sang anything in praise of your landlord’s housekeeping equal
to what Dafydd Nanmor sang in praise of that of Ryce of Twyn four
hundred years ago.”]
For Ryce if hundred thousands plough’d,
The lands around his fair abode;
Did vines of thousand vineyards bleed,
Still corn and wine great Ryce would need;
If all the earth had bread’s sweet savour,
And water all had cyder’s flavour,
Three roaring feasts in Ryce’s hall
Would swallow earth and ocean all.
 LLYWELYN.

By Dafydd Benfras.
Llywelyn of the potent hand oft wrought
Trouble upon the kings and consternation;
When he with the Lloegrian monarch fought,
Whose cry was “Devastation!”
Forward impetuously his squadrons ran;
Great was the tumult ere the shout began;
Proud was the hero of his reeking glaive,
Proud of their numbers were his followers brave.
O then were heard resounding o’er the fields
The clash of faulchions and the crash of shields!
Many the wounds in yonder fight receiv’d!
Many the warriors of their lives bereaved!
The battle rages till our foes recoil
Behind the Dike which Offa built with toil,
Bloody their foreheads, gash’d with many a blow,
Blood streaming down their quaking knees below.
Llywelyn, we as our high chief obey,
To fair Porth Ysgewin extends his sway;
For regal virtues and for princely line
He towers above imperial Constantine.
 PLYNLIMMON.

By Lewis Glyn Cothi.

From high Plynlimmon’s shaggy side
Three streams in three directions glide,
To thousands at their mouth who tarry
Honey, gold and mead they carry.
Flow also from Plynlimmon high
Three streams of generosity; [137]
The first, a noble stream indeed,
Like rills of Mona runs with mead;
The second bears from vineyards thick
Wine to the feeble and the sick;
The third, till time shall be no more,
Mingled with gold shall silver pour.
QUATRAINS AND STRAY STANZAS
FROM “WILD WALES.”

I.
Chester ale, Chester ale! I could ne’er get it down,
’Tis made of ground-ivy, of dirt, and of bran,
’Tis as thick as a river below a huge town!
’Tis not lap for a dog, far less drink for a man.

II.
Gone, gone are thy gates, Dinas Bran on the height!
Thy warders are blood-crows and ravens, I trow;
Now no one will wend from the field of the fight
To the fortress on high, save the raven and crow.

III.
Here, after sailing far, I, Madoc, lie,
Of Owain Gwynedd lawful progeny:
The verdant land had little charms for me;
From earliest youth I loved the dark-blue sea.
God in his head the Muse instill’d,
And from his head the world he fill’d.

IV. EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH WILLIAMS.

 Though thou art gone to dwelling cold,
To lie in mould for many a year,
Thou shalt, at length, from earthy bed,
Uplift thy head to blissful sphere.

V. THE LAST JOURNEY. From Huw Morus.

Now to my rest I hurry away,
To the world which lasts for ever and aye,
To Paradise, the beautiful place,
Trusting alone in the Lord of Grace.

VI. THE FOUR AND TWENTY MEASURES. From

Edward Price.
I’ve read the master-pieces great
Of languages no less than eight,
But ne’er have found a woof of song
So strict as that of Cambria’s tongue.

VII. MONA. By Robert Lleiaf.

Av i dir Mon, er dwr Menai,
Tros y traeth, ond aros trai.
I will go to the land of Mona, notwithstanding the water of the
Menai, across the sand, without waiting for the ebb.

VIII. MONA. From “Y Greal.”

I got up in Mona as soon as ’twas light,
At nine in old Chester my breakfast I took;
In Ireland I dined, and in Mona, ere night,
By the turf fire sat, in my own ingle nook.
 IX. ERYRI.
Easy to say, “Behold Eryri!”
But difficult to reach its head;
Easy for him whose hopes are cheery
To bid the wretch be comforted.

X. ERYRI. From Goronwy Owen.

Ail i’r ar ael Eryri,
Cyfartal hoewal a hi.
The brow of Snowdon shall be levelled with the ground, and the
eddying waters shall murmur round it.

XI. ELLEN. From Goronwy Owen.

Ellen, my darling,
Who liest in the churchyard of Walton.

XII. MON. From the Ode by Robin Ddu.

Bread of the wholesomest is found
In my mother-land of Anglesey;
Friendly bounteous men abound
In Penmynnydd of Anglesey. . . .
Twelve sober men the muses woo,
Twelve sober men in Anglesey,
Dwelling at home, like patriots true,
In reverence for Anglesey. . .
Though Arvon graduate bards can boast,
Yet more canst thou, O Anglesey.
 XIII. MON. From Huw Goch.
Brodir, gnawd ynddi prydydd;
Heb ganu ni bu ni bydd.
A hospitable country, in which a poet is a thing of course. It has
never been and will never be without song.

XIV. LEWIS MORRIS OF MON. From Goronwy

Owen.
“As long as Bardic lore shall last, science and learning be cherished,
the language and blood of the Britons undefiled, song be heard on
Parnassus, heaven and earth be in existence, foam be on the surge,
and water in the river, the name of Lewis of Mon shall be held in
grateful remembrance.”

XV. THE GRAVE OF BELI.

Who lies ’neath the cairn on the headland hoar,
His hand yet holding his broad claymore,
Is it Beli, the son of Benlli Gawr?

XVI. THE GARDEN. From Gwilym Du o Eifion.

In a garden the first of our race was deceived;
In a garden the promise of grace he received;
In a garden was Jesus betray’d to His doom;
In a garden His body was laid in the tomb.

XVII. THE SATIRIST. From Gruffydd

Hiraethog.
He who satire loves to sing,
On himself will satire bring.

XVIII. ON GRUFFYDD HIRAETHOG. From

William Lleyn.
In Eden’s grove from Adam’s mouth
Upsprang a muse of noble growth;
So from thy grave, O poet wise,
Cross Consonancy’s boughs shall rise.

XIX. LLANGOLLEN ALE. (George Borrow).

Llangollen’s brown ale is with malt and hop rife;
’Tis good; but don’t quaff it from evening till dawn;
For too much of that ale will incline you to strife;
Too much of that ale has caused knives to be drawn.

XX. TOM EVANS alias Twm o’r Nant. By Twm

Tai.
Tom Evan’s the lad for hunting up songs,
Tom Evan to whom the best learning belongs;
Betwixt his two pasteboards he verses has got,
Sufficient to fill the whole country, I wot.

XXI. ENGLYN ON A WATERFALL.

Foaming and frothing from mountainous height,
Roaring like thunder the Rhyadr falls;
Though its silvery splendour the eye may delight,
Its fury the heart of the bravest appals.
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