Heavenly hue and form
  Above, around, are glowing warm,
  From His right hand Who rides the storm,
    Yet paints the lily’s cheek. 
  Yea! whereso’er man lifts his eyes
  To wood or wave or sunset skies,
  A myriad magic shapes arise
    Eternal Love to speak.

PLAS GOGERDDAN

(After Ceiriog to a Welsh Air)

  “Without thy Sire hast thou returned?”
    In grief the Princess cried! 
  “Go back!—­or from my sight be spurned—­
    To battle by his side. 
  I gave thee birth; but struck to earth
    I’d sooner see thee lie,
  Or on thy bier come carried here,
    Than thus a craven fly!

  “Seek yonder hall, and pore on all
    The portraits of thy race;
  The courage high that fires each eye
    Canst thou endure to face?”
  “I’ll bring no blame on thy fair name,
    Or my forefathers slight! 
  But kiss and bless me, mother dear,
    Ere I return to fight.”

  He fought and fell—­his stricken corse
    They bore to her abode;
  “My son!” she shrieked, in wild remorse;
    “Forgive me, O! my God!”
  Then from the wall old voices fall: 
    “Rejoice for such a son! 
  His deed and thine shall deathless shine,
    Whilst Gwalia’s waters run!”

ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

Ar Hyd y Nos

(After Ceiriog to this Welsh Air)

  Fiery day is ever mocking
    Man’s feeble sight;
  Darkness eve by eve unlocking
    Heav’n’s casket bright;
  Thence the burdened spirit borrows
  Strength to meet laborious morrows,
  Starry peace to soothe his sorrows,
    All through the night.

  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 shining,
  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 shiver,
  On, on the Tide flows, on, on, up the river!