26 Walisische Lieder , opus WoO. 155

Hear the shuts of Evan's son!
See the gallant chase begun!
Lo the deer affrighted run
Up yon mountain's side.
Check your speed, ye timorous deer,
Safely rest and cease you fear,
Or boldly on your cliffs appear
And bear your antlers high!
Deep through yonder tangling wood
See the felon wolf pursued,
Straining hard, and streaming blood,
Sion's hounds are nigh!

See the woodland savage grim,
Boney, gaunt, and large of limb,
Furious plunge, and fearless swim
O'er the water wide.
Hear the woods resounding far,
Hark the distant din of war,
See th'impatient hunter dare
Conway's swelling tide.
Evan's son pursues the foe;
See his ardent visage glow!
Now he speeds the mortal blow,
See the savage die!

From dusky den and thorny brake,
The chiding hounds the echoes wake,
The forest's cowering inmates quake,
And triumph rends the air.
Was ever youth like Evan's son,
Was ever course so nobly run?
Was ever prize so glorious won,
'Tis Winifred the fair!
To hardy deeds and conquering arms,
That save the fold from midnight harms,
The ancient chief decrees her charms
The maid beyond compare!

When the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguered Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar gray
Marched from Bangor's fair Abbaye;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the sylvan Dee.
O miserere, Domine!

On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doomed to feel unhallowed hand!
Such was the Divine decree,
O miserere, Domine!

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill;
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,
O miserere, Domine!

Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurned by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughtered down by heathen blade,
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid;
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung and bread unbroke;
For their souls for charity,
Sing, O miserere, Domine!

Bangor! o'er the murder wail!
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shattered towers and broken arch
Long recalled the woful march:
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O miserere, Domine!

I envy not the splendour fine
That glitters in Sir Watkyn's hall;
I ask not for the gems that shine
Om lady fair at Wintley ball:
I wish but for a ribbon gay,
Which I might on a Sunday wear;
Unseen which I might kiss, and say,
'Twas Owen's gift from Wrexham fair.

O Owen, I believe thee kind,
And love is surely on thy tongue ...
But would that I could read thy mind,
For hope betrays the maiden young.
Last night I saw thee loth to part,
I watch'd thy looks - so bright the moon -
And know not but my simple heart
Might own too much, or own too soon.

Unhappy fate, oh doubtful maid!
Her tears may fall, her bosom swell.
But even to the desert shade
She never must her secret tell.
And is it Love, - his softer mien?
And is it Love, - his whisper low?
And does he much, or nothing mean?
Ah! She that loves, how can she know!

With Owen I the dance have led,
And then I thought that sure he seem'd
To dance with lighter, livelier tread ...
Oh! Was it so, - or have I dream'd?
Today he goes with merry glee,
And all are going to the fair ...
O may I by some ribbon see
He thought of one that was not there.

Her features speak the warmest heart,
But not for me its ardour glows;
In that soft blush I have no part
Thet mingles with her bosom's snows.
In that dear drop I have no share
That trembles in her melting eye;
Nor is my love the tender care
That birds her heave that anxious sigh.

Not fancy's happiest hours create
Visions of rapture as divine,
As the pure bliss which must await
The man whose soul is knit to thine.
But ah! Farewell this treacherous theme,
Which, though'tis misery to forego,
Yields yet of joy the soothing dream,
That grief like mine thou ne'er shalt know.

He:
 A golden robe my Love shall wear,
 And rubies bind her yellow hair;
 A golden robe those limbs enfold,
 So far above the worth of gold.
 No courtly dame in gaudy pride,
 Shall e'er outshine my lovely bride;
 Then say, my charming maiden say,
 When shall we name the happy day?

She:
 Can golden robes my fancy bind,
 Or ruby chains enslave the mind?
 Not all the wealth our mountains own,
 Nor orient pearls, nor precious stone,
 Can tempt me by their idle shine,
 Or buy a heart that's form'd like mine!
 My choice it is already made,
 I shun the glare, and court the shade.

He:
 Your scorn, proud girl, I well can bear,
 There's many a maid my robes would wear,
 And thank me too; so take your way,
 But you'll repent another day.

She:
 Go with your robes and gifts of gold
 To those whose hearts are to be sold;
 For me, I have no other pride
 But Evan's love my choice to guide!

How, my love, could hapless doubts o'er take thee,
Was my heart so little known?
Could'st thou think thy Mary would forsake thee?
Thou wast lov'd, and thou alone!
Cruel Fortune! Rash! Mistaken Lover!
May I ... must I not complain:
Never, never may'st thou now discover,
All that now were known in vain.

Mine the grief, alas! That knows no measure,
Thou wast lov'd, and thou alone:
Thine the life that now can feel no pleasure,
Wreck'd my bliss, and lost thine own.
Sometimes will my lonely sighs accuse thee,
But thy heart was not unkind.

Oh let the night my blushes hide,
While thus my sighs reveal,
What modest love and maiden pride 
Forever would conceal.
Oh let the night my blushes hide,
While thus my sighs reveal,
What modest love and maiden pride 
Forever would conceal.
What can he mean, how can he bear, 
Thus falt'ring to delay;
How can his eyes, his eyes so much declare,
His tongue so little say, his tongue so little say?

Our parents old, --for so I guess,
His thoughtful mind alarm;
A thousand spectres of distress,--
The ruined crops and farm!
Our parents old, --for so I guess,
His thoughtful mind alarm;
A thousand spectres of distress,--
The ruined crops and farm!
But must we wait till age and care
Shall fix our wedding day;
How can his eyes so much declare,
His tongue so little say?

The times are hard,--an odious word,
I'm wearied with the sound,--
A cuckoo note, for ever heard 
Since first the sun went round,
The times are hard,--an odious word,
I'm wearied with the sound,--
A cuckoo note, for ever heard 
Since first the sun went round,
Well pleas'd a happier mind I bear,
A heart for ever gay;
How can his eyes so much declare,
His tongue so little say?

What recks it that the times are hard,
Try fortune, and be blest--
Set Hope still cheer and Honour guard,
And Love will do the rest.
What recks it that the times are hard,
Try fortune, and be blest--
Set Hope still cheer and Honour guard,
And Love will do the rest.
Far better load the heart with care,
Than waste it with delay;
How can his eyes so much declare,
His tongue so little say?

Farewell, farewell, thou noisy town,
Thou scene of restless glare;
Thine hours no real pleasures crown,
No peace, no love is there.
How dull thy splendid ev'nings close!
How sad thy joys to me!
Thy hollow smiles, thy rival shows,
And all thy misery.

But welcome to my longing eyes,
Dear objects ever new,
My rural cot, you varying skies,
Streams, woods, amd mountains blue!
With these my humble spirits finds
Health, liberty, and rest,
The silent joys of simple minds,
And leisure to be blest.

Harp of the winds! In airy measure
Thy strings when viewless fingers move,
Unfolding all thy tuneful treasure,
Thy cadence wild I dearly love.

Refrain:
 The sounds, all earthly sounds excelling,
 Our wand'ring thoughts to heav'n recall;
 Now softly sighing, loudly swelling,
 Lost in many a dying fall.

Harp of the winds! While, pensive musing,
I mark thy deep impassion'd strain,
When trees their summer beauty losing,
With yellow leaves bestrew the plain.

(Refrain)

Harp of the winds! While, faintly beaming,
Yon moon hangs o'er the ruined tower,
And flitting shadows dimly gleaming,
Seem subject to thy magic power.

(Refrain)

To leave my dear girl, my country, and friends,
And roam o'er the ocean, where toil never ends;
To mount the high yards, when the whistle shall sound,
Amidst the wild winds as they bluster around!
My heart aches to think on't, but still I must go,
For duty now calls me to face the proud foe:
And so to my Winny I must bid adieu,
In hopes when I'm gone she will think of Ned Pugh.

That still she will think she is near to my heart,
Tho' far from each other, alas! We must part,
That next to my duty, my thoughts she will share,
My love and my glory both centre in her!
And should I return with some hits from Mountseer,
I know I shall meet with a smile and a tear;
Or if I should fall then dear Winny adieu!
I know when I'm gone you'll remember Ned Pugh.

In the white cot where Peggy dwells,
Her daughter fair the rose excels
That round her casement sweetly blows,
And on the gale its fragrance throws.
O were she mine, the lovely maid!
She soon would leave the lonely shade.

I'd bear her where the beams of morn
Should with their brightest rays adorn
Each budding charm and op'ning grace,
That moulds her form and decks her face.
O were she mine, the lovely maid!
I'd bear her from the lonely shade.

But, should the sultry orb of day
Too fiercely dart his fervid ray,
The rose upon its stalk might die,
And zephyr o'er its ruins sigh!
No -- I would keep my lovely maid
Secure beneath the friendly shade.

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
Upon the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here.
With hawk and horses and hunting-spear!
The eager hounds in chorus cry, 
The swelling horns salute the sky; 
And merrily, merrily mingle they, 
Then Waken, lords and ladies gay !

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Brakes are deck'd with diamonds bright,
And streams rejoice in early light. 
The foresters have busy been 
To track the buck in thicket green; 
Now we are come to chant our lay, 
Then waken, lords and ladies gay.

 ... 

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth and mirth and glee
Run swift their course as well as we; 
Old Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk, 
As staunch as hound and fleet as hawk? 
O think of this, and rise with day, 
Ye gentle lords and ladies gay!

How cruel are the parents
    Who riches only prize,
And to the wealthy booby
    Poor woman sacrifice !
Meanwhile the hapless daughter
    Has but a choice of strife :
To shun a tyrant father's hate,
    Become a wretched wife !

The rav'ning hawk pursuing,
    The trembling dove thus flies :
To shun impelling ruin
    A while her pinions tries;
'Till of escape despairing,
    No shelter or retreat,
She trusts the ruthless falconer,
    And drops beneath his feet.

Last night worn with anguish that tortur'd my breast,
When my senses benumb'd I at length sank to rest;
The passion that waking has ruled o'er my mind
Still woke in my dreams where it rov'd unconfin'd.

Methought that my fair one, o'ercome by my pain,
Assented at length to reward her fond swain;
And soon at the altar she stood by my side,
To the priest I already "I will" had replied.

Her reply I awaited with transport of soul,
When, death to my hopes! did the matin bell toll,
I started, awoke, and with horror I found,
'Twas a dream that maliciously fled at the sound.

O Vision that thus hast beguiled my poor heart!
Fly to her and shew all the truth without art;
Present me the victim of love and despair,
And incline to compassion the obdurate fair.

 When mortals all to rest retire,
 o Moon! Thou hear'st my
 whisp'ring lyre:
 to thee I wake the mpurnful lay;
 for sure thou lookst as if thy ray
 would confort, if it could,
 convey, and happier songs inspire.
 And I will happier be;

 my heart, though late, shall wisdom learn,
 from love's delusions free:
 my siprit shall in dignant burn,
 and I with maiden pride will spurn
 his strange inconstancy.

 Roll on ye hours! And back restore
 the peaceful thoughts I knew before,
 when smil'd the arts, when charm'd the muse,
 when morn for me had beauteous hues,
 and evening could her calm
 diffuse my ardent bosom o'er.
 But Love! Thou fiend of pain!
 I feel the tears
 of anguish start how hard my peace to gain!
 O fiend and tyrant as thou art!
 That wring'st from my unwilling
 heart the sighs that I disdain.

Fair Tivy how sweet are thy waves gently flowing,
The wild open woods and green eglantine bow'rs,
Thy banks with the blush rose and amaranth glowing,
While friendship and mirth claim these labourless hours.

Refrain:
 Yet weak is our vaunt, while something we want,
 More sweet than the pleasures which prospects can give:
 Come, smile, sweet damsels of Cardigan!
 Love can alone make it blissful to live.

How sweet is the odour of jasmine and roses,
That Zephyr around us so lavishly flings!
Perhaps for Bleanpant fresh perfume he composes,
Or tidings from Bronwith auspiciously brings.

Refrain:
 Yet weak is our vaunt, while something we want,
 More sweet than the pleasures which odours can give:
 Come, smile, sweet damsels of Cardigan!
 Love can alone make it blissful to live.

No longer then pore over dark Gotich pages,
To cull a rude gibberish from Neatheam or Brooke;
Leave your books and your parchments to grey-bearded sages,
Be nature and love, and fair woman, our book!

Refrain:
 Yet weak is our vaunt, while something we want,
 More sweet than the pleasures that learning can give:
 Come, smile, sweet damsels of Cardigan!
 Love can alone make it blissful to live.

A spreading hawthorn shades the seat 
Where I have fix'd my cool retreat;
And when the spring, with sunny show'rs, 
Expands the leaves, and paints the flow'rs, 
A thousands shrubs around it bloom,
And fill the air with wild perfume;
The light winds through the branches sigh, 
And limpid rills run tinkling by.

There, by the twilight dimly seen,
The fairies dance upon the green,
And as they glide in airy ring,
The beetle plies his drowsy wing;
And watching'till the day retires,
The glow worm lights her elfin fires;
While Mab, who guards my milky store,
Her cream bowl finds before the door.

The grateful Fay! she is so kind
No caterpillar there you find,
No creeping thing, nor wasp, nor fly
The lattic'd windows dare come night;
No long legg'd Spinner nightly weaves
Her flimsy web beneath the eaves;
But clean and neat, as by a charm,
The fairies keep my dairy farm.

Yes, thou art chang'd since first we met,
But think not I shall e'er regret,
For never can my heart forget,
The charms that once were thine.
For Marian, well the cause I know
That stole the luster from thine eye,
That prov'd thy beauty's secret foe,
And paled thy cheek's carnation dye:
What made thy health, sweet Marian, fly,
Was anxious care of me.

Yes, o'er my couch I saw thee bend,
The duteous wife, the tender friend,
And each capricious wish attend
With soft incessant care.
Then trust me, Love, that pallid face
Can boast a sweeter charm for me,
A truer, tenderer, dearer grace
Than blooming health bestow'd on thee:
For there thy well-tried love I see,
And read my blessing there.

Think not I'll leave fair Clwyd's vale;
To me 'tis fondly dear!
For still its scenes those hours recall
When I was blest and Henry here.

Long, long, to part our willing hands
An angry father strove;
While sorrow press'd on Henry's health,
A sorrow nurs'd by hopeless love.

His Ellen's cheek was also pale,
But Hope my spirits cheer'd;
Methought beneath a father's frown,
A father's pard'ning smile appear'd.

Nor was the idea vain:
How sad thou art, he cried;
But smile again, my darling child;
For thou shalt be thy Henry's bride.

At that glad sound, on wings of love,
To Henry's cot I flew:
But, ah! The transient flush of joy
From his wan cheek too soon withdrew.

'Twas doubtful bliss, 'twas sure alarm;
I only smil'd through tears:
But soon we hailed the bridal day,
And Love's fond hopes o'ercame its fears.

Ah! Hopes too false; ah! Fears too true,
Nor love nor joy could save:
I can no more, - but mark you turf
With flow'rs o'erspread, - 'tis Henry's grave!

Sweet warbler of a strain divine,
What woodland note can equal thine?
No hermit's matins hail the day
More pure than fine from yonder spray.
Thy glossy plumes of sable hue,
Retiring from the searching view,
Protect the like, the leafy screen
Beneath whose shade thou singst unseen.

What ermine vest was e'er so warm
As plumes of down that clothe thy form!
Thy graceful crest, thy sparkling eye,
And slender bill of coral dye,
Are still less charming than thy song
Which echoes through the woods prolong:
Thy mellow strain delights the ear
Of the sweet maid my soul holds dear.

Thou to the poet art allied,
Be then thy minstrelsy my pride:
Thy poet then, thy song I'll praise,
Thy name shall grace my happiest lays;
To future lovers shall proclaim
Thy worth, thy beauty, and thy fame,
And when they hear thee in the grove,
Thy'll own thee for the bird of love.

Dear brother! Yes, the nymph you wed
Must be of loveliest feature,
The finest heart, the finest head,
The sweetest dearest creature.
This matchless maid go find and woo,
And heav'n for you preserve her!
I only ask, where is in you
Te merit to deserve her?

We girls, I own, are just the same,
Talk folly just as blindly;
And did not Cupid take his aim
And rule the world more kindly,
Fair maids to find with ev'ry grace,
How vain were your endeavour?
And we might in another place
Lead apes, alas! for ever.

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part
As far's the pole and line,
Her dear idea round my heart
Would tenderly entwine.
Tho' mountains frown, and deserts howl,
And oceans roll between;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.

My pleasant home be side the Dee!
I often sigh to think of thee,
dear scenes of love and peace and ease,
how diff'rent all from scenes like these!
My soldier brave l've follow'd
far
but sicken at these sights of war.

The nod at church,
the conscious smile,
The haste to help me at the stile,
The pleasant walk at summer eve,
The parting kiss at taking leave:
O hours!
That once with Tom were past,
Dear happy hours! too sweet to last.

Now converse short with Tom I hold;
"Come, Sue" he cries, "ue'er fear the cold
"The fare is scant - but never mind -
"On, on my Sue, nor lag behind."
And come what will, and come wat may,
Poor Sue must be alert and
gay.

Yet Love, I know always cure
The ills that we from Love endure;
And Tom can with a single smile
The weariest of my thoughts beguile,
Dear pleasant home beside the Dee!!
I must not - will not - thinks of thee.

In yonder snug cottage, beneath the cliff's side,
And close to the pebbles that limit the tide,
Were five little fellows, a couple's fond care,
Who'd barely enough, not a morsel to spare.
They sometimes were hatless when summer was hot
And shoeless when winter in snow wrapt their cot;
Yet up grew the boys that no hardship could break,
And one of the five is my lad of the lake.

That rivals were mine I had once to deplore,
And every new day made their number one more;
No maiden beheld him but glaz'd for a while,
Bewitch'd by his figure, entranc'd by his smile:
And what gave each motion additional grace,
My Hywel's good heart might be read on his face;
At church, at the playfield, the fair, or the wake,
Unmatch'd was my Hywel, the lad of the lake.

My father, o bless him! Few better, or such,
Yet loves his dear money a little too much,
Declar'd, if by fancy alone I was sway'd,
Nor his wealth, nor his blessing, my Hywel should aid!
I answer'd, my Hywel has vigour and health,
And these to the children of Nature are wealth;
Tho' my heart were a dozen, they'd all of them break,
If still he denied me the lad of the lake.

Now hear how my troubles and sorrows are past,
How my father himself grew a convert at last;
'Twas when his foot slip't as he enter'd the boat,
My Hywel uprais'd him as quick as a thought.
He ey'd him with kindness, and gave me a kiss,
And said, Kate, I should like to have grandsons like this;
Be happy, my girl, and the treasure now take,
Tho'poor, yet a prize is thy lad of the lake.

Laura, thy sighs must now no more
My falt'ring step detain,
Nor dare I hang thy sorrows o'er,
Nor clasp thee thus in vain:
Yet while thy bosom heaves that sigh,
While tears thy cheek bedew,
Ah! Think tho' doom'd from thee to fly,
My heart speaks no adieu.

Thee would I bid to check those sighs,
If thine were heard alone ...
Thee would I bid to dry those eyes,
But tears are in my own.
One last, long kiss ... and then we part,
Another and adieu!
I cannot aid thy breaking heart,
For mine is breaking too.

Ere yet we slumber seek,
Blest Queen of Song, descend!
Thy shell can sweetest speak
Good night to guest and friends.
'Tis pain, 'tis pain to part
For e'en one fleeting night;
But Music's matchless art
Can turn it to delight.

How sweet the farewell glass,
When Music gives it zest!
How sweet their dreams who pass
From harmony to rest!
Dark thoughts that scare repose,
At Music's voice give place;
And Fancy lends her rose,
Sleeps poppy wreath to grace.