O ye rich, in all your pride Through the ages would ye bide, Wherefore not with Death compound, Ere underground he hide you?
Lusty athlete, light of foot, Death, the Bowman's fell pursuit Challenge! O, the laurels won, If thou but shun his shooting!
Travellers by sea and land On remotest mount or strand, Have ye found one secret spot Where Death is not commanding?
Learned scholar, jurist proud, Lifted god-like o'er the crowd, Can your keenest counsel's aid Dispel Death's shade enshrouding?
Fervent faith, profound repentance, Holy hours of stern self-sentence-- These alone can victory bring When Death's dread sting shall wring us.
(After Goronwy Owen, 1728-1769, next to Dafydd ab Gwilym, the greatest poet who sang in the old Welsh metres)
Day of Doom, at thy glooming May Earth be but meet for thee! Day, whose hour of louring Not angels in light foresee! To Christ alone and the Father 'Tis known when thy hosts of might Swift as giants shall gather, Yet stealthy as thieves at night.
Then what woe to the froward, What joy to the just and kind! When the Seraph band comes streaming Christ's gleaming banner behind; Heavenly blue shall its hue be To a myriad marvelling eyes; Save where its heart encrimsons The cross of the sacrifice!
Rocks in that day's black fury Like leaves shall be whirled in the blast; Hoary-headed Eryri Prone to the plough-lands cast! Then shall be roaring and warring And ferment of sea and firth, Ocean, in turmoil upboiling, Confounding each bound of earth. The flow of the Deluge of Noah Were naught by that fell Flood's girth!
Then Heaven's pure self shall offer Her multitudinous eyes, Cruel blinding to suffer, As her sun faints out of the skies; And the bright-faced Moon shall languish And perish in such fierce pain As darkened and shook with anguish All Life, when the Lamb was slain.
Wise yokel foolish King excelleth; Good name than spikenard sweeter smelleth! What's gold to prudence? Strength to grace? Man's more than goods; God first in place.
What though her dowry be but meagre, Far better wise, God-fearing Igir, Than yonder vain and brainless doll, Helpless her fortune to control.
A wife that's true and kind and sunny Is better than a mint of money; Better than houses, land and gold Or pearls and gems to have and hold.