__________________________________________________________________

        Title: Sweet Singers of Wales
   Creator(s): Lewis, H. Elvet
  Print Basis: London: Religious Tract Society, undated [1889].
       Rights: Public domain in the United States but not the United Kingdom.
   LC Call no: BV312.L6
  LC Subjects:

               Practical theology

               Worship (Public and Private) Including the church year, Christian
               symbols, liturgy, prayer, hymnology

               Hymnology
     __________________________________________________________________

                             SWEET SINGERS OF WALES

   A Story of
   WELSH HYMNS AND THEIR AUTHORS

   WITH ORIGINAL TRANSLATIONS

   BY
   H. ELVET LEWIS

   DYGYMYDD DUW AG EMYN

   Gor. Owain

   London
   THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
   56, PATERNOSTER ROW, 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
   AND 164, PICCADILLY
     __________________________________________________________________

PREFACE.

   Several of these papers appeared in the Sunday at Home during 1887-8.
   They were very kindly received; and as a consequence they have been
   revised and much enlarged, and are now offered in a separate volume.

   No history of Welsh Hymnology has been written in the vernacular. But I
   must acknowledge my indebtedness, in the historical part, to articles
   by the Revs. Thomas Rees, D.D., of Swansea; Wm. Rees, D.D., of
   Liverpool; W. Glanffrwd Thomas, of St. Asaph; and W. Alonzo Griffiths,
   of Sketty. Especially in the case of Mrs. Ann Griffiths, I owe much to
   her biography, edited by Mr. Morris Davies. Beside this, I have been
   aided in several matters by my friends the Revs. J. B. Jones, B.A.,
   Brecon, and J. Evans-Owen, Llanberis.

   In the hymns themselves my chief help has come from EMYNAU Y CYSSEGR
   ('Hymns of the Sanctuary,') a national collection published by Messrs.
   Gee and Son, Denbigh. To them I am also obliged for permission to use
   some of the copyright hymns; and to Messrs. Hughes and Son, Wrexham,
   for a similar permission in the case of Islwyn's hymn.

   The metres of the original have been adhered to, except in very few and
   trivial instances.

   The selections given are representative only not exhaustive of authors,
   and much less so of hymns. Mr. Gee's collection contains 2,685--and
   that by no means drains the stream. A few have attempted more or less
   in this work before me: there is plenty of room for others to come
   after. May it be to these what it has been to me--a lasting pleasure of
   love!
     __________________________________________________________________

CONTENTS.

   CHAP.                                                                  PAGE
   I.    INTRODUCTORY                                                     9
   II.   MAURICE AND EDWARD KYFFIN--CAPT. MIDDLETON--EDMUND PRYS--DAVID
         JONES                                                            15
   III.  WILLIAM WILLIAMS, PANTYCELYN                                     29
   IV.   ANN GRIFFITHS                                                    53
   V.    MORGAN RHYS--DAVID WILLIAMS--BENJAMIN FRANCIS                    70
   VI.   THOMAS WILLIAMS--CHARLES O'R BALA--DAVID CHARLES                 81
   VII.  HUGH JONES--EDWARD JONES--PEDR FARDD--R. AB GWILYM DDU           91
   VIII. DANIEL DDU--NICANDER--IEUAN GLAN GEIRIONYDD                      99
   IX.   HIRAETHOG--EMRYS--ISLWYN                                         109
   X.    S. R.--DAVID JONES OF TREBORTH--ROGER EDWARDS--THOMAS REES, D.D. 119
   XI.   PICTURES AND CONCEITS                                            133
   XII.  VERSES WITH A HISTORY                                            141
   XIII. HYMNS OF TO-DAY                                                  147
   INDEX                                                                  154
     __________________________________________________________________

SWEET SINGERS OF WALES.
     __________________________________________________________________
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER I.
  INTRODUCTORY.


   Their Lord they will praise,

   Their language they will keep,

   Their land they will lose

   Except wild Wales.

   So sings an ancient poet of Wales--generally alleged to be Taliesin. On
   whatever lonesome peak he stood, a companion of clouds and storms and
   far-off dawns, he heard the prayer, and knew the hope of a nation. Wild
   Wales is still their home; its ancient speech is still their own. The
   praise of God has been in the land since early Christian days: it has
   been often subdued, sometimes almost an exile music, but never quite
   lost. To-day more than ever the best song of the land is the song of
   God: and the prophetic words haunt its valleys and hills like an
   immortal echo--'Their God they will praise.'
     __________________________________________________________________

    A Bardic Hymn

   Where hymnal preludes first entered Welsh literature, it is not easy to
   say. There are remainders still extant which go so far back as the
   twelfth century. Naturally, these are tinged with Catholic sentiment;
   but for the most part the tinge is very slight, and scarcely hurts
   their delicate simplicity. The following free translation of a bardic
   hymn out of the Black Book of Caermarthen will show the character of
   these earlier compositions:


   In the Name of the Lord,

   Be it mine Him to praise,

   Who is great in praises:

   Him as Ruler I adore,

   For He hath increased the fruit

   Of His charity.


   God hath guarded us,

   God hath made us,

   God will save us:

   God is our Hope,

   Worthy and perfect--

   Fair is His destiny.


   We are ownèd of Him,

   Who is in the heights

   King of Trinity:

   God was sorely tried,

   When He was entering

   Into affliction.


   God has come forth,

   Though He was prisoned

   In His gentleness

   Sovereign most happy,

   He shall make us free

   For the day of doom.


   He shall bring us to the feast,

   In His mildness

   And His lowliness:

   In His Paradise,

   Holy shall we dwell

   From sin's penalty.


   We have no health

   But in His chastisement

   And the five strokes:

   Unsparing His grief was,

   In human defence,

   When He took our flesh.


   Unto God we were lost,

   Except for the ransom

   By a blameless decree:

   From the blood-stained rood

   Came salvation forth

   To the wide universe:

   Mighty Shepherd,

   Never shall the merit

   Of Christ decay.
     __________________________________________________________________

    Welsh Music

   Davydd Ddu of Hiraddug, who flourished in the Fifteenth century,
   produced a metrical version of the Officium B. Mariae and of several
   psalms. Whether any of these were brought into the service of the Welsh
   Church of that age, or not, we have no means of discovering. In any
   case they could not have touched a nation's heart. They are correct and
   refined, but they have no native warmth. However, before another
   hundred years had passed, the nation had a Welsh Bible; and with the
   native Bible appeared the firstfruits of a native bymnody.

   If the translations included in this volume have to any extent
   reproduced the tone of the original, scarcely will any one fail to
   perceive their national characteristics. They are hymns of the heart
   everywhere touched by a light and pleasant fancy. From first to last
   they preserve a general feature of picturesqueness. Almost every verse
   is a transcript from Nature--spiritualized and illuminated. We walk in
   a song-land of rocks and mountains; of valleys and running brooks; of
   beautiful dawns struggling into day on mist-covered hills, and calm
   sunsets of gold breathing peace on land and sea after a storm of
   thunder and lightning and rain; of long winter nights with every song
   hushed under the starless skies, and happy spring mornings when every
   leaf is a murmur of resurrection. The verses which are borne in the
   hearts of Welshmen wherever they go, and are sung on Western prairie or
   beneath the Southern Cross--they are verses with a picture of some
   well-remembered scene changed into a spiritual idea.

   English hymnody has become far more picturesque than it used to be.
   Some of the most popular of modern hymns are set round with pleasant
   hints of Nature. Verses moving drearily without any light of fancy have
   had to give place to a brighter poesy. This little collection may not,
   therefore, be considered out of season.

   But it is impossible not to feel that only one half of the story is
   given. However characteristically Welsh the words and sentiments of
   these hymns may be, the native melodies to which they have been wedded
   are perhaps even more so. The minor tunes of the Welsh sanctuary are as
   much a part of the people's religion as Snowdon is of the county of
   Arvon. Strangers have been much impressed with their sweet
   melancholy--as if they had come down through the funerals of the
   centuries, and rose heavenward from beneath a yew-tree. Why they have
   been so studiously kept out of English tune-books is a question worth
   asking. Possibly the harmony would have to be modified: otherwise I can
   see nothing to keep them out. Some of these melodies have of recent
   years been introduced locally, and with agreeable success.

   As to the inner meaning of these hymns, it will be unfolded in the
   course of the story. They form a biography in outline of the devotion
   of the Christian Church in Wales from the close of the sixteenth
   century. Especially do they reflect the lights and shades of the
   National Revival of the last century. Many of them are born of fire and
   storm: they are cries of unknown distress--the cries of those who awoke
   'in the region and shadow of death,'--and remembered where they were.
   But through and above all the pain and joy, the sorrow and relief, the
   anxiety and trust of these hymns, there shines one light with even
   ray--the light of the Cross and the Lamb of God.
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER II.
  MAURICE AND EDWARD KYFFIN--CAPT. MIDDLETON--EDMUND PRYS--DAVID JONES.

   A land without hymn or psalm--such seems to have been the condition of
   Wales at the beginning of the sixteenth century. But the spiritual
   awakening which resulted in a translation of the whole Bible into
   Welsh, turned the mind of contemporary poets to the study of hymnology.
   The first edition of the Welsh Bible was published in 1588; and its
   appearance heralded the new era of sacred song. There were pious
   patriots who sorrowed much that while England, Scotland, France, and
   Italy, had each its voice of praise in the temple of the Christian
   Faith, 'poor little Wales' stood at the gate, hymnless and forgotten.
   The first to give public expression to this sorrow was MAURICE KYFFIN;
   of whom very little is known, except his able translation of Bishop
   Jewel's Apologia Ecclesiae Anglicanae. It is in the introduction (dated
   London, 1594) to this book that he laments the absence of song in the
   church and the home; and remarks--'Whoever beginneth this sacred labour
   must have understanding of several learned languages, so that he give
   no word in the rhyme but shall be entirely consonant with the mind of
   the Holy Ghost. Had I the quiet and leisure which many have, the first
   thing, and the most desirable pain I would take upon me, were to
   approach this work, after a conference with the learned men of Wales as
   to what form and what kind of metre would be best and fittest for such
   piety.'
     __________________________________________________________________

    Captain Middleton

   Even while he was writing thus, another religious patriot, in another
   part of the world, was making leisure for himself to 'begin the sacred
   labour.'

   This was Captain WILLIAM MIDDLETON, who joined to the congenial task of
   fighting the Spaniards this gentler exercise of translating the Psalms
   into the language of his beloved motherland, 'keeping as near as he
   could to the mind of the Holy Ghost.' No doubt the warlike tones of
   many of these sacred ballads of the Hebrew nation found a ready
   response in his heart, as he pursued those whom the theology of the day
   classified as enemies of the Lord. In 1591, six ships were told off
   under the command of Admiral Howard to go and plunder a portion of the
   Spanish fleet on its return with large booty from America. Captain
   Middleton's ship was one of the six, and he was charged to watch the
   arrival of the enemy. He found, however, that the Spaniards had
   obtained large reinforcements to defend their treasure, and the mission
   of plunder had to be abandoned. The captain, we are told, was worthy of
   a place, even among the brilliant array of brave soldiers that made
   England's name a terror to the terrible Armada. But in the midst of his
   naval duties his heart was secretly devoted to a far nobler purpose. He
   wanted to give his country the Book of Psalms in verse, that the praise
   of God might no longer be silent. The work was finished at the Island
   of Scutum, in the West Indies, on the 24th day of January, 1595. But,
   alas, for good intentions without due regard to practical results! His
   metres were all so intricate that no music could fit them, and no mouth
   could sing them. So the book has always remained a pious failure; one
   of the many fruitless works of well-meaning devotion which lie on the
   road to heaven, like broken columns of white marble, covered with
   dust--of very little value here, but in heaven surely remembered 'for
   the Name that is dear.'

   While the sailor-poet was finishing his version in the West Indies,
   another kindred spirit at home--EDWARD KYFFIN, supposed by some to be a
   brother of Maurice--was preparing some of the Psalms 'for such of his
   beloved countrymen as love the glory of the Lord and the cherishing of
   their own mother tongue.' In his introduction he is careful to explain,
   with a touch of true Elizabethan 'sea-divinity,' that Englishmen were
   not only zealous to rob and kill the Spaniards, but bad also an anxious
   desire to save their souls; for had they not printed a large number of
   religious books in Spanish, and distributed them very diligently--when
   not otherwise engaged? If a foreign nation merited so much Christian
   consideration, how much more his own nation? for assuredly no people
   bad been so favoured of God for long centuries, and were they to be
   last and latest in speaking of His glory?

   He only versified thirteen Psalms; but he prays most earnestly that
   this may be an incitement to some other mind to finish the work:
   'hoping that since God has kept us so long, He may have in His thought
   some chef d'oeuvre and mighty conquest for the increase of His own
   glory among the ancient Britons, whom He has so miraculously preserved
   until now in liberty and safety.' The introduction breathes throughout
   a spirit of exalted devotion: and after three hundred years every
   sentence seems as if the touch of Heaven were fresh upon it. 'Let no
   true Welshman give sleep to his eyes or slumber to his eyelids, as the
   prophet David said, until he has seen the glory of the Lord, by
   facilitating the completion of this godly task in the language of his
   own country!'
     __________________________________________________________________

    Edmund Prys

   His appeal was not in vain. EDMUND PRYS, before twenty years had
   passed, published a complete Welsh Psalter. He was an Archdeacon of
   Merioneth, a man of scholarly attainments, and an eminent poet. Born,
   about 1541, in the romantic neighbourhood of Harlech, the fellowship of
   Nature in the charming ruggedness of hill and glen, and in the shining
   blue of the sea, would establish a community of thought, and of sacred
   fancy between him and the poet-king of Israel, who read the signature
   of the Divine hand on every page of creation. I am afraid,
   nevertheless, that this poetic genius was sometimes scarcely under
   control. Among all the bardic quarrels of Welsh literature, his quarrel
   with William Cynwal must be counted as its Iliad. The latter was a
   smith by trade, and received one day a message in verse from the
   archdeacon, asking for a steel bow to be sent to a friend, according to
   promise. The smith--who was also a poet--made a long delay, and sent
   his excuses back in verse. So the battle began and went on, poem for
   poem; till the archdeacon began to treble his blows, sending three
   satires together, and receiving the same number of fiery missiles in
   return. The archdeacon then thought he would finish his adversary with
   a fusillade of nine poems, but the sturdy blacksmith was sufficiently
   alive still to reply with another nine. Three times nine poems was the
   next intended onslaught, but when the archdeacon had finished sixteen
   of them, a messenger brought him tidings that his rival had reached the
   dark and silent land where 'there is no work, nor device, nor
   knowledge, nor wisdom'--nor any noise of warfare! He threw his sword
   far into the sea, and there and then commenced an elegy bewailing the
   loss of so brave a foe, so skilful a poet!

   So much for the archdeacon's celebrated fight, in which he laboured
   hard and gained nothing. More profitable is it to chronicle that he
   found a new mission in the work mapped out by Maurice Kyffin, and
   already initiated by Edward Kyffin. In turning the whole of the Psalms
   into verse--and verse that could be sung--he has given all coming ages
   cause to bless the regeneration of his muse.

   It is said that his custom was to prepare a Psalm for each Sunday, to
   be chanted in the church. His intimate knowledge of Hebrew helped him
   to give sometimes a better rendering of the original than that even in
   the Authorized Version of the Welsh Bible. The whole was published in
   1621. While the version has suffered somewhat from a lack of variety in
   its metre, it has nevertheless been, ever since its first appearance,
   one of the chief treasures of Welsh hymnology. Many a single verse,
   rugged and massive of form, has done yeoman service on 'the field of
   Association' (maes y Gymanfa); when, as in the earlier part of the
   present century, it was uttered by the lips of a John Elias, and taken
   up by the large assembly in unison, at first in slow and halting tones,
   gradually rising and swelling, till at last with overwhelming force it
   seemed to break on the shore of ten thousand souls like the splendid
   rush and roar of a mighty sea. On occasions like this, a favourite
   verse of that famous preacher was the archdeacon's rendering of Psalm
   lvii. 11: 'Be Thou exalted, O God, above the heavens: let Thy glory be
   above all the earth.' And another--equally appropriate before speaking
   the eternal word to the great assembly--was the rendering of Psalm
   cxli. 3: 'Set a watch, O Lord, before my mouth; keep the door of my
   lips.' How effective such a verse, spoken by such a man in such a
   place, might be, let the following graphic description of him bear
   witness--drawn by Gwalchmai, a living poet and preacher:

   'Mr. Elias rises up to the desk. He casts a glance over all the
   congregation. He requests those who stand on the edge of the crowd to
   close in toward the centre. The sight of him is very striking; his
   whole aspect is winning; there is a noble dignity in his look;
   greatness is interwoven with humility in his personal appearance. He
   comes forward as a general to lead an army--a captain of the host of
   the Lord; or rather as an ambassador for his King. No one asks to see
   his seals of office every one reads his authority in his appearance. .
   . . His thought fills every line, every muscle, every vein in his face.
   Sparks of fire leap out of his eyes, and still at the same time the
   most diffident tenderness clothes his countenance. He looks as anxious
   as if this were to be the last association in which he would ever
   appear publicly to deliver his message for his great Master; he seems
   as if he thought that he is on the point of being summoned to render an
   account to his King; and on that account he commands every feeling,
   every nerve, every faculty, and every purpose he possesses, to his
   important and solemn task. He is as if he wanted to make one immortal
   exploit. To-day or never, to save the souls in his presence! He gives
   out a verse to sing, with a sonorousness like that of a golden bell in
   his mouth:


   "Set on my mouth a seal, O Lord,

   Lest witty word offendeth;

   Cover my lips, lest I speak ill

   What now Thy will me sendeth."'

   The severe, rugged strength of the words in the Welsh original moves
   like a torrent in its course; and the preacher used the mighty and
   awful words to bring himself into the current of Divine eloquence. No
   wonder that, with 'the door' of God upon his lips, his sermon was as
   the visible fire of heaven.

   The above gives some hint of the place taken by the archdeacon's
   Psalter in the national history. Perhaps a still clearer glimpse of its
   power is afforded by this memorable incident connected with the singing
   of his version of Psalm cxxi. 1, 2.

   One of the evangelist preachers of the eighteenth century ventured to
   cross over to Anglesey to publish the glad tidings of God. His
   appearance was the signal for violent opposition; and how it fared with
   him on one occasion shall be told in the words of one who ought to
   know:

   'Saul of Tarsus was never more determined to imprison the disciples of
   Jesus than I, and the persecuting band that had gathered together with
   staves to meet the Roundhead who was coming to preach at Penmynydd. We
   had all agreed, if he tried to preach, to make an end of him there and
   then. When he had arrived, we began to push forwards close to him; and
   when he had mounted a large stone which stood beside the house, and
   turned his face toward Carnarvon, and gave out this stanza, to be sung
   by his scanty followers:


   "I lift mine eyes unto the hills

   Whence willing help shall come,"

   we, supposing him to be expecting some armed men from the hills of
   Arvon, began to retreat a little. And after consultation, some of us
   decided to hear what the preacher had to say; and so we went over the
   fence, and crept slowly and noiselessly under cover of it till we came
   over against where he stood. He could not see us, and we did not want
   to see him; but we could hear every word he said as plainly as if we
   stood beside him. Under that sermon, on the most wonderful day of, my
   life, I came to know myself as a lost sinner--lost everywhere, and in
   everything, outside of Jesus Christ, and Him crucified.'
     __________________________________________________________________

    David Jones

   A century passed away from the death of Edmund Prys before Providence
   in its own strange wayfound another sacred poet; this time in the
   person of a cattle-dealer. DAVID JONES, of Cayo, Caermarthenshire, was
   accustomed to buy cattle from the fairs about his home, and take them
   over to Barnet and Maidstone to sell. He had received a fair education
   in his youth, and being quick-witted and sociable, he soon obtained a
   considerable command of the English language and so he must have been a
   rara avis in his native district, when 'no English' was the order of
   the day. During his travels he picked up many a marvellous tale and
   choice bit of gossip: this made him a charming and valued guest in the
   country inns far and near. His ready verse also was 'violin and harp'
   for merry comrades during the long evenings of winter; or even on the
   Sabbath day when some festival of devilry was to be held, as was not
   unfrequently the case. But an unexpected change came over him--came in
   a simple but wondrous fashion. One Sunday morning, when he was
   returning from an expedition into England, he caught the sound of
   singing in the old Independent chapel of Troedrhiwdalar, Breconshire,
   and was attracted thereby to enter. A message from God was there for
   him that morning. He left the chapel with the old life of vanity and
   sin for ever judged; and before him rose the hope of Jesus Christ, like
   a summer dawn on the hills which sheltered his Vale of Towy. His heart
   once changed, his poetic talents were soon touched. by the fire from
   the seraph's hand. The minstrel of the public-house became the sweet
   singer of Zion. The religion of the day was becoming so profoundly
   Christ-conscious, that the classical Psalter of Archdeacon Prys was
   inadequate to express its emotion. But the evangelical Psalter of Dr.
   Watts had in England largely satisfied this religious fervency. So
   David Jones gave himself with eager sympathy to the work of translating
   Dr. Watts' [1]Psalms and Hymns; and in this he achieved decided
   success.

   Many of his verses remain the most popular and homely of all versions
   of Israel's national songs, and are household treasures of Welsh piety.
   But he was not satisfied with merely doing the work of a translator: he
   composed several hymns of permanent merit, touched with the spirit of
   the Great Revival of the eighteenth century. It was the day when the
   living gospel had to be preached in some humble cottage or on the
   public street. Once, when a service was being held near Lampeter, where
   David Jones had gone, according to his wont, to accompany the
   evangelist, a band of hired ruffians set on the house and dragged the
   worshippers out to the street with great violence. There the poet knelt
   down on the ground, and began to pray. He was a man of prayer; and in
   that hour of trial every word seemed to find the Almighty God. The
   persecutors stood still; they were startled; they became terrified.
   Without waiting further they escaped for their lives, lest they should
   be smitten by the God of the man who prayed in the street.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [2]Men of the world are asking

   It was the day of religious ecstasy. He himself used to break out
   sometimes into exalted expressions of religious fervour, praising God
   aloud in the assembly, and 'laughing tears' in the vision of Divine
   Love. Belonging, as he did, to the 'dry Dissenters'--a term of contempt
   applied to the quieter religionists of the day--he was sometimes called
   to task by his brethren for what they considered his extravagance. His
   reply to all such accusations is given in some characteristic verses,
   of which the following is a free translation:


   Men of the world are asking,

   Much wondering at me,

   When I my Lord am praising,

   'What can this folly be?'

   I am released from bondage,

   And though the mockers throng,

   The precious blood of Jesus

   Shall always be my song.


   A cloud once darkened o'er me,

   No praises could I sing;

   Sin and its guilty sorrow

   Pierced through me with its sting:

   But that has been removèd,

   And all its weight of pain--

   The precious blood of Jesus

   I sing, and sing again.


   I stood at Sinai trembling,

   Where God upon me frowned;

   Dark threatenings broke in thunders,

   The lightning flashed around:

   I came to peaceful Zion--

   How can I songless be?--

   The precious blood of Jesus

   Is all the world to me.


   What, though I leap rejoicing?

   Sweet reverence guides my thought;

   Like David's godly dancing

   When home the ark was brought;

   Or, like the lame man's rapture,

   Healed at the temple gate--

   The precious blood of Jesus

   Brought health and good estate.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [3]Come, brethren, unite

   Another simple and earnest hymn of his is the following:


   Come, brethren, unite

   In holy delight,

   To praise our Belovèd--redemption's great Light:

   How sweet is the care

   His love to declare--

   That He should our chastisement faithfully bear.


   Great God upon high,

   The Lord from the sky,

   He came as a Lamb without blemish, to die!

   While under the sun,

   Our duty is one--

   To publish the merits and gifts of the Son.


   A poor man He came,

   Enduring our shame,

   To be our Redeemer--our Brother by name:

   Declare His renown,

   The rights of His crown--

   His life for the sheep hath the Shepherd laid down!


   His blood hath made peace,

   And brought us release;

   And now the old bondage for ever must cease:

   Who trust in His might

   He leads into light;

   Nor can any enemy break on His right.
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER III.
  WILLIAM WILLIAMS, PANTYCELYN.

   What Paul Gerhardt has been to Germany, what Isaac Watts has been to
   England, that and more has William Williams, of Pantycelyn, been to the
   little principality of Wales. His hymns have both stirred and soothed a
   whole nation for more than a hundred years: they have helped to fashion
   a nation's character and to deepen a nation's piety. They have been
   sung by the shepherd on the moor and on the mountain, in the midst of
   romantic solitudes; or by the smith to the accompaniment of his ringing
   anvil; or by the miner in the weird halls of buried forests underneath
   the ground; or by the milkmaid, with a fresh, clear voice, as she
   brushed from the clover the dewdrops of an early morning in May; or by
   the reaper in the harvest-field as he gathered in the golden grain.

   The mother hums one of his tender musings above the cradle of her
   child, surrounding its soft-winged slumbers with the praises of Him
   whose 'very name is music.' The funeral procession takes up one of his
   strains of sorrow touched with hope, and sings it when accompanying the
   dead to the long home-sings it musingly, measuredly, moaningly. The
   young man in the day of trial will take some smooth stones out of this
   brook of Christian poetry, and with them overcome the enemy. The
   veteran soldier of God thirsts for the water out of this 'well of
   Bethlehem,' and 'pours it out before the Lord.' Through some memorial
   verse of his the family of the Lord Christ has often expressed its
   sweet sorrowfulness of heart, as it looked on the breaking of the
   bread. Many a time has the sad Angel of Death heard one of his
   victorious strains fall from some trusting soul as it passed through
   the dark gateway--heard the echo of the song far down in the Valley of
   the Shadow: a strange thing of joy: like a warm sunbeam piercing
   through the chill eternal twilight of some ancient forest of pine. It
   was a verse of his that Christmas Evans--one of the immortal 'three' of
   the Welsh pulpit--sang when nearing home; taking it as a staff in his
   hand, 'and smiting Jordan with it, so that the waters were divided
   hither and thither, and he went over on dry ground':


   O Thou Righteousness eternal!

   Righteousness of boundless store!

   Soon my naked, hungry spirit

   Must enjoy Thee evermore:

   Hide my nakedness, oh! hide it,

   With Thy robe of shining white;

   So that, fearless, I may ever

   Stand before Thy throne of light.

   Like all poets that have deeply stirred a people, he was brought up in
   troublous times. His father was the deacon of a famous Independent
   church in Caermarthenshire, which had to meet for a time in a cave
   during the hours of twilight, on account of the persecution to which a
   large number of the sincerest Christians of the age were subjected. But
   when the poet was very young he lost his father, and was left to the
   care of his mother. He spent some years at college, purposing to devote
   himself to the medical profession. It was on his way home from college
   that an incident happened which changed his whole career. He was
   passing through the little village of Talgarth, in Breconshire, on a
   Sunday morning, when he was attracted by the sound of a bell to enter
   the parish church. The service was cold and spiritless, and left
   scarcely any impression whatever on the young man's mind.

   The people on leaving church, instead of scattering and wending their
   way home, grouped themselves together in the churchyard, and every face
   was alive with expectation, as though eagerly waiting for something
   more. And more did come. It affords a striking picture of the religious
   life of Wales near the middle of the eighteenth century. On one of the
   gravestones a man of short stature and exceedingly sombre face takes
   his stand. In a moment every eye is fastened upon him in a solemn,
   nervous suspense. Then the voice begins to ring deep and clear and
   earnest among the grey tombstones--like the voice of some ancient
   prophet of Israel summoning the people with words of fire to repent
   forthwith and escape for their life. The congregation is stirred,
   startled, confounded: it moves to and fro, 'as the trees of the wood
   are moved by the wind.' Strong men are there, weeping like little
   children, terrible to see; while others in their rage against the
   preacher curse like a demoniac at the approach of the Lord Christ. Here
   a woman falls fainting: another cries out through a storm of sobs and
   tears, 'What must we do?' And the young poet? 'There he is, his face
   deathly pale, and his whole body shaken with excitement and terror. He
   is a very image of fearfulness. He stands each moment expecting to see
   the Son of Man coming on the clouds of heaven: a sharp, glowing arrow
   from the bow of the doctrine of the man on the gravestone has pierced
   through his heart.' He came out of that historic churchyard with the
   light of eternity in his eyes.

   Two or three years afterwards he was ordained deacon of the Church of
   England. But in those days the Church of England was her own
   unrelenting enemy in Wales. Like many another of her servants of best
   worth, he was excommunicated on an indictment of committing twenty-four
   crimes--chief among them being his refusal to make the sign of the
   cross in baptism, and his zeal in preaching the gospel outside of
   places properly consecrated. He had come under the influence of
   Whitefield, who urged him to go forth to the highways to proclaim the
   glad tidings. And preach he did from Holyhead to Cardiff, having
   travelled on an average 3,000 miles every year for fifty years.

   As a preacher, he was a son of consolation. His sermons, like his
   hymns, were expressions of profound experience--the sorrow and joy of a
   pilgrim who had travelled for a long time heavy-laden, and at last had
   'his burden loosed from off his shoulders' at the place where 'stood a
   cross, and a little below, in the bottom, a sepulchre.' He was a poet
   in the pulpit, with all a poet's swift change of feeling. In a
   conversation with his coworker, the Rev. Peter Williams--well known in
   Wales still for his annotated Bible--he remarked, with his usual quaint
   humour: 'As for thee, Peter, thou couldest get through it well enough
   if the Holy Spirit were in America; but I can make nothing of it unless
   He is near.'

   Williams first exercised his gift of sacred song at an association held
   in the earliest days of Welsh Calvinistic Methodism. The hymns hitherto
   used were foreign to the spirit of the new movement; but as soon as be
   began to pour forth his varied strains of passionate sweetness, Howell
   Harris, the preacher of Talgarth Churchyard, pronounced him a master of
   song. His hymns seemed to fly abroad as on the wings of the wind, and
   soon became the sacred ballads of the whole nation. As Luther sang
   Germany into Protestantism, so did Williams sing the Wales of the
   eighteenth century into piety.

   His hymns are full of pictures from Nature. It could be almost said
   that the natural aspects of his native land through all the changes of
   the twelve months are reflected and reproduced in his hymns. The heavy
   clouds of storm, and the white clouds of a summer day--clouds gathering
   with dark forebodings on the horizon, clouds beautifully passing away
   at eventide after a rainy day--clouds of thunder with fringes of chilly
   white, and the fleeting clouds of April: they are all here. He has
   watched the dawn deepening in the east, be has walked in the glow of
   noon, he has looked with sobering eye on the sunset glories of the
   west. He has wandered beside the mountain brook and the calm river, and
   he has seen the brown torrents raging on the hillsides. He knows the
   charm of a spring day after a long winter; and the sweet pensiveness of
   yellow corn-fields and tinted autumn leaves. He has found quiet havens
   of the sea, and felt the joy of the morning star rising above the
   waves. Some of these pictures will appear in the hymns reproduced here:
   but to reproduce all his etchings from Nature would be to give almost
   all his hymns.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [4]William Williams

   Once, during a long season of drought, he was walking through the
   fields, and found some little beasts of prey making busy mischief among
   the green corn; whereon he pertinently asked:


   Why should beasts of prey be suffered

   To destroy the tender blade?

   Why should sweet and youthful blossoms

   In the drought be left to fade?

   Bring the pleasant showers refreshing,

   That the grain may flourish soon;

   Bring a shower the early morning,

   Bring one more the afternoon.


   Jesus, turn the living rivers

   O'er the dry and rocky land;

   So make beautiful the corn-fields

   With the blessings of Thy hand;

   From the cool and crystal fountain

   Give to him who fainting lies;

   Who has toiled without a shelter

   All the day 'neath burning skies.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [5]William Williams

   On another occasion he was staying for the night not far from the
   Prescelly Hills. Being up early next morning, he saw the whole range
   lying dark and frowning under the inist; but in the east the dawn was
   breaking up the shadows of night, and the sky was brightening with the
   promise of a new day--a picture which he has introduced into his
   well-known missionary hymn--


   [6]O'er the gloomy hills of darkness.

   This, and '[7]Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,' are the only two
   translated hymns of his that have found favour with editors of English
   hymnals. I believe the missionary hymn was written originally in
   English, and translated by his son into Welsh. The other is found in a
   little volume of English hymns he published under the title of Gloria
   in Excelsis, for use in Mr. Whitefield's Orphans' House in America. It
   was prepared at the request of Lady Huntingdon, who had been much
   impressed by some other writings of his. Mr. Whitefield included it in
   his collection of hymns published in 1774; and since then it has had a
   place in most hymnals.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [8]William Williams

   He suffered sometimes from absent-mindedness, as the following
   tradition indicates. He was one day far away from home, holding a
   service beside the sea-shore. A friend bad taken the devotional portion
   of the service, when, as he drew near the close of his prayer, a cuckoo
   began to sing. Williams stood up to give out a hymn before preaching:
   it was an appeal to the cuckoo to fly away to Pantycelyn and tell
   'Mally' his wife that he was alive; to proceed from thence to Builth
   and tell 'Jack' his son to 'keep his place'; concluding with the pious
   wish that should they fail to meet again on earth, they might meet in
   heaven. His friend touched him and hinted that the doctrine of
   salvation was rather scanty in his verse. 'Very true,' replied the poet
   at once; and, without any more ado, gave out another verse, which seems
   to carry in it everywhere the sound of the everlasting sea--the music
   of an infinite hope for man:


   Salvation like a boundless sea

   Keeps swelling on the shore;

   Here shall the weak and helpless find

   Enough for evermore.

   Another instance of his ready wit was recently given by a South Wales
   correspondent. [1] It seems that he was at Aberdare one day preaching
   from the text--'The harvest truly is great, but the labourers are few;
   pray ye, therefore, the Lord of the harvest that He would send forth
   labourers into His harvest.' After the sermon he gave out a hymn in a
   metre which was not known to any of the masters of song present.
   Apprehending their difficulty, he immediately put them right again by
   giving out an extempore verse, of which the following is a translation


   To-day are ye not saying--

   'Four months will come and go,

   And then with fruitful harvest

   The fields will be aglow':

   But saith the King of heaven--

   'Lift up your eyes around!'

   White are the fields already

   Where His good wheat is found.

   So much for tales of eccentric origins; which prove, besides, how
   lively a sympathy existed between the poet's mind and the varying
   phases of Nature. In further illustration of this, the following group
   of four hymns is given; showing successive reflections of a summer
   evening, a winter's night, a clear morning after a stormy night, and a
   calm sea after contrary winds.
     __________________________________________________________________

   [1] 'Cosmos' in The South Wales Daily News.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [9]William Williams

   In the first hymn we seem to be gazing on the sunset sky of a peaceful
   summer evening; and the heavenly quiet of the scene awakens in the soul
   infinite longings that are sad in their very sweetness:


   I look beyond the far-off hills,

   O gentle Christ, for Thee:

   Come, my Belovèd, it is late,

   The sun goes down on me.


   These captive weeks of Babylon

   Make sorrow long delay:

   Oh! that I heard the jubilee

   Opening the gates of day.


   If from these fetters hard and cold

   My feet were only free,

   Long as I lived I would but sing

   The grace of Calvary.


   A pilgrim in a desert land

   I wander far and near,

   Expecting every hour to find

   My Father's house appear.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [10]William Williams

   Next comes this winter-night's hymn:


   While the stormy winds are blowing

   From the north so bleak and ebill,

   Saviour, keep my soul defended

   From the fear of coming ill:

   Change the winter

   Into balmy days and still.


   Oh! that now the world would leave me,

   Oh! that now the skies would clear,

   And the land of pleasant ranges

   O'er the distant hills appear!

   Then my spirit

   Would be calm with holy cheer.


   But the strength of passion paineth,

   And I feel my guilt unspent,

   While I cannot cease from sinning--

   Failing even to repent:

   Light of sunrise,

   Break this long imprisonment!


   Waiting through the long night-watches,

   Waiting for the break of day;

   Waiting for the gates to open,

   And my chains to fall away:

   All in darkness,

   For the light of God I pray.


   And my soul shall keep on trusting,

   Looking every day for Thee;

   For Thy hand can save the weakest,

   Yea, the weakest--even me!

   I must tarry

   Till the blessed Jubilee.


   Dawn at last! the dawn is coming,

   And the clouds shall pass away;

   In the valleys, on the mountains,

   Shall the mist no longer stay:

   Hours of heaven,

   Long I waited--now 'tis day.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [11]William Williams

   The last verse is the victory of faith over Nature: the world continues
   dark outside; but the dayspring from on high has visited the soul. In
   the next hymn, Faith and Nature stand side by side in the morning
   light.


   The cloud has almost cleared,

   That filled me with unrest;

   The northwind too has veered

   A little to the west:

   After the storm there comes to-day

   Fair weather on the heavenly way.


   Dark night tempestuous

   Will very soon be gone;

   Long ages of the cross

   Have been ordained for none:

   The dawnlight in the eastern sky

   Tells of a glorious morning nigh.


   The sun is on the hills

   Around my Father's house;

   And through these earthly ills

   The light eternal grows:

   My hope is sure: who can efface

   My name in God's own book of grace?


   Upon His word I rest,

   Come all things contrary;

   When in the night distressed

   My safe stronghold is He:

   Nearer with each return of sun

   The promise comes. It shall be done.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [12]William Williams

   But it is neither Winter night nor summer eve that has touched the
   poet's mind in this last hymn of the group. It may have come to him
   partly through reading the experiences of Columbus when in search of a
   new continent.


   Here I know myself a stranger,

   And my native country lies

   Far beyond the ocean's danger,

   In the lands of Paradise:

   Storms of trial blowing keenly

   Drove me on this foreign strand;

   Come, O South-wind, blow serenely,

   Speed me to my Fatherland.


   Though the voyage should be stormy,

   Though the raging billows foam;

   Even were the worst before me,

   I shall sometime be at home:

   Waves and seas are strong; but stronger

   Is the word of God than all;

   Trusting Him I fear no longer,

   Safely in His hands I fall.


   Now the air is full of balm

   With the fragrance of the land;

   And the breezes clear and calm

   Tell of Paradise at hand:

   Come, ye much-desired regions,

   With the best of joy in store:

   Country of the singing legions,

   Let me reach thy restful shore!
     __________________________________________________________________

    [13]William Williams

   Williams possessed to a considerable extent the Shakspearean faculty of
   seeing many aspects of human nature, especially on its religious side.
   His hymns give expression to every grade of experience, from the lowest
   deep of despair to the clearest height of full assurance. It is himself
   speaking; but in his voice we hear the sobs and cries, the joys and
   transports of a thousand hearts. He gives us a view of his early
   struggles and defeats: how seven times back and fore he broke the
   commandments of God, and attempted to confirm his deliverance with
   'seven great vows': but all in vain, until he saw from the depths the
   Face that is 'altogether lovely,' and driven by a flame of guilt he
   came to the pleasant hill of Zion: he had found heaven on the brink of
   bell, in the thunders of Sinai he had his first meeting with God--hours
   never to be forgotten, the hours of his marriage with heaven. But
   though the violence of the early conflict is smoothed down, he has not
   yet, come to the possession of perfect peace:


   Once again my sigh of sorrow

   Riseth to His gracious ears;

   For His pity, for His presence,

   Weeps my soul these flowing tears.


   Who can tell but He who founded

   Earth and heaven shall hear my cry,

   And that all these mournful longings

   God Himself shall satisfy!


   Oh! to hear the silver trumpet

   Now proclaim my full release,

   That my heavy-laden spirit

   May at last have joy and peace.


   Oh! that now like mighty torrents

   Strength descended from above!

   Not the strongest of my passions

   Could withstand His conquering love.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [14]William Williams

   In another hymn we see him a solitary wanderer on the high and
   dangerous mountain footpath; the path is very narrow, and underneath
   him is a fearful depth. What if he miss his footing!


   In Thy hand I cannot fall,

   Though the weakest of them all;

   In Thy hand at length I come

   From my trials safely home.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [15]William Williams

   He had promised to himself in the morning to be at home early, having
   overcome all his enemies--but 'the noise of battle is yet in the
   country where I live.' He is sometimes afraid even that he has not yet
   received 'efficacious grace,' and that his sins may yet win the day.
   What can he do but pray God to lift him out of the pit? And even if it
   is growing late, he must wait until 'the Morning Star rise over yonder
   hills.' His trial, too, had bound him in sweet fellowship with all who
   strive upward to God:


   Much I love the faithful pilgrims,

   Who the rugged steeps ascend;

   On their hands and knees they labour

   To attain the heavenly end:

   To the summit

   On my knees shall I come too.


   Bruisèd hands, oh! stretch ye upward,

   Tired feet, walk ye with care;

   The reward, the crown is yonder,

   My Belovèd--He is there!

   Earth forsaking;

   Now the journey's end is all.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [16]William Williams

   In the company of the same singer, what a burst of triumphant faith we
   have in this martial strain:


   The standard is ahead,

   The gospel of His grace:

   And hell is filled with dread,

   And shakes before His face

   Down! down! with shame it shall be brought,

   Before my Jesus it is nought.


   Great hosts from prisons free

   Already have marched on,

   And great their joy must be

   To know the day is won:

   From strife and toil on high they fled,

   And in their footsteps we must tread.


   Leave we the world behind,

   The world that made us smart,

   The world, of evil mind

   Each day to break our heart:

   Between the stars behold the light

   Of that far better world in sight!


   The blood of Jesu's cross

   Was never shed in vain;

   There is not any loss

   Of His most precious pain:

   This is the great, the finished plan

   To open heaven's door for man.


   Let all bow down and own

   The sacrificèd Lamb!

   Among all titles known

   His is the greatest name:

   Praise, laud, and blessing to our Lord,

   Let Him be evermore adored!
     __________________________________________________________________

    [17]William Williams

   Side by side with this call of Christian soldiers to battle we may
   place a hymn to the Lord of Battles, the Captain of the Christian host.


   Ride to battle, ride victorious,

   Gird, O Christ, Thy glittering sword!

   Earth can never stand before Thee,

   Nor can hell itself, my Lord:

   In Thy name such glory dwelleth,

   Hostile armies faint with fear;

   And the wide creation trembleth

   When it feels Thee coming near.


   Now release my soul from bondage,

   Let the heavenly day be known:

   Burst the iron bars in sunder,

   Raze the gates of Babylon:

   Thrust the captives hence in armies,

   Like the torrents of a flood;

   Thousand after thousand singing,

   Countless--ransomed--multitude!


   Even now methinks I hear them,

   Voices singing from afar;

   They extol the great redemption,

   In the land where freemen are:

   All of them have snow-white garments,

   And aloft the palms they bear;

   Crowned with glory all-abounding

   Into life they enter there.


   Be it mine to share the gladness

   Of that joyful day of days;

   Every word that Christ has spoken

   Shall fulfil itself in grace:

   North and south--ten times ten thousand,

   From the night that covered them,

   Come with sound of silver trumpets

   To the New Jerusalem.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [18]William Williams

   The Christ of the glittering sword and the glorious terror--can He
   speak to the broken heart and bring glad tidings to the frightened
   conscience? Yes, verily:


   Speak, O Christ! the gentle-hearted,

   For Thy words are God's best wine;

   All within me peace creating,

   Peace of endless worth divine;

   All the voices of creation,

   Every passion and delight,

   At Thy voice of quiet sweetness,

   Pass away in hushed affright.


   This world's empty noises vanish

   When Thou speakest but a word;

   And the tumult is dispersèd,

   By opposing passions stirred;

   Though the afternoon was stormy,

   Cloudless is the evening sky,

   And the south wind bloweth softly,

   When Thou speakest peace on high.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [19]William Williams

   Quite other fields of experience are traversed in this hermit's hymn:


   In lonely desert place,

   Without one human friend,

   If God would daily show His face,

   I could my lifetime spend.

   He is in every thing,

   All-present every hour;

   There is no creature that can bring

   Its strength to help His power.


   The fearful desert night,

   Perils in every place,

   And fear of death--all take their flight,

   Where God reveals His face:

   His beauty passing fair,

   His peace, and perfect love,

   Make holy festivals, where'er

   He shineth from above.


   Where Thou art, in all things

   Immortal life abounds;

   Like streams from out the rock it springs,

   And reaches heaven's bounds:

   From Thee alone have come

   All dawns of shining white,

   To guide, through wastes and lowlands home,

   The children of the light.


   Ye sun and moon, farewell;

   Farewell, ye stars of night;

   Where God's sweet presence comes to dwell,

   There needs no other light:

   A vast eternal day

   Comes from His smiling face;

   A better, greater light than they--

   The radiance of His grace.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [20]William Williams

   In his day the work of foreign missions was scarcely more than a
   Christian dream. But it was a dream that often filled his mind and his
   song. Indeed, it is exceedingly interesting to see the profound
   missionary colouring of Welsh hymns of the last century. It was as the
   singing of birds in the dawn before the sun has risen. Now that the
   missionary enterprise has passed beyond a dream--has advanced so far as
   to be thought fit for arraignment--it may not be amiss to associate our
   thoughts with the childlike faith and happy dreamings of earlier days:


   The glory is coming, God said it on high,

   When light in the evening will break from the sky;

   The north and the south and the east and the West

   With joy of salvation and peace will be blest.


   The winter shall pass that has lingered so long,

   Throughout the wide earth shall the birds sing Thy song;

   The hills will be covered with harvests for Thee,

   And flowers shall blossom from mountain to sea.


   Thy promise shall spread over valley and hill,

   Thy promise most precious of peace and good-will;

   The Spirit shall gather Thy people of old,

   The children of Israel, again to the fold.


   The sons and the daughters shall prophesy then,

   And praise and exalt the Redeemer of men;

   The old men shall dream of the joys that await,

   And scarcely believe when the peace is so great.


   O summer of holiness! hasten along,

   The purpose of glory is constant and strong:

   The winter will vanish--the clouds pass away--

   O South-wind of heaven, breathe softly to-day!
     __________________________________________________________________

    [21]William Williams

   No one can read the Welsh hymns of the last century without noting how
   every sentiment turns lovingly to the cross. The cross absorbs the
   themes of sermon and song; for it was the sun and shield of the
   National Revival. There is scarcely a hymn of Williams' in which it
   does not stand forth clear and towering. The passion of these verses is
   not of earth:


   Who'll give me balm of Gilead--

   Forgiveness, with its peace?

   Then fear of death would vanish,

   My soul would be at ease:

   And who can soothe the anguish

   Of guilt and evil will?

   I know of none but Jesus,

   Once nailed upon the hill.


   Hard were the nails and cruel,

   To pierce that form of grace;

   But now they hold the compass

   Of heaven in its place:

   The hope of Adam's children

   Flows from that awful hour,

   When earth beheld its Maker

   Abused by human power.


   If ever the authority

   Of Calvary should fail,

   No hope, nor any comfort,

   Would then for me avail:

   Most wretched, oh! most wretched

   Would I of all men be:

   The dreadful grave would swallow

   My soul, full surely.


   Oh! vast, and ever vaster,

   The mercy He made known:

   Behold, the wide creation

   Doth last in Him alone:

   The moan of that dark mountain--

   Lama sabachthani!

   Is now the pearl most precious

   Of any land or sea.


   Unbearable the burden

   To man--yea, to the best;

   And on my God's own shoulder

   It terribly did rest:

   Justice was there demanding

   The price to be made good;

   And sin's eternal ransom

   Was paid in sweat and blood.


   The vast unmeasured mountain

   Upon Himself He took,

   From off the feeble shoulders

   Of guilty man forsook:

   When Nature saw the burden

   Of infinite disgrace,

   The very earth was shaken,

   And heaven hid its face.


   If thousand worlds were ransomed

   By that one sacrifice,

   Too dear would they be counted,

   Redeemed at such a price:

   No angel can, or seraph,

   Tell e'en a thousandth part

   Of that great price of ransom--

   The blood of God's own heart.


   A fire in thousand bosoms

   Through heaven ravisheth--

   A new white flame of wonder,

   Remembering His death:

   It silences their music

   With ever new surprise:

   They look on God Incarnate,

   And say--'Behold! He dies!'


   To Thee, my God, my Saviour,

   Praise be for ever new;

   Let people come to praise Thee

   In numbers like the dew;

   Oh! that in every meadow

   The grass were harps of gold,

   To sing to Him for coming

   To ransom hosts untold!
     __________________________________________________________________

    [22]William Williams

   Williams died January 11, 1791, at Pantycelyn, near Llandovery. An
   obituary notice, which appeared in The Gentleman's Magazine of that
   year, speaks of 'the true poetic fire, striking imagery, and glowing
   expressions, united with the plaintive muse of the country' in his
   hymns; and says further--'His imagination gave variety and interest to
   his orations; his piety was warm, yet candid and charitable; his
   manners simple, yet affectionate and obliging; and his moral conduct
   without blemish or imputation.' When, however, it is therein prophesied
   that 'he is, perhaps, the last lyric poet of South Wales, the language
   of the country giving way'--we learn once more that it is not wise for
   a prophet to prophesy aloud.

   In a quiet village churchyard in the Vale of Towy, 'he awaits the
   coming of the Morning Star which shall usher in the glories of the
   first resurrection.' So reads the inscription over his grave, written
   by his son. And his hymns fill the long night-watches with blessed
   hope, 'until the day break.'
     __________________________________________________________________
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER IV.
  ANN GRIFFITHS.

   As the song of Moses was seconded by the song of Miriam, so the song of
   [23]Williams, Pantycelyn, and his contemporaries was seconded by a
   young prophetess of Christ.

   This is ANN GRIFFITHS, a farmer's daughter, born in the year 1776, at
   Dolwar, near Llanfyllin, in the county of Montgomery. As a young woman,
   she was full of gay spirits, and used to speak very flippantly of the
   deepened religious earnestness of the age. She used to point to tha
   crowds of people which journeyed from all parts, of the country to the
   Association at Bala, and say--'See the pilgrims going to Mecca.' She
   was extremely fond of dance and merry song and rustic gaiety.

   She had gone to attend one of these merrymaking festivals at
   Llanfyllin, when she was induced by an old servant of her father's to
   enter the Independent chapel. She did so without any afterthought
   whatever. But, like David Jones, of Cayo, she found a message waiting
   for her there. She did not stay for the festival, but went home
   forthwith in a storm of troubled thought and dark questionings. She
   went to her parish clergyman: he met her heart-breaking distress with
   light jokes and most untimely jests. Taking hold of her hand, he
   said--'Let me see, Ann, if the veins of vanity have all gone out of thy
   hand.' She went away more distracted than ever. Her brother was already
   one of 'the pilgrims of Mecca.' She went with him to the chapel he
   frequented, and the message of dawning hope came to her there. An
   affinity of religious feelings led her soon afterwards to join the
   society, and she became a strong and shining influence in the quiet
   valleys around her home.

   But she was only permitted to keep the lamp burning during the hours of
   a brief watch for her Lord. She died when twenty-nine years of age,
   after a married life of about ten months, and having led a Christian
   life of about eight years. And yet in another sense the lamp was never
   put out at all: for hymns and letters, unsurpassed for spiritual
   fervour, keep that brief life burning with quenchless light.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [24]Ann Griffiths

   The story of her first hymn beautifully images one phase of her
   religion. Once, when returning home after an exciting service, full of
   her own unworthiness and of the glory of Christ, she turned down a
   narrow, sheltered lane, in order to be alone to pray. There she knelt;
   and in her communion with God the spirit of sacred song touched her
   soul; and by the time she reached her home she had composed her first
   verse--the fourth in the following hymn:


   Great Author of salvation

   And providence for man,

   Thou rulest earth and heaven

   With Thy far-reaching plan:

   To-day, or on the morrow,

   Whatever woe betide,

   Grant us Thy strong assistance,

   Within Thy hand to hide.


   What though the winds be angry,

   What though the waves be high,

   While Wisdom is the ruler,

   The Lord of earth and sky!

   What though the flood of evil

   Rise stormily and dark,

   No soul can sink within it--

   God is Himself the ark!


   Give us the faith of angels,

   That we may look and see

   Salvation's depths of radiance

   And holy mystery:

   Two natures in one person,

   Harmonious, part and whole:

   The blood divine availing

   To ransom every soul.


   My soul, behold the fitness

   Of this great Son of God;

   Trust Him for life eternal,

   And cast on Him thy load:

   A Man!--touched with the pity

   Of every human woe;

   A God!--to claim the kingdom,

   And vanquish every foe.

   One association of the first verse in the above hymn gives it a strange
   pathos. A large number of miners in a town of Glamorganshire having
   been turned out of employment lately, they used to gather in an open
   place for conference. The proceedings were opened more than once by the
   singing of this verse. A scene peculiarly Welsh, surely!--and a scene
   aglow with the light of heavenly romance. When their daily bread seemed
   to fail them, and the world looked dark around them, their Bible and
   their native song taught them to look upward to the Author of human
   Providence--in whose hand they could verily hide without fear of evil.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [25]Ann Griffiths

   But to return to the writer of the hymn and her story: she who once
   laughed at the pilgrims of Bala became now one of the most devout of
   them. She used to attend there on the Communion Sabbath, although it
   meant for her, as for hundreds more, a rugged mountainous journey of
   over twenty miles. Once on her way home she became so absorbed in holy
   contemplation that she rode many miles out of her way over the Berwyn
   Hills before ever awakening to the fact. The result of those hours of
   thought is kept in this hymn:


   Blessed day of rest eternal

   From my labour, in my place!

   On a shoreless sea of wonders,

   The unfathomed depths of grace:

   Finding an abundant entrance

   To the Triune God's abode:

   Seas to sail and never compass;

   God as man, and man as God,


   Neither shall the sun light on them,

   Nor the fear of death give pain;

   Tears forgotten in the anthem

   Of the Lamb which once was slain:

   Sailing on the crystal river

   Of the peace of One in Three,

   Underneath the cloudless beamings

   Of the death of Cavalry.

   Nothing could mark the intensity of feeling more strikingly than the
   broken sentences and rapid interchange of thoughts. 'The cloudless
   beamings of the death of Cavalry:'--the confused eloquence reveals the
   divine anguish of imagination.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [26]Ann Griffiths

   Reference has been made to her letters. Their intrinsic worth, and
   their intimate connection with her hymns, make it unnecessary to give
   an excuse for a larger reference. They are the autobiography of a
   sacred passion, and exquisitely reflect the lights and shadows of a
   mind that lived within itself in Christ.

   The letters were mostly written to a young friend in the ministry, and
   became a valuable means of unburdening a mind that was bowed down with
   an exceeding weight of glory. They are the revealed secrets of an
   unresting heart, told in simple and devout speech.

   The Bible was her fountain of life--a fountain of water clear and cool
   as the dewdrops of a June morning, embosomed in fadeless flowers of
   spring. She drank of the living stream, she carried away choice flowers
   of peace to lie close to her soul. Her piety had in it a sweet tyranny,
   which compelled each verse to yield the comfort she needed at the time.
   For instance, in one letter we read:

   'I have had some trials like stormy winds, until I was nearly
   breathless on the steep paths of the hill; but I was brought up to the
   summit as by these two chains--"A man shall be as an hiding-place from
   the wind, and a covert from the tempest;" and--"Come, My people, enter
   thou into thy chambers: hide thyself as it were for a little moment."
   My spirit felt the peace and warmth for a while.'

   And in another letter:

   'Lately the following words were of great value and comfort to my
   soul--"Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armoury,
   whereon there hang a thousand buckles, all shields of mighty men." In
   myself, I am but helpless and unarmed against my foes; but if I shall
   have the privilege of turning into the tower, I shall there find armour
   and strength to run through the hosts. These words also were to me of
   great comfort--"For it pleased the Father that in Him should all
   fulness dwell;" and again--"A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse."
   I am greatly bound to speak well of God, and to be grateful to Him for
   some degrees of the fellowship of the mystery. But this is my grief--I
   fail to stay--I am always forsaking Him. I see how great is my loss on
   that account: but more than all is the dishonour and disrespect thrown
   upon God. Grant me help to stay!

   She could even reverently thank God for using His Word as an instrument
   of trouble, destroying the strong root of self-conceit, without doing
   the soul injury.

   Her sacred passion brought with it a precious pain and grief. The very
   fervour of her devotion to Christ made her judge herself with all the
   severity of a Paul:

   'For a long time I have been sorely troubled. I have many
   disappointments in myself continually; but I must say that all trials
   and all storms of every kind have wrought me to this: that is, they
   have brought me to see more of the corruptions of my nature and more of
   the Lord in His goodness and unchangeableness toward me. Lately I was
   far from the Lord in the backsliding of my soul; and yet I held up
   against His ministry, as if I were not refusing to stay and walk in His
   fellowship. But for all my art, the Lord visited me in these words--"If
   I be a Father, where is Mine honour? and if I be a Master, where is My
   fear?" . . .

   'In view of my path after forsaking God, and hewing out broken
   cisterns, this word anew raised me a little on my feet--"The Lord is my
   Shepherd; I shall not want." I the one going astray, He the Shepherd; I
   unable to return, He the Almighty Lord. Oh! Rock of our salvation!
   entirely dependent upon Himself, saving and cherishing sinners! I would
   wish to be always under the treatment, be it ever so bitter.'

   This is more cheerful, but still the spiritual element is of the same
   self-searching earnestness:

   'I feel renewed affection toward the doctrine of the Gospel, because it
   shows a way to cleanse the unclean. I think I have no need to change my
   garment, only to be purer in it. I feel a stronger longing than ever I
   felt before to be pure; and these words are on my mind--"And the house,
   when it was in building, was built of stones made ready." I feel an
   earnest desire to be shaped by Him, until I am made fit for the
   heavenly building.'

   The Rev. Thomas Charles, Bala, once made a remark to her that touched
   her soul to the quick. Considering the depth and rareness of her
   experiences, and the marvellous dispensations through which God led her
   spirit, he said that she seemed very likely to meet with one of three
   things: either she would meet with severe trials, or her life would
   soon be ended, or she would fall back, When she heard of falling back,
   she burst into tears. That fear is touchingly echoed in these
   sentences:

   'What presses most heavily on my mind at present is the sinfulness of
   permitting anything seen to have too large a place in my thoughts. I am
   reverently ashamed, and wonderingly rejoice, to think that He who
   humbles Himself in looking at the things of heaven has made Himself an
   object of love to a creature as poor as I am; and in view of such a
   dishonour upon God as to give the first place to second things, I
   simply think that I would prefer my nature to be crushed to death (if
   need be), on account of its weakness to bear the heat of fiery trials.
   I sometimes think I could joyfully endure that, rather than the glory
   of God should be clouded before my mind, through granting my material
   nature its pomp and its desires.'

   Mercifully did the Providence of God respond to her prayer.

   Her mind was eager to discern the vivid outline of Christian doctrine,
   but mostly in its practical relations. How modestly, how devoutly she
   takes herself to task in these words for having unwittingly ignored the
   personal office of the Holy Spirit!

   'The most particular thing on my mind is the great evil and great
   danger of grieving the Holy Ghost. The following words have struck
   me--"Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which
   is in you?"

   'In penetrating somewhat into the wonders of that Person, and that He
   dwells and abides in the believer, I simply think that I was never
   possessed with the same degrees of reverent fear lest He should be
   grieved; and along with that it was given to me to see that one cause,
   and the chief cause, of this great sin having such a slight impression
   of uneasiness on ray mind was, that my thoughts about the Divine
   greatness of His person were too low. My whole conception of the
   Persons of the Trinity was too low; to think of it my mind is held with
   shame: but I owe it to myself to say that my mind has changed. I used
   to think of the Persons of the Father and Son as equal: but I held an
   opinion of the Person of the Holy Ghost as if He were an officer
   inferior to the Father and the Son. Oh! fanciful and mistaken opinion
   concerning One who is Divine, all-present, all-knowing, all-powerful to
   bring forward and perfect the good work which He has begun, according
   to the conditions of the covenant of grace, according to the decree of
   Three in One on behalf of the objects of heaven's morning Love! Oh! to
   be of their number! I thirst to rise higher in the belief that there is
   a personal indwelling of the Holy Ghost in my soul--a belief brought
   through revelation--not fancifully, expecting to comprehend the form
   and manner in which He dwells; this would be idolatry. In considering
   the sinfulness in itself of grieving the Holy Ghost, and, on the other
   hand, in looking down to the depths of the Great Fall, and that I am
   dispossessed of every power, except of being able to grieve Him--my
   soul is sorely pressed. The following words are on my mind--"Watch and
   pray." As if the Lord were saying, though the commandment is strong,
   and thou art unable to fulfil one out of a thousand things there, on
   the ground where thy mind stands, go forth, prove the Throne of Grace;
   for "the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth
   much"--"My grace is sufficient for thee: for My strength is made
   perfect in weakness." Blessed be the God who fulfils His promises!'
     __________________________________________________________________

    [27]Ann Griffiths

   Her hymns and her letters form an interchangeable commentary. Both are
   the simple and fresh outpourings of her soul. In one of her letters we
   find her tremulously approaching the mystery of the Creator becoming a
   Sufferer:

   'My mind at present is looking on Jesus bearing the crown of thorns and
   the scarlet robe, and afterwards in His great sufferings upon the
   cross. It is not to be wondered at that the sun should hide its beams
   when its Creator was pierced with nails! My mind stands astonished when
   I consider the Person who suffered on the cross--He whose eyes are as a
   flame of fire piercing through heaven and earth, at the same time
   unable to see the work of His hands when darkness was over all the
   earth! My mind is overwhelmed with too much astonishment to say any
   more. No wonder that word is written down--"The Lord is well pleased
   for His righteousness' sake; He will magnify the law and make it
   honourable": and the other word--"Kiss the Son, lest He be angry."
   Would that the remainder of my days were a season of unfaltering
   fellowship with Christ and His sufferings, and with the Father through
   Him!'

   The same spiritual emotion can be traced in these verses, almost line
   by line:


   Heaven sweetly will remember

   The decree of Three in One,

   Ever gazing on the Person

   Who became a Son of Man:

   In fulfilling the conditions

   Dying sorrow pierced His soul;

   Now the host no man can number

   Mightily His praise extol.


   In remembering the battle,

   All my tears for joy are dried;

   Free for ever stands the sinner,

   While the law is magnified:

   For the peace of man behold Him--

   Life's Almighty Author slain!

   And the Resurrection buried

   For an endless human gain!


   In the midst, between two robbers,

   There the great Atonement died;

   And by Him the arm was strengthened

   Which could dare to pierce His side:

   When His Father's law was honoured,

   And the sinner's ransom paid,

   Justice stood in shining glory--

   We were free and undismayed.


   King of kings, and great Rest-giver!

   See, my soul, His lowly bed!

   All creation in Him movèd,

   He within the grave lay dead!

   Wonder of the holy angels,

   Life of those who once were lost:

   Unto Him, the God Incarnate,

   Sing the great adoring host.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [28]Ann Griffiths

   Her latter days were spent close to the frontiers of the Better Land.
   Her soul was filled with the thoughts and desires of her eternal home.
   We can almost watch the flame of the spirit's life burning higher and
   higher--burning up the earthliness of her nature and the last
   remainders of unheavenly interests. Thus she writes:

   'I see more need than I have ever seen before to spend what there is
   left of my days in giving myself daily, body and soul, to the care of
   Him who is able to keep that which is committed unto Him against that
   day. Not giving myself once, but living in giving myself, until, and
   even when this tabernacle is put off. The thought of putting it off is
   specially sweet sometimes. I can say, it is this of all things which
   gives me most joy in these days. Not death in itself, but the great
   gain to be had after passing through it; every inclination contrary to
   the will of God left behind, every inclination to dishonour the
   ordinance of God left behind--all infirmity swallowed up of
   strength--perfectly conformable to the law--in the likeness of God to
   enjoy Him for ever. I am sometimes so carried away with these things
   that I fairly fail to stand on the way of my duty in the things of
   time; but waiting for the hour when I shall be dissolved and be with
   Christ, for it is much better, although it is very good with me here
   sometimes. When my Beloved showeth Himself through the lattice, He
   sometimes reveals, in a glass darkly, as much of His glory to me as my
   feeble faculties can bear. I rejoice to say in closing--I would wish to
   say it with thankfulness--in spite of my sinfulness, and the cunning of
   hell, of the world and its charms, through the good grace of God I have
   not changed the object of my affection till to-night: rather from my
   heart I rest in His love, and joy over Him with singing, although I
   cannot obtain that in the least degree on this side of death, except
   with effort and violence.'

   And thus she sings:


   Must I face the stormy river?

   There is One to break its flood--

   Christ, my great High-priest and faithful,

   Christ, my all-sufficient good:

   Through His blood shall come the triumph

   Over death and hell to me;

   And I shall be in His likeness,

   Sinless through eternity.


   Disembodied of all evil,

   I shall pierce with earnest eyes

   Into Calvary's deep wonders,

   And its infinite surprise:

   The Invisible beholding,

   Who is living and was dead;

   In a pure, unbroken union

   With the ever-living Head.


   There I shall exalt the Person,

   God's own Sacrifice Divine,

   Without any veil or fancy--

   And my soul like Him shall shine:

   With the mystery revealèd

   In His wounds, I shall commune;

   Losing sight no more for ever

   Of the all-belovèd Son.


   From salvation's highest fountains,

   Oh, to drink with each new day!

   Till my thirst for earthly pleasures

   Has completely passed away:

   Waiting always for my Master,

   Quick to answer to His call;

   Then to hold the door wide open,

   And enjoy Him, all in all.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [29]Ann Griffiths

   These letters and hymns were not written and sung in a cloister. They
   are Divine breathings rising out of the quiet stir of country life,
   like a lark out of the wind-swept heather. She lived a woman's ordinary
   life of a century ago. When her mother died, she became her father's
   helpmate. She was busy from morn till eve with the daily duties of the
   farmstead. She had no hour of prayer and song marked out, nor was there
   any need. Her prayers accompanied this work of her hands; her hymns
   were often composed in the midst of her household tasks. She became a
   'priest unto God,' and the golden bells round about the hem of her
   spirit's robe were not often silent.

   If she had a deep concern for personal piety, she was equally concerned
   for social religion. A member of the Calvinistic Methodist Church at a
   place called the Bont, she carried all its joys and sorrows in her
   heart. When the Church was wounded 'by the stroke of the world and of
   those falling back,' her own soul was also wounded. Her prayers
   breathed revivingly on the Lord's 'faded garden.' And when the Church
   had its bright awakening, her joy was full. She had heavy and rugged
   paths to travel from her home to the chapel, but the darkest winter
   night made no difference to her. She could sing on the way. It was a
   narrow way, too, her soul had to travel, and she met some wintry nights
   of doubt before she reached the gate of the temple. But she sang for
   the Light that was to come.


   There's a day to journey homewards

   For the children of the King;

   God shall from the fields of bondage

   To the throne His loved ones bring:

   There shall faith to sight be changèd,

   Feeble hope to perfect gain;

   And the song shall grow for ever

   To the Lamb which once was slain.


   Pilgrim, worn with stress of tempests,

   Look, and see the dawning light!

   There the Lamb makes intercession,

   In His flowing robes of white:

   Faithfulness, His golden girdle;

   Round His garment's hem, the bells;

   Token of the full forgiveness

   Which in His atonement dwells.

   A noteworthy fact in connection with her hymns is their preservation. A
   servant in her father's house, named Ruth, possessed a remarkable
   memory. To her Ann Griffiths used to recite her hymns as they were
   composed; and then the two would sing them over time after time. After
   the death of the young authoress, Ruth used to repeat these verses to
   her husband. He saw their worth, and wrote them down from her
   dictation. To-day they cannot be lost: they have a home in too many
   hearts.
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER V.
  MORGAN RHYS--DAVID WILLIAMS--BENJAMIN FRANCIS.

   We are still in the eighteenth century; and we must linger in the
   romantic though little known Vale of Towy, to make the acquaintance of
   two more sacred poets of Wales. One of these is MORGAN RHYS, the story
   of whose life is almost entirely lost. We have, however, the memoir of
   his soul safely kept in his hymns and elegies. Being a contemporary and
   neighbour of David Jones and William Williams, he seems to have felt
   the stress and storm of the same religious conflict; and his devotion
   has very much of the same deep and fervent colour. He was influenced
   largely by the potent spirit of Griffith Jones, of Llanddowror, the
   Morning Star of the Great Revival; and for a time undertook the care of
   one of his Circulating Schools.

   These schools were instituted to impart the simplest forms of
   elementary knowledge in country villages. After a schoolmaster had been
   for a while engaged in removing the dense ignorance of one district, he
   had to leave it for another; so the 'little knowledge' was scattered
   far and wide, although in very small instalments. In the latter part of
   his life, Mr. Rhys established a stationary school on his own
   responsibility: most probably in order that he might have more of
   personal freedom in hig evangelistic work. For he was one of the band
   of Calvinistic Methodist itinerant preachers that rendered noble
   service in that age to the renaissance of national piety. His hymns
   reflect strongly the theological lights and shades of his day; when the
   human side of Redemption was to a very considerable extent ignored, so
   as to emphasize the divine side of it. The total depravity of man--the
   impossibility of salvation by means of legal obedience--the need of the
   atonement, and its sufficiency--these are the doctrines which his harp
   translates into song. When he once went to [30]Williams, Pantycelyn,
   and read out to him one of his hymns, that master of sacred song told
   him that it contained the experience of a 'good Christian and a half.'
   His hymns reveal a mind dwelling much in pleasant melancholy, as in the
   shadow of leafy branches flecked with sunlight.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [31]Morgan Rhys


   I promise every day

   To keep The narrow way,

   But daily fail:

   God of the bush of yore,

   Strengthen me more and more;

   If Thou but walk before,

   I shall prevail.


   A thousand evil foes

   Around my pathway close,

   And I am weak:

   Give me Thy hand, I pray,

   To hold me in the way;

   And in the latter day,

   Lord, for me speak!
     __________________________________________________________________

    [32]Morgan Rhys

   In the two following verses we seem to hear the far-off noise of
   battle--a dim echo from the theological conflicts of bygone days, when
   the term 'Antinomian' was a favourite missile to hurl at an opponent.


   All praise to Christ the Righteous

   Who for my sin has died,

   And from the grave has risen

   That I be justified:

   Upon His throne of pity

   He intercedes for me,

   And names His life of sorrow,

   His death upon the tree.


   Now in the face of Moses,

   No friend shall have my plea:

   But Jesus Christ the Righteous

   Who died for one like me!

   In Jordan's swelling torrent,

   Or in that 'day to come,'

   I know His hand will hold me,

   And safely bring me home.

   'Now in the face of Moses,' has in it the martial ring of some famous
   old battle-cry.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [33]Morgan Rhys

   A similar theme is handled in these glowing verses:


   Lord, open mine eyes to behold

   The worth of Thy wondrous decree:

   Far better than silver and gold,

   The law of Thy mouth is to me:

   The fire shall consume all below,

   But Thou art the same, and Thy plan--

   'Tis life everlasting to know

   My Saviour as God and as Man.


   O wonder of infinite cost!

   The way that He took in His grace,

   To rescue a man that was lost,

   By dying Himself in His place!

   He conquered the serpent's despite,

   And stood there alone as my King

   He leadeth us now in His might--

   Let those on the Rock shout and sing.


   The Mighty One has overcome,

   His foes in confusion retire;

   And Zion is on its way home

   In terrible chariots of fire;

   The saints and the angels unite,

   A white-shining numberless throng,

   To bear through the realms of the light,

   To Him the all-conquering song.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [34]Morgan Rhys

   The other illustration from the hymns of Morgan Rhys comes in less
   familiar form:


   O welcome, blessed morrow!

   No foe, nor any sorrow

   Can reach the land of life:

   The conquering throng

   Shall gather with song,

   From all this world of strife.


   In Salem's tranquil regions

   No sound of warring legions

   Breaks on the music fair:

   The Saviour will be

   My heaven for me--

   And no one sinneth there!


   The grave will be so peaceful,

   Until the dawning blissful

   Shall wake me from my rest:

   And then I shall rise

   With joy to the skies,

   In Jesu's likeness drest.


   There is the crown of brightness,

   And robes of purest whiteness,

   And holy festival:

   No evil is there,

   No enemy dare

   Approach its pearlèd wall.


   There God is ever glorious,

   The Lamb is all-victorious,

   O blessed Three in One!

   My soul was a brand

   Plucked out by His hand--

   When shall His praise be done?
     __________________________________________________________________

    David Williams

   Another schoolmaster under Griffith Jones, and a maker of sacred songs
   also, was DAVID WILLIAMS, who was born near Llandovery, in the year
   1718; and died October 1, 1794, at Llandilo-fach, in the county of
   Glamorgan. Very little is known of him; and it seems probable that
   still less would be known, were it not for the severity of his domestic
   trials. His wife was an advanced, pupil of the school of Xantippe; and
   her violent temper kept the poet's sensitive spirit in exquisite
   torment. Among other troubles, he had to change his denomination on her
   account. But whatever of that, as in the case of another sweet singer
   who had to practise 'on an evil spirit,' his harp lost none of its
   tenderness of devotion. Some of his verses rank among the best in Welsh
   hymnology; and one especially is known wherever the Welsh tongue is
   spoken. He has not enclosed so much systematic theology in his hymns as
   [35]Morgan Rhys: rather is he the minstrel of the mortal strife of men,
   with their sorrow and joy and divine endeavour. Many a troubled soul
   can join him in this remonstrance with doubt:
     __________________________________________________________________

    [36]David Williams


   Unbelief, let me have quiet,

   Else my cry of pain shall rise

   From this valley of affiction

   To the gracious dawning skies:

   There for me my Brother pleadeth,

   Unforgetting day or night:

   He will come and break my fetters,

   He will lead me into light.


   Little Faith, where art thou hiding?

   For thy ministry take heart:

   Why, sweet Hope, art thou so timid?

   For the feeble do thy part:

   Soon the battle will be over--

   Unbelief, away! away!

   Though I am so faint and helpless,

   I am gaining ground each day.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [37]David Williams

   In another hymn we are still touched with the anguish of the strife:


   Hear my grief! believe I cannot

   That for me there is a hope,

   Who, between two weak opinions

   Halting, in the darkness grope:

   Fearing much and trusting little,

   Shall I stand at last or fall?

   Fearing evil hosts of darkness,

   Fearing self the most of all!


   Sometimes in the gloomy valley,

   Sometimes on the sunny height;

   Sometimes drinking Marah's waters,

   Sometimes wine of pure delight:

   Sometimes sighs and bitter meanings,

   Sometimes joy on every string;

   Sometimes low beneath the billows,

   Sometimes sunward on my wing.


   I am trusting, come what happen,

   Trusting in the word of grace--

   That the riven Rock of Ages

   Is my perfect hiding-place:

   In the cleft there is a Refuge,

   In the cleft is sweetest calm;

   In the cleft alone is safety--

   Wounds of Christ, unblemished Lamb.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [38]David Williams

   In most of his hymns he keeps the same figure or phrase through all his
   verses. In the following he sings of the 'breezes of Mount Zion':


   Lord, let the gladdening breezes

   Revive this soul of mine,

   And raise it, weak and wearied,

   To Heaven's air benign:

   The breeze will break and scatter

   The clouds that hang so low;

   I long to feel its freshness--

   From heaven let it blow!


   The breezes of Mount Zion

   Kindle the holy flame;

   The breezes of Mount Zion

   Renew the feeble frame:

   Oft in the breeze of Zion

   My soul with song would fill;

   And I shall yet be singing,

   Before I reach the hill.


   The breezes of Mount Zion

   Shall fill the sails again;

   And lift the stranded vessel

   To voyage o'er the main:

   The breezes of Mount Zion

   Leave all the sky aglow;--

   In Canaan's sunny valleys

   No cold winds ever blow.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [39]David Williams

   It must have been during one of his sunward flights that he saw this
   radiant vision of Eternal Love standing in the midst of all change
   without a cloud on its brow, without a fear in its soul:


   Oh! the grace no will can conquer!

   The omnipotence of love!

   Changeless is my Father's promise,

   It will never, never move:

   In the storm this is my anchor--

   God can never change His mind;

   In the wounds of Christ He promised

   Life to me: and He is kind.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [40]David Williams

   But the verse that has undoubtedly travelled wherever the Welsh
   language has, is the one of which I give the first line as it stands in
   the original:


   Yn y dyfroedd mawr a'r tonnau.

   It is the popular tradition that one stormy night, on reaching home
   after having been away preaching, he was hailed with all the bitterness
   the practised tongue of his wife could command. It was more than he
   could bear: he preferred the company of the storm without to the mad
   rhetoric within, so away he went, and stood on the banks of the River
   Llwchwr. The rush of the raging torrent and the noise of the wild night
   brought to his mind another river and another night, when his soul
   would be overwhelmed by the desolate presence of death. What hope would
   remain loyal then? What help would be at hand?


   In the waves and mighty waters

   No one will support my head,

   But my Saviour, my Belovèd,

   Who was stricken in my stead:

   In the cold and mortal river

   He will hold my head above;

   I shall through the waves go singing

   For one look of Him I love!

   A touching incident has given to this verse the title of 'The Miners'
   Hymn.' In the mouth of April, 1877, a colliery at Cymmer, in the
   Rhondda Valley, was flooded, and fourteen miners found themselves in a
   prison of darkness and terror, waiting helplessly for death. The whole
   nation seemed to turn its thought towards that coal-pit, and every day
   made the suspense more painful. The rescue-party toiled manfully day
   and night; and when seven days had passed without any reward to their
   labour, the last hope was almost given up. But on the eighth day nine
   of those imprisoned were found: and they were alive, though exhausted
   to the verge of death. Without air, without food, despair would have
   driven them mad were it not for the above hymn, which they sang over
   and over again with a feeling of terrible reality. 'The waves and
   mighty waters' were there; so was their Saviour, their Beloved. And
   they sang for one look of Him!
     __________________________________________________________________

    Benjamin Francis

   The Rev. BENJAMIN FRANCIS was born at Pengelli, near Newcastle-Emlyn,
   in the year 1734. His father was a Baptist minister, a man of large
   talents and many labours, his name being associated with the origin of
   several churches on the confines of the three counties of Cardigan,
   Caermarthen, and Pembroke. The son spoken of here was only six years
   old when his father died; but there were faithful friends who cared for
   him till he could care for himself. He commenced preaching at the age
   of nineteen; and soon after he entered the Academy at Bristol. In the
   year 1758 he was ordained minister of the Baptist church at Horsley, in
   Gloucestershire; and there he laboured in Christ for nearly half a
   century--until be was called to rest. His love for his native land
   constrained him to make contributions towards its church-song. His
   hymns are very correct and well finished; but only a few of them have
   found a permanent place in the sanctuary. Even these do not lend
   themselves to translation, being mostly free versions of the Psalms or
   of English hymns. He also published several English hymns; of which two
   at least are fairly well known--although in each case there is some
   confusion as to the authorship.


   [41]Hark! the voice of love and mercy

   is generally attributed to him, with a query on behalf of the Rev.
   Jonathan Evans.


   [42]Jesus! and shall it ever be

   is again put down to Grigg, but altered by Benjamin Francis.
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER VI.
  THOMAS WILLIAMS--CHARLES O'R BALA--DAVID CHARLES.

   With the close of the eighteenth century the Golden Age of Welsh
   hymnody began to decline. There has been a succession of great national
   poets since; but they are bards of the Eisteddvod rather than singers
   of the sanctuary. At the same time it deserves to be noted that the
   chief Eisteddvod poems of the present century have nearly all some
   sacred subject. The great poets have failed, as usual, to write great
   hymns. Still, the period is not void of interesting illustrations of
   the songs of the Church.

   THOMAS WILLIAMS, of Bethesda, in the Vale of Glamorgan, was originally
   a well-to-do farmer; but, owing to a bitter controversy concerning the
   alleged heresy of an eminent Methodist divine of the time--the Rev.
   Peter Williams--he, with a number of sympathizers, organized an
   Independent church, of which he afterwards became minister.
   Religiously, he was a child of the eighteenth century; and his hymns
   have a close spiritual affinity to the hymns of [43]David Jones and
   [44]Morgan Rhys and [45]William Williams. But here and there we find
   traces of the natural reaction which followed the fervour of the Great
   Revival. A chill melancholy steals sometimes over his faith--like the
   sound of an autumn breeze shuddering among the brown leaves after
   sunset. But it passes, and be rejoices again. His volume of hymns,
   entitled Waters of Bethesda, was published in 1823. It takes its name
   from its first, and one of his best-known hymns.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [46]Thomas Williams


   I also, like so many more,

   Am here beside the pool;

   Waiting the Holy Ghost to stir

   These waters deep and cool.


   Within salvation's crystal flood,

   Through time's long ages proved,

   How many hearts found health again,

   And all disease removed!


   Beside the pool for many a day

   My soul has been in grief;

   And every hour is like a year,

   In waiting God's relief.


   And shall it be that I must die,

   Who have remained so long?

   Before me others always go

   And wash, and they are strong.


   I was the first of all to come,

   But they were first made whole!

   When shall the day of healing dawn

   On my unhappy soul?


   Here I shall tarry, come what may,

   For who is there can tell

   But the Physician will Himself

   Come soon, and make me well?
     __________________________________________________________________

    [47]Thomas Williams

   Some of his best-known hymns--as in the case of nearly all Welsh
   hymn-writers--relate the vision of death: the favourite theme being
   that of natural fear gradually overcome by the Christian faith, as in
   the following


   Where is Elijah's God?

   Wilt Thou not come at length?

   For all my hope and stay

   Is only in Thy strength:

   The fathers I have loved are gone;

   I have but Thee to lead me on.


   The breeze is blowing chill

   Since early afternoon;

   And as I feel its cold

   I know that Death comes soon:

   Nought but Thy peace can take away

   The grave's dark sorrow and dismay.


   The river is at hand,

   I see its highest wave:

   And how can one so weak

   Its stormy torrents brave?

   God of Elijah, come once more,

   Divide the waters as of yore!


   Confirm my feeble faith,

   So fearful to advance--

   Afraid to trust the word

   That never failed me once!

   And Christ is in His sovereign right,

   The resurrection's Life and Light.


   O morning full of peace!

   Its light is in the skies;

   The prisons of the grave

   Shall fall, and never rise:

   Nor death nor grave shall then be known,

   From dawn till eve, from eve till dawn.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [48]Thomas Williams

   It would not be well to pass from him without including this little
   hymn, so simple in form, and its thought so sunny:


   The Tree of Life in barren soil

   At length has taken root,

   And bends its branches to the ground,

   That all may taste its fruit.


   Through wintry months of dark and cold,

   The fruit is on it still;

   Its leaves bring healing to the wounds

   Of mind and heart and will.


   If on this side the stream we find

   The fruit of Christ so good,

   It will be better, better far,

   The other side the flood.


   When strength has failed within my heart,

   When human help is past,

   In Thine own bosom, Jesu, Lord,

   Grant me to rest at last.
     __________________________________________________________________

    Charles O'r Bala

   In the good Providence of God the national revival of the eighteenth
   century was followed by a period of wise constructive energy. After the
   solemn awakening came the broad and sober reign of education.
   Catechisms were used largely, and with much profit: theology was
   organized, and church polity was defined. Among those approved workmen
   in constructive religion, no name is more honoured than that of CHARLES
   O'R BALA. The memorable little incident of 'Mary Jones and her Bible'
   has made him known everywhere as the pioneer and one of the founders of
   the British and Foreign Bible Society. He was born at Pant-dwvn, in the
   county of Caermarthen, October 14, 1755, of a respectable family of
   farmers. He came under the influence of the new religious movement in
   the days of boyhood, and it left a deep and permanent impression upon
   his spirit. Having taken his degree at Oxford, he was ordained priest
   May 21, 1780, and spent the next three years in a curacy at Halifax.
   Afterwards he returned to Wales, having been appointed to the curacy of
   Llanymowddwy: but his work there came suddenly to a close. Some of the
   parishioners, in their zeal for national ignorance, accused him of
   giving free instruction to the children after vespers. His rector
   considered this to be such a shocking innovation that he was at once
   dismissed. Like many another earnest spirit of the time, he had to
   forsake the Church of his fathers in order to have a free field for his
   heroic devotion. He publicly joined the Calvinistic Methodist movement,
   and found the work was 'great and large.' John Newton had asked him to
   come over to England: but he preferred to stay at home and bear the
   cross in his native land. His splendid toil in the interest of
   elementary and religious education, his part in the founding of the
   Bible Society, his Catechism and Bible Dictionary--both of them still
   treasures of the household and the Church--need only be mentioned here.
   [2] One bitterly cold night in the winter of 1799-80, he was returning
   over the mountains from Carnarvonshire to Bala, when his hand was
   bitten by the frost, and a severe illness succeeded. Much prayer was
   made on his behalf: but in the annals of those prayers nothing is more
   remarkable than this strange petition of one old Christian--'Fifteen
   years more, O Lord! We pray for fifteen years to be added to the days
   of his life; and wilt Thou not grant fifteen years, O our God, for the
   sake of Thy Church and Thy cause?' Nearly fifteen years later--in the
   summer of 1814--he told his wife at Barmouth, 'Well, Sali, the fifteen
   years are nearly up.' A few weeks later, a friend called to see him one
   morning, and said, 'Well, Mr. Charles, the day of trouble is come!' And
   he answered, 'There is Refuge!' His first word after that was spoken
   beyond the veil. What better mapping out of his spiritual course than
   these verses from his only hymn, written early in the fifteen years'
   trial?
     __________________________________________________________________

    [49]Charles O'r Bala


   O Salvation, full Salvation,

   Love's device for man's release!

   What can shake the firm foundation

   Of this covenant of peace?

   Here my soul in trouble resteth,

   Here through life is my abode:

   When the stormy wind molesteth,

   Days of calm have I with God.


   Should my health be from me taken,

   And my very life be done;

   The decree remains unshaken

   Made of old by Three in One:

   Unremoved the promise liveth,

   And the counsel standeth fast;

   Unto him, who now believeth

   Christ is life, and death is past.


   Bitter things are changed to sweetness,

   Darkness into clearest day;

   Trials give my spirit meetness,

   And they soon shall pass away:

   By the covenant sustainèd,

   Strong in comfort shall I be,

   Till my soul at last hath gainèd

   What my Father willed for me.


   Once, I thought my little vessel

   Had the wild waves overpast;

   I was in the tranquil haven,

   And my anchor had been cast!

   Then I cried in fear, 'My Father,

   Wilt Thou drive me back again?

   In Thy bosom take me rather,

   Let me bid farewell to pain!'


   'Hush, My child, and wait My leisure,

   Know there is no God but Me;

   Be at rest in My good pleasure,

   Trust My care--My care for thee:

   In the struggle I shall hide thee

   From the evil hand of foes;

   I shall always walk beside thee,

   I, thy succour and repose.'


   Lord, it is enough for ever,

   If Thou only be my God;

   For Thy Son didst Thou deliver

   To redeem me with His blood:

   In His shelter I have hidden,

   In the mortal bruise divine;

   Be all other joys forbidden,

   But the joy that He is mine.
     __________________________________________________________________

   [2] See 'Short Biographies for the People': Thomas Charles, by Rev. Dr.
   Herber Evans.
     __________________________________________________________________

    David Charles

   The youngest brother of the above--Rev. DAVID CHARLES, of
   Caermarthen--has the Christ-given honour of having written one of the
   foremost hymns in the language. He was born in 1762; and, like his
   brother, he was under spiritual impression from early childhood. During
   the days of his apprenticeship he learnt by heart the whole of Young's
   Night Thoughts. A book, and an English book, was also the means of
   helping him to final decision for Christ--the sermons of Ralph Erskine.
   He spent several years of his young manhood in Bristol; and all these
   English influences served him well in after years, enabling him to
   preach effectively in both languages. He preached several times with
   and for Rowland Hill in Gloucestershire; and twice at least he occupied
   the famous pulpit of Surrey Chapel. He was a true builder of the
   churches; and early Methodism in Wales owed a great deal to his
   soberness and wisdom.

   He wrote several hymns, but one has singled itself out from among the
   rest. The biography of 'O fryniau Caersalem ceir gweled,' like that of
   the 'Miners' Hymn' already referred to, can only be written in the
   light of the Home-land. The poet had heard 'the shout of them that
   triumph,' and he was no longer afraid of the weariness and perplexity
   of his pilgrimage in the desert. Some day he would reach the cloudless
   hills of Zion, and look back on the meanderings of the journey, to find
   that it was the nearest way home.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [50]David Charles


   To us from the desert ascending

   God giveth in Paradise rest;

   Our soul after weary contending

   Shall peacefully lean on His breast:

   There we shall escape from affliction,

   From sin with its shame and its pain;

   Enjoying the full benediction,

   The love of the Lamb that was slain.


   From the hills of the Beautiful City

   The way of the desert is clear;

   What joy will be there in reviewing

   The journey's meanderings here!

   To look on the storms as they gather,

   On terrible death and the grave;

   While we shall be safe with the Father,

   In peace on love's shadowless wave.

   While dying lips have murmured in anticipation this joy of the heavenly
   retrospect from the hills of the City, the gate of pearl has opened to
   many a soul; and the faltering strain of earth has glided imperceptibly
   into the choral song of seraphim and saints redeemed.
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER VII.
  HUGH JONES--EDWARD JONES--PEDR FARDD--R. AB GWILYM DDU.

   The sacred singers grouped together in this chapter had one quality in
   common: they were extravagantly fond of intricate rhymes and peculiar
   metres. This has seriously limited the use of their hymns, except in
   rare instances. Like Captain Middleton's Psalter, the greatest portion
   of their verse is so much fruitless piety; leaving, however, a saving
   remainder of serviceable work.

   HUGH JONES (of Maesglasau), son of a well-to-do farmer, was born in the
   neighbourhood of Dinas Mawddwy, Merioneth, in the year 1749. He spent
   the life of a literary recluse, devoting himself and losing his money
   in enriching the literature of Wales. Among the books he translated
   into Welsh were the works of Josephus. He also interested himself in
   church psalmody, and wrote several psalm-tunes. His name lives,
   however, more in one hymn he wrote than in all his other work. The
   following is an attempted rendering of it:
     __________________________________________________________________

    [51]Hugh Jones


   Remove

   The veil in this dear Mount of love,

   And let the sun stand still above

   Where once, reprovèd and beshrewed,

   The Lamb of God was made to feel

   The piercing steel, for my great good.


   For me

   No refuge anywhere can be,

   But in His wounds on Calvary:

   A fount I see in that dear side

   Which hath received the cruel spear--

   My soul, draw near the healing tide.


   Mine, mine,

   The virtue of that cross of Thine,

   To cleanse my soul from evil sign:

   The woe divine--the tearful plea

   Incessant at the throne of light--

   Have won the right of heaven for me.


   Oh, cleanse

   My life of every sinful sense

   In that pure stream of innocence--

   My sole defence and benison:

   Its tide shall never ebb again,

   But shall remain when time is done.
     __________________________________________________________________

    Edward Jones (Maesyplwm)

   EDWARD JONES (Maesyplwm) was born near the town of Denbigh, March 19,
   1761. He had the misfortune to lose his father when about ten years
   old, and the far worse misfortune--to come in early youth under the
   influences of evil companionship. He was twenty-six years old before be
   joined a Christian church, being one out of about fifteen members of
   the Calvinistic Methodist communion who were accustomed to hold their
   services in the parlour of a farmhouse. From that time he became a very
   useful worker. In spite of having received but few advantages of early
   education, he had used his native talent so wisely as to be able to add
   to the occupation of a farmer that of a village schoolmaster. He was
   more or less a verse-maker from his childhood, amusing his father with
   making verses when, a boy of six, he led the oxen at the plough. He
   died at Cilcain, near Mold, December 27, 1836. One of his carols was a
   great favourite of the famous Welsh preacher, Christmas Evans, who used
   at times to repeat portions of it in his sermons with most powerful
   effect. The hymn rendered below is one of his best;
     __________________________________________________________________

    [52]Edward Jones (Maesyplwm)


   All heaven and earth are filled with God,

   Hell knows His present sight;

   Eternity is His abode,

   His name the Infinite:

   He fills all distances of space,

   And reigns almighty as He lists;

   His years, His strength can grow no less,

   He in Himself exists.


   Existing in Himself, before

   He framed the depth, the height,

   Beyond the past eternal shore,

   He was the Infinite;

   Without beginning of His days,

   No end of life to Him can be;

   Eternal still in all His ways,

   The Perfect Trinity.


   There is no measure of His grace,

   And therefore it is well;

   We have been told His wondrous praise,

   His rule invisible:

   And as we heard, so have we seen

   The endless marvels of His plan:

   Unchangeable His truth has been,

   Though great the sin of man.


   No spirit bright is left to faint,

   Of His regard denied;

   No angel, no redeemèd saint

   But in His care abide:

   Each in His presence stands revealed,

   To His good pleasure consecrate;

   Their comely praise to Him they yield,

   And magnify their state.


   We too on earth are seen to stand

   For ever in His sight;

   We live in Him, we feel His hand

   In darkness as in light:

   He knows what secret sin we bear,

   He watches all we do amiss;

   For at each moment everywhere

   In heaven and earth He is.


   Each evil thought or good unknown

   Lies open to His eye;

   He hears the sigh, the silent moan,

   As well as terror's cry:

   He takes the heart of man to read,

   He knows how empty each design:

   The wish undone is as a deed,

   Writ in the book divine.


   My soul, thou art a Father's care,

   He sees thy purpose weak:

   Thou hast a Brother pleading there

   Before thou ever speak:

   Thy Father--He will not despise

   To hear desire's softest call;

   Although thy lips be dumb, His eyes

   Can see and pity all.


   When in some secret place I mourn

   Beneath some cross of care,

   By heavy burdens overborne,

   Too hard for me to bear;

   One memory will cheer me still--

   To God's dear Son my state is known;

   I shall not always bear this ill,

   A better life will dawn.
     __________________________________________________________________

    Peter Jones (Pedr Fardd)

   PETER JONES (Pedr Fardd) was born in the parish of Dolbemnaen,
   Caernarvonshire, May 7, 1775; but in his early youth he removed to
   Liverpool, and spent the remainder of his days there till his death on
   the 26th of January, 1845. He was connected with the Welsh Calvinistic
   Church at Pall Mall, and exercised a large power for good among his
   countrymen in the city. He was especially a friend and teacher of young
   men, both in literature and religion. One of his best known hymns is a
   hymn of youth:
     __________________________________________________________________

    [53]Peter Jones (Pedr Fardd)


   Now let the firstfruits of our days

   Be sacred to the Saviour's praise;

   The pleasure of His work is more

   Than earth can bring from all its store.


   Early beneath His yoke to be

   Is better far than vanity;

   The paths of wisdom yield each day

   The peace that passeth not away.


   Oh! that my youth were wholly spent

   Beneath His yoke in calm content:

   For He who bought me on the tree

   Owns every hour of life from me.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [54]Peter Jones (Pedr Fardd)

   From among his more mechanical hymns the following is chosen:


   Sweet streams of pleasantness

   Came flowing free,

   Our stricken life to bless,

   From heaven's decree:

   Salvation's early thought

   Passed o'er the desert place,

   And thousand blessings brought--

   Oh! wondrous grace!


   Christ made His very own

   Our mortal frame,

   And for His saints He won

   A glorious claim:

   Of His good-will came He

   To take a servant's place

   Fruit of the great decree--

   Oh! wondrous grace!


   Our Helper in our stead

   Was sacrificed;

   He bruised the serpent's head--

   Our Rock is Christ:

   Ended is sin's control;

   We yet shall see His face,

   His likeness in our soul--

   Oh! wondrous grace!


   Grapes from the thorns were found

   Upon the cross;

   Balm from the cruel wound,

   To heal His foes:

   Soon shall our song arise,

   In endless joy of praise,

   To Christ, our Sacrifice--

   Oh! wondrous grace!
     __________________________________________________________________

    Robert Williams (R. ab Gwilym Ddu)

   ROBERT WILLIAMS (R. ab Gwilym Ddu) was born in the parish of
   Llanystundwy, Caernarvonshire, in the year 1767. He spent his life on
   his own farm, removed far from the world, in the company of Arvon's
   mountains. His days seem to have passed by evenly till the death of his
   only daughter, the child of his old age, in her seventeenth year. His
   heart never recovered from the sorrow; and the elegy he wrote on her
   death is an expression of most vivid grief. He and another famous
   bard--Dewi Wyn o Eifion--were Baptists; and by their efforts a chapel
   was built, which still goes by the name of 'The Bards' Chapel.' He died
   June 11, 1850. The original of the following hymn has woven itself
   around some of the tenderest recollections of Welsh communion services:
     __________________________________________________________________

    [55]Robert Williams (R. ab Gwilym Ddu)


   From age to age the memory

   Of Jesu's blood grows fonder;

   Too short eternity will be

   To tell of all its wonder.


   The chiefest theme of heavenly song

   Is Jesu's dying glory;

   In highest hymn each harp is strong

   To tell again the story.


   The virtue of His sufferings,

   His grief in our restoring,

   Sound louder on celestial strings

   Than seraphim adoring.


   The song will but begin to rise

   When ages vast are over;

   For ever shall His sacrifice

   New miracles discover.


   When these shall reach the sacred hill,

   The sons of tribulation;

   Then every string Divine shall thrill

   With louder exultation.


   The music shall for ever swell,

   Host unto host replying;

   But oh! the song will never tell

   The worth of Jesus dying.
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER VIII.
  DANIEL DDU--NICANDER--IEUAN GLAN GEIRIONYDD.

   THE REV. DANIEL EVANS (Daniel Ddu) was born at Llanfihangel-Ystrad, in
   the county of Cardigan, in the year 1792. He studied at Oxford, and
   afterwards became a Fellow of Jesus College. He used to spend much of
   his time between the terms in the neighbourhood of his birth, where he
   was half worshipped by the peasantry. They held some strange notions
   with regard to Oxford; and nothing could put out of their heads the
   belief that its ancient colleges were the favourite haunts of a motley
   crew of ghosts of a very doubtful character. He himself was considered
   an expert in 'raising spirits'; and as to his familiarity with the
   'black art'--how could there be a doubt of it, when he could speak
   Latin as well as Mephistopheles himself? If he never abused his power
   to do them ill, it was only another proof of his good nature. In the
   latter part of his life he was much troubled with melancholy, and died
   when he was fifty-four years of age. He wrote some very successful
   Eisteddvodic poetry; but nothing that he has written is so well known
   as the following hymn-poem on the Prodigal Son, with its effective
   arrangement of light and shade. Its dramatic cast stands in the way of
   its being used as a whole; but some of the verses are extensively
   known.
     __________________________________________________________________

    Daniel Evans (Daniel Ddu)


   Who is yonder weary pilgrim

   From the desert now appears,

   Coming home with cheerless footsteps,

   And his cheek bedewed with tears?

   Worn and tattered is his garment,

   There is famine in his face:

   Peace has made a vain endeavour

   In his heart to find a place.


   Hear him to himself bemoaning--

   'Father! in Thy house make me

   But a servant!--me, unworthy

   Any more Thy son to be!'

   What is this--this strain celestial

   Now I hear above the sky?

   Harps ten thousand times ten thousand

   In sweet harmony on high?


   Oh! the softly flowing echo

   From the instruments of gold:

   'Journey on, thou weary pilgrim,

   Welcome home from deserts cold!

   The inhabitants of Light-land

   Now with joy thy spirit greet:

   See, the robe is ready for thee--

   Soon shalt thou the Father meet.


   'Journey on, thou weary pilgrim,

   Through the desert journey on;

   Though thy face is marked with sorrow,

   Song for weeping cometh soon:

   Heaven's eyes watch every footstep,

   Haste thee on, O sorely tried!

   Flow, ye tears, a little longer,

   Till at home ye shall be dried.'


   Who is He that brings the garment

   Beautiful as light of dawn?

   Kisses him, the weary lost one,

   To His bosom closely drawn?

   Loud and louder swells the music

   Of each glowing golden string:

   Little soul, art thou so precious

   In the palace of the King?


   Yes, there will be joy in heaven,

   If from evil ways thou flee

   There is always, always welcome

   In the Father's house for thee:

   Leave the husks and vanished shadows,

   And a world of falsehood spurn:

   Thine the fulness and affection,

   Thine the home: return! return!
     __________________________________________________________________

    Morris Williams (Nicander)

   Two other clergymen of the Established Church in Wales have rendered
   valued service to the national psalmody. One of these is the Rev.
   MORRIS WILLIAMS (Nicander), who, in the spirit of the High Church
   revival, published The Church's Year. He also undertook a new version
   of the Psalms; but he did not succeed in supplanting the old Psalter of
   Edmund Prys. Like almost all the hymn-writers of this century, his best
   work in poetry belongs to the Eisteddvod. From his seventeenth year,
   when he came into notice through a poetical curiosity--a metrical ode
   made up entirely of Biblical proper names--from thence up to the close
   of his life, he made large contributions to native literature. He had
   come personally under the influence of the Oxford movement; and be
   worked manfully for the revival of his Church in his native land. His
   labour, and that of likeminded men, was not in vain: the results of his
   devotion have reached wide and far.

   The Church's Year (Y Flwyddyn Eglwysig) was published in 1843,
   reflecting in every part the influence of Keble's [56]Christian Year.
   How far he copied the original, and where he added something of his
   own, may be judged from a comparison of the following hymn for
   Quinquagesima Sunday with that of Keble--both being based on the
   rainbow in Noah's covenant (Gen. ix. 13).
     __________________________________________________________________

    [57]Morris Williams (Nicander)


   Noah beheld the wondrous sign

   On darksome clouds reclining;

   God's peace and covenant benign

   Were through its glory shining.


   As mounts the lark to yonder sky

   Whene'er the rain is ended,

   So from the earth again made dry

   Their song to God ascended.


   The Lord Himself in heaven wrote

   His peace in one bright letter:

   Expression of a tranquil thought--

   Give grace to read it better!


   Bow of the covenant of grace,

   God's loving-kindness sent it!

   The earth it seemeth to embrace--

   The hands of God have bent it!


   My Father's flaming bow I sing,

   Its flame in love was given:

   Inwrought with peace and void of string,

   No arrow from it driven!


   As Jacob's ladder showed erewhile

   Heaven and earth in union;

   The frowning cloud, the sunny smile,

   Are here in calm communion.


   Type of the Saviour, God and Man,

   The Rainbow o'er us bending;

   He made the earth and heaven one

   In peace that hath no ending.


   How can I bear the sun's strong light?

   The rainbowed cloud is dearer:

   O Son of God! too far, too bright--

   The Son of Man comes nearer.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [58]Morris Williams (Nicander)

   This other and simpler hymn is for St. Philip and St. James's Day--'I
   am the way, the truth, and the life.'


   Christ opened on the tree

   A way to heaven's door;

   And Thou Thyself, O Jesus, art

   The Way for evermore.


   Truth is the homeward way

   These erring feet must wend;

   And Thou art still the Perfect Truth,

   O Jesu, dearest Friend.


   The way is life indeed

   To all that walk therein;

   And Thou, O Christ, art very Life,

   Who savest us from sin.


   Give grace to keep the Way,

   The paths of Truth made straight:

   And follow as Thy flock before,

   Until we reach the gate.


   Give strength to keep the Way,

   Heedless of human sign:

   Where Thou hast walked let me be led,

   Thy very steps be mine!
     __________________________________________________________________

    Evan Evans (Ieuan Glan Geirionydd)

   While the services of Nicander, from their very purpose and form, were
   largely confined to the psalmody of his own Church, another
   clergyman--the Rev. EVAN EVANS (Ieuan Glan Geirionydd) has given some
   choice hymns to the nation at large. He was born at Trefriw, and had
   his early imagination charmed by the picturesque surroundings of his
   home. His parents were renowned for their piety, and were the pioneers
   of Calvinistic Methodism in the neighbourhood. Like most great men, he
   owed his greatness largely to his mother. He started life as a
   schoolmaster; but a marked success at an Eisteddvod having brought him
   into public notice, he was induced to devote himself to the ministry of
   the Church. He held successively the curacies of Christleton and Ince,
   in Cheshire. Ill-health compelled him to leave Ince, and he spent some
   time in retirement among the beloved hills of Trefriw. When he had
   partially recovered, he was appointed to the curacy of Rhyl. This took
   place in the month of July, 1854. On the 21st day of the following
   January death came and led him into rest.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [59]Evan Evans (Ieuan Glan Geirionydd)

   Nearly all his hymns are prayers--prayers full of the tenderest
   appeals, as if his faith trembled in approaching the Golden Gate. The
   following is given as an instance:


   To Him who bends to hear the weak,

   I bring my simple plea:

   In every pain and sore distress,

   Turn not away from me!


   Although unworthy to enjoy

   Thy presence full and free,

   Deserving but to be cast out--

   Turn not away from me!


   When my acquaintance, one by one,

   Leave me in misery;

   And friend and comrade stand afar,

   Turn not away from me!


   For Thy dear cross and precious death

   On lonely Calvary,

   And for Thine intercession now,

   Turn not away from me!


   When I must face the stormy flood,

   Where many sorrows be;

   And through the valley walk alone,

   Turn not away from me!


   When Thou shalt come the second time,

   With awful majesty,

   To judge the living and the dead,

   Turn not away from me!
     __________________________________________________________________

    [60]Evan Evans (Ieuan Glan Geirionydd)

   The technical intricacies of these two verses have not debarred them
   from the attainment of wide popularity:


   My race beneath the sun

   Is very nearly run;

   Life fades away in sad decay,

   Soon shall my day be done:

   My fragile tent is sorely rent,

   My strength is spent well-nigh;

   The hour is near--I must appear

   In doubt and fear within the clear

   Immortal sphere on high.


   Grant, Lord, Thy peace to me,

   And Thy dear face to see;

   Before my day has passed away,

   All sinless may I be!

   Thy gracious light in death's dark night

   Shall soon my fright dispel:

   In Thy right hand on yonder strand,

   Where fears disband my soul shall stand--

   Sweet land! where all is well!
     __________________________________________________________________

    [61]Evan Evans (Ieuan Glan Geirionydd)

   While for years the thought of death was so present to his mind, it was
   natural for him to sing this wistful:


   I linger sadly near

   The stormy river;

   And long to cross, but fear

   Lest none deliver:

   Oh I that I might but soar

   Above its rush and roar,

   And on the other shore

   Be safe for ever


   From every dismal wave

   Come dark foretellings;

   I think of all the brave

   Lost in its swellings:

   O soul of mine, so frail!

   What if the flood prevail,

   And thou at last should'st fail

   To reach those dwellings!


   But see! from yonder shore

   On high ascended,

   My comrades in the war,

   Their sorrow ended:

   Why should I feel alarm?

   They crossed on Jesu's arm,

   And I shall know no harm,

   By Him befriended.

   A version of this hymn, changed so as to be an address to the poet, and
   beginning


   Thou, often wandering near

   The stormy river,--

   is inscribed over his grave in Trefriw Churchyard, where he lies beside
   his parents and his wife, under the sombre shadow of 'the twin
   yew-trees.'
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER IX.
  HIRAETHOG-EMRYS-ISLWYN.

   In some respects the Rev. Dr. William Rees (Hiraethog) ranks as the
   greatest Welshman of the nineteenth century. Preacher and lecturer,
   journalist and reformer, poet and essayist, there are whole pages in
   the national history of Wales covered with his broad and sturdy
   handwriting. But his poetical genius was too massive to produce hymns
   of the first order. Most of them lack the smoothness of expression and
   neatness of form so necessary in the making of a good hymn.

   One of the gifts of his muse is a new poetical version of the Psalms.
   How the ministry of affliction helped him to accomplish this
   undertaking is told in his own words:

   'Failing health kept me almost wholly at home during the winter and
   spring of 1872-3, even as late as the middle of the month of April
   scarcely venturing out of the house, except on the Sabbath. I
   consecrated every hour of every day that my weary nature could endure,
   through the space of the time mentioned, to the task of completing what
   remained of this work, together with attending to the calls of the
   pulpit:--and when the clock was striking four, in the afternoon of
   Friday, March 21, 1873, I was letting the pen out of my hand, having
   written the last line of the versification. It would not be easy for me
   to forget how I felt that moment. I gave thanks from my heart, I
   believe, to the Father of all mercies for having suffered me to live to
   see this labour completed; and I tried to dedicate it to the blessing
   of Him who had supported and strengthened me to carry it through, with
   a degree of confidence that some might derive benefit and pleasure from
   its perusal through that blessing. Many a time when, suffering and
   afflicted, I was at the task, I thought of the words of the
   Psalmist--"Unless Thy law had been my delights, I should then have
   perished in mine affliction." So I said:--Had the Psalms not been my
   delights, I would have perished, from suffering of body and depression
   of spirit, many a day during that season when I was like Paul, to some
   extent as it were a prisoner in my own hired house.'

   Of the two Psalters of the present century that of Nicander is more
   marked for smoothness; but that of Hiraethog possesses more
   originality, and makes, a very useful companion of the Psalms in the
   study.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [62]William Rees (Hiraethog)

   The hymn-poem of which a version is given below gains an additional
   interest from the undertone of personal experience easily recognized
   among the broader movements of a universal theme. its dramatic cast,
   however, renders it, like his Psalter, more useful for private devotion
   than for public worship. It has found its way into most of the later
   hymn-books of Wales, and is known far and wide.

    The Search of a Tired Soul for Rest.


   I went searching through creation

   For my soul a place of rest--

   Disappointment and vexation

   Everywhere repaid my quest.

   From the world and flesh to tempt me

   Came a thousand promised joys;

   But I found them false and empty,

   Lying dreams and gilded toys.


   Then I asked the white and holy

   Angel--thousands of the skies--

   'With a sinner poor and lowly

   Have you one will sympathize?'

   Gabriel answered my appealing--

   'Not with us; no, there is none

   That can have a fellow-feeling

   With a soul unclean--undone!


   Hope in utter darkness vanished,

   And I cried in agony--

   'All deliverance is banished!

   It is over now with me!'

   Stormy clouds on Sinai setting,

   And my spirit trembling sore--

   Oh! there can.be no forgetting

   Of that anguish evermore!


   On the throne of high possession,

   Through my tears at last I see,

   In His robes of intercession,

   Him who bowed the head for me:

   'There He is!' my soul exclaimèd,

   'I can read it in His face--

   He will never be ashamèd

   To receive me in His grace.'


   To His throne my soul proceeded,

   Deigning at His feet to fall;

   And for love and pardon pleaded

   Through the blood that saveth all:

   'What?'--I mused--'Should I conceal it,

   All this grief and broken cheer?

   Hide the wound while He can heal it?

   It is Christ!--why need I fear?'


   When I opened, slowly, sadly,

   My dark bosom, sin-oppressed,

   Then He opened quickly, gladly,

   For my shelter His own breast:

   All my burden He removèd,

   Yea, He gave me full release;

   With the smile of my Belovèd

   Came the joy of perfect peace.


   Body, spirit, now I owe Him,

   I belong to Him henceforth--

   Oh, that I might live to show Him

   Everywhere in all His worth!

   When I join the host surrounding

   His serene, eternal throne,

   I shall sing of grace abounding,

   And the song shall be His own.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [63]William Rees (Hiraethog)

   The other hymn of his we give has for its theme Christ weeping over
   Jerusalem (Luke xix. 28-48).


   Lo, He wept! Who, then, is He?

   Christ the Lord! What shall we say?

   Thousands wept before; but see

   God as Man in tears to-day.


   Lo, He wept! And why should He?

   Oh, not for Himself one tear!

   It was human misery

   That had touched His soul so near.


   Lo, He wept! And all around

   See the crowd exulting leaps;

   Loud and far the songs resound;

   They rejoice--He only weeps.


   Lo, He wept! He sees the doom

   Of the city close at hand:

   Soon to fall in awful gloom,

   In the fire a burning brand!


   Lo, He wept! What love hath He

   For His enemies revealed!

   Tears of gentle charity--

   'Tis the heart of God unsealed.


   Lo, He wept! Ah, sinner, see--

   See, the tears are falling fast!

   He of pity wept for thee--

   And wilt thou not weep at last?

   Dr. Rees was born in the month of November, 1802, at the foot of
   Hiraethog Hill, near Denbigh. It was in the same month, eighty-one
   years later, that he fell asleep in the city of Chester. 'The search of
   a tired soul for rest' came to an end, when the Saviour met him at the
   door and asked him to come in.
     __________________________________________________________________

    William Ambrose (Emrys)

   A close friend and fellow-worker of the last was the Rev. WILLIAM
   AMBROSE (Emrys). He was born at the Penrhyn Arms Hotel, Bangor, August
   10, 1813. The course of his life was even and calm as the flowing of a
   river through a level land, his death alone adding an incident of
   startling impressiveness to his earthly story. He was preaching in his
   own pulpit at Portmadoc on Sunday, April 27, 1873. For some time he had
   been suffering much from the effect of a paralytic stroke; but that was
   a day of marked power, and the people felt the peculiar nearness of the
   spirit land. The text of the evening sermon was Isaiah vii. 15: 'For
   thus saith the High and Lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name
   is Holy; I dwell in the high and the holy place, with him also that is
   of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble,
   and to revive the heart of the contrite ones.' It was a remarkably
   powerful sermon; and hundreds were rejoicing that night in the hope of
   restored eloquence and further guiding of their soul through him into
   the doctrine of Jesus Christ. But he had scarcely come down from the
   pulpit when he was seen to grow pale and lean heavily back. It was the
   final stroke--the hand of death was laid upon him as he was coming out
   of the shining cloud. For six months he lingered; and all that time the
   silver tongue was speechless. It was on the 31st of October, the same
   year, that the silent Hand once more was laid upon him, and more
   heavily. But it was only to make his spirit free, and to lead him to
   the land where the word of eloquence can never be hushed any more.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [64]William Ambrose (Emrys)

   His poetry, like his life, is beautifully clear and tranquil. This
   hymn, for instance does it not sound like the footsteps of the Spirit
   of Peace in the house of life?


   Give me quiet resting-places,

   Lord, beneath the shade of palms;

   Where the heavenly pilgrims gather,

   Where they sing their joyful psalms:

   There they linger to make mention

   Of Thy faithfulness and grace,

   Till their sorrows are forgotten

   In the pleasure of Thy praise.


   Happy is the brethren's discourse,

   As they seek the better land;

   Not an evil tongue to flatter,

   Nor a traitor's cruel hand:

   Heavenly dew on each experience,

   Words of faith in glad refrain--

   All are filled with sweet home-longing,

   Where the end is glorious gain.


   Lord, until we reach uphold us!

   It is but a little while;

   When the journey darkly closes

   Let Thy sunlight on us smile:

   Let the breezes of the Home-land

   Meet us in the valley's gloom;

   Till our feet are safely treading

   Hills of light and fadeless bloom.
     __________________________________________________________________

    William Thomas (Islwyn)

   The Rev. WILLIAM THOMAS (Islwyn) was born at Mynydd-islwyn, in the
   county of Monmouth, April 3, 1832. His life was spent in the secluded
   and undisturbed neighbourhood of his birth; and there he died November
   20, 1878. Purposing in his early youth to become a land surveyor, at
   the age of twenty-two the inward impulse led him to the pulpit. He was
   ordained at Llangeitho Association in 1859, but he never took a
   pastoral charge. He suffered much from melancholy. In consequence his
   preaching engagements were not kept as faithfully as they should have
   been. Sometimes an elder would announce him in the following
   significant terms: 'Islwyn will preach here next Sunday--if he comes.'
     __________________________________________________________________

    [65]William Thomas (Islwyn)

   His poetry stands among the best in Welsh literature, deeply tinged as
   it is with the unfamiliar idealizings of a mystic soul. Only three of
   his hymns are published. The one given below has already found a place
   in the hymnody of the Welsh Church, and has its record among the songs
   ordained of the Holy Spirit to give stay and patience of hope to the
   righteous in the hour of sorrow and death.


   See, my soul, the land of brightness

   Far above the clouds of time;

   Where the breeze with balmy lightness

   Bloweth through a genial clime;

   Joyful thousands!

   Moving in its rest serene.


   Life has there its crystal fountains,

   Peace--whose rivers softly flow,

   To refresh its vales and mountains,

   To immortalize its glow;

   And salvation

   On the sunny shores is breathed.


   Never can a mortal arrow

   On its nearest province fall:

   Death's dominion is but narrow--

   There it cometh not at all:

   Life abundant;

   Immortality at home!


   Every breeze of winter changes

   On the shore to heavenly calm;

   O'er its fields no sorrow ranges,

   Every sigh becomes a psalm:

   Into Jordan

   Falls the last most bitter tear.


   There--there is not one that mourneth,

   There--there is not any sad;

   There--the gall to honey turneth,

   There--the bound is free and glad:

   Joyful thousands!

   There abiding evermore!


   Now my heart is filled with blessing,

   And a sacred joy is mine,

   In the hope of soon possessing

   That inheritance Divine:

   Joyful thousands!

   Drawing near that promised land!
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER X.
  S. R.--DAVID JONES OF TREBOBTH--ROGER EDWARDS--THOMAS REES, D.D.

   The Rev. SAMUEL ROBERTS--better known as S. R.--was born at
   Llanbrynmair, on the 6th of March, 1800. His father before him was a
   preacher of high worth, and a father of many churches; he contributed
   largely to theological literature, and was a trustee and correspondent
   of The Evangelical Magazine. The son was also an indefatigable worker,
   and divided his life between America and Wales. He used his pen
   lavishly on behalf of all reforms, whether in public economy or church
   principles, whether in social movements or in religious progress. He
   was an uncompromising iconoclast, and possibly spent too much of his
   time and talent in 'handling the bow.' He died at Conway in the month
   of October, 1885.

   In 1841 he published a collection of over two thousand hymns, which
   passed through at least eight editions. It is a very fine collection,
   and has several hymns and translations by the editor. The names of
   authors, however, are not given. I must therefore give the following
   selections as anonymous:
     __________________________________________________________________

    [66]Samuel Roberts (S. R.) (editor)

THE FRUITS OF CHRIST'S TRAVAIL.


   Our dearest Lord went forth to sow in tears,

   When days were dark, when He was weary too;

   But now the joy of harvest-tide appears,

   And for His toil shall endless praise be due.


   As firstfruits went He to the blessed land,

   And from His woe shall fields of harvest rise;

   It shall be gathered by the Lord's own hand,

   From earth's four corners to th' eternal skies.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [67]Samuel Roberts (S. R.) (editor)

MINISTERING ANGELS.


   Great God, to what glory and lofty estate

   Thine Only-begotten was raised, and made great!

   The angels in dazzling white garments are known

   As ministers of His untarnishèd throne.


   The angels are bidden to guide us who roam,

   To lead us and bring us the narrow way home

   Whatever the dangers that crowd on the road,

   They meet us in journeying homeward to God.


   When I must depart from this frail tent of dust,

   When I must appear at the throne of the Just,

   Oh, let a kind angel from Paradise come,

   To guide and defend me and bring me safe home.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [68]Samuel Roberts (S. R.) (editor)

WHAT OF THE NIGHT?


   Watchman, say, what of the night?

   Is the dawning still afar?

   Pilgrim, see, so fair and bright,

   O'er the hills the Morning-Star:

   Watchman, what denotes its sign?

   Is it better time for man?

   Pilgrim, 'tis the dawn Divine

   Of the everlasting plan.


   Watchman, say, what of the night?

   Is it still not nearing day?

   Pilgrim, night is done! the light

   Spreads upon its glorious way:

   Watchman, why departest thou?

   Why turn home when all is gain?

   Pilgrim, o'er the wide earth now

   Comes the Prince of Peace to reign!
     __________________________________________________________________

    John Roberts, Llangwm

    THE MARRIAGE OF THE LAMB. [3]

   I.

   II.


   Who the Prince?--and what the chariot

   O'er the starry pathways led?

   Armies follow on white horses,

   Many crowns are on His head:

   King of glory!

   On His robe the name is read.


   His look pierceth through creation,

   Flames within His eyes abide:

   Who is this--but Zion's Bridegroom?

   Gently smiles He on His bride:

   His the garment

   With His life-blood deeply dyed.


   Who is this fair Bride approaching

   Through the gates of death serene?

   Lo, the beauteous light of dawning

   Blushing leaves the radiant scene:

   She is Zion,

   In fine linen white and dean.


   Through the shining realms of starlight

   Let the angels clear the way;

   Let all Nature wear its glory,

   And each flower its sweet array:

   Sing the marriage

   Of the Lamb in many a lay.
     __________________________________________________________________

   [3] These verses are by Rev. John Roberts, Llangwm.
     __________________________________________________________________

    THE LORD'S TABLE.


   The table of Thy grace,

   Lord, here I take my place;

   Let me Thy face behold well pleased:

   Thy face, my dearest Lord,

   Doth highest joy afford,

   And love's sweet word lights up the feast.


   When musing I draw near

   The woe of nail and spear,

   With reverent fear my spirit guide:

   Let me Thy freedom share,

   Make strong my faith to bear

   Thine ark with care till eventide.


   Soon, soon doth time remove

   These earthly feasts of love--

   The sorrow of the world remains:

   But in that sweet countrie

   No sword to bear have we,

   For charity unending reigns.
     __________________________________________________________________
     __________________________________________________________________

    David Jones (of Treborth)

   The Rev. DAVID JONES (of Treborth) was born June 2, 1805, in the parish
   of Dolyddelen, Caernarvonshire. His eldest brother was the celebrated
   Welsh preacher--John Jones, Talysarn. Neither of them as children had
   any opportunities of education beyond what the Sunday school provided.
   Their father died when the eldest brother was only ten and the youngest
   only two. So, as they grew up, the former went to work in the slate
   quarry, and the latter stayed at home to work on the farm for his
   mother. David Jones, from his boyhood, was fond of preaching: often he
   would retire to some unfrequented spot and become both preacher and
   audience himself. He was twenty-one years old when he gave his first
   sermon in public, and soon came into note. He, like his brother, had
   the true instinct of self-culture, which saved him to a large extent
   from the misfortune of early disadvantages. He was ordained at Bala in
   1834, and laboured successively at Caernarvon, Treborth, and
   Llanfairfechan, where he died June 23, 1868. He published three
   extensive poems on the subjects of 'The Prodigal Son,' 'Christ's
   Sacrifice,' and 'Man.' The spirit of his poetry is well represented by
   such verses as these:
     __________________________________________________________________

    [69]David Jones (of Treborth)


   The Sacrifice wickedly slain

   On Calvary one afternoon,

   Did God for atonement ordain,

   And He is well pleased in the Son:

   His merit no language can tell,

   The title of Godhead is His;

   No praises can ever excel

   The worth of a Saviour like this.


   The earth is so little, beside

   Creation's unmeasurèd reach--

   A small speck of dust undescried,

   A drop of the sea on the beach:

   But Love wrought its victory here,

   A conquest of glory supreme;

   And Calvary's accent is clear

   Through heaven in each rapturous theme.


   Awake! it is time, oh! my soul,

   Be strong to forget every pain;

   The Church of all nations extol,

   The praise of the Lamb that was slain:

   The work is so vast in its plan,

   Too few are the words of the earth,

   Too feeble the talents of man,

   To tell the Atonement's full worth.


   The Feast of Atonement is nigh,

   The world is to share in the feast--

   Let all the bright stars of the sky

   Be bells of fine gold for the Priest!

   His praise let all powers make known--

   'He reconciled us unto God!

   The Aaron who died to atone,

   He liveth, with glory endowed.'


   Let all worlds in concert unite

   To give the Redeemer His due,

   Until their rejoicing delight

   Th' eternal dominions of blue:

   All space be an ocean of praise,

   And waves of harmonious refrain

   Surge back over infinite ways

   To the shores of creation again!


   Oh! sinner, hast thou not a voice

   For Him who is Refuge alone!

   The angels adoring rejoice

   That He for us all did atone:

   Their wonder they ever confess,

   To think of His death in our room:

   But is their astonishment less,

   That man should keep silent and dumb?


   Awake! to the Lamb be thy song!

   Whose debt can be ever so great?

   In singing His praises grow strong;

   Begin,--'tis already so late!

   The song of the white-wingèd quire

   Is weak for that triumph of love:

   Stand thou in thy part, and aspire

   To add to the rapture above.


   The angels in singing proclaim,

   'Christ Jesus! our Wonder is He:'

   But man has much more in the Name--

   'Christ Jesus is Life unto me!'

   They wonder to think of Him dead--

   For thee did He journey that way:

   The angels can call Him their Head--

   'My Brother' canst thou to Him say?
     __________________________________________________________________

    Roger Edwards

   The REV. ROGER EDWARDS was born January 22, 1811, at Bala--a name
   associated for ever with some of the noblest and most romantic
   traditions of Methodist piety. He received a good education, and
   preached his first sermon on the verge of his twentieth year. In the
   year 1834 he settled at Mold, and there he remained till the end of his
   days. No one ever deserved a title better than he did that of 'Bishop
   of Flintshire,' given him by the unanimous voice of the people. His
   memory remains beloved in all the Churches. Possibly, however, in after
   years his name will be remembered more through his intimate connection
   with the rise of Welsh periodical literature, He settled at Mold for
   the purpose of editing one of the pioneer newspapers of the
   Principality. In 1846 he was appointed sole editor of Y Drysorfa, the
   monthly organ of the Calvinistic Methodists; and he held the
   appointment until his death. But perhaps still more important was his
   connection with the premier review of Wales--Y Traethodydd--started, in
   1845, under the joint-editorship of himself and the late Dr. Edwards,
   of Bala. In 1840 he edited a denominational hymn-book, for which he
   wrote several hymns. He also published, in 1855, a volume of moral and
   sacred songs, which has passed into a second edition. Simple, chaste,
   and serious is the note of all he did. The first given is a song of
   early piety:
     __________________________________________________________________

    [70]Roger Edwards


   Dear is the advent of the spring,

   With sunny smiles aglow;

   When Nature leaves her languishing,

   And all things beauteous grow.


   Dear is the face of early rose

   Where'er it first appears;

   How fair its purple mantle shows,

   Softened with dewy tears!


   Dear is the plant that yields its spoil

   The first of all the rest;

   It pays for all the anxious toil,

   And care itself is blest.


   Dear is the innocent delight

   Of lamb in gleesome play;

   And sweet to hear the birds unite

   In song at break of day.


   But only some frail shadowing

   Is all on earth we see;

   Dearer than every joy of spring

   Is early piety.


   Oh! scene most fair--some glad young heart

   Walking with Christ in light;

   Thus earth and heaven take a part

   In witnessing the sight.


   The zeal that works with quiet rule,

   Bright looks, affections warm,

   Make him in God's work beautiful,

   As morning's pleasant charm.


   True piety in early days

   Its joy through life supplies;

   It brings its heir through all rough ways

   To live in Paradise.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [71]Roger Edwards

   The next is a favourite Christmas hymn:


   What is in Ephrata heard?

   Angels bringing joyful word:

   What new song of heaven have they?

   Christ is born! is born to-day!

   Haste to David's city, haste!

   God is there made manifest;

   See the King of glory, see,

   Brother of us all is He!


   Silent babe, what name has He?

   Lord of all eternity:

   What hath brought Him down so low?

   Love for sinful man to show:--

   Wings of tender mercies bright

   Brought Him down from heaven's height;

   Let the beauty of His praise

   Ever be on all our days.


   To the angels what is He?

   Their high Prince of majesty;

   What to us who sin and fall

   He is Brother of us all:

   Then if angel-harps be His,

   What we owe much larger is:

   Christ the Lord--He is our own!

   Let the wide earth be His throne.
     __________________________________________________________________

    Thomas Rees

   The author of the History of Protestant Nonconformity in Wales is by no
   means an unknown name in England. The Rev. Dr. REES, of Swansea, was an
   interpreter of Welsh religious movements to his English brethren. He
   anxiously watched the growth of English speech in South Wales, and the
   large inflow of English people; he also saw how urgent it became to
   meet the new conditions. So he kept pleading for sympathy and help in a
   work that may well be called missionary; and he had the satisfaction of
   seeing his pleadings honoured, and a great movement inaugurated. He was
   born December 13, 1815, in the parish of Llanfynydd, Caermarthenshire,
   amid circumstances poor enough. His school-days were limited to one
   quarter; but, luckily--like many others who have become princes of the
   Welsh pulpit--he knew how to be his own teacher. As a boy he was put
   down as good-for-nothing; but the moment he found entrance into the
   pulpit his life-work was begun. He was abundant in labour, whether for
   the pulpit or for the press. He translated the commentary of Albert
   Barnes on the New Testament into Welsh; and in his latter years he
   published an edition of the Bible with devotional annotations. In 1884
   he was elected chairman of the Congregational Union of England and
   Wales--the first Welsh minister to be so honoured. And his chairmanship
   was to be honoured of heaven; for a few days before the May meetings of
   1885 had come he lay at rest. His address was ready, on 'The Power of
   the Pulpit;' but on the 29th of April God called him to join the
   congregation of the first-born, leaving the vacant chair for another to
   fill. He is doubly deserving of a place here--both for the hymns he
   wrote and for the affectionate care with which he has saved the scant
   history of several hymn-writers from being utterly forgotten. Several
   of his hymns were meant for harvest thanksgivings; and one of these is
   given below:
     __________________________________________________________________

    [72]Thomas Rees


   Let us thank the Lord together

   For the mercies of His hand;

   Once again the crown of plenty

   Blesses all this happy land:

   Gracious, are the Father's ways,

   Let us bring Him comely praise.


   Though our faults have cried in heaven

   For His vengeance on our head,

   Yet hath He preserved unbroken

   For our good the staff of bread:

   God of patience is He named,

   Loud His praises be proclaimed!


   Give us grace, Lord, in receiving

   Bounteous gifts of Thy left hand,

   Lest we may forget the riches

   Of another, better land:

   May each precious soul be fed

   With the true and living Bread!
     __________________________________________________________________

    [73]Thomas Rees

   The truth of the following hymn is well illustrated in the author's own
   life, remembering his lowly beginning and the honoured end:


   A pilgrim to the pleasant Land,

   Oft hindered on the way,

   I keep the path and trust my God--

   For strength comes with the day.


   Often have foes beset my soul,

   Which would my faith betray;

   But they have failed to lay me low--

   For strength came with the day.


   And should worse enemies arise

   In pitiless array,

   My way is forward, fearing nought--

   For strength comes with the day.


   When Death, the king of terrors, comes,

   To break my tent of clay,

   I shall not fear his ruthless arm--

   For strength comes with the day.


   When I shall stand on Canaan's hills,

   In freedom's perfect way,

   How sweet will be the joy of praise

   For strength with every day!
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER XI.
  PICTURES AND CONCEITS.

   Where the whole range of hymnody is so largely picturesque, it may seem
   superfluous to mark any hymns in particular as pictures. But there are
   Welsh verses--many of them not found in the ordinary hymn-book--which
   are so popular, that it would be unfair to leave them unmentioned. They
   are folk-songs--more often recited than sung. Some striking picture or
   pretty conceit has appealed successfully to public favour, and passes
   down from generation to generation, the name of the author being either
   lost or doubtful.
     __________________________________________________________________

   The late Rev. Paxton Hood has made the name and style of CHRISTMAS
   EVANS familiar to English readers. He allowed his fancy free range in
   allegory; and this verse admirably represents the boldness of his
   style:


   On Calvary together

   Two flames were seen to shine;

   A flame of love for sinners,

   A flame of wrath Divine:

   Their smoke on high ascended,

   And hid the stars of light;--

   Between the two flames, dying,

   Was Jesus--wondrous sight!
     __________________________________________________________________

   The author of the next verse was the Rev. David Davies, Ebenezer,
   Swansea:


   Golgotha! the greatest battle

   Ever fought was on its height;

   There the Lamb without a weapon

   Crushed the dragons in His might:

   There He thirsted, there He languished,

   Overcoming hell's despite;

   Yet within His heart a fountain

   That can wash the Ethiop white.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Anonymous are the two following verses, given as examples of the poetry
   of quaint conceits--after the manner much affected by such writers as
   Herrick, and Crashaw, and George Herbert. The first is a conceit on
   Christ as the Rock:


   Come and see! A Rock appears,

   Bound by men with swords and spears:

   Come and see! Alone and still

   Hangs a Rock upon the hill:

   In a rock a Rock is laid,

   Till three days their course have made:

   Spite of stone and soldiery,

   From the rock a Rock breaks free.
     __________________________________________________________________

   The second is a conceit on Christ as the San:


   In sight of the sun was stricken

   The Sun on Calvary's height;

   The Sun made the sun to darken--

   Was it not a wondrous sight?

   The Sun without sun was buried,

   And lay in the silent tomb,

   Till the two suns rose together,

   When the third day's dawn was come.
     __________________________________________________________________

    Thomas Williams (Bethesda'r Fro)

   The author of the next verse is the Rev. Thomas Williams, Bethesda'r
   Fro, already referred to:


   May He who once at midday

   Sat down by Jacob's well,

   In passing through Samaria--

   Now come with us to dwell:

   Athirst to save the people

   Was Jesus Christ of yore;

   Athirst is He in heaven

   To save yet many more.
     __________________________________________________________________

    Dr. Phillips (Newaddlwyd)

   The name of Dr. PHILLIPS, Neuaddlwyd, can never be separated from the
   history of religion in Wales during the first half of the present
   century. He was a pioneer of education--especially in the training of
   young men for the ministry. It was pre-eminently a labour of love; his
   influence therefore on his pupils, and through them on the churches,
   was immense. He was an enthusiast of foreign missions, and had the
   pleasure of ordaining three young men out of his own Church as
   missionaries. He was born in the parish of Llanvihangel-ar-Arth,
   Caermarthenshire, March 29, 1772, and died December 2, 1842. A few
   single verses of his are very popular--none more so than the one
   translated thus:


   Once again the world shall see

   Him who went to Calvary,

   Sitting throned in high command,

   With the balance in His hand:

   All of every time and place

   Shall be weighed before His face:

   Seek, my soul, the pearl most rare,

   That will turn the balance there!
     __________________________________________________________________

    [74]Dr. Phillips (Newaddlwyd)

   The River of Death--a favourite picture of every Welsh hymn-writer--is
   the theme of the next verse:


   I must cross a mighty river,

   Deep between two worlds it flows;

   And the sounding of its waters

   Are these many earthly woes:

   In its waves in sorest anguish

   I shall very soon be found--

   Oh! for Christ as my foundation!

   Then my feet shall touch the ground.
     __________________________________________________________________

    Titus Lewis

   A variation on the same theme is the following:


   Seek thou, my soul, in earnest,

   The Rock to build upon,

   The only place of resting,

   The sure foundation-stone:

   How sweet within the river

   The Rock that will not fail,

   When every storm is breaking

   This soul of mine so frail.

   The author of the latter was the Rev. TITUS LEWIS, a celebrated Baptist
   minister. He was born at Cilgerran, Pembrokeshire, Feb. 21, 1774, and
   died at Caermarthen, May 1, 1811. He was a contemporary and co-worker
   with Christmas Evans, and he spent his brief life in unwearied labours
   for the pulpit and for native literature. He had very few advantages of
   early education, and yet he wrote a Political and Religious History of
   Great Britain, he published a Welsh-English Dictionary, and had most to
   do with translating Dr. Gill's commentary into Welsh, as well as
   several other works.
     __________________________________________________________________

    John Roberts (J. R.)

   Another variation on the same theme is from the pen of the Rev. JOHN
   ROBERTS, Conway--a brother of [75]S. R., and better known also by his
   initials as J. R.:


   A weary traveller

   Beside the River stood;

   His lamp was in his hand,

   And shone across the flood:

   It brought the other shore in sight,

   Where many angels walked in white.


   In fear he took his steps

   Down to the water's brim;

   But through the darkness vast

   Clear shone the lamp for him:

   And through the surge the angels bright

   Can see him coming in its light.


   Behold, his great High Priest

   Among the shining throng!

   And He is coming down

   To break the current strong:

   The land in safety he hath won,

   That needs not any lamp or sun.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [76]Samuel Roberts (S. R.)

   S. R. himself is the author of this song--


   Afar on the ocean, one dark and cold night,

   A little boat sailed without star or moon-light;

   The roar of the wind and the rush of the wave

   That night even frightened the heart of the brave.


   The child of the captain was free from alarm,

   All happy and merry he dreaded no harm:--

   'In spite of the wild waves what is there to fear?

   We are sure to reach home--for my father doth steer.'


   Oh, dear child of heaven, what makes thee afraid?

   When high seas are raging be thou not dismayed

   When wildest and blackest the great depths appear,

   Thy life is still safe--for thy Father doth steer.


   Rejoicing eternal for thee is at hand;

   Thy loved ones are waiting on yonder fair strand:

   Thy home is the mansion that shineth so clear,

   And Canaan is nearing--thy Father doth steer.


   Then spread forth thy sails to the favouring breeze,

   The bosom of Jesus will soon give thee ease:

   Thine anchor is safe, and thy Captain is here,

   Thy boat's in the haven--thy Father doth steer.
     __________________________________________________________________

   To close this chapter of pictures and conceits, we give this spiritual
   romance in miniature, from the pen of a living writer--Mr. WILLIAM
   JONES (Ehedydd Ial), Llandegla:


   The sky became at noon

   As black as very night;

   With neither sun nor moon,

   Nor any star of light:

   And from the cloud stern Justice hurled

   Its lightning through the darkened world.


   With guilty fears beset,

   My conscience cried dismayed;

   And ne'er shall I forget

   That bitter cry for aid:

   In agony I turned and fled,

   Not knowing where to hide my head.


   I reached the Law's strait door,

   Hoping to find release;

   I pleaded, faint and sore,

   For refuge and for peace:

   'Flee for thy life,' she said, 'from me,

   To the Son of Man on Calvary!'


   Fleeing, I tried to flee,

   Amid the thunders' roar;

   The lightning followed me,

   Like some red host of war:

   I came at last to Calvary--

   There Jesus only could I see.


   What though my flesh be grass,

   And all my bones but clay,

   I'll sing where lightnings pass--

   'God took my sins away!'

   The Rock of Ages--there I've stood:

   Quenched are the lightnings in His blood!
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER XII.
  VERSES WITH A HISTORY

   No story of the Welsh hymns would be complete without a note on the
   influence of single verses. The hymn-book in the pew is an
   innovation--quite within recent years--of Welsh church-life. The
   hymn-book used to be the private property of the pulpit; consequently
   the people had to learn their favourite hymns by heart--and a very
   profitable exercise it always is. A hymn within the heart is life. But
   in learning hymns it often happens that one special verse stands out
   from among its sister verses. The latter may be forgotten; the one
   clings to the memory.
     __________________________________________________________________

   This single verse of [77]Williams, Pantycelyn, has been the password of
   many a powerful revival, the last two lines being doubled and trebled
   over and over again, as the hearts of the congregation were moved by
   the breath from Calvary:


   Jesu's blood can raise the feeble

   As a conqueror to stand;

   Jesu's blood is all-prevailing

   O'er the mighty of the land:

   Let the breezes

   Blow from Calvary on me.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [78]Morgan Rhys

   Another verse, vividly associated with times of refreshing, is the
   following by Morgan Rhys:


   Thy gracious ancient promise

   Has saved a countless host,

   Who sing its praise for ever--

   Once they were of the lost:

   Though often sorely wounded

   With evil in the strife,

   They found the leaves of healing

   Upon the tree of life.
     __________________________________________________________________

   It is an old funeral custom in country districts of the Principality to
   sing on the road from the house to the churchyard. The funerals are
   mostly public, and there is generally a large concourse of people. The
   procession moves slowly on, singing here and there, as it moves, some
   measured, mournful melody, with a wondrously touching effect. If any
   one has ever heard this music of the dead coming with muffled far-off
   tones from some narrow, lonely glen, he will never forget it. It is a
   minor melody that is sung, whether the words be of sorrow or of hope.
   Among the verses I have often heard on these occasions is this, by
   #Thomas Williams:


   Oh! what distances eternal

   Are to-day before my face;

   Never staying, never resting,

   I must journey to my place:

   Though so narrow,

   I must through the gateway pass.

   And this other, by [79]Williams, Pantycelyn:


   When human help is at an end,

   God's pity shall not languish;

   He will be Father, Brother, Friend,

   In death's relentless anguish.

   But no verse has so hallowed the presence of death as the following,
   the author of which seems to be unknown:


   There shall be thousand wonders,

   At break of day, to see

   The children of the tempests

   From tribulation free;

   All in their snow-white garments,

   In new and perfect guise,

   Upon their Saviour's likeness,

   Out of the grave they rise.

   This verse having been of late rather prominently brought before the
   English public, through its being sung at the London National
   Eisteddvod and beside the grave of the late Henry Richard, M.P.,
   several attempts have been made to translate it. Below is a rendering
   by Mr. Josiah D. Evans (Ap Daniel), New York:


   Ten thousand glorious wonders

   Shall greet the morning ray;

   When earth's storm-beaten children

   Shall wake to endless day;

   All clad in robes of whiteness,

   And crowned with fadeless bloom;

   In their Redeemer's likeness,

   Ascending from the tomb!

   Sung to a tune of its own, the impressiveness of the verse in the
   original is most profound. Every separate line--almost every
   word--seems to have a history. However neatly translated, this history
   is always wanting in the new language. Hence the translator's despair.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Perhaps no single verse in Welsh hymnody has such a romantic incident
   in its history as the one given below, written, as it was, by Williams
   on the occasion of the memorable Lisbon earthquake:


   If Thou would'st end the world, O Lord,

   Accomplish first Thy promised word,

   And gather home with one accord

   From every part Thine own:

   Send out Thy word from pole to pole,

   And with Thy blood make thousands whole,

   Till health has come to every soul,

   And after that--come down!

   In February, 1797, the French effected a landing near Fishguard, in
   Pembrokeshire. Napoleon was then a name of terror to England; and the
   news of the landing spread through the country with the rushing
   violence of a prairie fire, bringing with it wherever it went an
   overwhelming sense of doom. Mounted heralds posted through the length
   and breadth of Wales, without waiting to ascertain the force of the
   enemy. In every village and town the terrible message was left, and
   people generally made ready for the bitter end of all things. One of
   these fiery heralds happened to pass by the Independent Chapel at
   Rhydybont, Cardiganshire, where a preaching service was being held at
   the time. Mysteriously he whispered his wild message to some one near
   the door, and away he went again to scatter broadcast the seeds of a
   storm. From one to another in the chapel the news mysteriously
   flashed--the curiosity of those who did not know being almost as tragic
   as the consternation of those who knew. The preacher was confounded,
   and he was compelled to stop and ask for the cause of such unseemly
   commotion. Some one shouted--'The French have landed at Fishguard!' Bad
   before, it was worse now. Had a lightning struck the house, the panic
   could scarcely have been more overpowering. No one durst move or speak;
   the preacher himself sat down in the midst of his sermon utterly
   overborne. Only one soul was found equal to the occasion--and that a
   woman's soul. Let the name of Nancy Jones not be forgotten in the
   chronicles of noble women who have dared and endured. She never for a
   moment slackened her hold of the Higher Will. She was a true daughter
   of the Great Revival: a neighbour, too, of David Jones, of Cayo. At
   many a service before that day her voice had been sweetest and fullest
   in the fervour of song. She called to the preacher when he stopped--'Go
   on: if the French are at Fishguard, we have God to take care of us.'
   But the preacher still declined. A neighbour of hers--David John Edmund
   by name--was present, remarkable for his gift in prayer. To him she
   turned next, and asked him to pray. But even he was not one of five
   that could chase a hundred that day. 'Well, then,' she said, 'give a
   verse out for us to sing.' No; David John had no heart for so much as
   that. 'Very well,' this mother in Israel added, 'I shall give out a
   verse myself, and you start the tune.' Calm and solemn and sweet echoed
   the words through the building--


   If Thou would'st end the world, O Lord,

   and so on to the end of the verse. Great was the fall of David John;
   even his tunes had taken unto themselves wings. She had to start the
   tune herself; but scarcely had she struck the first notes before her
   courage with an electric thrill restored the congregation to spiritual
   consciousness. They joined in the song, of their new Deborah; faith
   grew more steady and clear; the French were well-nigh forgotten in the
   glorious inspiration of 'the promised word.' A woman's faith has often
   in it something of a miracle.
     __________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER XIII.
  HYMNS OF TO-DAY.

   For all the hymns which have been written, there is room in the Wales
   of to-day for a new school of hymnody. Every age has its peculiar mode
   of religious expression; the age now dawning in Wales emphatically so.
   It will be an age of transition and suspense; it will claim the
   guidance of strong, progressive thought. I trust the Eisteddvod will
   not exhaust the muse of all its bards. Some of them, surely, will not
   consider it a vain thing to give the Church of Christ the psalm that
   will sanctify its anxiety, that will teach it where to find rest and
   hope and light.

   It will not be amiss, therefore, to close the present volume with a few
   gleanings from contemporary poetry.
     __________________________________________________________________

    Herber Evans

   The first is from the pen of a preacher as well known almost in England
   as he is in Wales--the Rev. Dr. HERBER EVANS, of Caernarvon:


   Keep me very near to Jesus,

   Though beneath His cross it be;

   In this world of evil-doing

   'Tis the cross that cleanseth me:

   Should there come distress and darkness,

   Let this hope with me abide--

   After all the gloom and sorrow,

   Light shall be at eventide.


   Bring to mind my past experience--

   That shall take my fears away;

   For Thy goodness and Thy mercy

   Shall be mine till close of day:

   Through the tears, the clouds, the tempest,

   Shine on me, O Crucified!

   There's a promise in God's rainbow--

   Light shall be at eventide.


   Lead me onward to the future,

   Where I fear one step to move;

   Still the love of God will keep me--

   Love beyond a mother's love:

   Calvary has said sufficient--

   Hear them sing on yonder side:

   Though the cross stand in the pathway,

   Light shall be at eventide.
     __________________________________________________________________

    Thomas Levi

   The Rev. THOMAS LEVI, Aberystwith, through his popular children's
   monthly--Trysorfa y Plant--has been for years a close friend of the
   children of the Principality: and among other things he has written
   several charming hymns for their use. The following is one of his:


   The ark upon the deluge

   Was Noah's safe abode;

   Though sail and helm were wanting,

   His Captain then was God:

   The Lord was very angry,

   And all the world was drowned:

   Not even lofty mountains

   Could anywhere be found.

   Though sail and helm be wanting,

   If the ark be our abode,

   We'll sing above the deluge--

   Our Captain still is God!


   Eight souls alone were rescued

   To walk the earth again--

   Through them a thousand counsels

   Wrought out the good of men:

   The Babe adored of shepherds

   In little Bethlehem,

   And Calvary's great Passion--

   All came of saving them.


   The Lord of Hosts remembered

   His covenant of peace;

   And He remembered Noah,

   And made the waters cease:

   A gracious sign He granted,

   His faithfulness to prove--

   The tender leaf of olive

   Brought by the white-winged dove.

   Though sail and helm be wanting,

   If the ark be our abode,

   We'll sing above the deluge--

   Our Captain still is God!
     __________________________________________________________________

   The next two are by well-known bards of the Eisteddvod,--the first by
   the Rev. EVAN REES (Dyfed):

   'Heights of Calvary' (Pen Calfaria)--it should be noted--is a
   well-known refrain in a revival verse of Williams.


   Calvary, with radiance glowing,

   Thither now I turn my face;

   Immortality is flowing

   From above in streams of grace;

   'Heights of Calvary!'

   Build thy nest there, O my soul!


   There I hear in breezes mellow

   Sounds from far of heavenly themes,

   Learnt of yore beneath the willow

   On the bank of Babel's streams:

   'Heights of Calvary'

   Join the earth to heaven's land.


   Scorchèd in the flame of burning,

   See the thief's uncared-for soul,

   At the last to heaven turning,

   Pitied--rescued--and made whole:

   'Heights of Calvary'

   Shall his song for ever be.


   In the vale with shadows crowded,

   When I sink with sore dismay,

   Calvary will stand unclouded

   In its baptism of day:

   'Heights of Calvary'

   Are transfigured by the cross.


   Once its summit was benighted

   With a cloud of wrath Divine,

   But Atonement's sun has lighted

   All the hill as mercy's shrine:

   'Heights of Calvary!

   Never more shall night come there.


   Oh, to climb in holy fancies,

   On my knees, this Mount of love!

   There I see, through tearful glances,

   Nothing save the cross above:

   'Heights of Calvary'

   Make my tears a stream of peace!
     __________________________________________________________________

   The closing hymn of the book is by Mr. BENJAMIN DAVIES (Tafolog). 'Unto
   Him' (Iddo Ef) has become a separate phrase in the language of Welsh
   devotion:


   Through the eternal blue

   The circling worlds renew

   Their joyful hymn:

   They sing in mighty chord,

   Like mountain floods outpoured--

   'Not unto us, O Lord,

   But--Unto Him!'


   Great winds and waves unite

   With thunders to recite

   The choral theme:

   The pleasant whispering rill,

   The voice of torrent shrill,

   The storm from hill to hill,

   Sing--'Unto Him!'


   The winged quires of Spring

   Make all the woodlands ring

   With grateful hymn:

   Each leafy bush ablaze

   Its altar doth upraise,

   For festivals of praise

   Held 'unto Him.'


   Soul! would'st thou turn aside

   This praise to thine own pride,

   Making it dim?

   The song of self in thee

   Would break the harmony

   Which floweth fall and free,

   All--'Unto Him.'


   Like some frail shower-drop,

   Losing itself in hope

   To find the sea,--

   Let charity's sweet reign

   Grant me the sacred gain,

   To lose, and still retain

   Myself in Thee.


   Myself no more I know

   By Jesu's cup of woe,

   Filled to the brim:

   Dying beside God's rood,

   Beneath the tears and blood,

   Is life's beatitude,

   Sealed 'unto Him.'


   If Jesus sowed in tears

   The harvest of the years,

   When days were dim;

   One day shall stand revealed

   His golden harvest-field,

   And all the worlds shall yield,

   Praise--unto Him.
     __________________________________________________________________
     __________________________________________________________________

INDEX.

   PAGE
   ANCIENT HYMN 10
   In the Name of the Lord
   (in enu Domni)
   MAURICE KYFFIN 15
   CAPTAIN MIDDLETON 16
   EDWARD KYFFIN 17
   EDMUND PRYS 18
   Set on my mouth a seal, O Lord
   (O Arglwydd, gosod rhag gair ffraeth)
   DAVID JONES 28
   Men of the world are asking
   (Mae plant y byd yn holi)
   Come, brethren, unite
   (Dewch, frodyr, un fryd)
   WILLIAM WILLIAMS 29
   O Thou Righteousness eternal
   (O Gyfiawnder pur tragwyddol)
   Why should beasts of prey be suffered
   (Pa'm caiff bwystfilod rheibus)
   'O'er the gloomy hills of darkness'
   'Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah'
   Salvation like a boundless sea
   (Mae'r iachawdwriaeth, fel y môr)
   To-day are ye not saying
   (On'd ydych chwi'n dywedyd)
   I look beyond the far-off hills
   ('Rwy'n edrych dros y bryniau pell)
   While the stormy winds are blowing
   (Na'd i'r gwyntoedd cryf, dychryllyd)
   The cloud has almost cleared
   (Mi wela'r ewmwl du)
   Here I know myself a stranger
   (Dyn dyeithr ydwyf yma)
   Once again my sigh of sorrow
   (Unwaith eto mi ddyrchafaf)
   Much I love the faithful pilgrims
   ('Rwyf yn caru'r pererinion)
   The standard is ahead
   (Mae'r faner yn y blaen)
   Ride to battle, ride victorious
   (Marchog Iesu yn llwyddianus)
   Speak, O Christ! the gentle-hearted
   (O llefara, addfwyn Iesu)
   In lonely desert place
   (Mewn anial dyrys le)
   The glory is coming
   (Fe welir y dyddiau)
   Who'll give me balm of Gilead
   (Pwy ddyry im' falm Gilead)
   To Thee, my God, my Saviour
   (Fy Nuw, fy addfwyn Iesu)
   Jesu's blood can raise the feeble
   (Gwaed y Groes sy'n codi fyny)
   When human help is at an end
   (Pan ballo ffafor pawb, a'u hedd)
   If Thou would'st end the world, O Lord
   (Duw os wyt am ddybenu'r byd)
   ANN GRIFFITHS 53
   Great Author of Salvation
   (O Arglwydd Dduw Rhagluniaeth)
   Blessed day of rest eternal
   (O ddedwydd ddydd! tragwyddol orphwys)
   Heaven sweetly will remember
   (Bydd melus gofio y cyfamod)
   Must I face the stormy river?
   (Os rhaid wynebu'r afon donog)
   There's a day to journey homewards
   (Mae'r dydd yn dod i'r had brenhinol)
   MORGAN RHYS 70
   I promise every day
   (Gwnes addunedau fil)
   All praise to Christ the Righteous
   (Tragwyddol glod i'r Cyfiawn)
   Lord, open mine eyes to behold
   (O agor fy llygaid i weled)
   O welcome, blessed morrow!
   (Henffych i'r boreu hyfryd)
   Thy gracious ancient promise
   (Dy hen addewid rasol)
   DAVID WILLIAMS 75
   Unbelief, let me have quiet
   (Anghrediniaeth, gad fi'n llonydd)
   Hear my grief! believe I cannot
   (Arglwydd, gwrando'r gwan yn griddfan)
   Lord, let the gladdening breezes
   (O Arglwydd, dyro awel)
   Oh, the grace no will can conquer!
   (O anfeidrol rym y cariad!)
   In the waves and mighty waters
   (Yn y dyfroedd mawr a'r tonnau)
   BENJAMIN FRANCIS 79
   THOMAS WILLIAMS 81
   I also, like so many more
   ('Rwyf finau'n un o'r lluaws mawr)
   Where is Elijah's God?
   (Pa le mae Arglwydd Dduw)
   The Tree of Life in barren soil
   (Mae pren y bywyd wedi 'gael)
   May He who once at mid-day
   (Y Gwr wrth ffynon Jacob)
   THOMAS CHARLES 85
   O Salvation, full Salvation
   (Dyfais fawr tragwyddol gariad)
   DAVID CHARLES 88
   To us from the desert ascending
   (Cawn esgyn o'r dyrys anialwch)
   HUGH JONES 91
   Remove the veil in this dear Mount
   (O tyn y gorchudd)
   EDWARD JONES 92
   All heaven and earth are filled with God
   (Llon'd y nefoedd, llon'd y byd)
   PETER JONES 95
   Now let the firstfruits of our days
   (Cysegrwn flaenffrwyth ddyddiau'n hoes)
   Sweet streams of pleasantness
   (Daeth ffrydiau melus iawn)
   ROBERT WILLIAMS (R. ab Gwilym Ddu) 97
   From age to age the memory
   (Mae'r gwaed a redodd ar y Groes)
   DANIEL EVANS (Daniel Ddu) 99
   Who is yonder weary pilgrim?
   (Pwy yw'r blin bererin acw?)
   MORRIS WILLIAMS (Nicander) 101
   Noah beheld the wondrous sign
   (Ar gefn y cwmwl tywyll du)
   Christ opened on the tree
   (Agorwyd ffordd i'r nef)
   EVAN EVANS (Ieuan Glan Geirionydd) 104
   To Him who bends to hear the weak
   (At un a wrendy gwyn y gwan)
   My race beneath the sun
   (Mae'm rhedfa is y rhod)
   I linger sadly near
   (Ar lan Iorddonen ddofn)
   WILLIAM REES (Hiraethog) 109
   I went searching through creation
   (Bum yn chwilio'r greadigaeth)
   Lo, He wept! Who, then, is He?
   (Ef a wylodd! Pwy a wylodd?)
   WILLIAM AMBROSE (Emrys) 114
   Give me quiet resting-places
   (Arglwydd, gad im' dawel orphwys)
   WILLIAM THOMAS (Islwyn) 116
   See, my soul, the land of brightness
   (Gwel uwchlaw eymylau amser)
   SAMUEL ROBERTS 119
   Our dearest Lord went forth to sow in tears
   (Ein Harglwydd cu fu'n hau mewn dagrau blin)
   Great God, to what glory
   (Duw mawr, i ba uchder)
   Watchman, say, what of the night?
   (Beth, wyliedydd, am y nos?)
   Who the Prince?--and what the chariot
   (Pwy Dywysog--beth yw'r cerbyd?)
   The table of Thy grace
   ('Rwy'n dod, fy Arglwydd mawr)
   Afar on the ocean
   (Draw, draw ar y cefnfor)
   DAVID JONES 123
   The Sacrifice wickedly slain
   (Yr Aberth a laddwyd trwy frad)
   ROGER EDWARDS 126
   Dear is the advent of the spring
   (Hoff yw dyfodiad gwanwyn gwych)
   What is in Ephrata heard?
   (Beth yw'r adsain o Ephrata?)
   THOMAS REES, D.D. 129
   Let us thank the Lord together
   (Cyd-ddiolchwn oll ir Arglwydd)
   A pilgrim to the pleasant Land
   (Mi deithiaf tua'r hyfryd Wlad)
   CHRISTMAS EVANS 133
   On Calvary together
   (Dwy fflam ar ben Calfaria)
   DAVID DAVIES 134
   Golgotha! the greatest battle
   (Praw at gopa bryn Golgotha)
   THOMAS PHILLIPS (of Neuaddlwyd) 135
   Once again the world shall see
   (Yr Oen fu ar Galfaria)
   TITUS LEWIS 137
   Seek thou, my soul, in earnest
   (Am Graig i adeiladu)
   JOHN ROBERTS (J. R.) 137
   A weary traveller
   (Eisteddai teithiwr blin)
   WILLIAM JONES (Ehedydd Ial) 139
   The sky became at noon
   (Y nefoedd uwoch fy mhen)
   E. HERBER EVANS, D.D. 147
   Keep me very near to Jesus
   (Dal fi'n agos at yr Iesu)
   THOMAS LEVI 148
   The ark upon the deluge
   (O fewn yr arch yn dawel)
   EVAN REES (Dyfed) 149
   Calvary, with radiance glowing
   (I Galfaria trof fy wyneb)
   BENJAMIN DAVIES (Tafolog) 151
   Through the eternal blue
   (Drwy'r fythol ofod gwyrdd)
   ANONYMOUS:--
   Come and see! A Rock appears
   (Fe welwyd Craig mewn dalfa)
   In sight of the sun was stricken
   (Yn ngwydd yr haul yr hoeliwyd)
   I must cross a mighty river
   (Afon fawr sydd raid myn'd trwyddi)
   There shall be thousand wonders
   (Bydd myrdd o ryfeddodau)

   UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, CHILWORTH AND LONDON.
     __________________________________________________________________

About the Author

   Howell Elvet Lewis (Conwil Elfed), 1860-1953, from Carmarthen, a
   minister in Flintshire and London, winner of the Crown at the National
   Eisteddfodau of 1889 and 1889, and later Archdruid. He wrote romantic
   nature poetry. One of his hymns, Cofia'n Gwlad (I will remember my
   Country) has been called the second national anthem of Wales. He also
   wrote the English hymn "The light of the Morning is Breaking."

   Information from Peter N. Williams, A Brief History of Wales,
   [80]www.peternwilliams.com/wales/wal1.html.
     __________________________________________________________________

  Familiar Welsh Hymns
  (mentioned in the body of the print edition)

   William Williams:
          [81]O'er those gloomy hills of darkness
          [82]Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah

   Benjamin Francis:
          [83]Jesus, and shall it ever be
          [84]Hark! the voice of love and mercy
     __________________________________________________________________

    [85]William Williams


   O'er those gloomy hills of darkness,

   Look, my soul; be still, and gaze;

   All the promises do travail

   With a glorious day of grace:

   Blessèd jubilee!

   Let thy glorious morning dawn.


   Let the Indian, let the Negro,

   Let the rude barbarian see

   That divine and glorious conquest

   Once obtained on Calvary;

   Let the Gospel

   Loud resound from ole to pole.


   Kingdoms wide that sit in darkness,

   Let them have the glorious light;

   And from eastern coast to western

   May the morning chase the night,

   And redemption,

   Freely purchased, win the day.


   Fly abroad, thou mighty Gospel,

   Win and conquer, never cease;

   May thy lasting wide dominions

   Multiply and still increase;

   Sway thy scepter,

   Savior! all the world around.
     __________________________________________________________________

    [86]William Williams


   Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,

   Pilgrim through this barren land.

   I am weak, but Thou art mighty;

   Hold me with Thy powerful hand.

   Bread of heaven,

   Feed me till I want no more.


   Open now the crystal fountain,

   Whence the healing stream doth flow;

   Let the fire and cloudy pillar

   Lead me all my journey through.

   Strong Deliverer,

   Be Thou still my Strength and Shield.


   Lord, I trust Thy mighty power,

   Wondrous are Thy works of old;

   Thou deliver'st Thine from thralldom,

   Who for naught themselves had sold:

   Thou didst conquer

   Sin, and Satan and the grave.


   When I tread the verge of Jordan,

   Bid my anxious fears subside;

   Death of deaths, and hell's destruction,

   Land me safe on Canaan's side.

   Songs of praises

   I will ever give to Thee.


   Musing on my habitation,

   Musing on my heav'nly home,

   Fills my soul with holy longings:

   Come, my Jesus, quickly come;

   Vanity is all I see;

   Lord, I long to be with Thee!
     __________________________________________________________________

    [87]Benjamin Francis


   Jesus, and shall it ever be,

   A mortal man, ashamed of Thee?

   Ashamed of Thee, whom angels praise,

   Whose glories shine through endless days?


   Ashamed of Jesus! sooner far

   Let night disown each radiant star!

   'Tis midnight with my soul, till He,

   Bright Morning Star, bid darkness flee.


   Ashamed of Jesus! O as soon

   Let morning blush to own the sun!

   He sheds the beams of light divine

   O'er this benighted soul of mine.


   Ashamed of Jesus! that dear Friend

   On Whom my hopes of heav'n depend!

   No; when I blush, be this my shame,

   That I no more revere His Name.


   Ashamed of Jesus! yes, I may

   When I've no guilt to wash away;

   No tear to wipe, no good to crave,

   No fears to quell, no soul to save.


   Ashamed of Jesus! empty pride!

   I'll boast a Savior crucified,

   And O may this my portion be,

   My Savior not ashamed of me!
     __________________________________________________________________

    [88]Benjamin Francis


   Hark! the voice of love and mercy

   Sounds aloud from Calvary;

   See, it rends the rocks asunder,

   Shakes the earth, and veils the sky:

   "It is finished!"

   Hear the dying Savior cry;


   "It is finished!" O what pleasure

   Do these precious words afford;

   Heav'nly blessings, without measure,

   Flow to us from Christ the Lord:

   "It is finished!"

   Saints the dying words record;


   Finished all the types and shadows

   Of the ceremonial law;

   Finished all that God had promised;

   Death and hell no more shall awe:

   "It is finished!"

   Saints, from hence your comfort draw;


   Tune your harps anew, ye seraphs,

   Join to sing the glorious theme;

   All in earth, and all in heaven,

   Join to praise Emmanuel's Name;

   Alleluia!

   Glory to the bleeding Lamb!
     __________________________________________________________________

                                    Indexes
     __________________________________________________________________

Subject Index

   Ambrose, William (Emrys), [89]sswales.c09b-p0.2

   Bala, Charles O'er, [90]sswales.c06b-p0.2

   Charles, David, [91]sswales.c06c-p0.2

   Davies, Benjamin (Tafalog), [92]sswales.c13.h77-p0.1

   Davies, David, [93]sswales.c11.h61-p0.1

   Ddu, Daniel (Daniel Evans), [94]sswales.c08a-p0.3

   Ddu, R. ab Gwilym (Robert Williams), [95]sswales.c07d-p0.3

   Dyfed (Evan Rees), [96]sswales.c13.h76-p1.4

   Edwards, Roger, [97]sswales.c10c-p0.2

   Ehedydd Ial (William Jones), [98]sswales.c11.h70-p0.2

   Emrys (William Ambrose), [99]sswales.c09b-p0.3

   Evans, Daniel (Daniel Ddu), [100]sswales.c08a-p0.4

   Evans, Evan (Iewan Glan Geirionydd), [101]sswales.c08c-p0.2

   Evans, Herber, [102]sswales.c13.h74-p0.1

   Fardd, Pedr (Peter Jones), [103]sswales.c07c-p0.3

   Francis, Benjamin, [104]sswales.c05c-p0.2

   Gierionydd, Iewan Glan (Evan Evans), [105]sswales.c08c-p0.3

   Griffiths, Ann, [106]sswales.c04-p0.3

   Hiraethog (William Rees), [107]sswales.c09a-p0.4

   Hood, Paxton, [108]sswales.c11.h60-p0.1

   Islwyn (William Thomas), [109]sswales.c09c-p0.3

   Jones, David, [110]sswales.c02d-p0.2

   Jones, David (of Treborth), [111]sswales.c10b-p0.2

   Jones, Edward (Maesyplwm), [112]sswales.c07b-p0.2

   Jones, Hugh, [113]sswales.c07a-p0.3

   Jones, Peter (Pedr Fardd), [114]sswales.c07c-p0.2

   Jones, William (Ehedydd Ial), [115]sswales.c11.h70-p0.1

   Kyffin, Maurice and Edward, [116]sswales.c02a-p0.3

   Levi, Thomas, [117]sswales.c13.h75-p0.1

   Llangwm (John Roberts), [118]sswales.c10a.h54-p0.3

   Maesyplwm (Edward Jones), [119]sswales.c07b-p0.3

   Middleton, William, [120]sswales.c02b-p0.2

   Newaddlwyd (Dr. Phillips), [121]sswales.c11.h65-p0.2

   Nicander (Morris Williams), [122]sswales.c08b-p0.3

   Pantycelyn (William Williams), [123]sswales.c03-p0.4

   Phillips, Dr. (Neuaddlwyd), [124]sswales.c11.h65-p0.1

   Prys, Edmund, [125]sswales.c02c-p0.2

   Rees, Evan (Dyfed), [126]sswales.c13.h76-p1.3

   Rees, Thomas, [127]sswales.c10d-p0.2

   Rees, William (Hiraethog), [128]sswales.c09a-p0.3

   Rhys, Morgan, [129]sswales.c05a-p0.3

   Roberts, John (J. R.), [130]sswales.c11.h68-p0.2

   Roberts, John (Llangwm), [131]sswales.c10a.h54-p0.2

   Roberts, Samuel (S. R.), [132]sswales.c10a-p0.3

   Tafalog (Benjamin Davies), [133]sswales.c13.h77-p0.2

   Thomas, William (Islwyn), [134]sswales.c09c-p0.2

   William Williams (Pantycelyn), [135]sswales.c03-p0.3

   Williams, David, [136]sswales.c05b-p0.2

   Williams, Morris (Nicander), [137]sswales.c08b-p0.2

   Williams, Robert, [138]sswales.c07d-p0.2

   Williams, Thomas, [139]sswales.c06a-p0.3
     __________________________________________________________________

Index of Scripture References

   Genesis

   [140]9:13

   Psalms

   [141]21:1   [142]21:2   [143]41:3   [144]57:11

   Isaiah

   [145]7:15

   Luke

   [146]19:28-48
     __________________________________________________________________

Index of Pages of the Print Edition

   [147]3  [148]5  [149]6  [150]7  [151]9  [152]10  [153]11  [154]12
   [155]13  [156]14  [157]15  [158]16  [159]17  [160]18  [161]19  [162]20
   [163]21  [164]22  [165]23  [166]24  [167]25  [168]26  [169]27  [170]28
   [171]29  [172]30  [173]31  [174]32  [175]33  [176]34  [177]35  [178]36
   [179]37  [180]38  [181]39  [182]40  [183]41  [184]42  [185]43  [186]44
   [187]45  [188]46  [189]47  [190]48  [191]49  [192]50  [193]51  [194]52
   [195]53  [196]54  [197]55  [198]56  [199]57  [200]58  [201]59  [202]60
   [203]61  [204]62  [205]63  [206]64  [207]65  [208]66  [209]67  [210]68
   [211]69  [212]70  [213]71  [214]72  [215]73  [216]74  [217]75  [218]76
   [219]77  [220]78  [221]79  [222]80  [223]81  [224]82  [225]83  [226]84
   [227]85  [228]86  [229]87  [230]88  [231]89  [232]90  [233]91  [234]92
   [235]93  [236]94  [237]95  [238]96  [239]97  [240]98  [241]99
   [242]100  [243]101  [244]102  [245]103  [246]104  [247]105  [248]106
   [249]107  [250]108  [251]109  [252]110  [253]111  [254]112  [255]113
   [256]114  [257]115  [258]116  [259]117  [260]118  [261]119  [262]120
   [263]121  [264]122  [265]123  [266]124  [267]125  [268]126  [269]127
   [270]128  [271]129  [272]130  [273]131  [274]132  [275]133  [276]134
   [277]135  [278]136  [279]137  [280]138  [281]139  [282]140  [283]141
   [284]142  [285]143  [286]144  [287]145  [288]146  [289]147  [290]148
   [291]149  [292]150  [293]151  [294]152  [295]153  [296]154  [297]155
   [298]156  [299]157  [300]158  [301]159  [302]160
     __________________________________________________________________

            This document is from the Christian Classics Ethereal
               Library at Calvin College, http://www.ccel.org,
                   generated on demand from ThML source.

References

   Visible links
   1. file:///ccel/watts/psalmshymns.html
   2. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02d
   3. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02d
   4. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
   5. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
   6. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#appendx1.app1
   7. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#appendx1.app2
   8. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
   9. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  10. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  11. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  12. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  13. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  14. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  15. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  16. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  17. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  18. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  19. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  20. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  21. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  22. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  23. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  24. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04
  25. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04
  26. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04
  27. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04
  28. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04
  29. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04
  30. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  31. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a
  32. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a
  33. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a
  34. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a
  35. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a
  36. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05b
  37. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05b
  38. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05b
  39. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05b
  40. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05b
  41. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#appendx1.app4
  42. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#appendx1.app3
  43. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02d
  44. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a
  45. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#c0c
  46. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06a
  47. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06a
  48. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06a
  49. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06b
  50. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06c
  51. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07a
  52. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07b
  53. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07c
  54. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07c
  55. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07d
  56. http://justus.anglican.org/resources/cy/
  57. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08b
  58. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08b
  59. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#08c
  60. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#08c
  61. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#08c
  62. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09a
  63. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09a
  64. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09b
  65. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09c
  66. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a
  67. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a
  68. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a
  69. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10b
  70. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10c
  71. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10c
  72. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10d
  73. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10d
  74. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h65
  75. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a
  76. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a
  77. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  78. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a
  79. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  80. http://www.peternwilliams.com/wales/wal1.html
  81. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#appendx1.app1
  82. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#appendx1.app2
  83. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#appendx1.app3
  84. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#appendx1.app4
  85. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  86. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03
  87. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05c
  88. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05c
  89. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09b-p0.2
  90. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06b-p0.2
  91. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06c-p0.2
  92. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13.h77-p0.1
  93. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h61-p0.1
  94. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08a-p0.3
  95. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07d-p0.3
  96. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13.h76-p1.4
  97. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10c-p0.2
  98. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h70-p0.2
  99. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09b-p0.3
 100. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08a-p0.4
 101. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08c-p0.2
 102. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13.h74-p0.1
 103. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07c-p0.3
 104. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05c-p0.2
 105. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08c-p0.3
 106. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04-p0.3
 107. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09a-p0.4
 108. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h60-p0.1
 109. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09c-p0.3
 110. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02d-p0.2
 111. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10b-p0.2
 112. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07b-p0.2
 113. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07a-p0.3
 114. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07c-p0.2
 115. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h70-p0.1
 116. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02a-p0.3
 117. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13.h75-p0.1
 118. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a.h54-p0.3
 119. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07b-p0.3
 120. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02b-p0.2
 121. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h65-p0.2
 122. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08b-p0.3
 123. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03-p0.4
 124. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h65-p0.1
 125. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02c-p0.2
 126. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13.h76-p1.3
 127. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10d-p0.2
 128. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09a-p0.3
 129. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a-p0.3
 130. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h68-p0.2
 131. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a.h54-p0.2
 132. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a-p0.3
 133. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13.h77-p0.2
 134. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09c-p0.2
 135. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03-p0.3
 136. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05b-p0.2
 137. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08b-p0.2
 138. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07d-p0.2
 139. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06a-p0.3
 140. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3?scrBook=Gen&scrCh=9&scrV=13#sswales.c08b-p2.2
 141. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3?scrBook=Ps&scrCh=21&scrV=1#sswales.c02c-p6.1
 142. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3?scrBook=Ps&scrCh=21&scrV=2#sswales.c02c-p6.1
 143. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3?scrBook=Ps&scrCh=41&scrV=3#sswales.c02c-p3.2
 144. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3?scrBook=Ps&scrCh=57&scrV=11#sswales.c02c-p3.1
 145. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3?scrBook=Isa&scrCh=7&scrV=15#sswales.c09b-p1.3
 146. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3?scrBook=Luke&scrCh=19&scrV=28#sswales.c09a.h48-p1.1
 147. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#titlpage-Page_3
 148. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#preface-Page_5
 149. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#preface-Page_6
 150. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#contents-Page_7
 151. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales-Page_9
 152. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c01.h01-Page_10
 153. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c01.h01-Page_11
 154. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c01.c01a-Page_12
 155. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c01.c01a-Page_13
 156. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c01.c01a-Page_14
 157. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02a-Page_15
 158. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02a-Page_16
 159. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02b-Page_17
 160. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02b-Page_18
 161. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02c-Page_19
 162. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02c-Page_20
 163. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02c-Page_21
 164. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02c-Page_22
 165. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02c-Page_23
 166. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02d-Page_24
 167. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02d-Page_25
 168. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02d.h02-Page_26
 169. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02d.h02-Page_27
 170. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02d.h03-Page_28
 171. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c02d.h03-Page_29
 172. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03-Page_30
 173. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03-Page_31
 174. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03-Page_32
 175. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03-Page_33
 176. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03-Page_34
 177. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h04-Page_35
 178. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.c031-Page_36
 179. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.c032-Page_37
 180. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h05-Page_38
 181. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h06-Page_39
 182. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h07-Page_40
 183. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h08-Page_41
 184. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h09-Page_42
 185. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h09-Page_43
 186. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h11-Page_44
 187. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h12-Page_45
 188. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h13-Page_46
 189. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h14-Page_47
 190. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h15-Page_48
 191. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h16-Page_49
 192. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h17-Page_50
 193. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h17-Page_51
 194. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c03.h17-Page_52
 195. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04-Page_53
 196. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04-Page_54
 197. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.h18-Page_55
 198. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.h18-Page_56
 199. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.h19-Page_57
 200. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.c04b-Page_58
 201. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.c04b-Page_59
 202. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.c04b-Page_60
 203. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.c04b-Page_61
 204. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.c04b-Page_62
 205. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.c04b-Page_63
 206. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.h20-Page_64
 207. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.h20-Page_65
 208. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.h21-Page_66
 209. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.h21-Page_67
 210. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.h22-Page_68
 211. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c04.h22-Page_69
 212. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a-Page_70
 213. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a-Page_71
 214. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a.h23-Page_72
 215. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a.h25-Page_73
 216. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05a.h26-Page_74
 217. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05b-Page_75
 218. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05b.h27-Page_76
 219. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05b.h28-Page_77
 220. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05b.h30-Page_78
 221. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05b.h31-Page_79
 222. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c05c-Page_80
 223. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06a-Page_81
 224. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06a-Page_82
 225. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06a.h31a-Page_83
 226. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06a.h32-Page_84
 227. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06a.h33-Page_85
 228. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06b-Page_86
 229. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06b-Page_87
 230. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06b.h34-Page_88
 231. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06c-Page_89
 232. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c06c.h35-Page_90
 233. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07a-Page_91
 234. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07a.h36-Page_92
 235. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07b-Page_93
 236. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07b.h37-Page_94
 237. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07b.h37-Page_95
 238. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07c.h38-Page_96
 239. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07c.h39-Page_97
 240. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c07d-Page_98
 241. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08a-Page_99
 242. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08a-Page_100
 243. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08a.h41-Page_101
 244. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08b-Page_102
 245. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08b.h42-Page_103
 246. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08b.h43-Page_104
 247. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08c-Page_105
 248. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08c.h44-Page_106
 249. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08c.h45-Page_107
 250. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08c.h46-Page_108
 251. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09a-Page_109
 252. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09a-Page_110
 253. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09a.h47-Page_111
 254. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09a.h47-Page_112
 255. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09a.h48-Page_113
 256. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09a.h48-Page_114
 257. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09b-Page_115
 258. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09b.h49-Page_116
 259. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09c.h50-Page_117
 260. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c09c.h50-Page_118
 261. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a-Page_119
 262. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a-Page_120
 263. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a.h53-Page_121
 264. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a.h54-Page_122
 265. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10a.h-Page_123
 266. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10b-Page_124
 267. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10b.h55-Page_125
 268. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10b.h55-Page_126
 269. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10c-Page_127
 270. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10c.h56-Page_128
 271. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10c.h57-Page_129
 272. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10d-Page_130
 273. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10d.h58-Page_131
 274. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c10d.h59-Page_132
 275. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11-Page_133
 276. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h60-Page_134
 277. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h63-Page_135
 278. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h65-Page_136
 279. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h67-Page_137
 280. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h68-Page_138
 281. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h69-Page_139
 282. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c11.h70-Page_140
 283. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c12-Page_141
 284. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c12.h72-Page_142
 285. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c12.sxx-Page_143
 286. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c12.sxx-Page_144
 287. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c12.h73-Page_145
 288. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c12.h73-Page_146
 289. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13-Page_147
 290. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13.h74-Page_148
 291. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13.h75-Page_149
 292. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13.h76-Page_150
 293. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13.h76-Page_151
 294. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13.h77-Page_152
 295. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c13.h77-Page_153
 296. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#index-Page_154
 297. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#index-Page_155
 298. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#index-Page_156
 299. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#index-Page_157
 300. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#index-Page_158
 301. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#index-Page_159
 302. file:///ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#index-Page_160

   Hidden links:
 304. file://localhost/ccel/l/lewis_he/sswales/cache/sswales.html3#sswales.c08a