TREBOR MAI.
Edmund O. (Edmund Osborne) Jones translation
Robert Williams was born May 25, 1830, and followed his father’s trade as a tailor. He published two small volumes in his lifetime, “Fy Noswyl” in 1861, and “Y Geninen” in 1869. The contents of these with large additions were published after his death—which took place August 5, 1877—under the title of “Gwaith Barddonol Trebor Mai” (Isaac Ffoulkes, Liverpool, 1883).
The Shepherd’s Love.
Adown Llewelyn’s Cairn there creep Cloud shadows in the failing light, From far off dingles flock the sheep To seek their shelter for the night. My dog about me as of yore Plays seek and fetch as we go home; But, Ellen, why dost thou no more To meet me in the gloaming come?
The heart I gave thee free from thorn Why seek to wound with coldness, sweet? If lasts thine anger and thy scorn Death’s coming I will gladly greet. Yet if to lose thee be my fate My life I cannot all regret, To see thy face doth compensate Though weary storms await me yet.
Across thy memory’s golden gate Let not my faithlessness appear, Nor think upon my failings great, Forget them—for I love thee, dear. But if of good I aught have done, Oh that with eyes of kindness mark, And let it shine—as when the sun Spreads wings of gold to chase the dark.
Thou rulest all my phantasy With thy fair face and eyes divine, The form, which in my sleep I see Mid dreamland’s mazy fields, is thine. Oh if thy sweet companionship I may not win, nor call thee wife— Then all my future let me sleep, And one long dream be all my life.
Baby.
His cradle’s his castle, and dainty his fare, And all the world crowds just to see him lie there. Whole volumes of rapture around him are heard, But he keeps his counsel and says not a word.
His mother while hushing her baby to rest Foretells for him all that can make a man blest. But still he lies silent—his pride is not stirred For all her fond visions, he says not a word.
His father feigns anger and swears that his son Is cross and ill-tempered, and scolds him in fun But though he speaks loud and demands to be heard For threats as for praises, he says not a word.
A glance at the strange world around him he throws— Whence came he? He knows not—nor whither he goes. Vague memories of angels within him are stirred, Too deep for mere speech—so he says not a word.
Yet answer there comes and as clear as can be, In his eyes bright and sparkling his soul you can see. To all that is said of him, all that is heard He looks his reply, though he says not a word.