m- 1)1 ill mm L ^ J .i^,.V■^^^, AT THE FOOT OF ERYRI Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive in 2008 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation littp://www.arcliive.org/details/atfooroferyribooOOjonericli ^t tjje jFoot of €rpti A BOOK ABOUT POETRY IN WALES BY WILLIAM HUGHES JONES, B.A. (Oxon.) JARVIS 6- FOSTER, LORNE HOUSE JVIDCCCCXII, 383776 Foreword The book is late because the printers were busy. It has no special purpose. There is a discussion here about modern poets in Wales. I do not say they are better or worse than the old poets. They have given me pleasure, and I speak of it. The title is my homage to the only region in the world that interests me. Wales has often been no larger than Eryri, and at the foot of it I am content to loiter and to learn. I thank the one or two friends who have helped me, and the Editor of the Brython for leave to print three essays. W.HJ. yune^ 1912. Contents Pag« About Poetry I Challenge and Sanity . - 46 Spectacles - - - . - - 73 Verse-making - 79 The Idyll of Summer - no Love's Philosophy - 129 On Translating Omar - - 139 The Passing of Arthur - 151 Meadow Song • - 170 Odlau Serch a Bywyd - . . 182 ToaB.Sc. - , - . • - 193 -n About Poetry Once I spent a summer's night out at sea on the deck of a boat. Our pilot, fearing the shoals, held the boat up in the lee of a great rock, to await the daylight. I had never seen the day break, and I looked long and steadfastly up at the eastern sky. Suddenly the man said, "There she is." (In Wales the Dawn is a girl.) I peered hard at the sky, but I could see no change. " There, on the water," he added. And I saw that the sea's face had changed : there was a gleam upon it that I had missed through the watch of the night. That was the sensitiveness of the Earth Mother to the movements of her children. My eyes, 2 ' * ' • ■ • About Poetry though I had waited a night-time, failed to note the dawn. But the sea knew. What the sea did with the dawn is the Poet's function. As the sea was ultra- sensitive to the dawn, so is the Poet ultra- sensitive to Nature, to Man, to Love, to Beauty, As the sea reflected and accentu- ated the dawn, so the Poet can reflect and accentuate love, hate, nature, man. The time when man grows most like his Creator is when he becomes a poet. The Poet is the second creator of the world, just as a taper is a secondary creator of light. The Poet is his Creator doing over again His own work. The Poet is he who can reproduce the Earth, He can reproduce the heavens too ; and the hells. The poet is a creator, within limits. The limits are as wide as God*s horizon set for men. The poet stops there. The wildest woman that ever blinded the eyes of a seer is still Eve. And so, no matter from ^h^re \ye start About Poetry 3 we must come back to what was said over two thousand years ago : Poetry is a species of Imitation. But this is only one way of looking at it. Poetry in its Method is an Imitation of creation. Poetry in its Function is a Creation like God's. There is the inevi- table limit : like. Therefore we must say, The Poet is a Re -creator. And yet Wordsworth goes further than this ; there is almost the suggestion that the Poet can create Soul : for the Poet has a sacred dream of power to add the gleam, The light thai never was on sea or land. And Shelley is very explicit. For the man that feeds on the aerial kisses Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses, is the Poet, who watches from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy bloom, |. About Poetry and who will not heed nor see what things they be, because from these create he can Forms more real than living man. And perhaps we have here the very essence of Poetry. Poetry is a Power. All effec- tive Powers have Source and Function. The source of all power is the visible and sensible world. All the powers that the physicist discovers or will discover are already in the world. The source of the power of Poetry is the world. The Poet is the Physicist that discovers it, that controls it, that hands it over for the use of man. The Process is complete in the Promethean lyric. First, the Poet discovers the Power by observation and meditation : He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy bloom. Then, he controls the Force, not by means of his Intellect, but by his Imagination, About Poetry « This control is effected by bringing into play that faculty of Detachment possessed by the Imagination : a daisy can live in the imagination better than in a field. The Poet having v^^atched the bees in the ivy bloom detaches them from the lake side into the realms of imagination, and then forgets the originals : Nor heeds nor sees what things they be. Finally, the Poet uses his Intellectual faculties to hand over what was once potential energy in Nature, as an active controllable Power, kinetic energy which every child can use hereafter for the shap- ing of his destiny : And from these create he can Forms more real than living man, Nurselings of Immortality. The agents in the Process, then, are Observation, Imagination, Intellect. And the greatest of these three is Imagination. The essence of the Process is Transmuta- ) About Poetry tion. And this is the chief faculty of the Imagination. A poet may copy nature, but he must imagine it anew ; he must transmute it into something distinct from Nature, however much like it. As Coleridge says : Images, however beautiful, though faith- fully copied from Nature, and as accurately represented in words, do not of themselves characterize the poet. They become proofs of original genius only as far as they are modified by a predominant passion. Every true Poem is a Picture and a Song. And yet the Poet, though he must be a singer, is much more than a singer. To the singer, singing is an end in itself. To the Poet the song, the measured cadence, the melodic sequence, is only a mighty means to a great end, an end that is every- thing that life itself is. Poetry is greater than Music, greater than Painting ; for there is music and About Poetry J painting in all poetry ; and whereas Music is satisfied if it please the ear, and Painting is satisfied if it please the eye, Poetry insists on satisfying the inward eye and the physical ear, mth a purpose : to subject both eye and ear to its control, that by their aid it may overwhelm the imagination of the reader with the feelings and passions of the Poet. And here we come to the Imagination working as a transmuting energy in the mind of the reader : it transmutes what he sees and hears into something that is analog- ous with his own experience : his tears, and noons, and dim horizons. And these are the uses of Poetry. Poetry is the power the Poet has of making me see my own heart as in a mirror, and his heart, too, and the hearts of most others, and the heart of the earth, and, most nearly to Deity, the heart of the Deity Itself; as much of each as my vision is capabable of seeing. 8 About Poetry Ann Griffiths told me all she wanted to tell me in Codi'r groes, a'i chyfri'n goron, and I shall have triumphed over all things when I can say Mi ganaf yn y mellt. And if you, who are not a poet, wanted to remind me on a June day how cold it had been in March, you would just tell me how cold it was in March, and how the snow did fall ! But the greatest of all poets had a subtler way by far, he said not a word about cold nor sno'^^ but he said something about a Jio-^er and a bird that makes me always feel the March, and not merely remember it : daffodils That come before the swallow dares. He has the March spirit locked up for ever in these lines ; and the March need never come in its turn again to me, for I have it here at my call. About Poetry 9 And there is a dainty example of this power in Eifion Wyn that we always treasure. There is an effect produced upon us in so simple a manner that we almost miss recognising it. It is an effect, that neither Painter nor Singer could produce. The Poet's subject is the coming of the spirit of November, muffled and mysterious. We do not^ think a Painter could paint it all ; and we are not certain that a Singer could give any of the effect by his melody alone. Even the Poet does nothing more than describe it, paint it, in these lines : Gwyntyll y corwynt sydd yn ei law A thrwy ei lawr dyrnu yfory y daw, and Pwy sydd yn crechwen yn droiog flin A'i fantell symudliw fel enfys grin ? But we begin to understand things when the Poet says the leaves gather in the ruins at the sound of his step : Casgl y crinddail wrth swn ei droed Tr aelwyd aniddos ym murddyn y coed. to About Poetrv But the whole case is made clear; we know all about it, when the Poet says he closed the door of his cottage ; it is a great stroke of intimacy that makes the November known to us : Canaffy nor nes dywedo'r wawr Pwy syfl dylathau y Moelwyn Mawr. Poetry not only makes me see the heart of things as in a mirror, but the poet, touching his subjects with his fiery fingers, gives them everlasting form. So that I, poor plain soul, can summon before me every phantasy and every face that people the realms of gold, if I have the care and the heart to do so. For the Poet has given me the wand, and the open sesame. In truth, the Poet is the only proper magician that lives. The Poet is a magician in his Methods and in what one might call his Consolations. Poetry, says Mathew Arnold, interprets Nature, and interprets Life. Science dissects Nature and analyses Life. And About Poetry n poetry has its own peculiar methods by means of which it succeeds in this inter- pretation. Three of these methods we propose to deal with shortly. They are the Subjective Method, the Objective, and the Kinetic. We have said that the Poet's first func- tion is Observation and Meditation. To the impressions thus received the Poet applies first the heat of his passion, and then the wings of his imagination. And this is what we mean by applying the Subjective treatment to his impressions. All things perceived by the Poet must bear the stamp of his Passion and of his Imagination before we can call his work poetry. Otherwise he cannot interpret. Let us seek an example. There is Keats, on hearing the nightingale, calling for wine that he might drink : and leave the world unseen And with thee fade away into the forest dim. And what a wine his Passion_. demands, and 12 About Poetry with what a wine moreover docs his Imagination, by illusion^ provide him: Wine full of the warm south, wine cooled a long age in the deep delved earth, wine tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance and Provencal song and sunburnt mirth. This is not wine merely in the beaker with bubbles winking at the brim, but wine glorious in everything that wine means ; the warm blue south, the Provencal lads and lasses, the full vineyards, the white feet in purple presses — this is poetry interpreting Nature with the grand purpose of giving the reader th.^ intimate sense of Nature^ which poetry alone can give. There is a superb example of this sense of intimacy in Ceiriog : Cerddorion Ewrob ddont I'ch mysg i roddi can : About Poetry 13 'Rwyf innau'n ymfoddhau Ar lais y fronfraith Ian ; Wrth wrando'r gwcw las, A'r hedydd bychan fry, A gweled robyn goch Yn gwrandoW deryn du. The Robin listening to the black -bird in this verse is an instance of what Arnold calls the natural magic in true poetry. The passion and the imagination of Ceiriog were so strong in this instance that he could not help telling us that he felt that Nature had something to say even to herself. And how intimate does he make the two birds seem to each other and to us. And who would not rather think that the birds listen to one another than that they are oblivious of each other's songs ? And Ceiriog is better some- how than Watts Dunton, though not so musical nor as choice : While from the dingle grass the skylark springs And merle and mavis anszver finch and jay. 14 About Poetry There is no more of poetry in Islwyn's lines to Dyfifryn Clwyd than there would be of kingship in us, could we invest our- selves with the Coronation robes. Hofif Ddyffryn Clwyd yng 7ighofio7i yr ym- deithydd A gwyd fel delweddo brydferthwch Ilonydd, Teilynga y Jlaenoriaelh am lonyddwch Ei olygfeydd cCi baradwysaidd heddwch, Llifeiriol lawnder donna dros ei dolydd, Mor aur cynhaeaf yma sy ysplenydd. Ac hyd ei ochrau fel iV lawn amddiffyn Heirdd furiau o fynyddoedd sy'n ymestyn, Gwyrddlesni'r fro yn dal am eu cysgodau A weua iddynt fentyll o bob lliwrau^ Ardderchog goed a'u gwyrddni pell-lifeiriol^ Ddyfnhant ogoniant yr olygfa swynol. In these lines one might use Lessing's words about a similar piece, " I hear the poet labouring at his work, to I am very far from seeing the thing itself^'' The fault is that Islwyn paints without producing any illusion. His poetry has the stamp neither About Poetry 15 of passion nor of imagination. It lacks the subjective treatment. The line Teilynga y flaenoriaeth am lonyddwch. is probably the most barren, sluggish, woe- begotten creation in all literature. And may Ceridwen forgive him for his ^^ gwyrddni pei/'/ifeirioI" and his "ogoniant yr olygfa s'VpynoIy^ and his execrable *' meiityll o bob llivi^iau." And yet Islwyn a few lines down shows unmistakable power of producing natural magic ; the half- whisper- ing leaves create illusion, and one is at a bound in the leafy month of June : Cyngherddol adar ar y coed yn pyncio A'r dail j/^ sibrwd hanner geiriau wrtho. There is no poetry in this translation of Eifion Wyn : My windows are darkened By the rain storm without. But there is in the original : Mae'r curwlaw yn dallu Ff^nestri fy nhy. i6 About Poetry It is of the same temper as Lorenzo's line : How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon the bank. And Professor Morris Jones has it in his C'vyny G'^ynf. Codi'i lais yn awr, ac wylo, Beichio wylo mae. The same poet has one stanza that particu- larly illustrates this Subjective Treatment under discussion. It shows what we mean by the Transmuting Power of the Imagina- tion which is evident in real poetry : A synio'r wyf mae swn yr iaith Wrth lithro dros ei min Roes i w gwefusau'r lluniaidd dro A lliw a bias y gwin. What is it that delights us here, or rather satisfies us ? There is the sweet versification : synio'r '^yf — f WW yr iaith ; Roes ; dro. There is the pretty conceit that the words of the maiden shaped her lips. About Poetry 17 But there is a soul's worth more than this. There is illusion created. It is not a chance conceit, bnt a deliberate poetic act that makes the words give shape and taste to the lipSj and not the lips that give form and sound to the words. It is the poet's Imagination answering to the call of his Passion. His Passion experiences these things in the presence of the maiden — what beautifully shaped lips she has ! of what a deep crimson ! what taste of wine ! what a lovely way of talking ! and what a language — more sonorous and more beloved by me than all the languages of the earth ! The Poet's Passion wants all this put into the form of poetry. Imagination replies, I can only express the intensity of such a passion by means of a fiction, of an illusion 5 to make a mere list of your comments would never express the depth of your feel- ing. It must be left to me to say that the beauty of the language she uses, and the beauty of her use of it must have had some deep divine intimacy with the crimson rose 1 8 About Poetry and the nectar taste upon her h'ps. Will this do ? A chlir felyslais ar ei min A glywir megis can Y gloew dd^r yn tincial dros Y cerrig gwynion msln. A chain y seinia'r hen Gymraeg Yn ei hyfrydlais hi ; Mae iaith bereiddia'r ddaear hon Ar enau 'nghariad i. A synioW wyfmai swfi yr iaith Wrth lithro dros ei min Roes i*w gwefusauW lluniaidd dro A lliw a bias y gwin. And Passion replies instantly, " Yes, it will do." And the reader agrees ; for he has an Imagination that can understand what it means ; and he has a Passion that is satisfied with the meaning. Poetry is not an appeal to the Reason through the channel of the Intellect. Apply the cold scullion fingers of Reason to the body of Ceridwen and she shrinks from the touch, and disappear^ About Poetry 19 into the spirit of which she is made. Welcome her with the pliant hands of the Imagination and she, the spirit she is, will enter into your very veins and course along with your blood. Poetry in order to interpret does not tell the truth as we ordinarily deem truth. It arrives at Absolute Truth by Illusion. It is a question of Absolute and Relative Truth. Hazlitt has remarked : "The language of the imagination is not the less true to nature because it is false in point of fact ; but so much the more true and natural if it conveys the impression whicn the object under the influence of passion makes on the mind." And he proceeds to give an example. " When lachimo says of Imogen : The flame o' the taper Bows toward her, and would under peep her lids To see the enclosed light — this passionate interpretation of the 20 About Poetry motion of the flame to accord mth the speaker's o'^n feelings is true poetry." And we have found a parallel to this quota- tion in Ceiriog. It is in his poem Beth y^ Cariad? He tells how various men attempt to answer the question and fail. Then he adds about Gwen, Ond pe baech yn disgyn tan amrant ei liygad Chwi deimlech eich calon yn deall y pwnc. This alighting most gently upon the eyelid is no mere conceit of the Fancy, but a very delicate and exquisite creation of the Imagination, meant to convey the poet's own delicate feelings on the question, and suggesting moreover a delightful sense of shyness in the maiden's eyes. And in order to appreciate fully, besides giving fair play to, such hnes as these of Mr. W. J. GrufFudd : Am ronyn bach o seibiant Yn rhuthr fy mywyd i Gwerthwn fy enaid heddyw I gario'i beichiau hi, About Poetry 21 one has only to remember another excellent criticism of Shakespeare's methods : " When Lear calls upon the heavens to avenge his cause, "/ir they are old like himj'^ there is nothing extravagant or impious in this sublime identification of his age vi^ith theirs, for there is no other image v/hich could do justice to the agonising sense of his wrongs and his despair." Thus, in a word on this Subjective Treat- ment, the Poet is he who can express his passions in such a manner, by means of the Imagination, that the reader can understand the quality and the degree of those passions. That is, the poet is the only person that can really make himself understood. One other instance will suffice. In the line Codi'r groes a'i chyfri'n goron, which is a lyric in itself, the author is a Painter, and much more than a painter, she is a Poet. It has been said that Painting gives an object itself, whereas Poetry gives 21 About Poetry what it implies. And so when an artist paints the carrying of the cross, he only paints the cross and the bearing of it. When Ann Griffiths paints the anguish — and " codi'r groes " suggests anguish to all Welsh minds — she means the anguish of carrying the cross and much more : she means every cross that every person in the world has to carry, your cross, my cross, His Cross, and all His crosses. The Painter cannot do this, and this is nothing com- pared with what next he cannot do — a'i chyfri'n goron. How can a Painter change with one stroke of his brush all the anguish of the world into a bliss supremer than the dreams of angels ? And what Art, what Power in the world can do it save Poetry ? And more again, much more : What i^ some strange divinity should suddenly turn all the anguish of the world — save mine — into a great joy ? I could laugh at the strange god, and fling my little line of verse full into About Poetry 23 his face. It was some power akin to poetry that made Brynhilde take Odin by the throat ; and which inspired this picture of Rhona Boswell as " My fierce girl whose love for me would send her An angel storming hell, through death's abysses Where never a sight could fright or power could bend her." '*It is in giving voice not to emotion at its tensest, but to the variations of emotion, it is in expressing the shifting movements of the soul from passion to passion that poetry shows, in spite of her infirmities, her superiority to the other arts," says England's greatest critic. And that is why Codi'r groes a'i chyfri'n goron is among one of the best bits of isolated poetry in the world. That is the Subjective Method of Poetry. " It seeks to relieve the aching sense of pleasure by expressing it in the boldest 24 About Poetry manner ; to enshrine itself in the highest forms of fancy." The Objective Method of Poetry is not something apart from the above, but rather one of the agents whereby the Poet stamps his verse with his own die. Although Poetry interprets by means of Illusion, that Illusion must be concrete. The Objective Method the poet uses is that which supplies the best materials for the illusion. The principle of the Objective Method is this, that the successful poet achiev^es his finest results not by analytical description either of scenery or of beauty, but by record- ing in the aptest manner the effect such scenery or beauty has upon his own imagina- tion or emotion. If a poet can reproduce the effect of any occasion, then he really succeeds in reproducing the occasion of the effect. There is a good example in Tragedy. The poet is describing the passing of Oedipus into Hades, and his farewell to his About Poetry 25 daughters. A voice from Hades called out Oedipus' name, and he, taking with him only Theseus the King as an eye-witness to his end, ascends the mountain. The servants and the daughters of Oedipus hurry away in terror : Then followed we the maidens, grieving sore With streaming tears. When we had gone apart After short space we turned, and saw far off Oedipus indeed nowhere still visible — Only the king's self, holding up his hand Over hisface^ so as to shade his eyes As if some sight of terror had appeared Awfulj intolerable to gaze upon. Note what the poet has done. Instead of describing the coming of the dread spirit, and his taking of Oedipus, and instead of giving the details of the actual departure, the poet simply says that Theseus the King saw something so dreadful that he could not gaze upon it : holding up his hand Over his face, so as to shade his eyes. To describe the subjective effect upon 26 About Poetry Oedipus would not be half so effective as this describing of the objective effect upon Theseus. There is an exquisite example of this in Scott's " Maid of Neidpath." The maid is nigh dying from awaiting the return of her lover. When he does return, he passes by the castle wall, and although he looks at her, he does not know her. The maid gives one feeblest moan and dies. And how shall Scott convey that moan to us? Not by saying it was feeble, but by giving its effect upon something outside it : The castle arch whose hollow tone Returns each whisper spoken Could scarcely catch the feeble moan Which told her heart was broken. And Shakespeare provides us with a very adequate illustration of this objective method in Othello. That the gentle Desdemona is very pure, Shakespeare takes pains to let us learn ; that she is very beautiful we are left to infer from an indirect account by Cassio, About Poetry ^7 who, when he hears that Desdemona has arrived, in spite of the storm, safely at Cyprus, exclaims : Tempests themselves, high seas, and howl- ing winds, The guttered rocks, and congregated sands — Traitors ensteeped to clog the guiltless keel — As /laving sense of beauty^ do omit Their mortal natures, letting go safely by The divine Desdemona. And when we read of the Passing of Arthur, no amount of rhetoric will convey to us the agony of Arthur, unless the poet uses the objective method as his chief agent of imitation. Tennyson and Mr. Gwynn Jones use it in their renderings of the story. But there is a danger of overdoing the objective eiFects, and it appears to us that Tennyson's interpretation is overwrought. He describes the coming of the ship along the mere to receive Arthur. The deck is dense with stately forms, Black-stoled, black-hooded like a dream. 28 About Poetry Then the poet attempts to convey the intense tragedy of the death of Arthur by describing the effect it has upon the Queen in the ship : And from them rose A cry that shivered to the tingling stars, And as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes Or hath come, since the making of the world. We must confess that though this is beauti- fully said, it appears to us sheer rhetoric, inasmuch as it makes it impossible for us to understand either the sympathy of the women or the tragic dying of Arthur. This is Mr. Gwynn Jones' version : Bu druan y rhianedd Drwy weld gwan, dreuledig wedd Y cadarn Wledig ; codi Wnaeth yr oll^ a thuahi rhi Daliodd y iair eu dwylaw Yn brudd ym mudandod braw. Ac ebr un o naddun hwy — " I Arthur rhowch gynorthwy j About Poetry 29 Awn ag ef o'i gynni i gyd I sanctaidd Ynys lenctid." This is immeasureably more effective than Tennyson. The maidens here are women, not ghouls, and Arthur is a man, not a centaur. But perhaps the best example of this indirect or objective method of description, which is really nothing more than a poet's use of his dramatic sense, is to be found in the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The old sailor has come to that part of his story where the albatross is looked upon by the sailors as the guardian angel of the ship, when suddenly the narrator's face becomes convulsed with a certain agony, so indescrib- able that even the poet does not dare to describe it. Moreover, the poet is aware of this, that a mere subjective description will never frighten the reader as the look of the Mariner frightened the guest ; therefore his best method is to describe the fear of the guest, and thereby give the reader some- thing to judge the grimace by. Note, 30 About Poetry above all, the concentration and directness of the style : And a good south wind sprung up behind ; The albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo ! In mist or cloud, or mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine ; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmers the white moon-shine. " God save thee Ancient Mariner I From the fiends that plague thee thus I Why lookst thou so ?" — with my cross-bow I killed the albatross. Surely you can see his face and hear his voice ! The third magic method used by the poet to create illusion and to produce verisimili- tude of effect is vvrhat we call the Kinetic Method. It is a theory based upon a remark in the Laocoon to this effect : "We can generally more easily and About Poetry 31 more vividly remember a motion than a mere form or colour," A study of the most effective passages in poetry will shovtr that the true poets act unconsciously upon this principle of kinetics. In the Maid of Neidpath already referred to, there are only four verses, and we are certain that Scott has not deliberately used a single word to describe the beauty of the maid. And yet we somehow feel she was very beautiful. Nay, we know she was beautiful. How ? This is the manner of the poem : Yet keenest power to see and hear Seemed in her frame residing ; Before the watch dog pricked his ear She heard her lover's riding ; Ere scarce a distant form was kenned She knew and waved to greet him, And o'er the battlement did bend As on the wing to meet him. There is no description of physical beauty there, only of great love. And yet — read the last four lines again — > 32 About Poetry Ere scarce a distant form was kenned She knew and waved to greet him, And o'er the battlement did bend As on the wing to meet him. Have you any doubt now as to the princess that she was ? It is surely one of the finest and most delicate intimations of Beauty and Passion in the pages of literature — as on the mng! What the poet has done is to change beauty into grace. For in Lessing*s words, Grace is beauty in motion. The Queens in Ymadawiad Arthur are most beautiful, not in their static pose upon the thrones : Pali gwyn A ymdonnai am danyn ; A lliw teg eu gwalltiau aur Drwyddo fel cawod ruddaur. Gyddfau a thalcennau can Mai eira ymyl Aran ; Deufan goch pob dwyfoch deg Lliw gwin drwy wynlliw gwaneg — About Poetry 33 but in their dynamic sympathy, full of the loveliness of moving arms : Breichiau glanach na'r sindal a'r pali I'r gadair euraid a gaid i^w godi ; Gwynion ddwylaw/z^'« gweini i'r Brenin, A rhoddi gwin i lareiddio'i gynni. And this Kinetic Method should not be confined, nor is it confined, to the expression of corporeal beauty alone. It is effective in producing the sense of intimacy in every sphere. When Ceiriog wants to praise the Maytime, he only succeeds in making you envious by telling of the coming of May : Pe gwelech Mai yn dod A'r blodau ar y drain ! When he wants to make you see over again the evening of the tryst, he gives you a start by reminding you of the ruing of the moon : Wyt ti'n cofio'r lloer yti codi Dros hen dderw mawr y llwyn ? And when he wants you to bend that spirit 34 About Poetry of yours, it will not do merely to recall the old friendship : Wyt ti'n cofio'r hen wresogrwydd ? Wyt ti'n cofio gwasgu^m Haw ? In truth the Poet as well as the Moralist lives by the same old rule : Deeds not words. We can only express some of the Consola- tions of Poetry in these terms. We like to think of our experiences as treasured up in silver caskets in Memory's store house. And when Experience or Memory fails we love to go to the gold caskets of poetry, where all the experiences of life are stored : " All that is worth remembering in life is the poetry of it," says Hazlitt, and the consolation comes in this : that I can always choose my casket, for Poetry is kinder than Life. If I do not want Pain, I can seek Joy, and I shall not call in vain Dynior hud a miri haf Tyr'd eto i'r oed at^f, About Poetry 35 And if it is Pain that I seek in Poetry, the torment of this vale of tears, I shall at least find how to overcome it, and thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. The philosopher may say, Joy is the absence of Pain ; and no doubt Joy is swreeter because of Pain. That is no argument for my liking weeds to grow in my garden. Poetry is more perfect than Life. For Poetry has gardens without weeds, and men without woe ; gardens Where the pied wind flowers and the tulip tall And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness, where I shall find men, and track their path No more by bloody groans And desolation, and the mingled voice Of slavery and command ; but by the light Of wave reflected flowers and floating odours And music soft, and mild free gentle voices And sweetest music, such as spirits love. 36 About Poetry Or if with Llion I get tired of sunshine and the dear loveliness of the narcissi, I can say Dwg im haul digymylau, — Gad im hefyd fy mj'd mau, Lie mae'r cymyl yn wylo Ym mhelydr haul ami i dro. And why talk of the narcissi, Poetry can make weeds in a ruin attractive, as in Browning's single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper over rooted, by the gourd overscored, While the patching house-leek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks — There are some caskets we always think are wrapped in samite cloths, and when we approach them, the poet seems to divine our desires, and slowly unwinds the samite before our eyes, and there is delight in the very unfolding of the cloth^ such delight About Poetry 37 that the treasure desired within the casket is not the joy in itself, so much as the cul- mination of a satisfaction that increases from the moment we begin to think we are about to obtain what the heart desires. In the following lyric Shelley seems to be ready with the gem in his hands, and he slowly and gravely, but passionately, unfolds the windings about it ; we are breathless till he has finished ; then instantly we are satisfied to the very soul : I can not give what men call love ; But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not ? The desire of the moth for the star ; Of the night for the morrow ? The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow ? One of the stillest lakes in Eryri is Cowlyd, And if you want to know what peace is, climb to it alone. Never have I seen mountain or mountain heather look more beautiful than in the mirror of 38 About Poetry Cowlyd. There is no doubt in my mind about this matter, that when Nature takes a photograph of herself she improves upon the original. I have watched a bunch of heather, a whole day, on a rock by Cowlyd side, and, in every degree of light and shadow, the reflected heather in the water was more beautiful than its personification on the rock. Indeed, my purpose in this vigil was to test Shelley's observation : We paused below the pools that lie Under the forest bough ... In which the lovely forest grew As in the upper air, More perfect both in shape and hue Than any spreading there. Sweet views which in our world above Can never well be seen Were imaged by the water's love Of that fair forest green. And to us this is another function and con- solation of Poetry, this Cowlyd function. Life in some mysterious way becomes About Poetry 39 synonymous with Beauty in Poetry. Life considers Truth, Goodness, and Beauty as one. Poetry considers Truth, Goodness, Beauty and Life as one. Put Life — even the horridness of it — into Poetry, and all is interfused With an Elysian glow. Lady Macbeth in life would horrify us. Lady Macbeth in poetry makes us pity her. Hamlet in life would make us laugh and lock him up. Hamlet in poetry inspires our deepest curiosity. And what is this great difference between Life and Poetry ? Perhaps it is not a difference between Life and Poetry at all. The difference lies in the difference between you or me and the Poet. The Poet is the great revealer. If a man is mad, we only see his madness. The Poet sees the conflict that caused the madness. If a woman is wicked, we only see her wickedness. The Poet sees her weakness. If a man is wealthy, we only 40 About Poetry see his smug rotundity. The Poet sees his drab misery. If a man is poor, we see the pauper. The Poet sees the hero. The Poet is the great revealer. The Poet sees the circle of things. We can see only the point at that end of the straight line that happens to be pointing towards us. Everybody in Venice spat on Shylock. Most other people rather liked him. Shakes- peare made the difference. The great teaching of Poetry is that man is neither an angel nor a devil, but a man. Every hero has a weakness. Every villain has a soul. We have said Poetry is kinder than Life. It is, too, more inexorable, Man in Poetry is sure of what he deserves. Poetry is very certain that man is good, that man is bad. Poetry is just. It knows how good, how bad. You and I never know. Among the other functions and consola- tions of Poetry, one we value is the power it has of flashing upon the inward eye, About Poetry 41 giving bliss to solitude. This virtue is the Daffodil Function. For when Wordsworth went his lonely- walk and saw all at once his host of golden daffodils, That stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay, he gazed and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to him had brought. The new wealth he had acquired was the re-discovery of the everlasting, latent power of the Beautiful to satisfy the senses, when once that Beauty had been truly perceived. For, oft when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils. This Daffodil Function is the making of impressions of the Beautiful on the memory. 42 About Poetry It is not so much the sense of appreciating Beauty, as the storing of it up in the heart ; so delicately stored that it will reveal itself at any magic touch of sympathy ; and give more pleasure to the senses than ever it gave even on its first perception ; more pleasure because it is now part of one's own experience, because it is being applied to one's own circumstances by one's own self j more pleasure because it can heighten even another and distinguishable pleasure ; and give more pleasure, of a truth, because it can make deeper the gloom of gloom and so intensify its own sweetness. Shakespeare is dear for a hundred things, but dearest because he enables us every day to express our own very heart in the terms of his noble numbers. For we, too, know a Bank where the wild thyme blows. And Keats is a joy for ever, because we have longed To cease upon the midnight with no pain. About Poetry 43 And Wordsworth has said just what we felt we wanted to say : And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. And the myriad more memories we possess stretching in never-ending line of the sapphire-coloured throne, and the thought o' Mary Morison, and the echoing horn, and the unconquerable soul, and the peak in Darien And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils. And with this touchstone we are certain of the value of our Cymric poetry. Obviously in extent it is limited, but its intensity satisfies. Were you to deprive us of all the joys we cherish, culled from your English realms, there would still be left to us the Daffodil Function of the A'^en^ with power to while our leisure and ease our care. For, we can never tire of the girl of sunshine, Yr eneth oleubleth lon^ 44 About Poetry and the lightning on the snow, Llewych viellt ary lluwch man^ and the sea change, Gwyliwr mud miraglait'r mdt\ and the troth blush, Rhoiswn wedd rJiosyn iddi A chariad merch roed i mi^ and the sea gull, Law law a vtty lili mor^ and Beauty's embrace, Gwn pa beih yw cael/y nal Yti nyrysniW blodati^ and the sky-lark, Yn nes at ddydd^ yn nes at Dduw^ and the heart among the hills, Ond mae'm calonyn y mynydd^ and the poetry of Wyllt hiraeth y pellteraUy and the ineffable dreaming, fel breuddwyd anghyffwrdd cariadau ...» It is the Daffodil function that Coleridge has in mind, saying : Who has not a thousand times seen snow fall on water ? Who has not About Poetry 45 watched it mth a ne^^ feeling from the time that he has read Burns' comparison of pleasure with Snow that falls upon a river, A moment white, then gone for ever. And strange that Shelley left verse out of his list of genii : Music when soft voices die. Vibrates in the memory — Odours when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the beloved's bed. And so thy thoughts when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on. But perhaps he meant by these Thoughts the thoughts of poetry that are borne on viewless wings, like Psyche by the Zephyr. Challenge and Sanity /V anghred rhodder enghraiffi^ Rhodder her i dduwiauW Aifft Cymru Fu : Cymru Fydd. It is possible to make out a case against the Renascence of Wonder. Theodore Watts Dunton has set down the case for it. He has done so in three brilliant ways. In his critical writings he enumerates the principle with this formula : The phrase "The Renascence of Wonder" merely indicates that there are two great impulses governing man, and probably not man only but the entire world of conscious life : the impulse of acceptance — the impulse to take unchallenged and for granted all the phenomena of the outer world as they are — and the impulse to confront 46 Challenge and Sanity 47 these phenomena with the eyes of enquiry and wonder. In Aylwin, that book cherished by every Cymro because it has within it some of the mountain magic of Wales, Watts Dunton, acting upon this critical principle, uses the means of fiction to illustrate what he means by " confronting the phenomena of nature with the eyes of wonder ;" and where there is clearly this one underlying theme, that behind Life and Nature and all things there is a Spirit working towards a goal of Beauty. In the Coming of Love, a poem so beauti- ful that one cannot tell whether it will live long, Watts Dunton has expressed the same criticism of life, a criticism which finds a mystic heart of love and beauty beating within the bosom of nature herself; a criticism whose foundation is the belief in the Omnipotence of Love and its power of knitting together the entire universe : Though Love be mocked by Death's obscene derision, Love ^till is Nature's truth ^nd Peath her lie, 48 Challenge and Sanity Wliat we are disposed to argue about is, not the value of these theories, so much as the phrase itself, The Renascence of Wonder. It is a phrase that arouses three objections : it does not at once connote anything sub- stantial to the mind ; it does not convey the meaning of its author even when that mean- ing has been grasped after a further explanation ; it has led the author himself to adopt an attitude to which he can neither drag nor entice many even of his devotees. The fallacy of the idea lies in its logic. The author of the phrase has so great a belief in the power of Wonder that he has made Wonder itself a Belief. In emphasis- ing as a critic the importance of the Imagination, he has invested the imaginat- ion with the attributes of Reason. He does not say that what you can argue out you can believe, but that you can believe even what you imagine. This is the only inter- pretation we can give of the poem " The Coming of Love." Philip Aylwin, in the poem^j loves the Gipsy girl, Rhoqa I^oswell, Challenge and Sanity 49 with a great love. Rhona Boswell is stabbed by the Gipsy Romanies for loving an outsider. Philip goes to the Alps in his greatest grief. There he is tortured by Natura Maligna — by the evil spirit of Nature, by something outside himself: (there lies the fallacy, for nothing can torture him more than his o'^n grief). Then suddenly the torture disappears, and he is comforted by Natura Benigna — by the good spirit of Nature, by something outside himself: (the fallacy again, for nothing can satisfy and comfort him more than his o'^n unconquer- able soul) — What power is this ? What witchery wins my feet To peaks so sheer they scorn the cloaking snow, All silent as the emerald gulphs below Down whose ice walls the wings of twilight beat? What thrill of earth and heaven — most wildj^most sweet — 50 Challenge and Sanity What answering pulse that all the senses know, Comes leaping from the ruddy eastern glow Where far away the skies and mountains meet? Mother 'tis I reborn : I know thee well : That throb I know and all it prophesies, O mother and Queen, beneath the olden spell Of silence, gazing from thy hills and skies ! Dumb mother, struggling with the years to tell The secret at thy heart through helpless eyes ! This, we maintain, is not Natura Benigna revealing to him her mystic consolation, but the soul of the man bowing willingly to the ineffable workings of the ways of God : peace greater than this no man may know, that he should lay down his life for Another. In Aylwin, again, there is a fallacy, the fallacy of fiction. Aylwin is a beauti- ful illustration of the possible Omni- potence of Love, but it is not a proof of it. Challenge and Sanity 51 It is the old fallacy of the wish being father to the thought ; it takes it that because love is stronger than the flesh, it is too, stronger than fact. It assumes that, because Henry Aylwin loved Winnie so much, she could not possibly be lost to him — although she v^ras lost. Aylwin finds Winnie ulti- mately, not radically because his love was without bounds, but because Winnie was not really lost. Unconquerable love is not exactly omor omnia vincit. Finally, the phrase. Renascence of Wonder, is not a satisfactory one to use in Criticism. We have found it unsatisfactory in the treatment of English and Welsh poetry. The phrase is supposed to be a characterisation of the poetry of England since the time of Pope and Dryden. And is based upon what ? Not upon the body of the poetry of Keats, but chiefly upon one little poem of Keats — La Belle Dame Sans Merci — and upon three lines of Keats in the Ode to the Nightingale ; not upon Wordsworth, but upon two poems of 52 Challenge and Sanity Coleridge, and in particular upon the fragment Kubla Khan -, hardly upon Byron or Shelley at all, but upon Chatterton, the wonderful boy ; and from this point of view William Morris and Rossetti loom much larger than Tennyson, Browning and Mathew Arnold. Even to include Burns among the high elect Watts Dunton has to enlarge his definition of Romanticism to include Humour, a thing which William Morris and Rossetti even would not allow. And when we, under the influence of this new canon of criticism, come to apply it to the New Poetry of Wales, we find, as the analyst would say on the using of a new re-agent, " no precipitate." When we attempt to consider Awdl " Tr Hap'* and Caneuon a Cherddi in the light of the Renascence of Wonder, we do not feel in any way that we have discovered their secret. In fact all Poetry is Wonder. And yet there is something new in Yr Hafzn^ in Caneuon a Cherddi^ to find which we must apply some other touchstone. And we Challenge and Sanity 53 have not far to go in search of it. Watts Dunton in his further remarks uses an alternative phrase to this one of the Renas- cence of Wonder : it is this, The Attitude of Challenge. Here is the cause of our quarrel with the former phrase ; the latter is the opposite of The Attitude of Accep- tance. Therefore the two great impulses that sway man are not Acceptance and Wonder, but Acceptance and Challenge. Tr Haf2ind Caneuon a Cherddi are easily understood from this point of view. The New Poetry of Wales is the Poetry of Challenge. The word wonder has too wide a signifi- cance to be the name of an attitude, and for that same reason it is even more certainly precluded from being the watchword of a school of thought. It is not practical enough for criticism. Moreover, as we have pointed out, it hypnotizes and leads its protagonists into false conclusions and mysti- cism. Carlyle has strongly said that a Prophet is impossible in an age of science. 54 Challenge and Sanity So is a Magician. So is Wonder. But Glamour is not. Haeckel himself cannot deny me Glamour. Glamour is a very- sensible, possible thing. Glamour is as much a physical fact as a Rainbow. And it is nothing more. Let me realize this, and I shall not do myself wrong. Let me be able to express it, and still realize what it is, and I shall be a poet, but above all a Sane Poet. Give us Sanity in Poetry above all things. We do not think Kubla Khan nor the Demon Lover insane ; but we have a suspicion that there is something wrong with the Coming of Love. The poet has fallen in love with his marble statue, and made it live. It has kissed him, and he has forgotten himself. While, then, there is not much of this strict artificial Spirit of Wonder in Welsh Poetry, there is plenty of Glamour about it. When Eifion Wyn asks, Wyt lonawr yn oer A'th farug yn wyn, Challenge and Sanity 55 A pha beth a wnaeihost I ddwr y llyn ? he does not make the mistake of preaching the doctrine of the malignancy of Nature, he merely gives you the glamour that sur- rounds the conception that January was some Person that had done something strange to the surface of the pond. Mystics make dogmas out of what are merely imaginative consolations. Every poet in his senses only plays at make-believe. Take again the mystical idea of the Omnipotence of Love. It is too dogmatic to be poetical. If Poetry does preach the Omnipotence of Love, it does so only for its own selfish purpose. It is only a trick. In regard to Love, the function of Poetry is to express how great and divine a thing is love. One of the means of Poetry to express this is by saying it exists in all things and is supreme over all things. That is Poetry's way of explaining itself. In order to be vivid, it over-colours. The Poet in point of Fact is the biggest Liar in 56 Challenge and Sanity the world. The only ultimate thing you can say about Love is that it exists. And it is a very sane thing to sav about Love, that Love is very absurd. As Eifion Wyn shows his sanity on the question of Wonder, so Mr. W. J. GrufFudd shows his sanity on the question of Love : Os rheswm oer fyn fy neffro O freuddwyd fy ngwallgof ^txch, Os meddwl yn unig a wnaethum Fod purdeb yng nghalon fy march ; Gwell gennyf ^^/ afradlonedd Cariad, na rheswm y byd, Ac er fod fy mreuddwyd yn yfflon Dygyfor mat hiraeth o hyd. To say that love is mad is very sane ; to admit that imagination had idealised the maiden is very scientific ; to complain that Love is master is very human. And if you are sane, scientific, and human, are you then less of a Poet? Again, Awdl Tr Haf is constructed entirely on the theme of Love, To the poet in this poem Love is everything, but Challenge and Sanity 57 he does not lose his senses and preach the narrow-minded dogma of the Omnipotence of Love. He does not run in his ecstasy and leap on to a mountain side, and scrambl- ing to the top of it, hug the mountain peak, and cry, " O Mountain Peak, thou art Love." And yet he says : Ni chenfydd serch nefoedd sant. Which is a very sane remark to make. And Mr. GrufFudd is equally precise : 'Does Nefoedd nac Uffern Yn Eden ei hud. Llion in Tr iF/^ philosophises over Love in a very poetical and concrete manner. Because the treatment is imaginative and poetical there is Glamour about the poem ; and because there is a concrete exposition of the theme there is Sanity about the poem. And we do not see what there is needed to make Poetry save Glamour and Sanity. Rhyme creates Glamour, so does Rhythm, Sweetness of Verse,Vowel colour. Consonant melody, Imaginative Passion. The reason 58 Challenge and Sanity why the Poet is supreme over all artists is that he can create Glamour. If a Poet can produce for us the glamour of any occasion, then he can re-create for us the occasion of the glamour. A poet is really not writing poetry unless he is coining Glamour. To describe by catalogue a beautiful scene does not fashion the glamour of the scene. This end can be achieved only by what we have discussed in a previous essay as the Subjective Method of writing verse. One example from Tr Haf will suffice here. It is a description of rustling leaves. If we say the leaves on the trees were rustling, we do not produce the Glamour of the occasion, and therefore do not in truth re-create the occasion. But Llion does it in these lines : A mi'n gwrandaw mwyn gryndod Hyd y dail yn mynd a dod, A'r prennau ir y prynhawn Ym min cwsg mwyn ac ysgawn, A'r awel sorth, ar ol suo wrthyn^ Yn mynd a'u gadael am enyd gyna^^n. The sanity of the poem lies in its logic. Challenge and Sanity 59 The philosophy of the poet is elaborated on strict scientific grounds. Mysticism is deliberately rejected. Optimists, Theorists, Pessimists, Scholiasts come to him in turn with their consolations and their warnings, and he meets them all with a supreme, erect, unabashed Sanity. And the contri- bution to thought in the following couplet is not a rejection of spirituality but a lyrical and philosophic foundation of faith : Ba enaid wyr ben y daith ? Bid anwybod yn obaith. And the poet who is enough of a humourist to defend to the utmost his theory that Love is deathless, and who can afterwards bend to admit that even if Love does die, he is all the better . morally for the very experience of its loss, such a poet is too much of a man to become infatuated with the hypertrophied creations of his own imagination ; such a poet is too sane to be sentimental, too much of a humourist to be a mystic. When Poetry is seen to be of similar contour to 6o Challenge and Sanity Life, then that Poetry approaches the supreme. You cannot gainsay couplets of this dimension : Marw i fyw mae'r haf o hyd ; Gwell wyf o'i golli hefyd. It is the impulse of Challenge that begets Sanity. And Challenge is the keynote of the new poetry in Wales. There is the social challenge of New Wales ringing in the strong verse of Professor Morris Jones' Cymru Fu : Cymru Fydd : a challenge to Saxon and to Turn- coat, a cry that Young Wales is adopting in every valley, a cry, we pray to Heaven, that will grow louder and stronger day by day till the time come to give over challenging, till the time come to fight, and to win. Rhyw chwai eiriau rhy chwerwon ? Chwerw, fy mrawd, a chur fy mron. Hen fonedd a fu unwaith I'n gwlad gu, loywed eu gwaith ! Challenge and Sanity 6i I'w He daeth bonedd heddyw A'u goreu waith gware yw. It is a challenge to the Sycophants : Ai er gwobr, neu am ryw ged Yr wylodd Tudur Aled ? It is no vapid sentimentalising over G'Vflad y Menyg G'^ynion and Nefol Wlad y Gan, but a flinging of the glove to the Pharisee among the Cymry ; it is a plea for a cleaner Wales : Arglwyddi, yn wir, gwleddant Yn segur ar gur rhyw gant ; A beirdd sydd ofer gleriach Yn brefu am ryw wobr fach ; A gweision Ign, hyn sy'n waeth — Boddio am gydnabyddiaeth, Neu ymladd am hen waddol A'r wir efengyl ar ol. It is, too, the challenge of the folk, the gwerin, to its ignorant, pompous lords. It is time we had a Salm i Famon in cynghanedd. Our national poetry is overweighted with eulogy and base, ignoble flattery. It is 62 Challenge and Sanity stirring to hear the cry of the people, the cry of the heart of the people. It is tragic that the tongue says that which the heart knows not. Welsh bard and Welsh pea: ant have bowed down too long to the petty child of chance : Plygu'n llu, megis i'r llaid I'w addoli wna'i ddeiliaid. Ei air ef yvv eu crefydd A'i ffafr yw sylfaen eu ffydd. There is a hint of this folk revolt in Mr. W, J. GrufFudd, where he sings of ^r Hen Chfparehr : Chwyddodd gyfoeth gwr yr aur a'r faenol O'i enillion prin a'i amal gur. And Mr. Gwynn Jones has the contempt that breedeth challenge : Ond er ei uched pan lasweno'n gas, Mae chwerwder ysbryd yn ei ragrith bas ; Os nad yw heddyw'n dlotyn ar y plwy, Y mae er hynny'n dlotyn yn y plas. Challenge and Sanity 63 But in the new Welsh poetry there is a greater revolt, a vaster challenge than this. This is a revolt to which one can find the key in the national history. But the vaster revolt is in a way un- national, and if not un -natural at least sudden. The former challenge was the revolt of the body against a historical necessity. This is a revolt of the intellect against what it considers super- stitious conventions, fit only for a dark age. The three poems that signify this intellec- tual revolt are, in the order of their appear- ance, Ar yr Jl/t, 1896 ; Penillion Omar Khayyam^ igoy ; and J^r Haf, 191 1. These three poems typify what we have called the Coming of Sanity, in respect to the attitude towards spiritual faith. And when we use the word Sanity to characterise this attitude, we do not wish to be mis- understood. We do not assert that Sanity is Truth. A thing, an attitude, may be sane, but it does not logically follow that it is ultimately true. Hence, when we say that the criticism of life in these three poems 64 Challenge and Sanity is a sane one, we do not claim infallibility for that criticism. This new poetry attempts to come into intimate touch with things. It is no mere trifling with Daffodils and My Lady of Pain. It is an attempt to satisfy the spirit's yearning for spirituality. It is an expression of contempt for compromise, and for the lazy lagging of the dull world. It is an appeal for Individuality. It asks of the Puritan, what the Puritan asked of the Catholic. It is the cry for a New Reforma- tion. The Puritan said of old : Give me leave to make religion my own matter. The poet of Ar yr Allt says to the Puritan of to-day : Give me leave to make religion my own matter : Gwrandewais eiriau dyfnion Koheleth, A dysgais ganddo waced yw pob path ; Un peth sydd dda — gwna Nefoedd it dy Hun, A chyrcha ati weithian yn ddi-feth ! That the poet should choose this for his Heaven is a matter for himself; Challenge and Sanity 65 A beth OS yw fy Nefoedd oreu i Yn gorwedd yn dy Fynwes stormus di ? Mi gyrchaf ati pe bai Daer a Nef Yn cynnyg imi'n hytrach Werth eu Bri. And this is just the mood of Omar : Chwiliais, tu hwnt i'r wybren bellaf un Am Bin a Llech, Nef, Uffern, cyn creu dyn ; F'Athro a'm dysgodd i — "Mae'rPin a'r Llech " A Nef ac Uffern ynot ti dy hun." And again : Na dderbyn dithau mo'u credoau crin, Ond dyro damaid i'r anghenog blin ; Absen na wna, ac na niweidia neb, Mi wrantaf iti Nefoedd. — Dwg im win. And better still : Mewn synagog ac ysgol, Han a thref, Arswydant Uffern a deisyfant Nef; Ond nid yw'r neb a \Vyr gyfrinach Duw Yn hau'r fath efrau yn ei galon ef. And the ultimate : O ddeuddeg ffydd a thrigain eiu byd ni, Dy gariad, Ion, yw f'unig grefydd i ; 66 Challenge and Sanity Anghred a chred, ufuddd-od, bai, beth ^nt ? Gwagedd. Ac nid oes sylwedd ond Tydi. A'^dl Tr Haf is full of Challenge. But it is not the challenge of Despair ; it is not dull, deadening, oppressive. Ar yr Allt is the challenge of a man who has spent half his summers seeking Truth, and who is determined to give up the search for the remainder of his life : Ni chrwydraf mwyach dros y ddyfnllais Don, Choleddaf yr un Breuddwyd dan fy Mron. Mae Heddyw'n siwr a Chariad Heddyw'n llawn, Anweswn Serch, fy Ngwen, a byddwn Ion. The Rubaiyat (according to Fitzgerald) is the challenge of an old man who has spent his days, and laughs at them all : And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press, End in the Nothing all Things end in — Yes — Then fancy while thou art, thou art but what Thou shalt be — Nothing — Thou shalt not be less. There is something sinister ^bput tjhes^ Challenge and Sanity 67 two philosophies. Life is something very heavy. They are the voices of men who have attempted and failed. There is an ugly hint of disappointment in the notes. But A-^dlYr Haf is young and conquering. Omar and the poet of Jr yr Allt are disgusted with Yesterday, and To-morrow does not exist for them. But the Summer poet thinks Yesterday as wonderful as To-day ; and a Yesterday really lived is worth the living of To-day : Hyd wyneb y ddaear a hi'n y blodyn Cenais, Duw a i^yr, canys aderyn A fum yn pyncio f'emyn, ag erioed Ni chant yn y coed, na chynt nac wedyn 'R un dryvv bach mor iach a rhydd, A thlawd fa'i cathl ehedydd Wrth ddyfnder y mwynder mau, Ddedwydded oedd y dyddiau. This poet does not make the Passing of To-day a matter of Regret nor of Ironic Laughter. His is a wonderful Hope : it can look back as well as forward. Because To-dav has falsified Yestqrdav's Hope, that 68 Challenge and Sanity does not nullify or strangle Yesterday's Hope. Hope is not a dream child to him. Hope is a spiritual force ; it has the strength of eternity behind it : Od aeth fy Medi eithaf Gyda'i rug a'i adar haf, A dyfod cri y dufedd Am ei ysbail dail dihedd A meirwon, ba waeth ? Mae'r hen obeithion Yn rhedeg eilwaith drwy waed y galon. O choUwyd hen freuddwydion, nid marw chwaith O theimlais unwaith eu melus swynion. That is our poet's view of Yesterday : sane, magical, inspiring, uplifting. Very sane and healthy and scientific and wise is his view of To-day. His philosophy of Hope is very exact : Hope and Joy are not peers ; they cannot live in the same air. Joy puts out the light of Hope. He says : Of little worth do I consider my summer, if I hope mthal^ — Beth yw fy haf, o gobeithiwyf hefyd ? Challenge and Sanity 69 It is enough for Joy and Summer to kno'^ that there is an Angel of Hope : Myfi ym Mai fy mywyd Ganaf y Mai, gwyn fy myd. Ag i f'anwylyd gwelaf fy nhalaith Violed a rhos yn fil dyryswaith. Anwesaf hud ; mae'r nos faith yn dyfod, A digon yw gwybod — gwyn yw gobaitli. And the poet to whom Yesterday and To-day are so sublime must have a great conception of To-morrow. — No, not of necessity. Yesterday was sublime because he actually experienced it. To-day is sweet because he can actually taste it. He cannot experience nor taste To-morrow. Mystics, Optimists, Dreamers, Frenzied Puritans, think they can. Our poet is sane, and wise. "To-morrow !" he meditates," To-morrow ! all I know about To-morrow is that I do not know it." And, therefore, his Joy finishes with To-day. For Joy is not a dream but a Fact. And To-morrow has no Facts. And then his superb philosophy justifies itself: To-day I have Joy, there- 70 Challenge and Sanity fore I am not in need of Hope. I have no Joy for To-morrow, therefore I can Hope with all my soul ; and my Hope for To-morrow is my Ignorance of To-morrow. Thus he gives his new Spiritual Gospel of Reason to the world : Ba enaid ^yr ben y daith sy'n dyfod? Boed ei anwybod i'r byd yn obaith ! This teaching does not reject Faith and Hope. Rather it has a fine spiritual and moral effect, even if it has no spiritual purpose. It does not reject Puritan- ism ; it rejects some of the props of Puritanism. It does not accept. Epicurean- ism as a creed ; it accepts part of it as a necessity. It is a gospel that satisfies the senses and the soul. The Hermit first, and the Puritan afterwards ignored the senses. The Epicurean first, and every man of the world since, has tried to ignore the soul. To admit that neither can be ignored is the only sane criticism. To build up a creed to meet it, as Llion has done, is Sanity in Challenge and Sanity 71 Poetry. Let him not be misunderstood. He has not said the last word on the subject even to himself. A'^dl yr Haf is only one half of the argument. It is a plea for the spiritual function of the senses. Shall we hope for the creed complete from him ? — for the plea for the wordly function of the soul ? Are the great spiritual traditions of Cymru to be totally ignored by the New Poets of our nation ? We think not. This attitude of Challenge and Sanity is not finaU It is not a rejection of the spirituality of our fathers. It is only a tuning up of the national chords to enable them to capture and express the new harmonies of the new heart of the new Cymru. — Eitha OS du yw, na thristawn, Mewn da bryd, cyfyd cyfiawn I'th arwain o gaeth oror I rydd wasanaeth yr lor ; Dwyn o aflan wasanaeth Gau Famon feibion dy faeth : E dyr gwawr, wlad ragorwen, Nac wyla, O Walia Wen. 72 Challenge and Sanity Thus sings the poet of Cymru Fu : Cymru Fydd, And with him we appeal to our compatriots to deal kindly with these new poets, for we can vouch for it by all that is dear to us that they love Wales more than all the poets that have ever sung to her. If their songs are new, their hearts too are on fire : Ac k newydd ganeuon, A thanbaid enaid y don'. Spectacles Wales has many a critic, but no Criticism. Criticism means above all things, a Point of View. And this must not be merely a personal one ; it must be logical, reasonable, and scientific. Welsh criticism is too often merely personal prejudice. It has no plan, no principles. When a new poet, such as Mr. Gwynn Jones, publishes a volume of verse, outcome the critics in swarms to buzz around him ; buzzing the more, the less they understand. They come, saying : We do not know very much about the poetry of England and Greece and Rome, but we do know Robin Ddu Eryri and Twm oV Nant, and we have read Grammadeg Bardd Nantglyn ; therefore we ought to be able to tell what sort of a poet Mr. Gwynn Jones is. 73 74 Spectacles It is really fatuous to attempt criticism with such meagre equipment ; and it is sheer insolence on the part of such palpably- untrained men to attempt to review the new poetry of Wales as they do, through the most antiquated and befogged spectacles imaginable. The fault lies not so much with their sight as with the literary spectacles they affect. A critic must have spectacles. The poet is the only being who can see into the heart of things by virtue of his sight alone. If Macaulay himself came to study Welsh poetry, he would never under- stand it, if he had on only the Nantglyn spectacles. There has never been a high standard of poetry in Wales ; that is, no universal plat- form from which all the poets sing. There have been some single platforms, it is true. Dafydd ap Gwilym had his own little rostrum, though that was not entirely of his own building : it was a plank of the large European Troubadour stage of his own SPECtACLES 75 day. Ceiriog had his larger plank ; but it was his own ; no one else shared it (unless it be Ceiriog's fault that we have so many- loose versifiers nowadays). Then, Islwyn thundered from his loosely built pulpit, and that very eiFectually at times. True, these poets had their individual standards, and excellent ones they were. But they were not universal, not orderly, and not generally recognised. To-day, the New Poets of Wales are working with one accord in the same habi- tation. In the literatures of Germany, England, and France, the governing spirit is that of Romance, and Romance is the soul of the new poetry in Wales. The Hall of Romance is built on four pillars : Inspiration ; Truth ; Passion j Style. And on each pillar is graven : Seek Inspiration in the Past, Seek Truth in the Present. Seek Passion in the Heart, Seek Expression in Perfect Technique 76 Spectacles That is the Palace of Poetry that is being built throughout Europe this very day. And the Welsh hall of song must be put up on that plan. The New Poets of Wales are unanimous upon the scheme. That is the scheme of the poets. And that must be the outlook of the critic. For we, poor critics, after all, are only envious on-lookers. But the more anxious we are to 'ponder at it all, the more certain are we to understand it. And the more eager we are to scoffs and to cry " Rubbish," the less and less shall we see, and the less shall we understand. The poets are at it already building the hall ; let us, therefore, ask them to show us the plans. Let us scofF afterwards at our peril. The critic must take his cue from the poet, for the poet is greater than the critic. He must not attempt to understand the new poets until he has learnt to understand what the new poets are trying to do. It is impossible to understand the Awdl G'^lad y Bryniau merely by reading Twm o'r Nant and Bardd Nantglyn, The key to G'^lad Spectacles 77 j; Bryniau is to be found in Wordsworth, and Coleridge, and Rossetti, and Matthew Arnold, and Theodore Watts Dunton. We will take one example of the spectacle-less critic. This burden is always recurring in his numbers : Why bother about style ? Is not the Soul of Song the all in all ? An angel is an angel even in rags, and a scarecrow is no other even in silk ! They say : " Gwell gennym weled angel mewn braiiau na bwgan brain mewn pali." They mean that technique is of little conse- quence in Literature. But this sentence begs the whole question. For there has not been seen since the world began, nor will there ever be seen to the end of time such a sight as an ^^ angel me'Vpn bratiau " or a " b'^gan brain me-^n pali '* in Literature. What is Literature ? Conversation, Small Talk, Penny Novelettes, Newspaper Corres- pondence, and Amateur Critiques have seen many an angel in rags and many a scarecrow 78 Spectacles in silk, but Literature never has. Literature is not Conversation, Small Talk, Penny- Novelettes, Correspondence, and Amateur Criticism. Literature contains nothing but Angels in Silk. And you must have the Angel and the Silk, the Soul and the Body, the Thought and the Expression in all Prose, in all Poetry ; or else it is not Prose, but Talk ; not Poetry, but Rigmarole. Has a Painter ever painted a picture full of life, with his lines wrong, or his shadows haphazard ? Has a Sculptor carved a Venus full of love, with the figure curves out of shape ? Can a Poet write a poem full of love and life, with the words ill-chosen, and the grammar incorrect, the rhyme discordant, and the rhythm unpremeditated ? If so, then indeed we are all Painters, Sculptors, Poets, Verse Making We cannot get a better general text for a discussion of versification as an art than this sentence of Leigh Hunt : " Every fine poet is an excellent versi- fier; and he is the best poet whose verse exhibits the greatest amount of Strength, Sweetness, Straightforwardness, Un- superfluousness, Variety, and Oneness." And we shall apply these principles, in a running comment, to our own poets* verses. The verse of a good poet must be strong, sweet, natural, direct, various, and uniform. The verse must be strong. Strength shows itself in the number and force of the marked syllables. This strength must be premeditated ; must be brain- worked and not machined. 79 8o Verse Making Let us examine three selections side by side : Y fun iraidd fwjrn, cly^ ganii clau g^yn, Dy harddwch dy hj^n, Ian Fenws, Ion fun. Huw Morns. The poet seems to treat the maiden in his verse as if she were put into a barrel and rolled down a rocky hill-side. The stress is thoughtless, overdone, and therefore fatal to good poetry. Aros m^e*r mynj^ddau mawr Rhtio drbstynt m^e y gw>^nt. Ceiriog. This Stress is in no way premeditated : it is mere machine progress ; it adds nothing to the meaning of the words ; it leaves no impression but that of monotony upon the reader's mind. This mere machine-made stress of regular accented syllable followed by unaccented is, therefore, not a strength, but a source of ultimate weakness. For notice that the line Eto tj^fa'r lljrgad dydd Verse Making 8i gets exactly the same thoughtless weight upon it as Arcs mae'r mynj^ddau m^wr. And yet what a world of difference between the dynamic frailty of the one and the static hugeness of the other. Cryf oedd swn ei gryman yn yr eithin, Union ar y dalar oedd ei gwys, Yn gj^nnar ar y mynydd oedd ei fedel, Yn hwj^r ar ben ei ra^ y rhoddai'i bw}'s. W.J. Gruffydd. One feels at once in the above the happy compromise between the heavy frequent blows of Huw Morus and the enervating recurrence of the stress in Ceiriog. And in particular it is to be noted how the stress comes always upon the important words in the sentences. The last four lines should be read aloud in order that the sweets of real versification, such as the variety of stress, and the happy marriage of accent and sense should be enjoyed, 82 Verse Making Verse must be sweet. And the sweet- ness of verse depends upon the Melody of its consonants and the Harmony of its vowels. Consonantal Melody in verse means the selection of words whose chief consonants when listened to in their sequence give the ear the satisfaction of music, and give the spirit the satisfaction of appropriateness. Here is verse by Mynyddog that lacks melody in its consonants, and is particularly inappropriate to express the sweetness an Evensong demands : H'Vyrgan, Yr hwyrnos brudd sy'n ocheneididn wanllyd Wrth roi ei phen i lawr mewn melus hun, Mae'r bryniau oil mewn dwyfol orchudd tanllyd Yn moli Duw am wylio dyn. Ceiriog at his best had a fine ear for the Melody of Consonants ; and his power con- sisted in the appropriate selection of con- sonants with due regard to the sense, Verse Making 83 coupled with their tender repetition in an ingenuous free cynghanedd : A ddowch chwi' rwyfo ar yr afon^ A ddowch chwi' ganu yno'n gor ? I wel'd hynawsed ydyw'r noson^ A mwyned murmur tonnau'r mdr. A gawn mfyned ar y Fenai^ heno, I Ynys Mona rhwyfwn gydcCr don : O dowch i ganu, dow^ch i nofio, Dowch i rwyfo gyda'r don : Mae croeso anwyl ini yno^ O mwyfi yw myned tua Mon. Besides Melody of Consonants, Sweetness in verse is made up of Harmony in Vowels. Or to vary the figure, carefully chosen consonants give Melody to verse ; carefully chosen vowels give it Colour. The primary rule of Vowel Colour is that the Colours must not clash. Artists will tell you it is very bad art to put together two colours that belong to the same species ; and even a schoolgirl would not wear a pink blouse with a purple skirt ; and yet our poets (who claim to be artists in words) are continually 84 Verse Making clashing their vowel colours. It is with their Rhymes that they err most in this respect. Two tints of pink can never be the same pink, and yet two tints of one vowel sound will serve as a rhyme for our careless poets. The result is a most awful clash of sound. Islwyn has them on every page: Fel dor blygedig egyr ef i ti A'r enaid rodia i ryw wynfa/«. Elfed teems with them : Mae'r tywyll goed Yn ysgafn^aw ; Arnynt fe roed Addewid Mai : 'Does neb ond Duw yr haul Yn cofio'r coed di ddail. In the above there is a treble discord : ysgafnhau clashes with Mai instead of rhyming with it ; haul clashes with ddail instead of rhyming with it ; and the first attempt at rhyme ysgafnhau — Mai clashes with the second attempt haul — daily because the sound effect is siniilar and it ought tq Verse Making 85 be dissimilar. But the Vowel Colour that makes for sweetness in verse is not a question of Rhyme alone : it is a matter of the whole sequence of vowel sounds in the lines ; and two general rules for the purpose may be expressed thus : there must be a Contrast of Sound, and Gradation of Sound. Eiiion Wyn has many fine examples of simple harmony of sound by contrast, and the following verse contains, with the exception of one clash, a beautiful scheme of vowel- colour : Wyt lonawr yn oer A'th farrug yn wyn ; A sigli yr adar O frig yr ynn ; Ni cheir ar y coed Griafol fel bu— Mae'r frongoch a'r fwyalch O df i d^ The clash comes in the third and fourth lines : A sigli yr adar O frig yr ynn, — 86 Verse Making There is not quite enough of a contrast between the vowel sound in stgli — -/rig — ynn. Luxury of sound is as fatal to sweetness as discord is. Here is a debauch of colour in Islwyn : Nid oes chwyth O naws gauafol fyth yn disgyn ar Amfrwysol bethau ei ramantol awr Afreision godent mewn un nos ar hyd Fell arwynfaoedd ei freuddwydion ef. But Islwyn has many good examples of the Sweetness that consists of Consonant Melody, Contrast, and Gradation of Vowel: Hudoles ber o gylch yr aber Ion A'th galon gyda'r daran bell a'r mor ! The sweetness here is unmistakable, and is made up of the recurring soft consonants, the ^s and b\ and g\ and /'s and r's ; and the e and o colours in vowel : When poets begin preaching they lose their Sweetness, as Ceiriog did here : 'Does dim ond eisieu dechreu, Mae dechreu'n haner gwaith, Verse Making Sj I ddysgu pob gwybodau A deall unrhyw iaith. Nac ofnwch anhawsderau 'Does un gelfyddyd dan y rhod Nad all y meddwl diwyd ddod I'w deall wedi dechreu. But when he keeps to his singing, the Melody and Chords of it Cwyd, cwyd, ehedydd, cwyd, O le i le ar aden Iwyd^ Yn uwch, yn uwch o hyd : Can, cdn dy ddernyn cu, A dos yn nes at lawen lu Adawodd boen y byd, — Canu mae, a'r byd a glyw Ei alaw Ion o uchel le : Cyfyd hiraeth dynol ryw Ar ei ol i froydd n^: Yn nes at Ddydd, yn nes at Dduw, Ifynyfelefe, Very little sweetness is discoverable in the verse printed in our periodicals and Colofnau y Beirdd now-a-days ; and it was with intense amusement that we heard that the SS Verse Making following Sonnet, superb in this Sweetness, was rejected by the Genhinen : Gwna'n llawen, RuiTydd, yn dy hafan swyn. Rhy brin yw'r byd o hoywder bron y bardd, Rhy brin o hyd o loywder wybren hardd I fedru hepgor glesni nef a llwyn Yn nydd eu hoywder. Yno er dy fwyn Mae gallt a gwig a chlogwyn gwyllt a gardd Yn dwyn eu cynnwys teg, can's yno tardd Ym mi a aberoedd gwiw, mewn bro ddigwyn, Lliwiau yr Eden goll ar dan i gyd Gan serch pob serch. Gwna'n llawen, fardd, dy fun. Llawn, llawn o'r gwin yw llais y gain ei llun, A'i meddal drem o hedd pob meddwl drud. O, dwfn o hyd yw hoen dy hafan di, Lie huna gardd a llwyn ger hedd y Hi. Llion. While sweetness in verse is essential, smoothness of verse is a vice. It is smooth- ness really that makes second-rate verse unreadable. Smoothness in the end makes all poetry unreadable. No good poetry is ever like an imperceptibly flowing river. Verse Making 89 The sea on a calm summer's noon is not poetry. Poetry is the sea in storm, or, more generally, the sea with ripples and a swell, no ripple like another, and no wave exactly like its peers. Good poetry is the brook ever going on, ever keeping its own course, true to its own song, but with never a note exactly similar, with never an eddy the very same. For good verse should be ultrasensitive to the thought it bears, just as the brook is sensitive to the course it covers : gurgling under a stone, spurting over a jagged flint, smooth on the gravel, eddying in the willows, glistening on the pebbles, grave only under the lush grass in the shadows. This trend has already led us to the other important requisite of verse, Variety. In Islwyn's Pryddest to Cymru we find abundant examples of monotonous verse, monotonous in its very smoothness, in its superfluity of mellifluous words, lacking variety in the cadence of what ultimately becomes its oppressive rhythm ; 90 Verse Making Hoff Ddyffryn Clwyd yng nghofion yr ym- deithydd A gwyd fel delwedd o brydferthwch llonydd. Teilynga y flaenoriaeth am lonyddwch, Ei olygfeydd a'i baradwysaidd heddwch. Llifeiriol lawnder donna dros ei dolydd, Mor aur cynhaeaf yma sy ysplenydd. Moreover it is not poetry, but prose ; and poor prose at that, because it says nothing. In Elfed's well-known Pryddest to Lly welyn ein Llyw Olaf we find a much more vigorous and live metre : Tirion yw haf ar goed ym mis Mehefin A blodau ar fin afonydd segur yn chwerthin. Tirion yw glas y don, a mwynder ehedydd, A chariad cyntaf merch, a diddanwch y prydydd. Wc certainly find variety in Elfed's versifi- cation, but it tends to be as inefficacious as Islwyn's smoothness. Verse demands variety, not for the sake of variety, but because of the sentiment. Even in a single lyric the sentiment cannot be the same in every line, although the whole lyric be Verse Making 91 overshadowed by the same thought ; and as the sentiment changes, so should the versification change to correspond with it. The unknown author of" Y Fwyalchen yn Llatai'* did not consciously introduce variety into his verse ; he allowed the senti- ment to do what it liked with his numbers, and thus he wrote what he wanted to say in exactly the natural manner he muld speak it: O gwrando y beraidd Fwyalchen ! Cl^w edn mibyft^ shrchhs^^ liib dil. (That is the way to coax). A ai di yn gtnnad heb oedi At ferch fum i'n garu mor gu ? And then with exquisite ingenuousness he forgets all about his blackbird and addresses " T geinhys ei g'^edd''^ in the manner of life, in verse accented, not according to stereo- typed and formal rule, but stressed by the very passion of his heart : Mae'n dda mod i'n galed fy nghalon, Lliih blbdh drain gwyntbn yr allt. 92 Verse Making Mae'n dda mod i'n j^sgafn fy meddwl, LlkVr banddl mel}n ei wallt ! Was there ever more loveable scorn in the world ? The variety in Llywelyn ein Llyw Olaf is premeditated and unchangeable, so that the sound will never help you to under- stand the sense : Tiriou fin hwyr yw arogl y gwair yn yr ydlan, A ch^n mwyalchen ddifyr yng nghoed y berllan, Ond ym Mehefin mae porth y fynwent yn ddadglo, A bedd yn agor, a rhywrai gerllaw yn wylo. The last two lines arouse no deeper feeling than do the first two, simply because there is a sameness about their very variety. And again : Ynddi dysgasom garu yr enw Rhyfeddol, A chanu i'r lesu yn ymyl yr Afon Lifeiriol, Ynddi gweddiwn " Ein Tad yr hwn wyt yn y Nefoedd, I'r Enw y byddo'r gogoniant fry yn oes oesoedd," Verse Making 93 Er mwyn ein gwlad dioddefwn, a chenedl y Brython, Dros ryddid a hedd, drwy undeb a chalon wrth galon. The thought of the first four lines is a gentle and sweet reminiscence ; the last two lines seem to be meant for a warrior's exhortation. Never was an exhortation so fruitless. It murmurs in the quiet tones of memory. It has no strength, no muscle of verse. Versification is as important to the poet as his imaginative faculty. All the great poets are conscious of this, and all the best critics preach it. Shelley says about Metre : It is a certain uniform and harmonious recurrence of sound, '^hich is scarcely less indispensable to the communication of the influence of poetry than the 'Words them- selves. And another inspired critic has said of lyric poetry : It must combine exquisite polish of diction with perfect simplicity. 94 Verse Making To say that a poem is good because it is perfectly simple is the weakest of all criti- cism. And yet it is what we hear oftenest on reading our ordinary lyric writers. The only simplicity in verse that is of any value is the simplicity achieved in spite of an exquisite polish of diction : when a poet, after the most elaborate and painstaking labour in the choice of his words creates a poem that is still simple, then he has conquered. To make simple verse without labour and without polish is to land every bard in the immediate vicinity of the Cockle Poet. There are two primary canons with regard to metre : (a) The metre must be chosen to suit the sense ; the rhythm must be so apt as to form in itself part of the very sentiment of the poem. It should be a child of the fire, as Emerson would say. (b) The rhythm must not be too uniforn) ; it must exhibit the ^ualitjr Verse Making 95 of Variety in Uniformity : the quality that the brook shows, ever varying its flow in its clearly defined course. The verse of Eifion Wyn and Mr. W. J. Gruffydd is wrought according to these rigorous rules. In G'^en y Mav^ note how Eifion Wyn shows the depth of his grief by this gentlest tread of measure : I'r ystafell aem yn ddistaw, Un ac un, Heb ddywedyd dim i dorri Ar ei hun. Wylai'r ieuainc gan y dwyster, Wylai'r hen ; Ar wynebpryd un yn unig Yr oedd gwen. Fyrred, ac mor ddiflanedig Gwen y byw ; Gwen yr arch — gwen olaf, hwyaf Bywyd yw. This is metre that is part of the very idea of the poem itself. 96 Verse Making Then note how he changes into the longer and more swinging periods when the passion is of the kind that demands its fullest expression ; when there is reproach and complaint as well as grief in the heart : Pe bai gennyt serch at dy fardd, fy Menna, Ti ddaethet fel cynt Rhwng llwyni y brwyn a gwymon Gorffena', A'th wallt yn y gwynt ; Mae celyn y mor yn holi am dahat, Pan elwyf fy hun ; A pheth a ddywedaf am nad wyt yn dyfod, Fy mun, fy mun ? Air. W. J. GrufFydd's versification is more sophisticated than thatof Eifion Wyn, and as it is never unnatural, has even a greater power. There is one metre that Mr. Gruffydd has made his own, and he handles it so deftly that one never gets tired of it ; indeed, at its very sound, the heart of the reader leaps to its irresistible call. It is the metre the poet uses when he is in the " hwyl ;" it is the messenger of his dreams of rose ; Verse Making 97 Breuddwydiem am grwydro heolydd Dinasoedd pellennig y wawr, A thithau, 'r un fach, fyddai 'nghariad, Fy nghariad pan fyddem yn fawr. It is the bearer of his grim dead : Fel troediad di-swn y tymhorau Wrth basio dros feusydd a gallt, Dihidliad digymar drysorau Awelon sy'n felus a hallt ; Fel breuddwyd anghyffwrdd cariadau Aeth heibio yr hen, ac nid oes O atgof y marw deimladau Ond gofid a loes. Mr. GrufFydd betrays his exquisite poetic culture when he turns from what we may call poetic rhetoric, — the " hwyl," — to poetic narrative. An orator in the narrative part of his speech uses very different inflex- ion of voice and rhythm from those he uses in the peroration ; for to do otherwise is unnatural and typical of mediocrity. And a true poet does the same with his verse. Mr. GrufFydd is going to tell the story of Hen Lane Ty'n y Mynydd ; and to gS Verse Making tell it effectively he must use not the strongly- stressed rhythm of passion, burning to go on, but the less clearly defined, matter of fact, impersonal rhythm, suitable to an intellectual attitude : Cryf oedd swn ei gryman yn yr eithin, Union ar y d^lar oedd ei g^ys, Cj^nnar ar y mj^nydd oedd ei fedel, Yn h^yr ar ben ei raw y rhoddai'i bA^ys. Finally, there is in Caneuon a Cherddi one classic example of the use and the value of the principle of Variety in Uniformity so indispensable to a lyric poet. It is found in the forty-second lyric, Hen Ystori : Ble mae'r llwyni'n las o hyd, Ac atgof serch ar eu dail i gyd ? Ar lannau y Penllyn mae'r helyg yn lion, A phlyga'r gwiail dros ael y don. Ble mae'r bachgen fu yma gynt A'i gan yn nofio hyd Iwybrau'r gwynt ? Mae'n crwydro'r byd gydag estron wraig A'i galon ffals yn oer fel y graig. Ble mae'r eneth fu yma gynt, A'i gwallt yn eurwe ar adain gwynt ? Verse Making 99 Brysia at fynwent eglwys Min Llyn, Cei weled colofn o farmer gwyn. This is an old story told in a very fresh and alluring way. It is very simple and direct; but it is a simplicity and directness achieved by conscious deliberate art. Any pot- boiling bard can tell a thing simply and directly ; that is not a virtue in itself ; it can be done at the expense of freshness and originality ; and it is successful only when it seems to be enveloped in an atmosphere that gives a taste of the pleasure of the high rare air of the mountain. There is this atmosphere about Hen Tstori ; and the secret of it lies wholly in its versification : the poem is constructed on the principle of Variety in Uniformity. First, note the variety in the verse : Ble mae'r llwyni'n las o hyd, (7 syllables) ■ Ac atgof serch ar eu dail i gyd ? (9) Ar lannau y Penllyn mae'r helyg yn llon,(i i) A phlyga'r gwiail dros ael y don. (9) What a marked difference between the 100 Verse Making first and the third lines ! And there surely can be no Uniformity in such a conglomer- ate verse ! There is, however, a beautiful symmetry about it, which is much more obvious to the ear than to the eve. In fact a great principle of metre is here involved : Should metre be measured by Space or Time ? And the answer is that Metre is too often measured by Space instead of by Time, Measure the above stanza by Space, by Feet, and you get very irregular measure : 7 -9- 1 1 -9. But measure it by TVw^, and the stanza assumes a beautiful symmetry : The Time is Four Beats to the line, Ble mae'r | llwyni'n | las | o hyd, Ac atgof I serch ar eu | dail | i gyd ? Arlannau | yPenllyn | mae'r helyg ! ynllon, A phlyga'r | gwiail | dros ael | y don. The third line takes exactly the same length of time in the reading as the first line. Thus we get the Uniformity that is neces- sary in all Art, otherwise Form is lost. The actual rhythm of line three (3 notes to Verse •Ma'k,iJ^Qi '• '!,; -i^'^i the bar) is quicker than that of line one (2 notes to the bar), though the bars are of equal length ; this is because the sentiment of line 3 is different from the sentiment of line 1 ; and this is the secret of the Power of Verse j it is only by delicate changes of this sort that Poetry can achieve that which it is meant to achieve. The last stanza of this poem is interest- ing in the same way : Ble mae'r eneth fu yma gynt, A'i gwallt yn euiwe ar adain gwynt ? Brysia at fynwent Eglwys Min Llyn, Cei weled colofn o farmor gwyn. Without sacrificing any of its unity of form, this stanza presents a variety in its form that lifts it immediately into a rare world. Unity of form is maintained by the Time Beat : the metre is four beats to the line, which makes lines i and 3 equal in Time though not in Space. The last two lines are delicately wrought : the last has a simplicity and directness that is worthy of id^ V^RJ^E Making good prose. (Where the poet can be simple and picturesque and direct like a prose writer, without losing the melody of verse, there the poet always excels.) Line three is full of awe : not simply because of the word myrfwenty nor because of the word brysia^ but also because there is a distinct pause in the line after the word myrv^ent. There is here a silent half beat which like the pauses in music are full of suggestion. This pause is made up for by the short syllables that come in succession in this line: .... fynwent Eglwys Min .... A These three words form two beats, the first beat consisting of two syllables and a pause. This pause is premeditated and helps to produce the effect at which the sense of the words aims. The full value of this line is seen on comparing it with line three in the first stanza : Ar lannau y Penllyn mae'r helyg yn lion . . Brysia at fynwent eglwys Min Llyn . . . A The first line skips along, The second Verse Making 103 halts. And both are true to the scheme of the poem. The English master of this Variety in Uniformity is Coleridge. The metrical scheme of Christabel is well known in this respect : the metre is time metre, and not syllabic. And this appears to be the only method by which poets can ever hope to reproduce the Rhythm of Nature into their songs. Rhythm should not be the servant of Art. Rhythm should depend upon the Nature of the theme. And as the theme of a poem changes in each line of a poem, so should the rhythm also change. But, because Poetry is an Art, Art must not be sacrificed even to Nature. And the first principle of Art is not Variety but Unity, All works of art must be Uniform pri- marily. They must be variable, afterwards, because Unity, unless controlled, becomes Dullness. And the function of Art is to arouse, not to stupify. Therefore Poetry without Unity of Form is not Art. And Poetry without Variety of Expression is not 104 Verse Making natural. Thus the principle of Variety in Uniformity is a sound one, because it is artistic and natural. Give me Christabel to read, and I forget that I am reading Poetry. Poetry becomes something that moves with the wind, and hangs on the branches like rain, and gleams and dusks like poplar leaves or the smile of a girl : The night is chill ; the forest bare ; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? There is not wind enough in the air (9) To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady's cheek, (7) There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan. That dances as often as dance it can (10) Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. That verse should be straightforward and unsuperfluous does not require comment at any great length. Coleridge has com- plairred that you can hear Wordsworth's Verse Making 105 speaking voice too often in some of his verses. Poetry is something always above conversa- tion, above w^hat is usually heard even in the best talk. The language of Poetry is always something very proud, and chaste, and patrician — aristocratic even in its com- monplaces. The language of poetry must be new. The language of conversation is never new. In talk we use the old set phrases over and over again. Our vocabu- lary is very limited. The phrases of poetry must be new ; the vocabulary must be large ; and yet newness of phrase is more important than extent of vocabulary. A poet is a poet without new words, big words, strange words. But he is not a poet without some newness of phrase, some bigness of phrase, some strangeness of phrase : The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free ; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Here are no new words, no big words, no io6 Verse Making strange words. But the new phrase : the '^hitefoamjie'^; and the strange phrase : the furro"^ followed free ; and the big phrase : to burst into the silent sea. The speaking voice is impossible in Poetry. We have too much of it in Welsh Poetry; particularly in modern verse. There was one virtue about the old Cynghanedd- wyr of Wales. If they were not good poets, they were at least good versifiers. The majority of the verse writers of to-day are neither poets nor versifiers. And if you are not a good poet, try at least to be a good versifier. Coleridge warns us to avoid the speaking voice in poetry. But Maurice de Guerin writes to his sister Eugenie : " Your verse is too sing-song ; you do not talk enough." There is really no incompatibility between these two injunctions. There is a funda- mental difference in the strict connotation of To Speak and To Talk. "To speak" is a physical office ; " to talk " is a mental Verse Making 107 function. Coleridge says : " Your verse is too much like prose and common speech, it has not enough music in it." De Guerin says : " Your verse is too much like music, it has not enough directness and intimacy in it ; you do not talk enough." Thus vfc arrive at Watts Dunton's canon : That Poetry is a form of expression that stands midway betw^een Prose and Music. Poetry can and must perform some of the offices of Prose and Music. Music appeals to the mystic sense in man ; Prose to the intellec- tual sense. Poetry appeals to both. There- fore Poetry must be musical, but not too musical^ otherwise it becomes music. And Poetry must be sane and direct, but not too matter-of-fact and direct^ otherwise it becomes Prose. Music never speaks. Prose never sings. Poetry is not absolute music, nor absolute prose. And yet Poetry can Sing and Talk. Poetry must Sing and Talk. To Talk is (using a common but vigorous expression) "to get at." Thus we can distinguish between Poetry and Prose. Poetry gets at io8 Verse Making one by using some of the arts of singing. Prose gets at one by using some of the methods of speaking. Hazlitt has truly said that " the best prose style is the familiar style." In verse familiarity is base, as in life it is vulgar. We are not pleading for a poetic diction, and the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads is still in the main incontrovertible. When Wordsworth says : '* The language of poetry should be that really used by men," he is ^not defending familiarity. Words- worth asks for language that is universal, not familiar. " The poet must express himself as other men express themselves," is futile if it means anything more than that the poet's language must be universal and folk-wise. And the best commentary on the Preface are the Ballads themselves. And when Wordsworth writes She had a rustic woodland air And she was wildly clad ; Her eyes were fair, and very fair j Her beauty made me glad, — Verse Making 109 he is not at all familiar, he is only very easily understood and appreciated. Apart from the magical simplicity of this stanza, its chief characteristic is dignity. And Poetry without dignity is vain. The Idyll of Summer As time proceeds, A'^dl Tr Haf will be either a greater poem or a smaller poem than it is to-day. For to-day it is hard to say concerning it that it is other than important, interesting, and beautiful. It is not for our generation to decide its place in literature. But we are allowed to pronounce it to be important, interesting, beautiful. The Awdl is important because it is different in form and conception from any other Awdl in the Welsh language. It is interesting because it deals with life and attempts a criticism of life. It is very beautiful. Here we propose to wander from point to point in the poem as the fancy wills, and to dwell upon a few of the matters of impor- tance, interest and beauty within it. The Idyll of Summer hi First, the Cynghanedd is here shyly but surely, perfect yet modest, the handmaid and not the mistress, with the music -stirring motion of its soft and busy feet. And when this poem is in the hands of the public, the unjust criticism against the new school, that it depreciates the great charac- teristic of the poetry of Cymru Fu, will die the death. There has been an idea abroad of late days that the new bardism considers the cynghanedd barbaric, and that the younger writers are all for the Pryddest, and blank verse, and lyric writing. But here is the very youngest of them, imbued with romance, brought up in the literary modernisms of to-day, using as his medium the forms of Dafydd ab Gwilym and Goronwy Owen. But let it be known at once, that, though the Cynghanedd is as dear to the new bards as it was to the old, the Twenty-four Measures have not so sure a homage. 1 1 2 The Idyll of Summer Every writer of an Awdl has the right to use the twenty-four measures at his discre- tion, and in the average Awdl we find about six of these measures in the ascendant. Two years ago a change was apparent, and in G'^lad y BryniaUy by Mr. Gwynn Jones, there is a tendency to use three at most of these measures. Llion in Tr Haf has used only two. And the Awdlau of the future, we feel, will certainly shape themselves in this manner. For not only has Llion, following his master, Mr. Gwynn Jones, reduced the irregular effect produced by an Awdl made up of a jumble of many metres, but he has added greatly to the strength of his poem by an inexorable regularity in the sequence of his rhythms. Moreover, the danger of monotony is very slight inasmuch as the two metres used by him occurr regularly every four lines. The whole poem is there- fore divided into about a hundred equal verses, much in the manner of Spenser's Faery ^een^ or Byron's Childe Harold^ The Idyll of Summer i 13 Here is a verse taken at random ; all the other verses are similar in form. This example will, at the same time, show Llion's variety of metre, his ease of Cynghanedd, his colour, his directness, and his romance. The poet has lost his love, who is Summer : Yng ngwynfyd bywyd buom, A dyfod rhwyg adfyd rhom. Ag o fewn y goedwig faith Minnau wybum anobaith. Fe'i gwelwyd yng ngwlad y pomgranadau A pheraidd aeron anghyffwrdd erwau ; Am olud y bell bau hiraethodd, A'm bro adawodd am wybr y Dehau. In order to appreciate the unique beauty of this Awdl, we must follow the author from first line to last. For it is a poem, not only new in form, but fresh in concep- tion. Before we attempt this, there are certain beauties of detail that cannot be passed over. There is great Passion in the poem. It is no impersonal cold tale of the glories of the Summer that we read. Rather, it is the 1 14 The Idyll of Summer warm throbbing blood of summer colouring the poet's face. As when some great thought strikes the brain, And flushes all the cheek. His heart knows full well the approach ot Summer ; for in the groves of the evening there are songs heard, that are like wine : Mae'n dod, a'm henaid edwyn Yn barod ddyfod y ddyn, Rhag mor gu ym mrigau hwyr Yw'r seiniau feddwa'r synnwyr. And when the Summer and the Poet are mated, there is a low sensuous nature sound upon the air, similar to the "murmurous chaunt of bees on summer days :" A suai megis ewyn mor dihedd Dwrf adanedd dirifedi wenyn. The poem is full of sudden colour contrasts. The black storm in golden June : Ac megis y'mis'y^mel Y tywaillt, pan fo tawel The Idyll OF Summer 115 Dduwch y bedd uwch y byd, Ambell i gawod embyd. The purple sunset and the maid*s pale face : A gwrid yr hwyr ar gread yr awron Yn rhoi gemliw grug ymhlyg yr eigion, Ni roddai'r pelydr rhuddion ddim o'u delw Ar wyneb gwelw y rhiain heb galon. And the passing of night in love's white light : Rhag mor wen y nen ini Nid oedd nos i'n dyddiau ni. There are clear and striking pictures in the ode. Grey-bearded Winter lies in a harried grove : Ag ar y Uain 'roedd g^r llwyd, Ai marw oedd ai ym mreuddwyd, O'i wedd yn hawdd ni wyddwn, Oni thorres iaith o'r swn. A village idyll : the brook, and the birds, and the maiden, at the ford : A thyr'd a'r eneth a'r adar yno, A sawr paradwys hwyr per i hudo, 1 16 The Idyll of Summer Hyd ganllaw'r bompren heno, bob mwynder A bwrlwm aber i lamu heibio. The poet in the snow month, grieving above the embers : A thonnau Mawrth yn y mor, A'r eira'n gwynnu'r oror, Mi neithiwr yn hwyr y nos Hiroedwn uwch marwydos Yr aelwyd oleu .... The silent, happy, meadow lovers : A disiarad a siriol Y rhodiwn hyd wndvrn dol ; Ni sieryd oes a wyr dau, Rhy fawr yw ef i eiriau. And how delicate, how strong, the verse as it describes him on the morrow of his loss. If the Poet loses Summer, or I my love, or you your ambition, is not the world then empty for the Poet, for me, for you ? — A phrudd fu'r defFro heddyw A gweld y wag aelwyd wyw Heb farwor, ag agoryd Dor Y hMh ar wacter byd, The Idyll of Summer 117 Beside Passion and Painting, there is Thought in the Awdl. Llion approaches Ann Griffiths in daring, when he describes the passing of the maiden. Her cheeks were like the apple bloom, but to-day her very beauty has become supreme in her tears : Hithau yng nghyfoeth eang ei hafau Oedd a'i deurydd hefelydd afalau, Hyd onid aeth gofidiau llawer blwydd A godidowgrwydd ei gwaed i'w dagrau. And again his tender thought as he tells how the gloom of her heart had tempered the light in the blue eyes : A gwelais wyll y galon yn dwyshau Dihalog dlysau dau lygad leision. And the same beauty again in : Gwedi poen dan lygad pur Tlysach eu tawel asur. But these are only the excellencies of the body, of the form, and of the intelligence of the Awdl. There still remain the virtues of the 1 18 The Idyll of Summer soulj of the heart of it. The essence of the poet's song : Myfi ym Mai fy mywyd, Ganaf y Mai, gwyn fy myd. His practical optimism : not the optimism of the hermit who suffers to-day and waits for the morrow, but of the man who lives to-day, because the morrow has its hopes : Ba enaid )^yr ben y daith ? Bid anwybod yn obaith. Further, there is plenty of the Omar Khayyam and Oriental opportunism in the Awdl. Llion singsof the joy of the present. To-day he loves, and is merry. To-day he sleeps, and is glad. He will taste, like Omar, the sweetest things on earth. About the Summer Maiden, Rhiain yr Haf^ he sings : Rhoiswn wedd rhosyn iddi, A chariad merch roed i mi. Dwfn gariad y fun gerais Yn llif yng nghryndod ei Hals. Ac yfed o riniau'r gafod rawnwin Byddym, a llannerch heb ddim allwynin \ The Idyll of Summer i 19 Myfi ym mherth yn chwerthin yn nydd serch A chtn, a'm hoyw ferch yn ei Mehefin. Our poet does not say, Drink, for to-morrow we die. He says. Live to-day, for to- morrow hath its hopes : Nor does he say : Drink to drown thy sorrow, thy summer has fled. To him, a summer that has once been will always be. Silver summer can never vanish : O oes i oes hoyw yw hi, A'r nawnddydd arian ynddi. And even if the wine is all sipped, faith and memory still remain : Ond ni dderfydd ffydd, o ffoes Grawnwin a goreu einioes. And then he cherishes his Summer, and gives his Winter Faith and Hope ; he will have none of the milk and water summer of the effeminate saint. Some impractical optimist promises him an everlasting summer, where the roses fade not, and all is joy : 120 The Idyll of Summer Difarw yw hud y frodir, Telyn a thant leinw ei thir O buredig hvrsig/el Fe bai eos pob awel. And the poet replies : I have joy in this world, why pine for a better ? Digon i'r dydd ei degwch. Chwi'r adar A'r gwenyn cynar gan hynny cenwch. Moreover, he adds in a great passage, — I will not give up this earth of mine, for all the sunshine in the world : Dwg im' haul digymylau Gad im' hefyd fy myd mau, Lie mae'r cymyl yn wylo Ym mhelydr haul ami i dro. And finally this sweet Summer of the poet teaches him two things ; it dies to live again, and hope succours it ; besides, the losing of his Summer has given him exper- ience ; he has learnt to suffer, and to bend his head : Marw i fyw mae'r haf o hyd, Gwell wyf o'i goUi hefyd. The Idyll of Summer 121 The conception of the poem demands a notice. There are three divisions : The Passing of Summer ; The Summer of Lovej The Evergreen Summer. (i) The Passing of Summer : In the first canto, Winter in a deserted grove bewails the vanished Summer, and he sings of the trusting place and calls long for the maiden of magic to return : Dymor hud a miri haf Tyrd eto i'r oed attaf Yn ddyn ieuanc ddeunawoed A'i threm yn llevvych i'w throed. In the second and third cantos a maiden and a boy sing of their lost loves. And the boy recalls the river and the peace : A Uawen y llonyddwch dan y coed yn y cwch. And the maiden : 1 fewn i fore'm heinioes Doi mal duw ym mlodau'i oes, And then all is over : 122 The Idyll of Summer Daethai brad yn adwyth bron A dur i lygaid oerion ; Ni'm carai'r macwy mwyach Ac yn y nos canu'n iach. (2) The Summer of Love : Love and Summer are one and the same : A chaf degwch haf digoU Tra bo dau trwy y byd oil. Then the vision of a Grey Friar comes along. He is a pessimist : Mae llwybr i'r llan o'r llanerch Daw'r meini mud, er min merch ! And the poet replies : Beth i haf yw gauaf gwy \v ? Cyn a fydd, canaf heddy w. And the Pessimist withdraws to give place to the White Friar, the ultra -optimist, who talks of Eldorado and Nirvana. The poet gives him the reply sublime, Summer has no room for Hope : Beth yw fy haf o gobeithiwyf hefyd ? (3) The Evergreen Summer : Keats is the master here : a thing of beauty is a joy for ever ; The Idyll of Summer i 23 Wedi cauad llygad Uaith Mi welaf y Mai eihvaith. Summer is evergreen in the memory. Summer will come again. The last canto tells how in early March the poet dreamed of the Summer that was gone, and on a sudden in the wood he beheld a snowdrop and Hope at last comes to its own : Ag ar y Uawnt ger y Uwyn Darogenais dW'r Gwanwyn : Ag wele, canfod blodyn O bryd a gwedd y Brawd Gwyn ! Ag o'r prynhawn ger y prennau yno Deuai mewn siffrwd i'm mynwes effro — "Fob rhyw delyn cyn bod co' gant a'i than Geined y Ganaan. Gwna duag yno." And the poem ends on a great note of magnificently restrained optimism, — not the wild unmeasured optimism of youth, but the calm, deliberate, energetic, philosophic optimism of a heart that has loved and suffered, of a spirit that lives : Marw i fyw mae'r haf o hyd ; Gwell wyf o'i goUi hefyd i 124 The Idyll of Summer Dysgaf, a'm haul yn disgyn, Odid y daw wedi hyn. Mwy ni adnabum enyd anobaith Y daw'm hanwylyd i minnau eilwaith : Ba enaid >^ryr ben y daith sy'n dyfod ? Boed ei anwybod /V byd yn obaith I The philosophy of this poem has been touched upon on another page. Its criti- cism of life may be said in a word, its note is that of Optimistic Acceptance, and is very diiferent from that of Edward Fitz- gerald and his Omar, which is the note of Pessimistic Resignation. Both philosophies agree on one point : That To-day is sweet. But the latter ctiticism adds on to it this, That To- day also is brief. This is very narrow and bitter and ungenerous. Yr Hafh2LS a sublime addition to make to the common creed, To-day is sweet — To-day is eternal. The Oriental says grimly that To-day will soon be one with Yesterday's Seven Thousand Years. The Celt says confidently that his Yesterday has not yet The Idyll of Summer 125 passed away. His yester-love is still his love : Y fun a garaf yw honno gerais. Omar says, Why fret about unborn To- morrow ? Llion says, Why not hope about the unknown To- morrow ? Omar says, To-morrow is To-morrow, let it be. Llion says. To-morrow may be To-day, it will be — sweet. Omar is really ungenerous, and unphilo- sophic ; ungenerous because he contemns Yesterday because it is dead : Yesterday was sweet enough in its time. He is un- philosophical for this reason that since he despises Yesterday because it brought him sorrow, he is too narrow- hearted to feel its lesson. Further, Omar is a coward : the only virtue of To- day is its sweetness and its wine. But the Welsh poet is brave : Dwg im' haul digymylau, — Gad im' hefyd fy myd mau Lie mae'r cymyl yn wylo Vm mhelydr haul ami i dro, 1 26 The Idyll of Summer He is wise : Marw i fyw mae'r haf o hyd, Gwell wyf o'i golli hefyd. He is generous : A thlysni digoU yr haf a gollwyd Yn gyfoeth mawreddog fyth y'mreuddwyd, Mi gofiaf am a gafwyd^ can's erys Ei swyn yn felys yn nh^n fy aelwyd. And note how Lh'on arrives by his poetic instinct at Maeterlinck's conception of the function of the memory in his philosophy of Happiness. 1'he Fairy says to Tyltyl, in the Blue Bird : How can your grand- mother and grandfather be dead when they live in your memory ? Men do not know this secret, because they know so little ; but you are now going to see that the dead who are remembered live as happily as if they were not dead. And Llion says : Myfi'n drist am fynd o'r haf A'i ddiwrnod oddiarnaf, The Idyll of Summer 127 Uwch ei fedd wybum heddyw Nad ofer oedd. Difarw yw. Ag o hir ddisgwyl un gwir a ddysgais, — Ni fwriaf o gof yr haf a gefais ; Nid anghof y serch dyngais a hi'n haf, Y fun a garaf yw honno gerais. Od aeth fy Medi eithaf Gyda'i rug a'i adar haf, A dyfod cri y dufedd Am ei ysbail dail dihedd A meirwon, ba waeth ? Mae'r hen obeithion Yn rhedeg eilwaith drwy waed y galon, O chollwyd hett freuddwydion^ nid marw chwaithy O theimlais unwaith eu melys swynion. And note in particular how very near he comes to expressing Maeterlinck's most pregnant contribution to philosophic thought — the theory of Immortality based on the assumption of the after -existence of the soul in the form of Memory — V appari- tion du mot mnemonique: Mynych, mynych i minnau, A swyn yr oes yn hwyrhau, 128 The Idyll of Summer YmriLhia ienctid gwridog Y llwybrau gynt lie bu'r gog. A'm llygad ynghau ar foelni'r gauaf Dwys, ymharadwys y Mai y rhodiaf ; A theg eilwaith y'i gwelaf, nes hiino A myned iddo dm hun diweddaf. Love's Philosophy Shelley was only toying with the question when he sang his lyric on the theme : See the mountains kiss high heaven And the waves clasp one another ; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother : And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea — What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me ? In Caneuon a Cherddi^ Mr. W. J. GrufFydd has made a deliberate and serious attempt to divine its secret. Some critics express dis- satisfaction with the book because, they say, it is full of chagrin and misery and even conceit. It cannot be full of these, for it contains joy and ecstasy and humility, too. 129 130 Love's Philosophy This poet is too often condemned out of his context. Single lines, single stanzas, single poems, are not the expression of a philosophy. It requires at least a book for this purpose. In truth it requires a life. And if Caneuon a Cherddi is judged as a whole, much of the adverse opinion held against it becomes idle, for that opinion is based upon the particular and not upon the general effect. Mr. GrufFydd is a poet who is impressed with the romance and wonderfulness of his own passions. If his song is a song of woe, it is not because he wants to be miserable, but because woe is such a wonderful quality. Some philosopher has said : Fear is poetry, hope is poetry, love is poetry, hatred is poetry ; contempt, jealousy, remorse, admiration, wonder, pity, despair, or madness, are all poetry. And our poet sings of woe, not because he is morbid, but because he is very sane. He is so little morbid that, though he be very sad, the contemplation of his sadness gives Love's Philosophy 131 him not dejection, but a great and stirring impulse to write poetry. Every poet is a humourist in the large sense. Every poet has a double personality : himself living and suffering ; and himself looking at it all ; and this survey of himself makes the poet either merry or sad. This duality is essential to a lyric poet. Ceiriog, contemplating himself thus, was filled with merriment ; he saw the joke of his own illusions : Wrth feddwl am y gangen gyll Ddanfonodd Menna imi : Draw'n y pellder clywwn swn Hen glychau Aberdyfi. — Menna eto fydd dy fun Gad y pruddglwyf iddo'i hun, Cwyd dy galon, bydd yn ddyn, Meddai clychau Aberdyfi. Pe baivn iforn^n mynd i'r bedd, Am calon wedi torri : I ganu came dechreuech chwi^ Hen glychau Aberdyfi. — 132 Love's Philosophy Menna etofydd dy fun, Gady pruddglwyf iddoH hun. Cwyd dy galon^ bydd yn ddyn^ Meddai clychau Aberdyfi^ Un — dau — tri—pedwar — pump — chwech^ Cwyd dy galon^ bydd yn ddyn. Meddai clychau Aberdyfi. And our present poet sees too the humour of his frettings. It is quite a misapprehen- sion to declare that the spirit of his lyric, Y Wen Goll^ is conceit. It is not by any means conceit (and yet what matter if it were ?) but humour : Ddoe, ces wen dy lygaid mwynion, Ddoe, bu 'mysedd drwy dy wallt, Ddoe, bu awel fwyn Gorffena'n Murmur wrthym ar yr allt. Breuddwyd gefais am yfory, Dywed, Gwen, yw hwnnw'n wir ? Gweld dy enaid wedi colli, Anghof wedi atgof hir : Fe ddaw Rhywun ac fe enwa " Wen y Dyffryn " ddydd fy mri. Love's Philosophy 133 Minnau 'nghanol gaeaf anghof A ofynnaf— " Pwy yw hi ?" Lad and lass and the love-light in the June time are all very well, but what if, when lad is man and lass is woman, they both forget about the June time and the love-light ? There is no need nor room here for us to work out the poet's philosophy in its various phases. The careful and unbiassed reader will find it an entertaining task. We will only record his final attitude. And that is, The supremacy of Love over Life. First, the Tyranny of Love : A ddaethost ti i^m blino eio, fun ? Pa beth yw'r swn sydd yn yr helyg draw, A chlyw ar erwau'r mynydd gamre'r glaw ! O, gad im' bellach gael ychydig hun. A fynni di im' gefnu ar Dduw a dyn Er mwyn cael unwaith eto wasgu'th law ? Paham mae'r tonnau'n wylo mor ddidaw ? Gad im' anghofio mwy dy liw a'th lun. Mae cariad, natur, nefoedd, pobpeth oil Yn drist a phrudd ; o flaen fy llygaid Uaith Ymleda'n hir y blwyddi creulon maith, 134 Love's Philosophy A'r nef yn ddu gymylog uwch fy mhen. Mae cwsg yn crwydro heno'n mhell ar goll, A miyn sylhi^n myw dy lygaid^ Gwen. Second, The Frenzy of Love : Offeiriaid, ddiofryddion crefydd sanct, Chwychwi santesau'r gysegredig wen, Yn bygwth uffern boenau ar y gwr Ro'i fryd ar geinion daear ' pan fo'r nef Yn cynnyg iddo'u gwell,' — ynfydion oil Drwy oesau'r byd leferwch ynfyd air ! Pa beth yw poenau rhyw Ixion brudd Os cafodd unwaith, er mewn cwmwl oer Gofleidio cynnes fron ei dduwies-gariad A theimlo'i gwallt yn oyddu gylch ei wddf ? Mae eiliad serch yn hwy nag oes o uffern. Third, The Consolation of Love : Ni chrwydraf mwyach dros y ddyfnllais don, Choleddaf yr un Breuddwyd dan fy Mron. Mae Heddyw'n sivvr a Chariad Heddyw'n llawn, Anweswn serch, fy Ngwen, a byddwn Ion. Anghofiwn Gwyn y Byd a'i greulon Loes, A Llwybrau Drain a Chreigiau ein ber Oes. LovE*s Philosophy 135 Cawn dario mwy, a swn yforu 'mhell, — Heddyw, o leiaf, ni raid codi'r Groes. Fourth, The Spirituality of Love. How- ever chary wc might be of expressing our opinions in the three forms above, we can- not refrain from admiring the pathos and tenderness of this lyric : Cyn disgyn o'r ddunos ddistaw Dros orwel y tonnau maith, Cyn tewi o'r awel a'i murmur Wrth droedio'r nentydd llaith ; Dros oror y diffrwyth genlli, Dros bennau'r tonnau gwyn, Mi welais un hwyrnos euraidd Gopa'r breuddwydiol fryn. Ymserchodd fy nghalon am dano, Cwynodd ar lawer awr ; Y copa a welswn y neithiwr Giliasai yn llwyr gyda'r wawr. Un noson mi hwyliais fy llestr, Dros genlli gwancus y don, I chwilio am gartref fy mreuddwyd A dynnodd yr hiraeth i mron. 136 Love's Philosophy 'R ol llawer noson o hwylio Dan bigiad fy hiraeth syn, Ymledu wnai ochrau'r cefnfor, Ni welwn yno'r un bryn. Mi droais fy Uestr bach adref, Siomedig oeddwn a mud, Ond er nad ydoedd ond breuddwyd, Dygyfor mae hiraeth o hyd. Os rheswm oer fyo fy neffro O freuddwyd fy ngwallgof serch; Os meddwl yn unig a wnaethum Fod purdeb yng nghalon fy merch ; Gwell gennyf ffol afradlonedd Cariad, na rheswm y byd, Ac er fod fy mreuddwyd yn yfflon, Dygyfor ?nae hiraeth hyd. It is surely a perfect lyric : " Very sad, very sweet, very beautiful," as Watts Dunton would say ; sung to a lovely rhythm, filled with choicest melody ; rich in variety and vigour. The heart that moaned, " Cwynodd ar lawer awr," and the little boat, which he had to steer back home, LovE*s Philosophy 137 Mi droais fy llestr bach adref, and the confession of the last stanza make it complete. The poet has called it S'lom Serch^ — surely a misnomer 1 We do not take that to be the message. The way this Caneuon a Cherddi comes within our canon of Challenge and Sanity on this question, is that it arrives at the theory of the Omnipotence of Love by means of philosophy and not mysticism. For in our second quotation, Of the Frenzy, the poet decides for Love by inten- tion, by instinct, by the experience of Love in Life : Mae eiliad serch yn hwy nag oes o uflfern. In our third quotation, Of the Consolation, he decides for Love by meditation, by grim trial, by the experience of Life without Love : Mae Heddyw'n siwr a Chariad Heddyw'n Uawn, 138 LovE*s Philosophy And in our fourth quotation, Of the Spirituality, he shows that Love is supreme whether it be known instinctively or by trial ; whether it be reality : fy Nefoedd oreu i Yn gorwedd yn dy fynwes stormus di ; or a mirage : Ond er fod fy mreuddwyd yn yfflon, Dygyfor mae hiraeth o hyd. On Translating Omar Edward Fitzgerald as a translator of Omar Khayyam is not always accurate, not always effective, and not at all just. Good poetry is always to the point. Fitzgerald, like many a latter day English poet, was always more alive to the music of poetry than to its pointedness. There is very little point in Fitzgerald's Rubaiyat save its music ; its philosophy is neither native, logical, nor complete. He himself said, while translating : Better a live sparrow than a stuffed eagle. It is, alack, no live sparrow that he has given us, but a heavy winged golden pheasant. And a live sparrow is nearer to Poetry than a golden winged pheasant, for a sparrow can fly. His best known stanza will illustrate this : 139 I40 On Translating Omar Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough, A flask of wine, a book of verse — and Thou Beside me smging in the wilderness — And wilderness is Paradise enow. Two things mar this stanza : the great effort to complete the triple rhyme by the use of an obsolete word ; and the pointless, and therefore poetry-less, use of the word singing in the third line. The original word is sitting ; but singing is more musical than sittings therefore Fitzgerald chooses the former. The result is twofold : it suggests unreality and it suggests insincerity. Poetry is always real and sincere. In Professor Morris Jones' Welsh trans- lation of the stanza these two blemishes are removed. First, he has a more apposite and fortunate rhyme scheme — S'wltan is very happy ; and secondly, by keeping delicately to the original he has preserved the whole point of the quatrain, namely, the faithful- ness of the maid. It is unreal and insincere to suggest that Omar wanted her song for ever. The total musical effect of the On Translating Omar 141 Welsh stanza is equal in all respects to that of the Engh'sh : Ychydig wridog win, a llyfr o gan, A thorth wrth raid, a thithau, eneth Ian, Yn eisiedd yn yr anial gyda mi — Gwell yw na holl frenhiniaeth y Swlfdn. But one word overwrought is little com- pared with a whole stanza. " Divine High Piping Pehlevi " is an exquisite creation, but the quatrain embodying it is flagrantly- melodramatic and lacking in poetic taste : And David's lips are lockt ; but in divine High piping Pehlevi, with " Wine ! wine ! wine ! Red Wine !" — the Nightingale cries to the rose That yellow cheek of hers t' incarnadine. The last line is clumsy, hard to understand, and ineffective. Here is Heron -Allen's literal translation : It is a pleasant day, and the weather is neither hot nor cold ; The rain has washed the dust from the faces of the roses j 142 On Translating Omar The nightingale in the Pehlevi tongue to the sallow rose Cries ever : " Thou must drink wine !" And the Welsh translation is very natural, and above all dramatic and delicate. The mildness of the utterance is deceiving ; for its portent is mighty ; it is the grim humour of the Eastern fatalist in his highest imaginative flight ; the poet's " Give me wine " is nothing compared with this calm sardonic sneer at Beauty Pale. Poetry will as soon serve a Gibe as a Compliment. The poetry of this lies in its naturalness ; its cruelty in its simplicity ; its significance in its suavity ; Hyfryd yw'r dydd a chlaear ydyw'r hin, Glawiodd y cwmwl ar y blodau crin ; A chwyna'r eos wrth y gvvelw ros, " Mae'n rhaid i tithau wrth ychydig win." Poor misrepresented Nightingale of the English verse. Better a live sparrow, Fitz- gerald, than a shrieking pea-cock. They say Fitzgerald has made a good On Translating Omar 143 poem out of an indifferent one. The charge has hardly been substantiated, and when we come across such concreteness as the following in the original, it is hardly wise to accuse Omar of indifferent poetic power : The heavenly vault is a girdle cast from my weary body ; Jahun is a watercourse worn by my filtered tears ; Hell is a spark from my useless worries ; Paradise is a moment of time when I am tranquil. What could have come over Fitzgerald's judgment in failing to perceive the perfec- tion of this style it is hard to imagine. He rejects it, however, and turns to another Persian poet for a much weaker analogous statement of faith. The indifference lies here : Heaven's but the vision of fulfilled desire, • And Hell the shadow from a soul on fire Cast on the Darkness into which ourselves $0 late emerged from, shall 50 soon expire, 144 On Translating Omar Perhaps he failed to express it in English, and therefore shirked it. That it is difficult to preserve the original energy is evident from the Welsh version, but there is poetry still in the latter : Yr entrych fry, gwregys i'm corfF y w ef, A ffrwd o'm dagrau ydyw Jih\^n gref, Gwreichionen o'm trallodion ydyw Uffern, Ac ennyd o'm hesmwythder ydyw'r Nef. Its compression, its straightforwardness, its flow, and its faithfulness to the original make this stanza a model piece of work- manship in the art of translation. Thus while it is probably impossible for any future translation of the Rubaiyat to contain more polished and artistic epigrams than this : The Moving Finger writes, and having writ Moves on ; nor all thy Piety nor Wit Can lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a word of it ; or to be fraught with such consonantal melody as this quatrain : On Translating Omar 145 And this delightful herb whose tender green Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean^ Ah ! lean upon it lightly ^ for who knows From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen. Yet it is possible to catch Fitzgerald not only overcolouring his lines, but even at times being beaten in his own search of music. Here is a very daring experiment of singing a song almost on one note — an experiment only justified by its undoubted success : Fy min ^x fin y ff/ol a rois /, I ofyn rhin yr einioes iddi hi ; Ac yndij fin wrth^;^, sibrydodd hon, " Yf win^ cans yma ni ddychweli ^/." And there is a magic glimpse of the Desert in this verse : Gan nad oes fechni am yfory i ti, Bydd lawen dithau heno gyda mi ; Yf win y7tgoleiCr lloer, Fy Lloer, daw'r Uoer Eto i dywynnu heb ein canfod ni. But apart from being unfaithful m detail to Omafj it seems tp u§ that Fitzgerald has 146 On Translating Omar grossly misinterpreted him. To judge Fitzgerald's version severely one can call it little less than a ribald, blasphemous drinking song. And to judge it lightly one cannot do more than call it an elegant sneer. Fitzgerald sins in two respects. He leaves out all the theistic stanzas in Omar. And he considers those he has patronised in the light of a benevolent, artistic, modern society diner-out. Fitzgerald has made Omar too much of a sensualist and too little of a philosopher. He has made him too much of a pagan and too little of a Puritan. The English Omar is nigh an atheist. The Persian Omar is a theist. In England he is an epicurean. He was in Persia a stoic. The original is a religious poem. The modern version is a tavern song ; at least a hotel philosophy. Fitzgerald says : " Readers may be content to believe with me that, while the wine Omar celebrates is simply the Juice of the Grape, he bragged more than he drank gf it, in very defiance perhaps of that On Translating Omar 147 spiritual wine which left its votaries sunk in hypocrisy or disgust." Fitzgerald seems to have started off with this idea, and has twisted his translation into its mould. And this has led his com- mentators quite astray : A. C. Benson and The Hibbert Journal both make trite remarks about ** the agnostic epicureanism of Omar Khayyam.'* Pan fethrir finnau gan Dynghedfen gref, Heb gennyf obaith bywyd is y nef, O'vi clai na wneler namyn cwpan gwin, Ac odid na ddeffrof pan lanwer ef. — This is no profession of agnosticism. It is only a delicate bit of relative humour. Ai griddfan am fy rhan yn drist fy mron, Ai treulio 'myd a wnaf t chalon Ion ? Llanw fy nghwpan gwin ! Myfi ni wn A dynnaf anadl wedi'r anadl hon. — This is no declaration of epicureanism. It is only poetry in the form of stoical absolute humour ; which reaches the sublime in the fiext yerse ; 148 On Translating Omar Yd nyfnder Rhod y Nefoedd, draw ynghudd, Cwpan y cyst i bawb ei yfed sydd ; Tithau, pan ddel dy dro, na chwyna ddim, Ond yf yn Uawen, cauys daeth y dydd. Such symbolical uses of the cup and the wine are ignored by Fitzgerald j hence his perverted generalisation on the theme of the original poem. And behold the shrink- ing of Fitzgerald and his sycophants in the light of this, which is the very heart of the heart of Omar : O ddyn, sy ddelw o'r cread mawr i gyd, Na ad i goU ac ennill ddwyn dy fryd : Yfwin gwpany Tragwyddol Fenestra - Ac ymryddha o ofal y ddau fyd. It remains to acknowledge our indebtedness to Professor Morris Jones for giving a version of the Rubaiyat which, apart from its own intrinsic metrical and poetic merit, is so faithful to the original scroll, and thereby so just to the poet. If the original is to be tampered with at all, we submit to English translators this Weigh On Translating Omar 149 treatment of the undoubted difficulty that confronts one who seeks to interpret for modern minds a poem written according to the demands of an apparently childish mathematical rigour. The original quatrains are placed together not according to sense but according to a certain alphabetically ordered rhyme scheme. The English trans- lator surmounts the difficulty of making a concerted poem by selecting stanzas hap- hazardly and rejoining them to make a sort of wine- woman -and- song anthology. The Welsh translator has formed a poem made of five divisions, and has thereby ensured his version a sense of completeness, and orderliness, and logic that is clearly lacking in Edward Fitzgerald, " Ystyriais mai iawn yn y cyfieithiad oedd Uunio pryddest Gymraeg o'r penillion, trwy eu trefnu hyd y gallwn yn ol rhediad y meddwl, a'u hasio ag ambell *ac' neu *ond.' Y mae i'r bryddest a dyfodd fel hyn dan iy nwy- 150 On Translating Omar law bum rhan, sy megis yn dangos allan bum niwrnod yn hanes y bardd." But, fair play to Fitzgerald, he knew what he had done : " I doubt I have given but a very one-sided version of Omar." And if we have only one side of Omar, we probably have all of Fitzgerald. Shelley had no finer ear. And the ^^ once lovely Up " will be ever lovely. The Passing of Arthur I. Concerning King Arthur and his men, England has her Idylls of the King, and Wales has her Mabinogion, It would be an asset for Wales to have a memorial of the Round Table not only in Prose, but also in Verse. There is a large section of the Eisteddfod leaders that deems that the Eisteddfod should encourage such a produc- tion, and hence they have urged the setting of romantic subjects on which the poets might contend for the laurel. There are many, strangely enough, who declare open war against such a movement, and insist year by year on the choice of subjects of the Elusengar'^ch and T Greadigaeth type. The influence of the romantic school is, 151 152 The Passing of Arthur however, spreading wide, and soon the Welsh literary taste, we hope, will be unsatisfied till it obtain all the charm of its Mabinogi set in the tuneful and concen- trated scheme of the Awdl. The supreme test of the Awdl should be : can it hold and convey the poetry of the Mabinogion ? If the reply is satisfactory, we pray our poets to weave in song the noble tales left them as the heritage of a glorious period of Wales. That this can be done is sufficiently proved by the Awdl, " Ymadawiad Arthur," of Mr. Gwynn Jones. There are two difficulties on the road of the poet to success : the intrinsic merit] of the Mabinogion themselves ,• they are so poetical that to tell the stories again in verse seems almost a travesty ; and, further, the great occasions of the Round Table have already been set in poetry by the hand of Tennyson. The question is, Can our poet infuse new life into the original Mabinogi and at the same time avoid the magic influence of Tennyson ? The poem of Mr, The Passing of Arthur 153 Gwynn Jones may throw light upon the difficulty. First, we note that the story of the passing of Arthur as told by Malory, Tennyson, and Mr. Gwynn Jones is the same : these latter having taken the account directly from Malory. Tennyson gives us Malory's facts, but they are set in the poet's own vision of the colour and tone of the situation. Tennyson, by virtue of his touch, at times makes Arthur and Bedivere stand out even more humanly than Malory does. We can say the same of Mr. Gwynn Jones ; nay, more : the Welsh poet has given us yet another colouring of the old tale, having avoided the Tennysonian treatment and hue almost as if the English poet had never written on the subject. And herein lies the first excellence of his Ymadamad Arthur, It is Mr. Gwynn Jones' own vision of the passing of Arthur that we read ; it is neither Tennyson's nor Malory's, as far as the painting is concerned. Therefore, the poem is an original one. Whether 154 The Passing of Arthur the vision is as inspiring, and the picture as lively as that of Tennyson, we leave for another discussion. Suffice it now to say that there is enough poetry in the Awdl to deserve the closest attention. And a note on some of its parts will justify this asser- tion. It preserves in its diction the melody of the old prose : the pure pearl white- ness of the maidens' arms makes pale even the silken whiteness of their heaving robes : Rhag gwyndawd Perlog ne eu purloyw gnawd Pylai gwawr y pali gwyn A ymdonnai am danyn'. There are innumerable instances of musical lines fraught with vowel chords : In the shrill din of Camlan, where the swords flash fire : Goruwch cymmloedd groch Camlan Lle'r oedd deufur dur yn dan. And the steel blade, smoother than smooth water ; The Passing of Arthur 155 Ei hir lafn lyfned oedd A difreg lif y dyfroedd. And the wonderful ship, and its sails like white foam in sunlight : A gweles Yn angori long eras, — hwyliau hon Mai y wendon dan liw y melyndes. And illimitable clusters of gold gorse, like golden bells : Dibrin flodau'r eithin aur Mai haen o glych melynaur. And the sad, far off, gentle sob of the wavelet, where the waters break : Twrw'r dwr man lie torrai'r don, Mwynder hiraethus meindon. The Cynghanedd is so smooth and natural that often we deem it accidental, and yet it is always correct. There are many instances of the happiest marriage of sound and sense : Thus the vigour of the command to hurl the sword into the mid-torrent ; 156 The Passing of Arthur Heb dy atal, bid iti Fwrw y llafn i ferw y Hi. And the halt in the speech of Arthur, wounded : Clyw, brvvnt y clwyf Hwn : clyw, Fedwyr, claf ydwyf. And the rack of the pain : Arthur Oedd lesg gan dduloes ei gur. And the thick words : ebai'r Brenin A geiriau bloesg gan gur bli?t. Note the quickness of the movement and the stealth of the sound in Yn ol i'r agen eilwaith — draw e droes Drwy y drysi diflaith, Gofalu ar gelu'r gwaith, Bras gamu brysiog ymaith. And the music of the water on the gravel shore : Ond dwr a'i dwrdd yn taro Ar y graig, a'i su drwy'r gro. The Passing of Arthur 157 And the receding voice and the whisper- ing : Yn y pellter fel peraidd Anadliad, sibrydiad braidd^ Darfu'r llais. Then there are the Pictures of the poem. The poet tells of the meadow, white with clover bloom : Wynned oedd a phe doi hi — Olwen dios, Ar hyd yr hirnos i grwydro arni. And here Bedwyr takes Arthur to die. The King bids him take the sword Excalibur to the lake ; and we get a picture of Crafnant or Elsi before us : A chafas faith, frychlas fryn Tonnog, a marian tano, Yn dres fraith ar draws y fro 'Roedd prydferth fiodau'r perthi, Unlliw 6d neu ewyn Hi. And then follows an Eryri hillside colour, gold and purple : Dibrin fiodau'r eithin aur Mai ha^n o glych melynaur ^ 158 The Passing of Arthur Man flodau'r grug yn hugan Ar y geillt, o borffor gwan. Into the lake the brand Excalibur is hurled by Bedwyr : Cywrain oedd, ac arni wawr O liwiau gemau lawer, Lliw'r tan a lliw eira ter, A gloywed a gwiw lewych Rhudd yr haul ar ddisglair ddrych. When Excalibur is thrown, the poetry is magical in its sound effect : Ac fe'i bwriodd Onid oedd fel darn o dan Yn y nwyfre yn hofran. And finally, the barge that takes away Arthur looms distinct in its colours 5 colours of scarlet and gold, of snow and of wine : Ar ei gerfwaith cywrain Gwrlid mwyth o 'sgarlad main : Where three beautiful women sit : A lliw teg eu gwalltiau aur Drwyddo fel cawod ruddaur ; Deufan goch pob dwyfoch deg Wiw ^win drwy wynlliw gwaneg. The Passing of Arthur 159 The power of the following is evident : Gyddfau a thalcennau can Mai eira ymyl Aran. There remains for us to notice the dramatic power of the poem. Bedwyr tells Arthur that his country cannot survive his death : Can nis deil hi O thrydd Arthur oddiwrthi. Then comes this sudden couplet in echo from above : Megis o'r nef d6i gref gri, " Ni thrydd Arthur oddiwrthi." After a long series of rolling lines describ- ing the throwing of Excalibur comes the climax suddenly and in appropriate sound : Yna'n ol hynny wele Tan y dwfr y tynwyd e' ! The picture of Bedivere is stamped on the memory adroitly. Arthur is taken by the women into the ship, and Bedivere begs to be taken with him, A maiden replies ; i6o The Passing of Arthur " Bid iti dewi, ni ddaeth y diwedd ; Arthur byth ni syrth i'r bedd, — tithau, dos, Y mae'n d'aros waith cyn myn'd i orwedd." And the faithful knight : Gan wylo'n drist a distaw, Bedwyr drodd, edrychodd draw. And when at last all is over, and the ship has disappeared like a spirit in the mist, there is a fine touch when the poet, by the use of the one word "/r/«," meaning battle- field, opens before us, as he ends, all the turmoil which Bedivere has yet to go through ere he joins his king : Bedwyr yn drist a distaw At y drin aeth eto draw. II. The two characteristics of the Awdl are Dramatic Movement and Concentration. Two characteristics of Tennyson's Passing of Arthur are Eloquence and Fine Writing. King Arthur in the Awdl is a dying desperate man, In Tennyson he is ^ The Passing of Arthur i6i polished deliberate speaker, with a tendency to exaggerate, and a love of show. In the Awdl Arthur is Arthur. In the Idyll he is the Poet trying to be Arthur. When Arthur is wounded, he makes a beautifully phrased autobiographical speech all about " the old days " and " summer noons," and "walking about the gardens and walls of Camelot," and about arms "clothed in white samite, mystic, wonder- ful." We wonder where King Arthur got hold of the word "mystic"; and how he, in his condition, " deep smitten through the helm," could be so much of a decadent as to rave over " one summer noon " it is impossible to grasp. In the Awdl when Bedivere is aghast at the fact that Arthur has left his knights, the King replies with these words : Ebr yntau : " Clyw, brwnt y clwyf Hwn ; clyw Fedwyr, claf ydwyf." And when Bedivere returns after hiding Excalibur instead of throwing it into the i62 The Passing of Arthur lake, Arthur makes another speech, indulg- ing this time not in poetry but in ethics. He is very much the schoolmaster in this line : This is a shameful thing, for men to lie. When Bedivere returns the second time without fulfilling the King's request, Arthur's anger is more elegant than con- vincing. See this sweet epigram : Authority forgets a dying king, and this sly simile : or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. And then suddenly he forgets his elegance and loses his temper : get thee hence : But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur I will arise and slay thee with my hands. One loses all respect for a man who loses his temper. And if he does so when he is dying, you do not like to imagine what he might have done in his ordinary state of health. The Passing of Arthur 163 In the Awdl, Arthur acts very naturally for a wounded leader. He makes one appeal to honour, infinitely more effective than a murderous threat : Nid gwir iti Fwrw y llafn i ferw y Hi ! Di rhed, a'th dynghedu'r wyf, Na fethych cyn na fythwyf ; Y breiniol gledd, bwrw hwnnw I ferw y llyn — cofia'r llw ! And it is really a very poor Arthur who makes this feeble remark to Bedivere return- ing the third time after having thrown Excalibur : " Now I see by thine eyes that this is done^ Speak out : what is it thSu hast heard, or seen ? " In the Awdl we understand that Arthur knew that Bedivere would redeem his honour. There is no ugly doubt in his last greeting: " Ba ryw antur fu, Bedwyr ?" ebr yntau Yn wannach ei lais gan nych ei loesau \ 164 The Passing of Arthur *' Dyred, byr fyddo d'eiriau, a dywed Im rhag fy myned gan fyrred f'oriau." Thereupon in the Idyll Bedivere, for a change, makes a long speech, all about " living three lives of mortal men," with another dose of " the white samite," wonder- ful, and mystic. Compare the Awdl reply: " Arglwydd, llyma ddigwyddodd : Y llain a dewlais ; Haw wen a'i daliodd ; Trithro yn hy fe'i chwyfiodd, heb ballu, Ac yna'i dynnu i'r eigion danodd. And Tennyson's Arthur, The Killer with his Hands, could never have said this : Ha ! Bedwyr anwyl I heb dario ennyd Yno yn gynnar, bid fy nwyn gennyd. We have commented elsewhere on the Idyll Queens, who sent shivering cries to the twinkling stars, and howled like a very, very lonely wind. And what hopeless queens ! They called him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood — The Passing of Arthur 165 Who wants to know anything about his brow striped with dark blood ? Give us the white, kind, ministering hands of the Welsh Rhianedd : Breichiau glanach na'r sindal a'r pali I'r gadair euraid a gaid i'w godi ; Gwynion ddwylaw fu'n gweini i'r Brenin, A rhoddi gwin i lareiddio'i gynni. And Layamon is much better than Tennyson here : "And even with the words there came from the sea a short boat, borne on the waves, and two women therein, wondr- ously arrayed ; and they took Arthur anon^ and bare him quickly and softly laid him do'^Uy and fared forth away." Tennyson, with true Saxon method, times the departure of the barge to a nicety. He waits until everyone has finished his speech : Bedivere first, with his pretty little sequence — When every morning brought a noble chance And every chance brought out a noble knight, i66 The Passing of Arthur and his Scriptural analogies : The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh, and his exquisite adjectival felicities, And I, the last, go forth companionless Among new men, strange faces, other minds. Then Arthur slowly answers from the barge, makes a big fuss about his departure, I am going a long way With these thou seest ; — tells Bedivere to pray for his soul ; delivers a short homily on prayer ; and never for a moment thinks about Bedivere at all. Then when he has finished his peroration, the barge with oar and sail moves from the brink like a dying swan. It is not so in the Awdl. Bedivere does not make a big speech about hiding his fore- head and his eyes. He says simply and passionately, "I have been with Arthur in life, let me be with him in death." "Dioer, o mynnwch " eb Bedwyr, "a minnau I'm hola* hynt a ddeuaf mal yntau j The Passing of Arthur 167 Ynghyd y buom ynghadau, ynghyd O'r byd caffom ddiengyd ddydd angau." Then Arthur bids farewell, and does not talk about himself, but about his country and his people : " Mi weithion i hinon ha Afallon af i wella ; Ond i fy nhud dof yn ol, Hi ddygaf yn fuddugol Eto, wedi delo dydd Ei bri ymysg y broydd." And the barge is sailing as he finishes, Hwyliodd y bad a gadaw Bedwyr mewn syn dremyn draw. And then a song is heard coming as if from the departing ship, and Bedivere hears about Avilion as in a dream, and the last faint whisper tells him his heart will not break in the island valley : Ni ddaw fyth i ddeifio hon, golli ffydd Na thrawd cywilydd na thoriad calon. Watts Dunton has said : There are some poets whose impulse is to narrate, and i68 The Passing of Arthur some whose impulse is to sing. Mr. Gwynn Jones cannot sing (see his lyrics). But he can narrate. Tennyson cannot tell a story. But he can sing. In a word, Tennyson is very lovely. Mr. Gwynn Jones is very true. The Idyll takes me to the study, where I hear sweetest numbers on a mellow tongue.* It is the A'99dl that takes me Among the mountains by the winter sea, where I can hear the ripple washing in the reeds And the wild waves lapping on the crag. *It is well known that Tennyson preferred. to read out aloud The Passing of Arthur to any other of his poems. That is the cause of its failure. Reading out aloud has not the same function as acting. You can act Malory, though it is best to read him silently. The plain swift statement about " the arm and the hand rising from the lake " is much more mystic and wonderful than are the words mystic and wonderful. There is no mysticism in the word mystic. Mystic- ism is the name of an action, not Nothing in terms of name. Mystic is the critic's word, not the poet's. The poet is a man of action. The critic is the man of words. Tennyson is a man of words. It is dangerous for a critic to write poetry, for he thinks The Passing of Arthur 169 Poetry is Words. It is obvious that in this critique we take the point of view of Pure Poetry, in judging Tennyson's Idyll ; by Pure Poetry we mean creation in strict Imitation of Nature. If you say Tennyson does not mean Arthur to be a man, but a type of the soul of man, then the poet has a right to do as he ikes with him. True poets have nothing to do with types, Othello is Othello, not a type of a jealous husband. Tennyson's Arthur may be anything. He is certainly not Arthurian, nor of the earth. The Meadow Song To be a child is the greatest thing in the world. The heroes were children. The gods are children. All great poets are children. Gods, children, heroes, poets have these priceless faculties : tender hearts and spirits of wonder. The only difference between a poet and a child is that the poet is the child that can express his own feel- ings perfectly. And Coleridge says : " To carry on the feelings of childhood into the powers of manhood is one of the marks that distinguishes genius from talent." One of the chief glories of the period of childhood is the fact that the boundaries between the realms of reality and of romance are ill defined. The child will 170 The Meadow Song 171 have no boundary between reality and romance. Moreover, he has the power to make a romance of all his little realities, and realities of all his mighty romances. And he is the greatest poet who can do these same things best. We appear to detect these qualities in Telynegion Maes a Mor, Eifion Wyn pleases us, first, in this respect, in the fineness of his childlike susceptibilities. According to the poet's mood, Nature is now a plaything, now a divinity ; now a tyrant, now a beloved one ; sometimes as clear as a blue sky, oftenest a mystery. Sometimes he chides Nature, sometimes he refuses her prophecy, oftenest he is in awe of her. He asks her questions full of wonder, he shows her how magical she is, and therefore he worships her, and therefore he loves her. For love and religion are transcendent admiration. Had Eifion Wyn not possessed the child heart, he would have sung to January in some such words as these : 172 The Meadow Song Wyt lonawr yn oer A'th farrug yn wyn, A tnaniell Iwydrew A roddaist i^r llyn. And the stanza would have been common- place. But Eifion Wyn has the child heart and the child wonder. January is to him something much more wonderful than a month in which there is frost on the pond ; it is not a month, but a power ; a power, not that gives, but that creates ; that works miracles. It is a power that he does not understand ; it is one with the great agencies of the spirit. And therefore he sings in simple child numbers his simple child questioning : Wyt lonawr yn oer A'th farrug yn wyn, A pha beth a wnaetkost I ddwry llyn ? Mae iar fach yr hesg Yn cadw'n ei thy^ Heb le i fordwyo Na throchi ei phlu. The Meadow Song 173 This is supreme Wonder Poetry, It is only the innocent that can wonder. And the same innocence is the spirit of the song to The Stars. The poet having seen glittering pearls in the lake as he passed by at night, goes there, in the morning to pick out the pearls. But, wonder of wonders, the pearls are gone ; and, ten thousand wonders, there is not a trace of a footstep on the banks, not even his own marks of the night : Eis neithiwr heibio'r llyn Gan edrych dan y feisdon j Ac yno gwelais fil a mwy O berlau gloewon, gloewon. Eis heibio gyda'r wawr Gan feddwl casglu'r perlau ; Ond nid oedd drannoeth berl ar ol, JV^ac ol neb ar y glannau. So artless is the innocence, and so artful is the delicate admission that he really knows — that he is certain that at least no denizen of the land took his pearls away. 174 The Meadow Song With this spirit of wonder Eifion Wyn combines the tender heart. And every tender heart is a strong heart. This heart delights in strength and mighty power : Chwyth, aeafwynt, fel y mynnot, Cladd y mynydd dan y lluwch, Cladd y mor o dan yr ewyn, Chwyth, aeafwynt, eto'n uwch. But the strong heart is the tender heart : Ond pe clywit ar rhyw dalar Oenig cynnar yn rhoi bref, Tro oddiwrth y dalar honno, Paid a chwythu arno ef. And the tenderness of his heart can over- come even his awe of Nature, just as a mother's heart can overcome all fears when her love is touched. And this is what makes him the poet he is. For the poet is he who, when he likes, does what he likes with Nature. He is the autocrat of Nature. We, ordinary mortals, take it that Nature kills her fair flowers. But the poet does not allow the flowers to die. He does not The Meadow Song 175 believe they die. He believes they go back to the bosom of the great Earth Mother, whence they came : " Cadwaf fy ngwyl," medd bywyd, " Galwaf fy ngwyrdd yn ol," ** Casglaf fy mlodau adref " " O'r mynydd, yr ardd, a'r ddol." — Clybu y maes a'r prennau, A rhywbryd rhwng hwyr a gwawr Cyfododd y gwersyll blodau — Mae'r pebyll yn Uwyr hyd lawr. And there is his lonely early primrose : Briallen Sul y Blodau Heb gymmar yn y coed. That is so fair, so frail : Yr wyt rhy dlws i farw Os wyt rhy wan i fyw. And dies of longing for the dawn. What shall he say of it ? Nay, rather, what shall he do to it ? And he does that which betrays a tenderness unmatched in life, a tenderness worthy of heaven itself j and he betrays a simplicity in the telling of it 176 The Meadow Song possible only on the lips of an inspired child : Mi daenaf fwsog drosot A gwyliaf ar fy nhroed^ Briallen Sul y Blodau Yn marw yn y coed. There is never such gentleness in the world as there is in a poet's song. And it is the same delicate fingers that moulded these word traceries of Nature, transformed by the true lyrist's subjective treatment into the gules and cornices of the temple of his own heart : The riot of flowers, and beauty's embrace : Fel y gloyn, claf o serch Yw fy nghalon innau ; Gwn pa bath yw cael fy nal Yn nyrysni^r blodau. And the glorious laughter of the hazel trees in the sun : Cynhaeaf arall welais i — ^Rocdd (hwerthin yn y llwyni mau. The Meadow Song 177 And the sea maiden, Gwylan, fashioned in the sea's fashion : Mae glesni y mor yn ei llygad, A chrychni y mor yn ei gwallt. And the happy lovers resolving all things into their own joy : Hyd fin y maes, ym min yr hwyr, Rhodiannai dau yn wyn eu byd, Ac iddynt, caruW oedd y ser, A charuW oedd ysgubau'r yd. And the sad lovers beholding their own tears in all things about and above : Hyd fin y raaes, ym min yr hwyr, Rhodiannai dau yn fud, yn fud \ Ac iddynt, z£;j//