Who first shall rest here? God o’er all
The life He gave us we must give again.
Our chiefest duty here to work and strive
To His great glory while we are alive,
And He some resting place will then provide,
Or far from town or by the Cletwr’s tide.
Evan Jones was born near Dolgelley, September 20th, 1820. He was ordained to the Independent ministry in 1845. Always weakly, he found a pastoral charge too great a strain on his health, and he devoted himself to literary pursuits, but he died Feb. 23, 1852, having in his short life served his country well. His Life and Works were published in 1876, “Hanes Bywyd a Gweithiau Barddonol Ieuan Gwynedd” (Hughes & Son, Wrexham).
The Cottages of Wales.
Fair cottages of Cymru, with walls of gleaming white,
Whose smoke curls round the valley and up the mountain height;
The bees hum ’neath the gable or sheltering garden wall,
While all around grow flowers, red rose and lily tall.
Oh lowly cots of Cymru, blest, yea, thrice blest are
Ye know not this world’s greatness nor earthly dignity;
Yet dwell within you ever, the love and peaceful rest
Which fly from hall and palace of those the world holds blest.
Oh lovely cots of Cymru, that smile beside the rill,
Your rooms the children gladden, as flowers your gardens fill;
Their eyes are bright and sparkling, like water in the sun,
Their cheeks are like the roses, red rose and white in one.
Grey cottages of Cymru, that nestle ’mid the
No marble walls surround you, straw thatched your lowly eaves,
Yet thither many an angel in love delights to come,
And watch in joy and gladness the heirs of his bright home.
O quiet cots of Cymru, far from the city’s din,
Your peace no tumult troubles, no discord enters in;
No sound breaks on your stillness but merry children’s cry,
Or murmur of the rustling leaves or brook that babbles by.
O pleasant cots of Cymru, within, at dawn’s
As in the wood around them, are heard glad hymns of praise,
And early in the morning the birds and goodwife sing
Their matin song of gratitude to God, their Lord and King.
Dear cottages of Cymru, what country holds their peer?
Long may they stand unshaken, nor ill their hearths draw near!
God keep, as fair and fragrant as on the hills and dales
The flowers which smile and blossom, the cottages of Wales.
Go and Dig a Grave for me.
Go and dig a grave for me,
This is but a world of woe:
Vanish all the joys of life,
Like the clouds which come and go:
And the weary finds no rest
Save within the grave’s cold breast.
Go and dig a grave for me,
Weary pilgrim here am I,
Through life’s dark and stormy ways
Wandering with a mournful cry.
Nought to clasp to my poor breast
Save the staff whereon I rest.