Evan Evans was born at Trefriw in 1795, his father being, or having been, a shipwright. He, like Alun, was of Nonconformist parentage, and like him, attracted attention by his successes at this or that Eisteddfod. He went to S. Bees, and was ordained in 1826. He died January 21, 1855, without having obtained preferment in his own country, until within a few months of his death. His poetical works were published under the title of “Geirionydd” (Isaac Clarke, Ruthin). As is too often the case with books published in Wales, the title page bears no date.

The Strand of Rhuddlan.

I.

Low sinks the sun to rest
Over the lofty crest
Of dim Eryri;
Now over moor and dale
Night spreads her darkening veil,
While from the rustling trees
Softly the evening breeze
Dieth and fleeteth;
Fainter upon mine ear
Falls from the ocean near,
Its murmur weary;
Only within my breast,
Tossing in strange unrest,
Loud my heart beateth;
Beateth with rage and pain,
Beateth as once again
I muse and ponder
On that accursed hour,
When ’neath the Saxon power,
Welshmen who freedom sought,
Fell as they bravely fought,
On Rhuddlan yonder.

II.

See, through the gathering gloom
Dimly there seems to loom
The sheen of targes;
Hark, with a swift rebound,
Loudly the weapons sound
Upon them falling;
While from each rattling string
Death-dealing arrows ring,
Hissing and sighing;
Trembles the bloodstained plain,
Trembles and rings again,
Beneath the charges;
But through the deafening roar,
And moans of those who sore
Wounded are lying,
Rises Caradog’s cry,
Rises to heaven on high,
His warriors calling
“Welshmen! we ne’er will sell
Country we love so well!
Turn we the foe to flight,
Or let the moon this night
Find all our warriors bold
On Rhuddlan stark and cold,
For Cymru dying.”

III.

Hearing his high behest,
Swells every Briton’s breast,
Red as their lance in rest
Their faces glowing;
See, through the Saxon band,
Many a strong right hand
Once and again strikes home,
As in their might they come,
A broad lane mowing.
Britons from far and near
Loud raise their voice in prayer,
“In this our hour of need
To Thee, O God, we plead,
Send help from heaven!
Guard now our fatherland,
Strengthen each Briton’s hand,
And now on Rhuddlan’s strand
Be victory given.”

IV.

Ah! through my trembling heart
Pierce, like a bitter dart,
Anguish and terror;
Hark to the foemen’s vaunt,
Boasting and bitter taunt
Of Saxon warrior.
Nay, do not triumph so,
Do not rejoice as though
Your deeds were glorious;
Not your own valour brave,
Numbers, not courage, have
Made you victorious.
Those who on every side,
Have marked the battle’s tide,
Praying for Cymru’s arms,
Filled now with wild alarms,
The heights are scaling.
Old men and children flee,
As in amaze they see,
Their chosen warriors yield,
On Rhuddlan’s bloody field,
The foe prevailing.

V.

Mountain and lonely dell,
Dingle and rock and fell,
Echo with wailing;
E’en Snowdon’s slopes on high
Ring with the bitter cry,
All unavailing!
Cymru’s great heart is now
Bleeding with bitter woe
Woe for her children dead,
Woe for her glory fled,
And fallen nation;
On great Caradog’s hall
Anguish and terror fall,
Loud lamentation;
“Weep for our warrior slain,
Ne’er shall we see again,
Our mighty captain.”
Rises the harpist old,
Calls for his harp of gold,
Sweeps through its mournful strings,
And loud the music rings,
The dirge of Rhuddlan.

The Shepherd of Cwmdyli.

Cloke of mist hath passed away,
Sweetheart mine,
Which has veiled the heights all day,
Sweetheart mine,
See, the sun shines clear and bright,
Gilding all the hills with light,
To the arbour let us go,
Closely clinging, sweetheart mine.

Listen! from the rocks on high,
Sweetheart mine,
Echo mocks the cuckoo’s cry,
Sweetheart mine,
From each hillock low the steers,
Bleat of lambs falls on our ears,
In the bushes, sweet and low,
Birds are singing, sweetheart mine.

But Cwmdyli soon will be,
Sweetheart mine,
Lone and drear, bereft of thee,
Sweetheart mine,
I shall hear thy voice no more,
Never see thee cross the moor,
With thy pail at morn or eve
Tripping gaily, sweetheart mine.

’Mid the city’s din be true,
Sweetheart mine.
When new lovers come to woo,
Sweetheart mine,
Oh, remember one who’ll be,
Ever filled with thoughts of thee.
In Cwmdyli lone I’ll grieve
For thee daily, sweetheart mine.

Why should we Weep?

Why should we weep for those we love,
Who in the faith of Christ have died?
Set free from bonds of sin and pain,
They are living still the other side.

From wave to wave they once were tossed
On this world’s sea, by storm and tide:
Within the haven calm and still
They are resting now the other side.

When gloomy Jordan roared and swelled,
The great High Priest was there to guide,
And safe above the stormy waves
He bore them to the other side.

What though their bodies in the earth
We laid to wait the Judgment-tide?
Themselves are fled they are not there
But living still the other side.

The winds that murmur o’er their graves,
To us who still on earth abide,
Bring echoes faint of that sweet song
They ever sing the other side.

What though in spite of rain and dew
The lilies on their grave have died?
The palms they bear can never fade
Nor wither on the other side.

May we not dream they feel with us
When we by various ills are tried,
That when we triumph over sin,
They triumph too the other side?

May we not hope that more and more
The day for which we long have sighed
They long for too that we with them
May praise the Lamb the other side?

And when we reach fair Sion’s hill,
Where angel hosts in bliss abide,
Shall we not clasp the hands of those
Whom once we lost the other side?

Then ever with them we shall dwell
By grief untouched, by sin untried,
And join with them in that sweet song
That never ends the other side.

But friendship there shall purer be,
No love betrayed, no vows denied;
Nor pain nor death shall part us more
From those we love the other side!