John Davies was born at Cardigan in 1834, and died April 24, 1892. He was, I believe, a carpenter by trade. He published one little volume, “Caniadau Ossian Gwent” (Hughes & Son, Wrexham), but he left a large mass of unpublished matter. No one of our poets is simpler or purer, or writes so lovingly of birds and flowers.

The Lark.

Oh hark!
With fluttering wing and dewy breast,
Soars upward like a spirit strong,
From reedy nest,
The gentle lark,
To tune on high his matin song.

Alway
A nameless charm flows from thy lay,
Melodious bird!
Whose music heard
Drives care and sorrow far away.

Beneath,
The sleeping world lies still as death;
Above, we hear thee singing clear,
’Mid’st morning rays,
Unsullied praise,
Which speaks of peace to mortal ear.

How free
And blithesome is thy joyous flight!
In floods of sunshine sparkling bright,
From skies serene
Thy song unseen
Angelic music seems to me.

The Bible.

Like stars beside the sun,
So by this book
Earth’s volumes look:
Their glory fades before its light,
For on its leaves the splendour bright
Of God’s own face hath shone.

’Tis like some fair seashell
Bend down thine ear
And thou shalt hear
The river on the golden strand
And sound of harps in that fair land
Or wail of souls in hell!

The Lake.

Oh fair the glade where dewy primrose bloweth,
And fair the quiet slope of hillside clear,
Which, girdled with the sheen
Of glorious summer green,
Its smiling face like some tall seraph showeth,
And in its sunlit lap the modest mere.

O lake most lovely, ringed about with flowers
And girt around its marge with nodding reeds;
Like guardian angels o’er
The circle of its shore
Great trees their branches spread, whose leafy bowers
Wave gently ’neath the wind that onward speeds.

Here, too, on meadows green which dewy glisten
Cluster sweet violets nodding ’neath the breeze,
And coronals of light
With golden splendour bright
Their fragile heads adorn, which seem to listen
To merry birds that sing amid the trees.

O happy spot! I fain would linger ever
About thy honeyed stillness, mere benign.
Of gazing on thy face I weary never,
As fair and full of grace
As slumbering infant’s face,
Or angel features which yet purer shine.

Thy crystal depth with music strange resoundeth,
Heard but by those to whom pure souls are given;
For unto all on earth
Who win the second birth,
The whole round world with hidden strings resoundeth,
Which endless praise distil to God in heaven.

A Morning Greeting.

Arise, my beloved! the birds’ merry chorus
Is heard ’mid the bourgeoning buds of the wold
Which smiles on the breast of the valley, while o’er us
The sun tips the dewladen branches with gold.
There comes from the meadows the scent of the clover,
The banks are all hidden by daisies from sight,
Each nook with bright yellow the primroses cover,
The trees in the orchards are curtained with white.

O rouse thee, my darling! come look at the swallow
Which over the dingle is flying at will;
And hark to the song of the thrush in the hollow,
And cuckoo’s clear cry on the side of the hill.
On high in the heavens the glad lark is trilling
The song which he lays at the footstool of morn;
My heart with strange gladness his music is thrilling,
As down from the sky by the breezes ’tis borne.

Arise, my beloved! the lambs are all springing
In frolic enjoyment the meadows among;
The stream through the valley its glad song is singing,
And the young day laughs lightly its waters along.
A robe of bright azure the clear sky is wearing
And bathed are the mountains in myriads of rays,
The woodland its harp for the noon is preparing
And hark, from its strings bursts a torrent of praise.

O rouse thee, my darling! Come, let us be going,
So soft is the breeze and so fragrant the air,
New health and new strength through our veins will be flowing,
And sorrow will vanish and sadness and care!
O banish the charms with which sloth would ensnare us,
Far purer the joy in the sunshine that lurks,
All nature her pinions is spreading to bear us,
And show us her Maker, revealed in His works.