CHAPTER XII: VERSES WITH A HISTORY

VERSES WITH A HISTORY

No story of the Welsh hymns would be complete without a note on the influence of single verses. The hymn-book in the pew is an innovation--quite within recent years--of Welsh church-life. The hymn-book used to be the private property of the pulpit; consequently the people had to learn their favourite hymns by heart--and a very profitable exercise it always is. A hymn within the heart is life. But in learning hymns it often happens that one special verse stands out from among its sister verses. The latter may be forgotten; the one clings to the memory. __________________________________________________________________

This single verse of [77]Williams, Pantycelyn, has been the password of many a powerful revival, the last two lines being doubled and trebled over and over again, as the hearts of the congregation were moved by the breath from Calvary:

Jesu's blood can raise the feeble
As a conqueror to stand;
Jesu's blood is all-prevailing
O'er the mighty of the land:
Let the breezes

Blow from Calvary on me. __________________________________________________________________

[78]Morgan Rhys

Another verse, vividly associated with times of refreshing, is the following by Morgan Rhys:

Thy gracious ancient promise
Has saved a countless host,
Who sing its praise for ever--
Once they were of the lost:
Though often sorely wounded
With evil in the strife,
They found the leaves of healing

Upon the tree of life. __________________________________________________________________

It is an old funeral custom in country districts of the Principality to sing on the road from the house to the churchyard. The funerals are mostly public, and there is generally a large concourse of people. The procession moves slowly on, singing here and there, as it moves, some measured, mournful melody, with a wondrously touching effect. If any one has ever heard this music of the dead coming with muffled far-off tones from some narrow, lonely glen, he will never forget it. It is a minor melody that is sung, whether the words be of sorrow or of hope. Among the verses I have often heard on these occasions is this, by #Thomas Williams:

Oh! what distances eternal
Are to-day before my face;
Never staying, never resting,
I must journey to my place:
Though so narrow,
I must through the gateway pass.
And this other, by [79]Williams, Pantycelyn:
When human help is at an end,
God's pity shall not languish;
He will be Father, Brother, Friend,
In death's relentless anguish.

But no verse has so hallowed the presence of death as the following, the author of which seems to be unknown:

There shall be thousand wonders,
At break of day, to see
The children of the tempests
From tribulation free;
All in their snow-white garments,
In new and perfect guise,
Upon their Saviour's likeness,
Out of the grave they rise.

This verse having been of late rather prominently brought before the English public, through its being sung at the London National Eisteddvod and beside the grave of the late Henry Richard, M.P., several attempts have been made to translate it. Below is a rendering by Mr. Josiah D. Evans (Ap Daniel), New York:

Ten thousand glorious wonders
Shall greet the morning ray;
When earth's storm-beaten children
Shall wake to endless day;
All clad in robes of whiteness,
And crowned with fadeless bloom;
In their Redeemer's likeness,
Ascending from the tomb!

Sung to a tune of its own, the impressiveness of the verse in the original is most profound. Every separate line--almost every word--seems to have a history. However neatly translated, this history is always wanting in the new language. Hence the translator's despair. __________________________________________________________________

Perhaps no single verse in Welsh hymnody has such a romantic incident in its history as the one given below, written, as it was, by Williams on the occasion of the memorable Lisbon earthquake:

If Thou would'st end the world, O Lord,
Accomplish first Thy promised word,
And gather home with one accord
From every part Thine own:
Send out Thy word from pole to pole,
And with Thy blood make thousands whole,
Till health has come to every soul,
And after that--come down!

In February, 1797, the French effected a landing near Fishguard, in Pembrokeshire. Napoleon was then a name of terror to England; and the news of the landing spread through the country with the rushing violence of a prairie fire, bringing with it wherever it went an overwhelming sense of doom. Mounted heralds posted through the length and breadth of Wales, without waiting to ascertain the force of the enemy. In every village and town the terrible message was left, and people generally made ready for the bitter end of all things. One of these fiery heralds happened to pass by the Independent Chapel at Rhydybont, Cardiganshire, where a preaching service was being held at the time. Mysteriously he whispered his wild message to some one near the door, and away he went again to scatter broadcast the seeds of a storm. From one to another in the chapel the news mysteriously flashed--the curiosity of those who did not know being almost as tragic as the consternation of those who knew. The preacher was confounded, and he was compelled to stop and ask for the cause of such unseemly commotion. Some one shouted--'The French have landed at Fishguard!' Bad before, it was worse now. Had a lightning struck the house, the panic could scarcely have been more overpowering. No one durst move or speak; the preacher himself sat down in the midst of his sermon utterly overborne. Only one soul was found equal to the occasion--and that a woman's soul. Let the name of Nancy Jones not be forgotten in the chronicles of noble women who have dared and endured. She never for a moment slackened her hold of the Higher Will. She was a true daughter of the Great Revival: a neighbour, too, of David Jones, of Cayo. At many a service before that day her voice had been sweetest and fullest in the fervour of song. She called to the preacher when he stopped--'Go on: if the French are at Fishguard, we have God to take care of us.' But the preacher still declined. A neighbour of hers--David John Edmund by name--was present, remarkable for his gift in prayer. To him she turned next, and asked him to pray. But even he was not one of five that could chase a hundred that day. 'Well, then,' she said, 'give a verse out for us to sing.' No; David John had no heart for so much as that. 'Very well,' this mother in Israel added, 'I shall give out a verse myself, and you start the tune.' Calm and solemn and sweet echoed the words through the building--

If Thou would'st end the world, O Lord,

and so on to the end of the verse. Great was the fall of David John; even his tunes had taken unto themselves wings. She had to start the tune herself; but scarcely had she struck the first notes before her courage with an electric thrill restored the congregation to spiritual consciousness. They joined in the song, of their new Deborah; faith grew more steady and clear; the French were well-nigh forgotten in the glorious inspiration of 'the promised word.' A woman's faith has often in it something of a miracle. __________________________________________________________________