CHAPTER IX: HIRAETHOG-EMRYS-ISLWYN.

HIRAETHOG-EMRYS-ISLWYN.

In some respects the Rev. Dr. William Rees (Hiraethog) ranks as the greatest Welshman of the nineteenth century. Preacher and lecturer, journalist and reformer, poet and essayist, there are whole pages in the national history of Wales covered with his broad and sturdy handwriting. But his poetical genius was too massive to produce hymns of the first order. Most of them lack the smoothness of expression and neatness of form so necessary in the making of a good hymn.

One of the gifts of his muse is a new poetical version of the Psalms. How the ministry of affliction helped him to accomplish this undertaking is told in his own words:

'Failing health kept me almost wholly at home during the winter and spring of 1872-3, even as late as the middle of the month of April scarcely venturing out of the house, except on the Sabbath. I consecrated every hour of every day that my weary nature could endure, through the space of the time mentioned, to the task of completing what remained of this work, together with attending to the calls of the pulpit:--and when the clock was striking four, in the afternoon of Friday, March 21, 1873, I was letting the pen out of my hand, having written the last line of the versification. It would not be easy for me to forget how I felt that moment. I gave thanks from my heart, I believe, to the Father of all mercies for having suffered me to live to see this labour completed; and I tried to dedicate it to the blessing of Him who had supported and strengthened me to carry it through, with a degree of confidence that some might derive benefit and pleasure from its perusal through that blessing. Many a time when, suffering and afflicted, I was at the task, I thought of the words of the Psalmist--"Unless Thy law had been my delights, I should then have perished in mine affliction." So I said:--Had the Psalms not been my delights, I would have perished, from suffering of body and depression of spirit, many a day during that season when I was like Paul, to some extent as it were a prisoner in my own hired house.'

Of the two Psalters of the present century that of Nicander is more marked for smoothness; but that of Hiraethog possesses more originality, and makes, a very useful companion of the Psalms in the study. __________________________________________________________________

[62]William Rees (Hiraethog)

The hymn-poem of which a version is given below gains an additional interest from the undertone of personal experience easily recognized among the broader movements of a universal theme. its dramatic cast, however, renders it, like his Psalter, more useful for private devotion than for public worship. It has found its way into most of the later hymn-books of Wales, and is known far and wide.

The Search of a Tired Soul for Rest.
I went searching through creation
For my soul a place of rest--
Disappointment and vexation
Everywhere repaid my quest.
From the world and flesh to tempt me
Came a thousand promised joys;
But I found them false and empty,
Lying dreams and gilded toys.
Then I asked the white and holy
Angel--thousands of the skies--
'With a sinner poor and lowly
Have you one will sympathize?'
Gabriel answered my appealing--
'Not with us; no, there is none
That can have a fellow-feeling
With a soul unclean--undone!
Hope in utter darkness vanished,
And I cried in agony--
'All deliverance is banished!
It is over now with me!'
Stormy clouds on Sinai setting,
And my spirit trembling sore--
Oh! there can.be no forgetting
Of that anguish evermore!
On the throne of high possession,
Through my tears at last I see,
In His robes of intercession,
Him who bowed the head for me:
'There He is!' my soul exclaimèd,
'I can read it in His face--
He will never be ashamèd
To receive me in His grace.'
To His throne my soul proceeded,
Deigning at His feet to fall;
And for love and pardon pleaded
Through the blood that saveth all:

'What?'--I mused--'Should I conceal it,

All this grief and broken cheer?
Hide the wound while He can heal it?
It is Christ!--why need I fear?'
When I opened, slowly, sadly,
My dark bosom, sin-oppressed,
Then He opened quickly, gladly,
For my shelter His own breast:
All my burden He removèd,
Yea, He gave me full release;
With the smile of my Belovèd
Came the joy of perfect peace.
Body, spirit, now I owe Him,
I belong to Him henceforth--
Oh, that I might live to show Him
Everywhere in all His worth!
When I join the host surrounding
His serene, eternal throne,
I shall sing of grace abounding,

And the song shall be His own. __________________________________________________________________

[63]William Rees (Hiraethog)

The other hymn of his we give has for its theme Christ weeping over Jerusalem (Luke xix. 28-48).

Lo, He wept! Who, then, is He?
Christ the Lord! What shall we say?
Thousands wept before; but see
God as Man in tears to-day.
Lo, He wept! And why should He?
Oh, not for Himself one tear!
It was human misery
That had touched His soul so near.
Lo, He wept! And all around
See the crowd exulting leaps;
Loud and far the songs resound;
They rejoice--He only weeps.
Lo, He wept! He sees the doom
Of the city close at hand:
Soon to fall in awful gloom,
In the fire a burning brand!
Lo, He wept! What love hath He
For His enemies revealed!
Tears of gentle charity--
'Tis the heart of God unsealed.
Lo, He wept! Ah, sinner, see--
See, the tears are falling fast!
He of pity wept for thee--
And wilt thou not weep at last?

Dr. Rees was born in the month of November, 1802, at the foot of Hiraethog Hill, near Denbigh. It was in the same month, eighty-one years later, that he fell asleep in the city of Chester. 'The search of a tired soul for rest' came to an end, when the Saviour met him at the door and asked him to come in. __________________________________________________________________

William Ambrose (Emrys)

A close friend and fellow-worker of the last was the Rev. WILLIAM AMBROSE (Emrys). He was born at the Penrhyn Arms Hotel, Bangor, August 10, 1813. The course of his life was even and calm as the flowing of a river through a level land, his death alone adding an incident of startling impressiveness to his earthly story. He was preaching in his own pulpit at Portmadoc on Sunday, April 27, 1873. For some time he had been suffering much from the effect of a paralytic stroke; but that was a day of marked power, and the people felt the peculiar nearness of the spirit land. The text of the evening sermon was Isaiah vii. 15: 'For thus saith the High and Lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell in the high and the holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones.' It was a remarkably powerful sermon; and hundreds were rejoicing that night in the hope of restored eloquence and further guiding of their soul through him into the doctrine of Jesus Christ. But he had scarcely come down from the pulpit when he was seen to grow pale and lean heavily back. It was the final stroke--the hand of death was laid upon him as he was coming out of the shining cloud. For six months he lingered; and all that time the silver tongue was speechless. It was on the 31st of October, the same year, that the silent Hand once more was laid upon him, and more heavily. But it was only to make his spirit free, and to lead him to the land where the word of eloquence can never be hushed any more. __________________________________________________________________

[64]William Ambrose (Emrys)

His poetry, like his life, is beautifully clear and tranquil. This hymn, for instance does it not sound like the footsteps of the Spirit of Peace in the house of life?

Give me quiet resting-places,
Lord, beneath the shade of palms;
Where the heavenly pilgrims gather,
Where they sing their joyful psalms:
There they linger to make mention
Of Thy faithfulness and grace,
Till their sorrows are forgotten
In the pleasure of Thy praise.
Happy is the brethren's discourse,
As they seek the better land;
Not an evil tongue to flatter,
Nor a traitor's cruel hand:
Heavenly dew on each experience,
Words of faith in glad refrain--
All are filled with sweet home-longing,
Where the end is glorious gain.
Lord, until we reach uphold us!
It is but a little while;
When the journey darkly closes
Let Thy sunlight on us smile:
Let the breezes of the Home-land
Meet us in the valley's gloom;
Till our feet are safely treading

Hills of light and fadeless bloom. __________________________________________________________________

William Thomas (Islwyn)

The Rev. WILLIAM THOMAS (Islwyn) was born at Mynydd-islwyn, in the county of Monmouth, April 3, 1832. His life was spent in the secluded and undisturbed neighbourhood of his birth; and there he died November 20, 1878. Purposing in his early youth to become a land surveyor, at the age of twenty-two the inward impulse led him to the pulpit. He was ordained at Llangeitho Association in 1859, but he never took a pastoral charge. He suffered much from melancholy. In consequence his preaching engagements were not kept as faithfully as they should have been. Sometimes an elder would announce him in the following significant terms: 'Islwyn will preach here next Sunday--if he comes.' __________________________________________________________________

[65]William Thomas (Islwyn)

His poetry stands among the best in Welsh literature, deeply tinged as it is with the unfamiliar idealizings of a mystic soul. Only three of his hymns are published. The one given below has already found a place in the hymnody of the Welsh Church, and has its record among the songs ordained of the Holy Spirit to give stay and patience of hope to the righteous in the hour of sorrow and death.

See, my soul, the land of brightness
Far above the clouds of time;
Where the breeze with balmy lightness
Bloweth through a genial clime;
Joyful thousands!
Moving in its rest serene.
Life has there its crystal fountains,
Peace--whose rivers softly flow,
To refresh its vales and mountains,
To immortalize its glow;
And salvation
On the sunny shores is breathed.
Never can a mortal arrow
On its nearest province fall:
Death's dominion is but narrow--
There it cometh not at all:
Life abundant;
Immortality at home!
Every breeze of winter changes
On the shore to heavenly calm;
O'er its fields no sorrow ranges,
Every sigh becomes a psalm:
Into Jordan
Falls the last most bitter tear.
There--there is not one that mourneth,
There--there is not any sad;
There--the gall to honey turneth,
There--the bound is free and glad:
Joyful thousands!
There abiding evermore!
Now my heart is filled with blessing,
And a sacred joy is mine,
In the hope of soon possessing
That inheritance Divine:
Joyful thousands!

Drawing near that promised land! __________________________________________________________________