CHAPTER II: MAURICE AND EDWARD KYFFIN--CAPT. MIDDLETON--EDMUND PRYS--DAVID JONES.

MAURICE AND EDWARD KYFFIN--CAPT. MIDDLETON--EDMUND PRYS--DAVID JONES.

A land without hymn or psalm--such seems to have been the condition of Wales at the beginning of the sixteenth century. But the spiritual awakening which resulted in a translation of the whole Bible into Welsh, turned the mind of contemporary poets to the study of hymnology. The first edition of the Welsh Bible was published in 1588; and its appearance heralded the new era of sacred song. There were pious patriots who sorrowed much that while England, Scotland, France, and Italy, had each its voice of praise in the temple of the Christian Faith, 'poor little Wales' stood at the gate, hymnless and forgotten. The first to give public expression to this sorrow was MAURICE KYFFIN; of whom very little is known, except his able translation of Bishop Jewel's Apologia Ecclesiae Anglicanae. It is in the introduction (dated London, 1594) to this book that he laments the absence of song in the church and the home; and remarks--'Whoever beginneth this sacred labour must have understanding of several learned languages, so that he give no word in the rhyme but shall be entirely consonant with the mind of the Holy Ghost. Had I the quiet and leisure which many have, the first thing, and the most desirable pain I would take upon me, were to approach this work, after a conference with the learned men of Wales as to what form and what kind of metre would be best and fittest for such piety.' __________________________________________________________________

Captain Middleton

Even while he was writing thus, another religious patriot, in another part of the world, was making leisure for himself to 'begin the sacred labour.'

This was Captain WILLIAM MIDDLETON, who joined to the congenial task of fighting the Spaniards this gentler exercise of translating the Psalms into the language of his beloved motherland, 'keeping as near as he could to the mind of the Holy Ghost.' No doubt the warlike tones of many of these sacred ballads of the Hebrew nation found a ready response in his heart, as he pursued those whom the theology of the day classified as enemies of the Lord. In 1591, six ships were told off under the command of Admiral Howard to go and plunder a portion of the Spanish fleet on its return with large booty from America. Captain Middleton's ship was one of the six, and he was charged to watch the arrival of the enemy. He found, however, that the Spaniards had obtained large reinforcements to defend their treasure, and the mission of plunder had to be abandoned. The captain, we are told, was worthy of a place, even among the brilliant array of brave soldiers that made England's name a terror to the terrible Armada. But in the midst of his naval duties his heart was secretly devoted to a far nobler purpose. He wanted to give his country the Book of Psalms in verse, that the praise of God might no longer be silent. The work was finished at the Island of Scutum, in the West Indies, on the 24th day of January, 1595. But, alas, for good intentions without due regard to practical results! His metres were all so intricate that no music could fit them, and no mouth could sing them. So the book has always remained a pious failure; one of the many fruitless works of well-meaning devotion which lie on the road to heaven, like broken columns of white marble, covered with dust--of very little value here, but in heaven surely remembered 'for the Name that is dear.'

While the sailor-poet was finishing his version in the West Indies, another kindred spirit at home--EDWARD KYFFIN, supposed by some to be a brother of Maurice--was preparing some of the Psalms 'for such of his beloved countrymen as love the glory of the Lord and the cherishing of their own mother tongue.' In his introduction he is careful to explain, with a touch of true Elizabethan 'sea-divinity,' that Englishmen were not only zealous to rob and kill the Spaniards, but bad also an anxious desire to save their souls; for had they not printed a large number of religious books in Spanish, and distributed them very diligently--when not otherwise engaged? If a foreign nation merited so much Christian consideration, how much more his own nation? for assuredly no people bad been so favoured of God for long centuries, and were they to be last and latest in speaking of His glory?

He only versified thirteen Psalms; but he prays most earnestly that this may be an incitement to some other mind to finish the work: 'hoping that since God has kept us so long, He may have in His thought some chef d'oeuvre and mighty conquest for the increase of His own glory among the ancient Britons, whom He has so miraculously preserved until now in liberty and safety.' The introduction breathes throughout a spirit of exalted devotion: and after three hundred years every sentence seems as if the touch of Heaven were fresh upon it. 'Let no true Welshman give sleep to his eyes or slumber to his eyelids, as the prophet David said, until he has seen the glory of the Lord, by facilitating the completion of this godly task in the language of his own country!' __________________________________________________________________

Edmund Prys

His appeal was not in vain. EDMUND PRYS, before twenty years had passed, published a complete Welsh Psalter. He was an Archdeacon of Merioneth, a man of scholarly attainments, and an eminent poet. Born, about 1541, in the romantic neighbourhood of Harlech, the fellowship of Nature in the charming ruggedness of hill and glen, and in the shining blue of the sea, would establish a community of thought, and of sacred fancy between him and the poet-king of Israel, who read the signature of the Divine hand on every page of creation. I am afraid, nevertheless, that this poetic genius was sometimes scarcely under control. Among all the bardic quarrels of Welsh literature, his quarrel with William Cynwal must be counted as its Iliad. The latter was a smith by trade, and received one day a message in verse from the archdeacon, asking for a steel bow to be sent to a friend, according to promise. The smith--who was also a poet--made a long delay, and sent his excuses back in verse. So the battle began and went on, poem for poem; till the archdeacon began to treble his blows, sending three satires together, and receiving the same number of fiery missiles in return. The archdeacon then thought he would finish his adversary with a fusillade of nine poems, but the sturdy blacksmith was sufficiently alive still to reply with another nine. Three times nine poems was the next intended onslaught, but when the archdeacon had finished sixteen of them, a messenger brought him tidings that his rival had reached the dark and silent land where 'there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom'--nor any noise of warfare! He threw his sword far into the sea, and there and then commenced an elegy bewailing the loss of so brave a foe, so skilful a poet!

So much for the archdeacon's celebrated fight, in which he laboured hard and gained nothing. More profitable is it to chronicle that he found a new mission in the work mapped out by Maurice Kyffin, and already initiated by Edward Kyffin. In turning the whole of the Psalms into verse--and verse that could be sung--he has given all coming ages cause to bless the regeneration of his muse.

It is said that his custom was to prepare a Psalm for each Sunday, to be chanted in the church. His intimate knowledge of Hebrew helped him to give sometimes a better rendering of the original than that even in the Authorized Version of the Welsh Bible. The whole was published in
1621. While the version has suffered somewhat from a lack of variety in its metre, it has nevertheless been, ever since its first appearance, one of the chief treasures of Welsh hymnology. Many a single verse, rugged and massive of form, has done yeoman service on 'the field of Association' (maes y Gymanfa); when, as in the earlier part of the present century, it was uttered by the lips of a John Elias, and taken up by the large assembly in unison, at first in slow and halting tones, gradually rising and swelling, till at last with overwhelming force it seemed to break on the shore of ten thousand souls like the splendid rush and roar of a mighty sea. On occasions like this, a favourite verse of that famous preacher was the archdeacon's rendering of Psalm lvii. 11: 'Be Thou exalted, O God, above the heavens: let Thy glory be above all the earth.' And another--equally appropriate before speaking the eternal word to the great assembly--was the rendering of Psalm cxli. 3: 'Set a watch, O Lord, before my mouth; keep the door of my lips.' How effective such a verse, spoken by such a man in such a place, might be, let the following graphic description of him bear witness--drawn by Gwalchmai, a living poet and preacher:

'Mr. Elias rises up to the desk. He casts a glance over all the congregation. He requests those who stand on the edge of the crowd to close in toward the centre. The sight of him is very striking; his whole aspect is winning; there is a noble dignity in his look; greatness is interwoven with humility in his personal appearance. He comes forward as a general to lead an army--a captain of the host of the Lord; or rather as an ambassador for his King. No one asks to see his seals of office every one reads his authority in his appearance. . . . His thought fills every line, every muscle, every vein in his face. Sparks of fire leap out of his eyes, and still at the same time the most diffident tenderness clothes his countenance. He looks as anxious as if this were to be the last association in which he would ever appear publicly to deliver his message for his great Master; he seems as if he thought that he is on the point of being summoned to render an account to his King; and on that account he commands every feeling, every nerve, every faculty, and every purpose he possesses, to his important and solemn task. He is as if he wanted to make one immortal exploit. To-day or never, to save the souls in his presence! He gives out a verse to sing, with a sonorousness like that of a golden bell in his mouth:

"Set on my mouth a seal, O Lord,
Lest witty word offendeth;
Cover my lips, lest I speak ill
What now Thy will me sendeth."'

The severe, rugged strength of the words in the Welsh original moves like a torrent in its course; and the preacher used the mighty and awful words to bring himself into the current of Divine eloquence. No wonder that, with 'the door' of God upon his lips, his sermon was as the visible fire of heaven.

The above gives some hint of the place taken by the archdeacon's Psalter in the national history. Perhaps a still clearer glimpse of its power is afforded by this memorable incident connected with the singing of his version of Psalm cxxi. 1, 2.

One of the evangelist preachers of the eighteenth century ventured to cross over to Anglesey to publish the glad tidings of God. His appearance was the signal for violent opposition; and how it fared with him on one occasion shall be told in the words of one who ought to know:

'Saul of Tarsus was never more determined to imprison the disciples of Jesus than I, and the persecuting band that had gathered together with staves to meet the Roundhead who was coming to preach at Penmynydd. We had all agreed, if he tried to preach, to make an end of him there and then. When he had arrived, we began to push forwards close to him; and when he had mounted a large stone which stood beside the house, and turned his face toward Carnarvon, and gave out this stanza, to be sung by his scanty followers:

"I lift mine eyes unto the hills
Whence willing help shall come,"

we, supposing him to be expecting some armed men from the hills of Arvon, began to retreat a little. And after consultation, some of us decided to hear what the preacher had to say; and so we went over the fence, and crept slowly and noiselessly under cover of it till we came over against where he stood. He could not see us, and we did not want to see him; but we could hear every word he said as plainly as if we stood beside him. Under that sermon, on the most wonderful day of, my life, I came to know myself as a lost sinner--lost everywhere, and in everything, outside of Jesus Christ, and Him crucified.' __________________________________________________________________

David Jones

A century passed away from the death of Edmund Prys before Providence in its own strange wayfound another sacred poet; this time in the person of a cattle-dealer. DAVID JONES, of Cayo, Caermarthenshire, was accustomed to buy cattle from the fairs about his home, and take them over to Barnet and Maidstone to sell. He had received a fair education in his youth, and being quick-witted and sociable, he soon obtained a considerable command of the English language and so he must have been a rara avis in his native district, when 'no English' was the order of the day. During his travels he picked up many a marvellous tale and choice bit of gossip: this made him a charming and valued guest in the country inns far and near. His ready verse also was 'violin and harp' for merry comrades during the long evenings of winter; or even on the Sabbath day when some festival of devilry was to be held, as was not unfrequently the case. But an unexpected change came over him--came in a simple but wondrous fashion. One Sunday morning, when he was returning from an expedition into England, he caught the sound of singing in the old Independent chapel of Troedrhiwdalar, Breconshire, and was attracted thereby to enter. A message from God was there for him that morning. He left the chapel with the old life of vanity and sin for ever judged; and before him rose the hope of Jesus Christ, like a summer dawn on the hills which sheltered his Vale of Towy. His heart once changed, his poetic talents were soon touched. by the fire from the seraph's hand. The minstrel of the public-house became the sweet singer of Zion. The religion of the day was becoming so profoundly Christ-conscious, that the classical Psalter of Archdeacon Prys was inadequate to express its emotion. But the evangelical Psalter of Dr. Watts had in England largely satisfied this religious fervency. So David Jones gave himself with eager sympathy to the work of translating Dr. Watts' [1]Psalms and Hymns; and in this he achieved decided success.

Many of his verses remain the most popular and homely of all versions of Israel's national songs, and are household treasures of Welsh piety. But he was not satisfied with merely doing the work of a translator: he composed several hymns of permanent merit, touched with the spirit of the Great Revival of the eighteenth century. It was the day when the living gospel had to be preached in some humble cottage or on the public street. Once, when a service was being held near Lampeter, where David Jones had gone, according to his wont, to accompany the evangelist, a band of hired ruffians set on the house and dragged the worshippers out to the street with great violence. There the poet knelt down on the ground, and began to pray. He was a man of prayer; and in that hour of trial every word seemed to find the Almighty God. The persecutors stood still; they were startled; they became terrified. Without waiting further they escaped for their lives, lest they should be smitten by the God of the man who prayed in the street. __________________________________________________________________

[2]Men of the world are asking

It was the day of religious ecstasy. He himself used to break out sometimes into exalted expressions of religious fervour, praising God aloud in the assembly, and 'laughing tears' in the vision of Divine Love. Belonging, as he did, to the 'dry Dissenters'--a term of contempt applied to the quieter religionists of the day--he was sometimes called to task by his brethren for what they considered his extravagance. His reply to all such accusations is given in some characteristic verses, of which the following is a free translation:

Men of the world are asking,
Much wondering at me,
When I my Lord am praising,
'What can this folly be?'
I am released from bondage,
And though the mockers throng,
The precious blood of Jesus
Shall always be my song.
A cloud once darkened o'er me,
No praises could I sing;
Sin and its guilty sorrow
Pierced through me with its sting:
But that has been removèd,
And all its weight of pain--
The precious blood of Jesus
I sing, and sing again.
I stood at Sinai trembling,
Where God upon me frowned;
Dark threatenings broke in thunders,
The lightning flashed around:
I came to peaceful Zion--
How can I songless be?--
The precious blood of Jesus
Is all the world to me.
What, though I leap rejoicing?
Sweet reverence guides my thought;
Like David's godly dancing
When home the ark was brought;
Or, like the lame man's rapture,
Healed at the temple gate--
The precious blood of Jesus

Brought health and good estate. __________________________________________________________________

[3]Come, brethren, unite

Another simple and earnest hymn of his is the following:

Come, brethren, unite
In holy delight,

To praise our Belovèd--redemption's great Light:

How sweet is the care
His love to declare--
That He should our chastisement faithfully bear.
Great God upon high,
The Lord from the sky,
He came as a Lamb without blemish, to die!
While under the sun,
Our duty is one--
To publish the merits and gifts of the Son.
A poor man He came,
Enduring our shame,
To be our Redeemer--our Brother by name:
Declare His renown,
The rights of His crown--

His life for the sheep hath the Shepherd laid down!

His blood hath made peace,
And brought us release;
And now the old bondage for ever must cease:
Who trust in His might
He leads into light;

Nor can any enemy break on His right. __________________________________________________________________