CHAPTER VII: HUGH JONES--EDWARD JONES--PEDR FARDD--R. AB GWILYM DDU.

HUGH JONES--EDWARD JONES--PEDR FARDD--R. AB GWILYM DDU.

The sacred singers grouped together in this chapter had one quality in common: they were extravagantly fond of intricate rhymes and peculiar metres. This has seriously limited the use of their hymns, except in rare instances. Like Captain Middleton's Psalter, the greatest portion of their verse is so much fruitless piety; leaving, however, a saving remainder of serviceable work.

HUGH JONES (of Maesglasau), son of a well-to-do farmer, was born in the neighbourhood of Dinas Mawddwy, Merioneth, in the year 1749. He spent the life of a literary recluse, devoting himself and losing his money in enriching the literature of Wales. Among the books he translated into Welsh were the works of Josephus. He also interested himself in church psalmody, and wrote several psalm-tunes. His name lives, however, more in one hymn he wrote than in all his other work. The following is an attempted rendering of it: __________________________________________________________________

[51]Hugh Jones
Remove
The veil in this dear Mount of love,
And let the sun stand still above
Where once, reprovèd and beshrewed,
The Lamb of God was made to feel
The piercing steel, for my great good.
For me
No refuge anywhere can be,
But in His wounds on Calvary:
A fount I see in that dear side
Which hath received the cruel spear--
My soul, draw near the healing tide.
Mine, mine,
The virtue of that cross of Thine,
To cleanse my soul from evil sign:
The woe divine--the tearful plea
Incessant at the throne of light--
Have won the right of heaven for me.
Oh, cleanse
My life of every sinful sense
In that pure stream of innocence--
My sole defence and benison:
Its tide shall never ebb again,

But shall remain when time is done. __________________________________________________________________

Edward Jones (Maesyplwm)

EDWARD JONES (Maesyplwm) was born near the town of Denbigh, March 19,
1761. He had the misfortune to lose his father when about ten years old, and the far worse misfortune--to come in early youth under the influences of evil companionship. He was twenty-six years old before be joined a Christian church, being one out of about fifteen members of the Calvinistic Methodist communion who were accustomed to hold their services in the parlour of a farmhouse. From that time he became a very useful worker. In spite of having received but few advantages of early education, he had used his native talent so wisely as to be able to add to the occupation of a farmer that of a village schoolmaster. He was more or less a verse-maker from his childhood, amusing his father with making verses when, a boy of six, he led the oxen at the plough. He died at Cilcain, near Mold, December 27, 1836. One of his carols was a great favourite of the famous Welsh preacher, Christmas Evans, who used at times to repeat portions of it in his sermons with most powerful effect. The hymn rendered below is one of his best; __________________________________________________________________

[52]Edward Jones (Maesyplwm)
All heaven and earth are filled with God,
Hell knows His present sight;
Eternity is His abode,
His name the Infinite:
He fills all distances of space,
And reigns almighty as He lists;
His years, His strength can grow no less,
He in Himself exists.
Existing in Himself, before
He framed the depth, the height,
Beyond the past eternal shore,
He was the Infinite;
Without beginning of His days,
No end of life to Him can be;
Eternal still in all His ways,
The Perfect Trinity.
There is no measure of His grace,
And therefore it is well;
We have been told His wondrous praise,
His rule invisible:
And as we heard, so have we seen
The endless marvels of His plan:
Unchangeable His truth has been,
Though great the sin of man.
No spirit bright is left to faint,
Of His regard denied;
No angel, no redeemèd saint
But in His care abide:
Each in His presence stands revealed,
To His good pleasure consecrate;
Their comely praise to Him they yield,
And magnify their state.
We too on earth are seen to stand
For ever in His sight;
We live in Him, we feel His hand
In darkness as in light:
He knows what secret sin we bear,
He watches all we do amiss;
For at each moment everywhere
In heaven and earth He is.
Each evil thought or good unknown
Lies open to His eye;
He hears the sigh, the silent moan,
As well as terror's cry:
He takes the heart of man to read,
He knows how empty each design:
The wish undone is as a deed,
Writ in the book divine.
My soul, thou art a Father's care,
He sees thy purpose weak:
Thou hast a Brother pleading there
Before thou ever speak:
Thy Father--He will not despise
To hear desire's softest call;
Although thy lips be dumb, His eyes
Can see and pity all.
When in some secret place I mourn
Beneath some cross of care,
By heavy burdens overborne,
Too hard for me to bear;
One memory will cheer me still--
To God's dear Son my state is known;
I shall not always bear this ill,

A better life will dawn. __________________________________________________________________

Peter Jones (Pedr Fardd)

PETER JONES (Pedr Fardd) was born in the parish of Dolbemnaen, Caernarvonshire, May 7, 1775; but in his early youth he removed to Liverpool, and spent the remainder of his days there till his death on the 26th of January, 1845. He was connected with the Welsh Calvinistic Church at Pall Mall, and exercised a large power for good among his countrymen in the city. He was especially a friend and teacher of young men, both in literature and religion. One of his best known hymns is a hymn of youth: __________________________________________________________________

[53]Peter Jones (Pedr Fardd)
Now let the firstfruits of our days
Be sacred to the Saviour's praise;
The pleasure of His work is more
Than earth can bring from all its store.
Early beneath His yoke to be
Is better far than vanity;
The paths of wisdom yield each day
The peace that passeth not away.
Oh! that my youth were wholly spent
Beneath His yoke in calm content:
For He who bought me on the tree

Owns every hour of life from me. __________________________________________________________________

[54]Peter Jones (Pedr Fardd)

From among his more mechanical hymns the following is chosen:

Sweet streams of pleasantness
Came flowing free,
Our stricken life to bless,
From heaven's decree:
Salvation's early thought
Passed o'er the desert place,
And thousand blessings brought--
Oh! wondrous grace!
Christ made His very own
Our mortal frame,
And for His saints He won
A glorious claim:
Of His good-will came He
To take a servant's place
Fruit of the great decree--
Oh! wondrous grace!
Our Helper in our stead
Was sacrificed;
He bruised the serpent's head--
Our Rock is Christ:
Ended is sin's control;
We yet shall see His face,
His likeness in our soul--
Oh! wondrous grace!
Grapes from the thorns were found
Upon the cross;
Balm from the cruel wound,
To heal His foes:
Soon shall our song arise,
In endless joy of praise,
To Christ, our Sacrifice--

Oh! wondrous grace! __________________________________________________________________

Robert Williams (R. ab Gwilym Ddu)

ROBERT WILLIAMS (R. ab Gwilym Ddu) was born in the parish of Llanystundwy, Caernarvonshire, in the year 1767. He spent his life on his own farm, removed far from the world, in the company of Arvon's mountains. His days seem to have passed by evenly till the death of his only daughter, the child of his old age, in her seventeenth year. His heart never recovered from the sorrow; and the elegy he wrote on her death is an expression of most vivid grief. He and another famous bard--Dewi Wyn o Eifion--were Baptists; and by their efforts a chapel was built, which still goes by the name of 'The Bards' Chapel.' He died June 11, 1850. The original of the following hymn has woven itself around some of the tenderest recollections of Welsh communion services: __________________________________________________________________

[55]Robert Williams (R. ab Gwilym Ddu)
From age to age the memory
Of Jesu's blood grows fonder;
Too short eternity will be
To tell of all its wonder.
The chiefest theme of heavenly song
Is Jesu's dying glory;
In highest hymn each harp is strong
To tell again the story.
The virtue of His sufferings,
His grief in our restoring,
Sound louder on celestial strings
Than seraphim adoring.
The song will but begin to rise
When ages vast are over;
For ever shall His sacrifice
New miracles discover.
When these shall reach the sacred hill,
The sons of tribulation;
Then every string Divine shall thrill
With louder exultation.
The music shall for ever swell,
Host unto host replying;
But oh! the song will never tell

The worth of Jesus dying. __________________________________________________________________