And must I be the only one to sing
Thy dear loved name? and must the task be mine,
To the insensate mind thy name to bring?
Oh! how I grieve to think, when songs divine
Have echoed to thy praises night and day,
I can but offer thee so poor a lay.
THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.
BY GORONWY OWAIN.
[This poet, who was born in 1722, obtained great celebrity in Wales; he
was a native of Anglesea, and entered the Welsh Church, but removed to
Donington in Shropshire, where he officiated as Curate for several years.
There the following poem was composed and afterwards translated by the
poet. The poem has been copied from a MS of the poet, and is now, it is
believed, published for the first time.]
Almighty God thy heavenly aid bestow,
O'er my rapt soul bid inspiration flow;
Let voice seraphic, mighty Lord, be mine,
Whilst I unfold this awful bold design.
No less a theme my lab'ring breast inspires,
Than earth's last throes and overwhelming fires,
Than man arising from his dark abode
To meet the final sentence of his God!
The voice of ages, yea of every clime,
The hoary records of primeval time;
The saints of Christ in glowing words display,
The dread appearance of that fateful day!
Oh! may the world for that great day prepare
With ceaseless diligence and solemn care,
No human wisdom knows, no human power
Can tell the coming of that fatal hour.
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