From Goronwy Owen.

Old Homer, Grecian bard divine,
He Muses had, the tuneful Nine,
Of Goddesses a lovely quire,
Full like to Jove their heavenly Sire;
But their inventing song and strain
Is but a minstrel vision vain,
Nor in their birth, so proud and high,
I ween is more reality.

One Muse there was and one alone,
No fabled lustre round her shone,
With this fair girl the maiden band
Of Homer unconnected stand.

A different birth I claim for her,
Far older she than Jupiter;
The youths of heaven felt her power
In heavenly residence of yore;
And from her dwelling blest may she
To a vile man propitious be.
Grant to me, Lord, of her a share,
That I to sing her praise may dare.
Better thy help it were to gain
Than thousand, thousand tongues obtain.
I’ll tell ye where a strain was sung
Ere in its orb earth’s bullet swung,
Ere ocean had obtain’d its doors
Which hold confin’d its watery stores,
And of the world th’ Almighty made
The firm foundation yet was laid.

When at the word th’ Almighty said
The heaven above abroad was spread,
The morning stars in beauty bold,
Arose a concert high to hold.
Yes, yes, the beauteous morning train
Arose to sing a triumph strain.
When ended was the work sublime
They rose to sing a second time.
Thousands of heaven’s brightest powers
Assembled from their azure bowers.
The sons of heaven unitedly
Pour’d out a hymn of harmony.

Completed is thy work, O God;
Wise are the courses by Thee trod,
Master of all Eternity.
O who is great and wise like Thee?
No organ’s voice in sacred fane
E’er rivall’d that celestial strain;
A million accents all divine,
But different all, therein combine.
Of angel voices the accord
Downward pierc’d and upward soar’d.
The wandering stars who heard the strain
Into their orbits leapt again.
And louder, louder as it peal’d,
The arch of heaven shook and reel’d.
Down from the heaven’s lofty blue
To this low world the accents flew,
In Paradise’s blissful bound.
Our Father Adam heard the sound;
Delighted man’s first father hears
The praise and music of the spheres;
To imitate the strain he tries,
And soon succeeds in gallant guise.
Delighted was his Eva dear
His good and pleasant song to hear;
Eva sang, so fair of feature;
Adam sang, tall noble creature.
Both sang from their green retreat
To God until the hour of heat.
From five past noon descanted they
Till disappeared the orb of day.

Young Abel’s song was clear and mild,
And free from bursts of passion wild;
But fiercely harsh the ditty rang
Which Cain, red-handed ruffian, sang.
The gentle Muse you’ll never find
United to a cruel mind;
The Almighty God this gift bestows
On breasts alone where virtue glows.
A thing of ancient date is song,
A muse to Moses did belong;
A muse—a sample of its power
He gave when quitting Egypt’s shore.
A hundred sang, and with renown,
Ere we arrive at David down;
He sang like heaven’s minstrel prime,
And harmony compos’d sublime.
’Twas he who framed the blessed psalms,
To souls distrest those sovereign balms;
He also many a deathless air
Produc’d from harp and dulcimer;
Mov’d with his hand the Muse along,
That hand so fair and yet so strong.
Soon as the blush of morn appear’d,
The anointed poet’s voice was heard:
“Awake, my harp,” so sang the King,
“A sweet and fitting song to sing;
Glory I’ll give with tongue and chord,
Glory and praise to heaven’s Lord.”
His like ne’er was, and ne’er will be,
For music and for minstrelsy.

A Muse, and wondrous sweet its tone,
There was again to Solomon.
He sang in Judah’s brightest days
A wondrous song, the lay of lays.
His Rose of Sharon all must love,
The lily and the hawthorn grove.
To his effusion sweet belongs
A station next to David’s songs.
The offspring of a pious Muse
The Almighty God will not refuse,
Showing his loving kindness clear
To us his lowly children here.

In halls of heaven so bright and sheen
The power of song is great, I ween;
When there above in mighty quire
With us shall join heaven’s host entire,
The one high God to glorify,
Commingle then shall earth and sky.

O what a blest employ to raise
Our voices in our Maker’s praise!
Let’s learn, my friends, the fitting song,
To sing it we may hope ere long
Above in courts where angels be,
Above where all is harmony,
And ne’er shall cease our anthem then
Of Holy, Holy Praise. Amen.