Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, IN WILD WALES: 2. AT THE MEETING FIELD, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

IN WILD WALES: 2. AT THE MEETING FIELD, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Here is the complement of what I saw
Last Line: Sufficed for all who came, and they were fed.
Subject(s): Wales; Welshmen; Welshwomen


HERE is the complement of what I saw
When late I sojourned in the halls of song,
The greater stronger Force, the higher Law,
Of those which carry Cymric souls along.

No dim Cathedral's fretted aisles were there,
No gay pavilion fair, with banners hung:
The eloquent pleading voice, the deep hymns sung,
The bright sun, and the clear unfettered air.

These were the only ritual, this the fane,
A poor fane doubtless and a feeble rite
For those who find religion in dim light,
Strange vestments, incensed air, and blazoned pane.

But the rapt crowd, the reverent mute throng,
When the vast listening semi-circle round,
Rang to the old man's voice serenely strong,
Or swept along in stormy bursts of sound.

Where found we these in temples made with hands?
Where, the low moan which marks the awakened soul?
Where, this rude eloquence whose strong waves roll
Deep waters, swift to bear their Lord's commands?

Where found we these? 'neath what high fretted dome?
I know not. I have knelt 'neath many, yet
Have heard few words so rapt and burning come,
Nor marked so many eyes divinely wet,

As here I knew -- "What will you do, oh friends,
When life ebbs fast and the dim light is low,
When sunk in gloom the day of pleasure ends,
And the night cometh, and your being runs slow,

And nought is left you of your revelries,
Your drunken nights, your wantonness, your ill --
And lo! the last dawn rises cold and chill,
And lo! the lightning of All-seeing eyes,

What will you do?" And when the low voice ceased,
And from the gathered thousands surged the hymn,
Some strong power choked my voice, my eyes grew dim.
I knew that old man eloquent, a priest.

There is a consecration not of man,
Nor given by laid-on hands nor acted rite,
A priesthood fixed since the firm earth began,
A dedication to the eye of Light,

And this is of them. What the form of creed
I care not, hardly the fair tongue I know,
But this I know, that when the concourse freed
From that strong influence, went sedate and slow,

I thought when on the Galilean shore
By the Great Priest the multitudes were led,
The bread of life, miraculously more,
Sufficed for all who came, and they were fed.





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