Welsh Journals

The Hedd In a recent issue we expressed the Wyn desirability of forming a National Com- Memorial mittee to take in hand the work of erecting a suitable monument to the shepherd- poet who made the supreme sacrifice on Pilkem Ridge, and whose poem to The Hero won the chair at the Birkenhead National Eisteddfod after the death of the young poet. We are glad to be able to announce that such a National Committee has now been formed. Major David Davies, M.P., has kindly consented to be its chair- man, Sir Vincent Evans, F.R.Hist.S., 64, Chancery Lane, London, its Treasurer, and Mr. R. Silyn Roberts, M.A., the Appointments Board for Wales, University Registry, Cathays Park, Cardiff, its Secretary. Subscriptions may also be sent to Secretary, Welsh Outlook, 43, Penarth Road, Cardiff, and we propose in our next issue to publish the first list of subscribers. It is hoped to collect a substantial sum of money and erect a Memorial Library at Trawsfynydd. with a statue of the Poet, and also, if the fund allows, something still more ambitious. We earnestly appeal to all lovers of Welsh literature and admirers of Hedd Wyn for substantial subscriptions. The works of the young poet are also in the press and will shortly appear in a handsome volume. Copies can be obtained from Mr. J. R. Jones, Llys Addysg, Trawsfynydd, North Wales. "Musician?" he asked, divining by certain words in the pocket-book that the Bavarian was a musician in civil life. A sad look crept into the prisoner's eyes. He raised his hands and held them a little distance from his lips, and moved his fingers rapidly then he curved his left arm and drew his right slowly backwards and forwards across in front of his body. We understood he played the flute and violin I dressed his wound in silence. The bullet had blown away part of the man's jaw, and he could not speak." Patrick MacGill. Have you turned your music down MUSIC'S REMONSTRANCE. That you waste the living blood Heaven gave High Germany To quicken Mozart's mood And hearten Bach's renown ? For the music in a man That war thinks nothing worth Can bring High Germany More majesty and mirth Than many warships can. And the craft in one right hand That can with flute or strings Make lovely melody And the voice that hymns and sings, Can save the fatherland. But what of them, made old With war-condemned to death,- Llyn y Fan One of the most pleasing of recent An Offer to incidents in connection with Welsh our Readers popular literature has been the publica- tion of Llyn y Fan, translated by Sir John Morris Jones and illustrated in colour by Miss Margaret Lindsay Williams. This beautiful booklet is the first of what we hope will be a series of finely produced publications for the use of our schools. We are glad to be able to announce to our readers that we have made arrange- ments with the two gentlemen to whose enterprise this publication is due-Messrs. J. Evan and Edward E. Morris, of Liverpool-to distribute the booklet at the cost of postage only. We shall be glad to receive applications from teachers in elementary, secondary and Sunday schools, and from the secretaries of Literary Societies for copies. No objection will be raised to a small charge, not exceeding 6d. per copy, being made should it be desired to sell copies to the children, and it is suggested that any sums so raised should be sent either to Mrs. Lloyd George, 10, Downing Street, London, for The Welsh National Fund, or to Mr. R. J. Thomas, Garreglwyd, Holyhead, for the North Wales Heroes' Memorial. Applications should be addressed to the Secretary, the Welsh Outlook, Cardiff, and postage must be prepaid as under 10 6d. 20 7d. 50 Is.4d. ioo 25.8d. No more than 100 copies can be sent to a single school. Those sons of harmony 5 copies 5d. That you have laid beneath The suffocating mould ? And what will you reply When the song-lovers turn Hating High Germany, That made the cities burn, And broke with minstrelsy ? Ernest Rhys. MY CAPTAIN. I have not grieved, though he be dead. Bending over him in death Something he gave me as he fled- Something from his dying breath That lingers with me still. A firmer faith, a more enduring creed, A resignation to the greater need, The larger will. And dead, not to me lost So utterly. The slow dawn wakes A hundred broken lights are tos't From dewy grass, and trees, and far lakes. And from the great heart's cove there breaks A thought, intuitive and dim, That he is of all things, all things of him. I have not grieved, though he be dead, For dying, he hath purged my fear. Content to follow where he led, I tremble not-he stands so near. Howell Davies.