Eisteddai teithiwr blin

  Eisteddai teithiwr blin
    Ar lan yr afon ddu,
  A'i lusern yn ei law
    Ddysgleiriai ar y lli;
Yn ngoleu hon fe wêl y lan,
Ac engyl fyrdd o gylch y fan!

  Wrth ddisgyn at y dŵr,
    Hyd risiau
          brenin braw,
  Fe ddeil ei lamp o hyd
    Yn oleu yn ei law!
Gall teulu'r lan,
      er brig y dòn,
Ei wel'd yn d'od wrth lewyrch hon!

  Adnebydd yn eu plith
    Ei Archoffeiriad cu,
  Yn d'od i lan y dwr
    I dori grym y lli;
Ac â i wlad
      lle na raid cael
Byth lusern mwy,
      na goleu haul!

  A weary traveller would sit
    On the bank of the black river,
  With his lantern in his hand
    Which would shine on the flow;
In this light he sees the bank,
And a myriad angels around the place!

  On descending to the water,
    As far as the stairs
          of the king of terror,
  He still holds his lamp
    As a light in his hand!
The family of the bank can,
      despite the crest of the wave,
See him coming by this gleam!

  Recognised among them
    His dear High Priest,
  Coming up the water
    To break the force of the flow;
And he goes to the land
      where no need is had
Ever of a lantern any more,
      nor light of sun!

  A weary pilgrim sat,
    Above a gloomy stream,
  A lamp he firmly held
    Shed round a cheerful gleam:
It showed that river's farther banks,
Crowded with wistful spirit ranks.

  He cometh to the stream,
    Adown
          a rough ravine,
  The lamp still in his hand
    By friends above is seen;
And friends beyond can
      see him come,
His lamp reveals him through the gloom.

  Now mid the rushing tide,
    The Faithful One he sees
  With arms spread open wide,
    To bear him into Peace:
And in the world where he is gone,
They need no lamp nor light of sun.

  Down to that gloomy stream,
    Creeps one in wild dismay;
  The light of earthly joy
    Fades gently, fades away:
There echo through the dismal shade,
Strange sounds by hideous monsters made.

  The lamp he holds goes out -
    O who can speak his pain!
  For never shall he see
    Its needed light again:
Victorious Death there boastful bides,
Twin Darkness his loud horror hides.

  He lists with bated breath
    Some friendly foot to hear,
  With whispered word of hope,
    Or lighted lamp draw near:
But foot of succour none doth sound,
While taunting demons sport around.

  At length with piteous groan
    He stumbles to the flood, -
  A mortal made to know
    The frowning love of God:
He sinks, he swims; now, all is o'er:
Hope must forsake him ever more.

also: A weary traveller
    Howell Elvet Lewis (Elfed) 1860-1953
    Sweet Singers of Wales 1889