Tudalen:Yr athrawes o ddifrif.pdf/95

Oddi ar Wicidestun
Neidio i'r panel llywio Neidio i'r bar chwilio
Prawfddarllenwyd y dudalen hon

The sorrowing Pilgrim here below,
Lives on a foreign strand;
He travels hard from day to day
To reach that better land:
A heavy burden loads his breast,
But there remaineth yet a rest.

Sweet to the wayworn traveller
Afar in deserts drear,
The sound of rippling rivulets,
And streams which murmur near ;
Yes sweet, how sweet to his parched lip,
The life- reviving draught to sip.

And when beneath some friendly shade,
He steals from mid the throng ;
How sweet to feel the breezes play,
The rustling leaves among ,
Or 'neath a scorching sky to feel
The Zephyrs o'er his forehead steal.

'Tis sweet at noon to rest from toil,
Neath trees whose ripened fruit
Invites the weary passenger
His spirits to recruit ;
While overhead from many a tree,
He hears a pleasing melody,

But better than the streams which flow
In the parched wilderness,
And sweeter than to feel the breeze
Play on his burning face ;
Better than all the fruits, to taste ,
That there remaineth yet a rest.

Ah ! many a gay and flowery bed
Would tempt our wandering feet,
Where pleasure spreads her choicest flowers,
And sheds each dangerous sweet
Garlands of roses here she weaves,
But serpents lurk amid the leaves .

There's not on this deceitful earth
One solid resting place ;
Oh ! who can make my burthen light,
Or help my hopeless case ?
'This world at break of day was fair,
'Tis now the dwelling of despair .