From the Ancient British.
Within my mindI hold books confin’d,Of Europa’s land all the mighty lore;O God of heaven high!With how many a bitter sigh,I my prophecy upon Troy’s line{73b}pour:
A serpent coiling,And with fury boiling,From Germany coming with arm’d wings spread,Shall Britain fair subdueFrom the Lochlin ocean blue,To where Severn rolls in her spacious bed.
And British menShall be captives thenTo strangers from Saxonia’s strand;From God they shall not swerve,They their language shall preserve,But except wild Wales, they shall lose their land.
From the Ancient British.
Talieson was a foundling, discovered in his infancy lying in a coracle, on a salmon-weir, in the domain of Elphin, a prince of North Wales, who became his patron. During his life he arrogated to himself a supernatural descent and understanding, and for at least a thousand years after his death he was regarded by the descendants of the ancient Britons in the character of a prophet or something more. The poems which he produced procured for him the title of “Bardic King;” they display much that is vigorous and original, but are disfigured by mysticism and extravagant metaphor; one of the most spirited of them is the following, which the Author calls his “Hanes” or history.
The head Bard’s place I holdTo Elphin, Chieftain bold;The country of my birthWas the Cherubs’ land of mirth;I from the prophet JohnThe name of Merddin won;And now the Monarchs allMe Taliesin call.
My inspiration’s{74}flameFrom Cridwen’s cauldron came;Nine months was I in gloomIn Sorceress Cridwen’s womb;Though late a child—I’m nowThe Bard of splendid brow{75};When roar’d the deluge dark,I with Noah trod the Ark.
By the sleeping man I stoodWhen the rib grew flesh and blood.To Moses strength I gaveThrough Jordan’s holy wave;The thrilling tongue was ITo Enoch and Elie;I hung the cross upon,Where died the .....................
A chair of little rest’Bove the Zodiac I prest,Which doth ever, in a sphere,Through three elements career;I’ve sojourn’d in Gwynfryn,In the halls of Cynfelyn;To the King the harp I play’d,Who Lochlyn’s sceptre sway’d.
With the Israelites of yoreI endur’d a hunger sore;In Africa I stray’dEre was Rome’s foundation laid;Now hither I have hiedWith the race of Troy to bide;In the firmament I’ve beenWith Mary Magdalen.
I work’d as mason-lordWhen Nimrod’s pile up-soar’d;I mark’d the dread reboundWhen its ruins struck the ground;When strode to victory onThe men of Macedon,The bloody flag beforeThe heroic King I bore.
I saw the end with horrorOf Sodom and Gomorrah!And with this very eyeHave seen the . . . ;I till the judgment dayUpon the earth shall stray:None knows for certaintyWhether fish or flesh I be.
On a Miser who had built a stately Mansion.From the Cambrian British.
Of every pleasure is thy mansion void;To ruin-heaps may soon its walls decline.O heavens, that one poor fire’s but employ’d,One poor fire only for thy chimneys nine!
Towering white chimneys—kitchen cold and drear—Chimneys of vanity and empty show—Chimneys unwarm’d, unsoil’d throughout the year—Fain would I heatless chimneys overthrow.
Plague on huge chimneys, say I, huge and neat,Which ne’er one spark of genial warmth announce;Ignite some straw, thou dealer in deceit—Straw of starv’d growth—and make a fire for once!
The wretch a palace built, whereon to gaze,And sighing, shivering there around to stray;To give a penny would the niggard craze,And worse than bane he hates the minstrel’s lay.
By Goronwy Owen.From the Cambrian British.
(Sent from Northolt, in the year 1745, to William Parry, Deputy Comptroller of the Mint.)
Parry, of all my friends the best,Thou who thy maker cherishest,Thou who regard’st me so sincere,And who to me art no less dear;Kind friend, in London since thou art,To love thee’s not my wisest part;This separation’s hard to bear:To love thee not far better were.
But wilt thou not from London townJourney some day to Northolt down,Song to obtain, O sweet reward,And walk the garden of the Bard?—But thy employ, the year throughout,Is wandering the White Tower about,Moulding and stamping coin with care,The farthing small and shilling fair.Let for a month thy Mint lie still,Covetous be not, little Will;Fly from the birth-place of the smoke,Nor in that wicked city choke;O come, though money’s charms be strong,And if thou come I’ll give thee song,A draught of water, hap what may,Pure air to make thy spirits gayAnd welcome from an honest heart,That’s free from every guileful art.I’ll promise—fain thy face I’d see—Yet something more, sweet friend, to thee:The poet’s cwrw{79}thou shalt prove,In talk with him the garden rove,Where in each leaf thou shalt beholdThe Almighty’s wonders manifold;And every flower, in verity,Shall unto thee show visibly,In every fibre of its frame,His deep design, who made the same.—A thousand flowers stand here around,With glorious brightness some are crown’d:How beauteous art thou, lily fair!With thee no silver can compare:I’ll not forget thy dress outshoneThe pomp of regal Solomon.I write the friend, I love so well,No sounding verse his heart to swell.The fragile flowerets of the plainCan rival human triumphs vain.I liken to a floweret’s fateThe fleeting joys of mortal state;The flower so glorious seen to-dayTo-morrow dying fades away;An end has soon the flowery clan,And soon arrives the end of man;The fairest floweret, ever known,Would fade when cheerful summer’s flown;Then hither haste, ere turns the wheel!Old age doth on these flowers steal;Though pass’d two-thirds of Autumn-time,Of summer temperature’s the clime;The garden shows no sickliness,The weather old age vanquishes,The leaves are greenly glorious still—But friend! grow old they must and will.
The rose, at edge of winter now,Doth fade with all its summer glow;Old are become the roses all,Decline to age we also shall;And with this prayer I’ll end my lay,Amen, with me, O Parry say;To us be rest from all annoy,And a robust old age of joy;May we, ere pangs of death we know,Back to our native Mona go;May pleasant days us there await,United and inseparate!And the dread hour, when God shall pleaseTo bid our mutual journey cease,May Christ, who reigns in heaven above,Receive us to his breast of love!
From the Iliad.
Straightway Achilles arose, the belov’d of Jove, round his shouldersBrawny her Ægis spread, fair fring’d, his guardian Athena,And his head with a cloud of golden hue and transparentShe has encircled about, whence darted fire resplendent.As when fire from the town ascending clambers the etherOut of the island afar, around which enemies gather—Fierce the defenders all day engage in desperate warfare,Forth from the town advanc’d; but soon as the sun has descendedFlame with beacons the dense, huge turrets; upwards the blazesFlaring, struggling ascend to be seen by friends and by neighbours,If with assistance in war o’er the sea in ships they are coming—So from Achilles’s head uptower’d the blazes to heaven;Striding from out the wall, he stood o’er the trench, but he mingledNot with the Greeks, for he heeded his mother’s solemn injunction;Standing, he shouted there, conjointly Pallas AthenaScream’d, and trouble immense was caus’d thereby to the Trojans;Like to the clamorous sound that’s heard, when pealing the trumpetThrills through the city, besieg’d by bands of turbulent foemen,E’en was the clamorous sound sent forth by Eacus’ grandson—Soon as the dreadful voice was heard of Eacus’ grandson,All their minds were amaz’d—the fair-man’d beautiful horsesBack’d with the chariots amain, such fear was awak’d in their bosoms;Ghasted the charioteers survey’d the untameable blazesHorribly round the brow of high, heroic PeleidesBurning, ignited by her the blue-eyed Goddess AthenaThrice then o’er the deep trench loud shouted god-like Achilles,Thrice were the Trojans confus’d and all their illustrious aiders;Already round that trench had twice six champions fallen,Spoil’d of their chariots and arms, so that gladly now the AchaiansOut of the tempest of darts the slain Patroclus draggingPlac’d on the sorrowful couch; his comrades round it arrang’d themLoudly lamenting, and thither there came swift-footed AchillesShedding the hottest of tears, when he saw his comrade so faithfulStretch’d on that sorrowful couch, transfixt with the sharp pointed iron—Him he had lately despatch’d with chariot and steeds to the war-fieldNever, alas, to receive from that red war-field returning.
In Hades.From the Odyssey.
Tow’rds me came the Shade of Peleidean Achilles,And of Patroclus belov’d, and Antilochus daring and blameless,And of Aias—of Him, who in bulk and beauty of figureFar excell’d every Greek, to Peleides only inferior.Me on the instant knew the Shade of Eacus’ grandson,And in sorrowful mood with words swift flowing address’d me.
Tell me Laertes’ son, Odysses matchless in wisdom,What fresh wondrous deed within thy brain thou art brooding,That to the vasty deep of Hades down thou descendest,Where the poor dead abide, mere idle shapes of the living.
Soon as the Hero ceas’d, in answer thus I address’d him:Know, O Peleus’ son, Achilles bravest of Grecians,Seeking Tiresias hither I’ve come, to beg of him counselHow I may Ithaca reach with its high-ridg’d, cloud-cover’d mountains;Nor to Achaia I’ve been, nor my foot on the shore of my countryWretch have I plac’d, whom ever misfortunes pursue; but no mortalE’er was so blest, as Thou, or ever will be, O Achilles,For when alive, as a God, we Argives held thee in honor;Now e’en here, how high above the mighty departedThou dost in majesty rise; grieve not though dead, O Achilles.
Soon as these words I’d said, the Shade in answer address’d me:Talk not of death to me, in mercy, glorious Odysses,For on the Earth’s green sod I’d rather toil as the hirelingOf some inglorious wight, and of one as poor as inglorious,Than over all the dead in Hades reign as a Monarch;But of my noble boy some tiding give me, I pray thee,Whether or not he’s fam’d as a gallant leader in battle;And if aught thou hast heard of good old Peleus, tell me;Still is he held in dread in Myrmidonian cities,Or has he lost respect in Hellas-land and in Pthia,Now old age has robb’d his hands and feet of their vigour?Think not an aid so good I’m now in the light of the sun-beam,As of old time I prov’d on the broad domain of the Trojans,When, in the Argives aid, I slew the best of their army;Were I to enter now, as I am, the hall of my father,Full little dread these hands would wake in the bosoms of any,Who in that hall do serve, and are kept by fear in obeisance.
Soon as the Hero ceas’d, in answer thus I address’d him:Nothing, alas, which regards the good, old Peleus know I;But the whole tale of thy boy, thy Neoptolemus cherish’d,I will with truth relate, by thee, great Shade, as commanded:I myself had the luck in my own hollow ship to convey himForth from Scyros afar with a band of well-greav’d Achaians.Ever when round Troy’s town in council grave we assembledHe was the first to rise with a flow of eloquence faultless,So that Nestor divine and myself confess’d him our master;But when on Troy’s champain we strove with spear and with bucklerNever amid the crowd you’d have found him or in the phalanx—Far in front he advanc’d, in courage shining the foremost,And full many a man he slew in the rage of the combat;There’s no need to recount and to name in endless successionAll the renown’d he slew, whilst assisting strongly the Argives;Let it suffice that with steel he stretch’d Eurypilus lifeless,Telephos’ hero-son, and around that hero were slaughter’dAll his Ceteian friends, ensnar’d by the smiles of the damsels.
But when within the horse, the wondrous work of Epeius,Enter’d the noble Greeks, with me their chosen commander,Where we reclin’d thick and close, and one o’er the other we panted,—Then whilst the rest of the chiefs and princes high of the ArgivesWip’d away feminine tears, and each shook in every member,Him in that hour of dread these orbs of vision beheld notEither grow pallid or quake, or away from his cheek fresh and downyWiping the tears—O no! and ever he begg’d for the signalForth from the horse to emerge; and with ill intent to the Trojan,Ever his spear he grip’d, or rattled the hilt of his falchion—But when with ruin dread we raz’d the city of PriamFraught with the choicest prey the hero mounted his vessel,Free from all scathe; his form nor smit from afar by the jav’lin,Nor by the sword from near; no rare result of the combat,For the tremendous Mars is no respecter of persons.
Scarce had I spoke when the Shade of Eacus’ swift-footed grandsonStalk’d with huge strides away o’er the flowery grass of the meadow,Glad at the heart that its boy was fam’d ’mongst the brave as a warrior.
To Thetis and Neoptolemus.From the Greek of Heliodorus.
Of Thetis I sing with her locks of gold-shine,The daughter of Nereus, lord of the brine,To Peleus wedded, by Jove’s high decree;I sing her, the Venus so fair of the sea.Of the spearman tremendous, the Mars of the fight,Thunderbolt of old Greece, she was quickly made light,Of Achilles divine, to whom Pyrrha an heir,The boy Neoptolemus, gladly did bear,The destroyer of Trojans, of Grecians the shield—Thy protection to us, Neoptolemus yield!Who blessed doth slumber in Pythia’s green plain;To accept this oblation of hymns from us deign,And each peril drive far from our city benign.—Of Thetis I sing with her locks of gold-shine.
From the Modern Greek.
Thus old Demos spoke, as sinking sought the sun the western wave:Now, my brave lads, fetch us water, after supping let us lave;O Lamprakes, O my nephew, down beside thy uncle sit—When I’m gone, wear thou my trappings, and be captain, as is fit;And do ye, my merry fellows, now my vacant sabre take,And therewith green branches cutting, straight for me a pallet make;Some one for the holy father, that I may confess me, run,And that I to him may whisper all the crimes, in life I’ve done;I’ve full thirty years as warrior, twenty five as robber pass’d;Now I feel my end approaching, and I fain would breathe my last;Me a tomb that’s broad and lofty, O forget not to prepare,For erect I’ll stand within it, as in war, and weapons bear:On the right side leave an opening, that the merry larks in spring,Of its coming, welcome coming, may to me the tiding bring,And for me in May’s sweet season nightingales may sweetly sing.
From Horace.
(Canidia and other witches, having enticed a boy of high birth into some secret cell, proceed to bury him in the earth, up to the chin; in order that, when he has perished with hunger in that situation, his liver etc. may serve as ingredients for a draught, by administering which Canidia purposes to regain the affection of Varus, who has deserted her. The poem commences with the entreaties of the boy, and concludes with the imprecations which he utters when about to be abandoned to famine and inhumation.)
“Father of Gods, who rul’st the sky,The earth and all the heavenly race!What means this noise, why savagelyOn me is turn’d each frightful face?—By thy dear babes, if aid e’er lentLucine to thee in child-birth hour,By this proud purple ornament,By hands ne’er clasp’d to crave before,I beg thee, Dame! thou wilt declareWhy she-wolf like thou me dost eye.”Stript of his tests of lineage fairHe stood, who rais’d this piteous cry—A boy, of form which might have madeThe Thracian furies’ bosoms kind.Canidia with her uncomb’d headAnd hair with vipers short entwin’d,Commands wild fig-trees, once that stoodBy graves, and cypresses uptorn,And toads foul eggs, imbued with blood,And plume, by night-owl lately worn,Herbs too, which Iolchos and SpainProduce, renown’d for poisons dire,And bone from hungry mastiff ta’en,Straight to be burn’d in magic fire.And now the witch strode through the house,Hell-waters scattering wide around;Her hair like hedgehog’s bristling rose,Or like the boar’s whom hunters wound.Veia, by pity unrestrain’d,With pick-axe hastes the ground to tear,And toil’d till sweat she panting rain’d,That the poor wretch imburied thereMight slowly die, in sight of foodRenew’d each day, his head so farExtant from earth, as from the floodThe heads of swimmers extant are;That the parch’d marrow and the dryLiver for a love-draught might be,When fixt upon the feast the eye,The craving eye should cease to see.All Naples says in verity,And all the neighbouring towns beside,That Folia lewd of RiminiWas present there, that dreadful tide—She who with verse Thessalian sangDown from their spheres the stars and moon.Her uncut thumb with livid fangThe fell Canidia biting soon:“Night and Diana,” scream’d she out,“Of my deeds faithful witnesses!Ye who spread silence wide about,When wrought are sacred mysteries!Now aid me: in my foe’s house bidYour wrath and power divine to hie,Whilst in their awful forests hid,O’ercome with sleep, the wild beasts lie:May suburb curs, that all may jeer,Bay the old lecher, smear’d with nard{94},More choice than which these fingers ne’erHave, skilful, at my need prepar’d.But why have charms by me employ’d,Less luck than her’s, Medea dread,With which her rival she destroy’d,Great Creon’s child, then proudly fled,When the robe bane-imbued, her gift,Enwrapp’d the new-wed bride in flame?But neither herb, nor root from riftOf lone rock ta’en, are here to blame;In every harlot’s bed lies heAnointed with oblivion;Ah, ah, ’tis plain he walketh freeProtected by some mightier one.But Varus! thou shalt suffer yet!Thou shalt re-seek these longing arms,And ne’er from me re-alienateThy mind, enthrall’d by Marsan charms.A cup more powerful I for theeWill soon prepare, disdainful wretch!Ere shall the sky sink ’neath the sea,And that shall o’er the earth out-stretch,Than with my love thou shalt not burn,Like pitch, which in these flames I throw.”Not with mild words their bosoms sternTo melt, as erst, the boy sought now;But madly reckless he beganThe direst curses forth to rave:“And do not think your sorceries canYourselves from retribution save:Your curse I’ll prove; my deathless hateBy sacrifice ne’er sooth’d shall be;But when I perish, bid by fate,A night-ghost ye shall have in me.With crook’d nails I’ll your faces tear,For great is injur’d spirits might,On your breasts seated, hard I’ll bear,And banish sleep with ceaseless fright;Ye through the streets with stones the crowdTo death shall pelt, ye hags obscene!Your limbs, no sepulture allow’d,The wolves shall tear and birds unclean.My parents who, though grey and old,Shall me survive, their youthful boyWhen they that spectacle beholdShall clap their hands and smile for joy.”
From the Provençal.
The French cavalier shall have my praise,And the dame of the Catalan;Of the Genoese the honorable ways,And a court on Castilian plan;The gentle, gentle Provençal lays,The dance of Trevisan;The heart which the Aragonese displays,And the pearl of Julian;The hands and face of the English race,And a youth of Tuscan clan.
From the Italian of Vincenzio Filicaia.
Sweet death of sense, oblivion of ill,Sleep! who from war, from time to time, dost bearPoor, wretched mortals, and in peace dost still—Compose the discords, which my bosom tear,For a brief space, and kindly interposeThy soothing wings betwixt me and my care.These eyes, which seem in love with weeping, close!And make my senses for a time thy bower,That whilst I sleep I may my sorrows lose.I do not crave that thou the wand of power,Three times in Lethe dipp’d, at me shouldst shake,And all my senses sprinkle o’er and o’er;Let souls, more fortunate, thereof partake—Of languid rest a portion scant and slight,My weary, wandering eyes content will make.Now all the world is hush’d; to sleep inviteThe falling stars, and lull’d appears the main,And prone the winds have slumber’d on their flight;I, I alone—who will believe my strain?I, I alone, in this repose profoundAnd universal, no repose can gain;Four suns, and moons as many, have come round,Since tasted last these wretched lights of mineOf thee, sweet cordial to the sick and sound.There on the rough peaks of the Apennine,Or where to Arno’s breast in dower doth throwThe Pesa limpid waves and crystalline—With eye-balls motionless, and hearts which glowWith zeal and faith, repel thee as a sin,Perchance some band of eremites e’en now;O come from thence! and for one hour withinMy bosom deign to tarry, then retreat,And in some other breast admission win;I call thee thence! but if thou’dst hither fleetFrom, where now Love excludes thy gentle might—Love with its phantasies so bitter sweet,—Avaunt, avaunt! full wretched is my plight!But honor, virtue I adore ’bove all,Nor to profane night’s sacred hours delight,Descend on me, as on some mountain tallDescends the snow, and there, dissolving soon,Back to its pristine element doth fall;Or that same dew, which suckleth bland and boonEach green grass blade when morn begins to peep,That none neglected may its faith impugn.Before I die thy humid pinions sweepAbove me once, but O to stain forbearThe heart which still immaculate I keep!But thou com’st not, and now, with rosy hairFrom Ganges hastening, to all things againTheir native hue restores Day’s harbinger.Perhaps thou’st come, and ah, my cruel painAnd wakeful thoughts thee ingress have deniedInto my eyes, or hurl’d thee out amain.Since, blundering archer, thou dost shoot aside,Or snapp’st thy every dart my breast upon,To me thy wand be never more applied!Away, away! grim Death can blunt aloneMy miseries’ point, and ne’er till life be spentI shall the hour of dear repose have won.O how the strife within is vehement!Now reason wins, now madness holds the sway;So much my ill can do, nor I prevent.O may this soul of mine from out its clayFly to repose elsewhere! I’m sure to seeMy last hour once; and though far, far awayThe feign’d death keep, the true shall visit me.
An Ancient Ballad.From the Spanish,
“Reduan, I but lately heardFrom thy mouth the sounding word,That for me the town of JaenIn one night thou wouldst obtain;Reduan, if thou do the same,Double pay thou mayest claim;Save thy word perform’d I see,From Granada thou shalt flee,Banish’d to a far frontier,Where thy lady shall not cheer.”Reduan, at the Monarch’s side,With unalter’d mien replied:“Though the word I never said,It I’ll do, or lose my head.”Reduan crav’d one thousand men—Five the Monarch gave him then.From Elvira’s portal-archSee the cavalcado march:Many a Moor of birth was there,Many a bay, high-blooded mare,Many a lance in fist of might,Many a buckler beaming bright,Many a green marlote is spied,Many a ren aljube beside,Many a plume of gallant air,Many a rich-grain’d cappellare,Many a boot a-borzegui,Many a silken string and tie,Many a spur of gold there clung,Many a silver stirrup swung.All the men that rode that dayWere expert at battle-fray:Midst of all that pomp and pow’rChyquo Monarch of the Moor.Moorish dames and maidens highThem from proud Alhambra eye;And the Moorish Queen so greyIn this guise was heard to say:“Speed thee hence my son and love!Mahomet thy Guardian prove!Crown’d with honor back from JaenMay he bring thee soon again.”
From the Spanish.
Up I rose, O mother, earlyOn the blest Saint Juan’s morn;By the sea I saw a damsel,Saw a damsel all forlorn.
Lonely there she wash’d her garmentsAnd upon a rose-tree hung;Whilst the garments there were dryingShe a plaintiff ditty sung.
“O my love, my fickle lover—Where to find him shall I stray?”Up and down the strand she hurriedSinging, singing this sad lay.
In her hand a comb she carried,All of gold, to comb her hair;“Tell me, tell me, gentle sailor—Heaven take thee ’neath it’s care—Hast thou seen my fickle lover,Hast thou seen him any where?”
From the Portuguese.
A fool is he who in the lapBasking of every smiling joy,Will each and all with fear alloyOf what some future day may hap.
Let him enjoy his present state;For he but double make his woes,Who midst the future’s shadows goesTo meet the ills of murky fate.
From the French.
Where is my eighteenth year? far backUpon life’s variegated track;Yet fondly oft I turn my eye,And for my eighteenth year I sigh.
Each pleasure then I took with zest,And hope was inmate of my breast—Enchanting hope, consoling thing,The plucker out of sorrow’s sting.
The sun above shone brighter then,Fairer were women, kinder men;If tears I shed, they soon were o’er,And I was happier than before.
The minstrel-wight of ancient dayWish’d that the twelve months all were May;I wish that every year I seeThe eighteenth of my life could be.
From the Rommany or Gypsy Language.
The strength of the ox,The wit of the fox,And the leveret’s speed,—Full oft, to opposeTo their numerous foes,The Rommany need.
Our horses they take,Our waggons they break,And ourselves they seize,In their prisons to coop,Where we pine and droop,For want of breeze.
When the dead swallowThe fly shall followO’er Burra-panee,Then we will forgetThe wrongs we have met,And forgiving be.
{8}Gennet is a word of Arabic origin, and signifies paradise.
{10}No true Mussulman will receive any remuneration for communicating instruction.
{13}Allusion is here made to metempsychosis or the transmigration of souls.
{14}His relations.
{17}Goblins.
{18}Spaces of time.
{21}The principal banner.
{22}Wang Liyang and Siyan Ou were ancient kings of China, and mighty hunters, of whose exploits many extravagant tales are related.
{26}Cossack village.
{32}The knights of the German Order, who eventually christianized the pagan Lithuanians at the point of the lance and sword.
{33}Polish.
{38}The Mermaid.
{40}The war-goddess, according to the Northern Mythology.
{50}Wessel was the family name of Tordenskiold. Tordenskiold is an epithet bestowed upon the Danish Admiral for his prowess and heroism. It signifies: shield of thunder.
{51}This piece has already appeared in print, having been inserted some years since in the Foreign Quarterly Review, in an article on Danish poetry, of which the prose part proceeded from the pen of Doctor John Bowring.
{54}The river-god.
{63}The Northern Venus.
{65}The personage, who figures in the splendid forgeries of MacPherson under the name of Fingal.
{68}The Gaelic word for nobleman.
{72}Ancient bards, to whose mansion, in the clouds, the speaker hopes that his spirit will be received.
{73a}Written in the fifth century.
{73b}The British, like many other nations, whose early history is involved in obscurity, claim a Trojan descent.
{74}Awen, or poetic genius, which he is said to have imbibed in his childhood, whilst employed in watching the cauldron of the sorceress Cridwen.
{75}I was but a child, but am now Taliesin,—Taliesin signifies: brow of brightness.
{79}Ale.
{94}They had, it seems, made an image of Varus, and besmeared it with some high-smelling ointment, in the hope that Varus, by sympathy, would bear about him the odour of the same, so that the dogs might bay at him in his nocturnal excursions.