Bird that dwellest in the spray,Far from mountain woods away,Sporting,—blending with the sea,Like the moonbeam—gleamily.Wilt thou leave thy sparkling chamberRound my lady’s tower to clamber?Thou shalt fairer charms beholdThan Taliesin’s tongue has told,Than Merddin sang, or loved, or knew—Lily nursed on ocean’s dew—Say (recluse of yon wild sea),“She is all in all to me.”
By Dafydd ap Gwilym.
“Sentinel of the morning light!Reveller of the spring!How sweetly, nobly wild thy flight,Thy boundless journeying:Far from thy brethren of the woods, aloneA hermit chorister before God’s throne!
“Oh! wilt thou climb yon heav’ns for me,Yon rampart’s starry height,Thou interlude of melody’Twixt darkness and the light,And seek, with heav’n’s first dawn upon thy crest,My lady love, the moonbeam of the west?
“No woodland caroller art thou;Far from the archer’s eye,Thy course is o’er the mountain’s brow,Thy music in the sky:Then fearless float thy path of cloud along,Thou earthly denizen of angel song.”
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion of Ivor Hael. The bard, speaking from the land of Wild Gwynedd, or North Wales, thus invokes the summer to visit the sweet pastoral county of Glamorgan with all its blessings:
“And wilt thou, at the bard’s desire,Thus in thy godlike robes of fire,His envoy deign to be?Hence from Wild Gwynedd’s mountain land,To fair Morganwg Druid strand,Sweet margin of the sea.Oh! may for me thy burning feetWith peace, and wealth, and glory greet,My own dear southern home;Land of the baron’s, halls of snow!Land of the harp! the vineyards glow,Green bulwark of the foam.She is the refuge of distress;Her never-failing storesHave cheer’d the famish’d wilderness,Have gladden’d distant shores.Oh! leave no little plot of sod’Mid all her clust’ring vales untrod;But all thy varying gifts unfoldIn one mad embassy of gold:O’er all the land of beauty flingBright records of thy elfin wing.”
From this scene of ecstacy, he makes a beautiful transition to the memory of Ivor, his early benefactor: still addressing the summer, he says,
“Then will I, too, thy steps pursuing,From wood and cave,And flowers the mountain-mists are dewing,The loveliest save;From all thy wild rejoicings borrowOne utterance from a heart of sorrow;The beauties of thy court shall graceMy own lost Ivor’s dwelling-place.”
By a Welsh Harper.
Wilt thou not waken, bride of May,While the flowers are fresh, and the sweet bells chime?Listen, and learn from my roundelay,How all life’s pilot-boats sailed one day,A match with time.
Love sat on a lotus leaf afloat,And saw old time in his loaded boat;Slowly he crossed life’s narrow tide,While love sat clapping his wings and cried,“Who will pass time?”
Patience came first, but soon was goneWith helm and sail to help time on;Care and grief could not lend an oar,And prudence said while he staid on shore,“I will wait for time.”
Hope filled with flowers her cork tree bark,And lighted its helm with a glow worm spark;Then love, when he saw her bark fly fast,Said, “Lingering time will soon be passed,Hope outspeeds time.”
Wit, next nearest old time to pass,With his diamond oar, and his boat of glass;A feathery dart from his store he drew,And shouted, while far and swift it flew,“O mirth kills time.”
But time sent the feathery arrow back,Hope’s boat of amaranths missed its track;Then love made his butterfly pilots move,And, laughing, said, “They shall see how loveCan conquer time.”
His gossamer sails he spread with speed,But time has wings when time has need;Swiftly he crossed life’s sparkling tide,And only memory stayed to chideUnpitying time.
Wake, and listen then bride of May,Listen and heed thy minstrel’s rhyme;Still for thee some bright hours stay,For it was a hand like thine, they say,Gave wings to time.
Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battle, against the Saxons, and his three sisters came down here to meet him; and, when they heard him coming, they said, “It is Trŵst Llywelyn,” (the sound of Llywelyn,) and the place has been called so ever since.—Old Story.
It is a scene of other days,That dimly meets my fancy’s gaze;The moon’s fair beams are glist’ning bright,On the Severn’s loveliest vale,And yonder watchtower’s gloomy heightLooks stern, in her lustre pale.
Within that turret fastness rudeThree lovely forms I see,And marvel why, in that solitude,So fair a group should be.
I know them now, that beauteous band;By the broidered vest, so rich and rare,By the sparkling gem, on the tiny hand,And the golden circlet in their hair,I know Llywelyn’s sisters fair,The pride of Powys land:
But the proof of lineage pure and high,Is better far suppliedBy the calm, fair brow, and fearless eye,And the step of graceful pride.
Why are the royal maidens here,Heedless of Saxon foemen near?Their only court, the minstrel sage,Who wakes such thrilling sound;Their train, yon petty childish page;Their guard, that gallant hound.
They have left their brother’s princely hall,To greet him from fight returning;And hope looks out from the eyes of all,Though fear in their heart lies burning.
“Now, hark!” the eldest maiden cried,“Kind minstrel, lay thy harp aside,And listen here with me;Did not Llywelyn’s bugle soundFrom off that dark and wooded moundYou named the Goryn Ddû?”{59}
“No, lady, no; my master, kind,I strive in vain to hear;’Tis but the moaning of the windThat cheats thy anxious ear.”
The second lady rous’d her page,From the peaceful sleep of his careless age;“Awake, fair child, from thy happy dreams,Look out o’er the turret’s height,Is it a lance that yonder gleamsIn the moonbeams blue and bright?”
“No, lady mine; not on a lanceDoes that fair radiance quiver;I only see its lustre danceOn the blue and trembling river.”
The youngest and fairest maiden sitsOn the turret’s highest stone,Like the gentle flower that flings its sweetsO’er the ruin drear and lone:
At her feet the hound is crouching still;And they look so calm and fair,You might almost deem, by a sculptor’s skill,They were carved in the grey stone there.
A distant sound the spell hath broken,The lady and her houndTogether caught the joyful token,And down the stair they bound.
“’Tis Trwst Llywelyn! dear sisters speed,Our own Llywelyn’s near;I know the tramp of his gallant steed,’Tis music to mine ear!”
* * * * *
Yes, ’twas his lance gleamed blue and bright,His horn made the echoes ring;He is safe from a glorious field of fight,And his sisters round him cling:
And Gelert lies at his master’s feet,The page returns to his slumbers sweet,The minstrel quaffs his mead,And sings Llywelyn’s fame and power,And, Trwst Llywelyn, names the tower,Where they heard his coming steed.
* * * * *
That tower, no more, o’erlooks the vale,But its name is unforgot,And the peasant tells the simple tale,And points to the well-known spot.
Oh, lady moon! thy radiance fillsAn altered scene, to-night,All here is chang’d save the changeless hills,And the Severn, rippling bright.
We dwell in peace, beneath the yokeThat roused our father’s spears,The very tongue our fathers spoke,Sounds strangely in our ears.{61}
But the human heart knows little change:’Tis woman’s to watch, ’tis man’s to rangeFor pleasure, wealth, or fame;And thou may’st look, from thy realms above,On many a sister’s yearning love,The same—still, still the same.
Ye students grave, of ancient lore,Grudge not my skilless rhyme,One tale (from tradition’s ample store)Of Cambria’s olden time;Seek, ’mid the hills and glens around,For names and deeds of war;And leave this little spot of ground,A record holier far.
IN IMITATION OF GÖTHE.
There was a king in Môn,{62}A true lover to his grave;To whom in death his ladyA golden goblet gave.
When Christmas bowls were circling,And all was joy and cheer,He passed that goblet from himWith a kiss and with a tear.
When death he felt approaching,To all his barons bold,He left some fair dominion—To none, that cup of gold.
He sate at royal banquet,With all his lordly train,In the castle of his fathers,On the rock above the main.
Upstood the tottering monarch,And drank the cup’s last wine;Then flung the holy goblet,Deep, deep, into the brine.
He watch’d it, bubbling, sinking,Far, far, beneath the wave;And the light sank from his eyelid,With the cup his lady gave.
Dans le solitaire bourgade,Revant à ses maux tristement,Languissait un pauvre malade,D’un long mal qui va consumant.—Millevoye.
Dans le solitaire bourgade,Revant à ses maux tristement,Languissait un pauvre malade,D’un long mal qui va consumant.—Millevoye.
It was a dream, a pleasant dream, that o’er my spirit came,When faint beneath the lime-trees’ shade I flung my weary frame:I stood upon a mountain’s brow, above the haunts of men,And, far beneath me, smiling, lay my lovely native glen.
I watch’d the silv’ry Severn glide, reflecting rock and tree,A gentle pilgrim, bound to pay her homage to the sea;And waking many a treasured thought, that slumb’ring long had lain:Some mountain minstrel’s harp poured forth a well remember’d strain.
I rais’d my voice in thankfulness, and vowed no more to roam,Or leave my heart’s abiding-place, my beauteous mountain home.Alas! how different was the scene that met my waking glance!It fell upon the fertile plains, the sunny hills of France.
The Garonne’s fair and glassy wave rolls onward in its pride;It cannot quench my burning thirst for thee, my native tide;And, for the harp that bless’d my dream with mem’ries from afar,I only hear yon peasant maid, who strikes the light guitar:The merry stranger mocks at griefs he does not understand,He cannot—he has never seen my own fair mountain land.
They said Consumption’s ruthless eye had mark’d me for her prey:They bade me seek in foreign climes her wasting hand to stay;They told me of an altered form, an eye grown ghastly bright,And called the crimson on my cheek the spoiler’s hectic blight.
Oh! if the mountain heather pined amidst the heaven’s own dew,Think ye the parterre’s wasting heat its freshness could renew?And thus, ’mid shady glens and streams, was my young life begun,And now, my frame exhausted sinks beneath this southern sun.
I feel, I feel, they told me true; my breath grows faint and weak,And, brighter still, this crimson spot is glowing on my cheek;My hour of life is well nigh past, too fleetly runs the sand:Oh! must I die so far from thee, my dear lov’d mountain land?
“Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!”—Shakspeare.
I am a wand’rer o’er earth and sea,The trackless air has a path for me;Ye may trace my steps on the heather green,By the emerald ring, where my foot hath been;Ye may hear my voice in the night wind’s sigh,Or the wood’s low moan when a storm is nigh.
My task is to brighten the rainbow’s hue,To sprinkle the flowers with glit’ring dew,To steep in crimson the evening cloud,And wrap the hills in their misty shroud;To track the course of a wandering star,And marshal it back to its home afar.
I am no child of the murky night,But a being of music, and joy, and light;If the fair moon sleep in her bower o’er long,I break on her rest with my mirthful song;And when she is shining o’er hill and heath,I dance in the revels of Gwyn ab Nûdd.{65}
Few are the mortals whose favoured feetMay tread unscathed where the fairies meet;Wo to the tuneless tongue and ear,And the craven heart, that has throbbed with fear,If I meet them at night, on the lonely heath,As I haste to the banquet of Gwyn ab Nûdd.
But joy to the minstrel, whose deathless songOn the breeze of the mountain is borne along,And joy to the warrior, whose heart and handAre strong in the cause of his native land;For them we are twining our fairest wreath,They are welcome as moonlight to Gwyn ab Nûdd!
O’er Walter’s bed no foot shall tread,Nor step unhallow’d roam;For here the grave hath found a grave,The wanderer a home.This little mound encircles roundA heart that once could feel;For none possess’d a warmer heartThan gallant Walter Sele.
The primrose pale, from Derwen vale,Through spring shall sweetly bloom,And here, I ween, the evergreenShall shed its death perfume;The branching tree of rosemaryThe sweet thyme may conceal;But both shall wave above the graveOf gallant Walter Sele.
They brand with shame my true love’s name,And call him traitor vile,Who dar’d disclose to Charlie’s foesThe secret postern aisle;But though, alas! that fatal passHe rashly did reveal,He ne’er betray’d his maniac maid,—My gallant Walter Sele!
Land of the Cymry! thou art still,In rock and valley, stream and hill,As wild and grand;As thou hast been in days of yore,As thou hast ever been before,As thou shalt be for evermore,My Father-land!
Where are the bards, like thine, who’ve sungThe warrior’s praise? the harp hath strung,With mighty hand?Made chords of magic sound arise,That flung their echoes through the skies,And gained the fame that never dies,My Father-land?
And where are warriors like thine own,Who in the battle’s front have shownSo firm a stand?Who fought against the Romans’ skill,“The conquerors of the world,” untilThey found thou wert “invincible,”My Father-land?
And where are hills like thine, or whereAre vales so sweet, or scenes so fair,Such praise command?There towering Snowdon, first in height,Or Cader Idris, dreary sight,And lonely Clwyd? Oh! how bright,My Father-land!
Oh! how I love thee, though I mournThat cold neglect should on thee turn,Thy name to brand;And oft the scalding tear will startRaining its dew-drops from the heart,To think how far we are apart,My Father-land.
And when my days are almost done,And, faltering on, I’ve nearly runLife’s dreary sand;Still, still my fainting breath shall beBestowed upon thy memory,My soul shall wing its way to thee,My Father-land!
By the Rev. D. Evans, B.D.
Translated by Miss Lydia Jones.
My soul is sad, my spirit fails,And sickness in my heart prevails,Whilst chill’d with grief, it mourns and wailsFor my old Native Land.
Gold and wine have power to please,And Summer’s pure and gentle breeze,—But ye are dearer far than these,Hills of my Native Land.
Lovely to see the sun arise,Breaking forth from eastern skies;But oh! far lovelier in my eyesWould be my Native Land.
As pants the hart for valley dew,As bleats the lambkin for the ewe,Thus I lament and long to viewMy ancient Native Land.
What, what are delicacies, say,And large possessions, what are they?What the wide world and all its swayOut of my Native Land?
O should I king of India be,Might Europe to me bend the knee,Such honours should be nought to meFar from my Native Land.
In what delightful country straysEach gentle friend of youthful days?Where dwelleth all I love or praise?O! in my Native Land.
Where are the fields and gardens fairWhere once I sported free as air,Without despondency or care?O! in my Native Land.
Where is each path and still retreatWhere I with song held converse sweetWith true poetic fire replete?O! in my Native Land.
Where do the merry maidens move,Who purely live and truly love—Whose words do not deceitful prove?O! in my Native Land.
And where on earth that friendly place,Where each presents a brother’s face,Where frowns or anger ne’er debase!O! ’tis my Native Land.
And O! where dwells that dearest oneMy first affections fix’d upon,Dying with grief that I am gone?O! in my Native Land.
Where do they food to strangers give?Where kindly, liberally relieve?Where unsophisticated live?O! in my Native Land.
Where are the guileless rites retain’d,And customs of our sires maintain’d?Where has the ancient Welsh remain’d?O! in my Native Land.
Where is the harp of sweetest string?Where are songs read in bardic ring?Genius and inspiration singWithin my Native Land.
Once Zion’s sons their harps unstrung,On Babylonian willows hung,And mute their songs—with sorrow wrung,They mourn’d their Native Land.
Captives, the Babylonians cry,Awake Judæan melody,—There is no music they reply,Out of our Native Land.
And thus when I in miseryBeseech my muse to visit me,She echo’s—there’s no hope for theeOut of thy Native Land.
A bard how dull in Indian groves,Distant from the land he loves!The muse to melody ne’er movesFar from her Native Land.
Day and night I ceaseless groanAmong these foreigners, alone;Yet not for fame or gold I moan,But for my Native Land.
Oft to the rocky heights I haste,And gaze intent, while tears flow fast,Over old ocean’s troubled waste,Towards my Native Land.
Then breaks my heart with grief to seeThe mountain waves o’erspread the sea,Which widely separates from meMy charming Native Land.
To see the boiling ocean near,Whose waves as if they joy’d appear,Rolling betwixt me and my dearEnchanting Native Land.
O had I wings! to cure my painI’d flee across the widening main,To view the extensive vales againOf my dear Native Land.
There I would lay me down secure,And cheerfully my wants endure:The wealth of worlds could not allureMe from my Native Land.
By the Rev. John Walters.
Cambria, I love thy genius bold;Thy dreadful rites, and Druids old;Thy bards who struck the sounding strings,And wak’d the warlike souls of kings;Those kings who, prodigal of breath,Rush’d furious to the fields of death;Thy maids for peerless beauty crown’d,In songs of ancient fame renown’d,Pure as the gem of Arvon’s caves,Bright as the foam of Menai’s waves,With sunny locks and jetty eyes,Of valour’s deeds the glorious prize,Who tam’d to love’s refin’d delightThose chiefs invincible in fight.Thy sparkling horns I next recallIn many a hospitable hallCircling with haste, whose boundless mirthTo many an amorous lay gave birth,And many a present to the fair,And many a deed of bold despair.I love thy harps with well-rank’d strings,Heard in the stately halls of kings,Whose sounds had magic to bestowOr sunny joy, or dusky woe.I love thy fair Silurian valesFann’d by Sabrina’s temperate gales,That fir’d the Roman to engageThe scythed cars of Arvirage.Oft to the visionary skiesI see thy ancient genius rise,Who mounts the chariot of the wind,And leaves our mortal steeds behind;And while to rouse the drooping landHe strikes the harp with glowing hand,Light spirits with aërial wingsDance upon the trembling strings.Oh, lead me thou in strains sublimeThy sacred hill of oaks to climb,To haunt thy old poetic streams,And sport in fiction’s fairy dreams,There let the rover fancy free,And breathe the soul of poesy!To think upon thy ravish’d crown,Thy warlike deeds of old renown;Thy valiant sons at Maelor slain,{75a}The stubborn fight of Bangor’s plain,{75b}A thousand banners waving highWhere bold Tal Moelvre meets the sky!{75c}
Nor seldom, Cambria, I exploreThy treasures of poetic store,And mingle with thy tuneful throng,And range thy realms of ancient song,That like thy mountains, huge and high,Lifts its broad forehead to the sky;Whence Druids fanes of fabling time,And ruin’d castles frown sublime,Down whose dark sides torn rocks resound,Eternal tempests whirling round;With many a pleasant vale between,Where Nature smiles attir’d in green,Where Innocence in cottage warmIs shelter’d from the passing storm,Stretch’d on the banks of lulling streamsWhere fancy lies indulging dreams,Where shepherds tend their fleecy train,Where echoes oft the pleading strainOf rural lovers. O’er my soulSuch varied scenes in vision roll,Whether, O prince of bards, I seeThe fire of Greece reviv’d in thee,That like a deluge bursts away;Or Taliesin tune the lay;Or thou, wild Merlin, with thy songPour thy ungovern’d soul along;Or those perchance of later ageMore artful swell their measur’d rage,Sweet bards whose love-taught numbers suitSoft measures and the Lesbian lute;Whether, Iolo, mirtle-crown’d,Thy harp such amorous verse resoundAs love’s and beauty’s prize hath won;Or led by Gwilym’s plaintive song,I hear him teach his melting taleIn whispers to the grove and gale.
But since thy once harmonious shoreResounds th’ inspiring strain no more,That snatch’d in fields of ancient date,The palm from number, strength, and fate;Since to thy grove no more belongThe sacred eulogies of song;Since thou hast rued the waste of age,And war, and Scolan’s fiercer rage;—{76}The spirit of renown expires,The brave example of thy siresIs lost; thy high heroic crestOblivion and inglorious restHave torn with rude rapacious hand;And apathy usurps the land.Lo! silent as the lapse of timeSink to the earth thy towers sublime;Where whilom harp’d the minstrel throng,The night-owl pours her feral song:For ever sinks blest Cambria’s fame,By ignorance, and sword, and flameLaid with the dust, amidst her woesThe taunt of her ungenerous foes;For ever sleeps her warlike praise,Her wealth, dominion, language, lays.
By Aneurin.
Translated by Thomas Gray, Esq.{77}
[Aneurin was the son of a Welsh chieftain, and was born in the early part of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and distinguished himself at the battle of Cattraeth, fought between the Welsh and Saxons, in or about the year 560, but was disastrous to the former and especially to the bard, who was there taken prisoner, and kept for several years in confinement. He composed his principal poem, the Gododin, upon the battle of Cattraeth. This is the oldest Welsh poem extant, and is full of boldness, force, and martial fire. It has been translated into English by the Rev. John Williams, (ab Ithel,) and published by the Messrs. Rees, of Llandovery. The bard died, according to tradition, from the blow of an assassin before the close of the sixth century.]
Had I but the torrent’s might,With headlong rage, and wild affright,Upon Deïra’s squadrons hurl’d,To rush and sweep them from the world!Too, too secure in youthful pride,By them my friend, my Hoel, dy’d,Great Cian’s son; of Madoc old,He ask’d no heaps of hoarded gold;Alone in Nature’s wealth array’dHe asked and had the lovely maid.
To Cattraeth’s vale, in glitt’ring row,Twice two hundred warriors go;Ev’ry warrior’s manly neckChains of regal honour deck,Wreath’d in many a golden link:From the golden cup they drinkNectar that the bees produce,Or the grape’s ecstatic juice.Flush’d with mirth and hope they burn,But none from Cattraeth’s vale return,Save Aeron brave and Conan strong,(Bursting through the bloody throng,)And I, the meanest of them all,That live to weep and sing their fall.
By Aneurin.
Lo! the youth, in mind a man,Daring in the battle’s van;See the splendid warrior’s speedOn his fleet and thick-maned steed,As his buckler, beaming wide,Decks the courser’s slender side,With his steel of spotless mould,Ermined vest and spurs of gold!Think not, youth, that e’er from meHate or spleen shall flow to thee;Nobler deeds thy virtues claim,Eulogy and tuneful fame.Ah! much sooner comes thy bierThan thy nuptial feast, I fear;Ere thou mak’st the foe to bleed,Ravens on thy corse shall feed.Owain, lov’d companion, friend,To birds a prey—is this thy end!Tell me, steed, on what sad plainThy ill-fated lord was slain.
Farewell every mountainTo memory dear,Each streamlet and fountainPelucid and clear;Glad halls of my father,From banquets ne’er freed,Where chieftains would gatherTo quaff the bright mead,Each valley and woodlandWhose coverts I knew,Lov’d haunts of my childhoodFor ever, adieu!
The mountains are blastedAnd burnt the green wood,The fountain untastedFlows crimsoned with blood,The halls are deserted,Their glory appearLike dreams of departedAnd desolate years,The wild wood and valley,The covert, the glade,Bereft of their beauty,Invaded! betrayed!
Farewell hoary minstrel,Gay infancy’s friend,What roof will protect thee?What chieftain defend?Alas for the number,And sweets of their song,Soon, soon they must slumber,The mountains among;The breathing of pleasureNo more will aspire,For changed is the measure,Of liberty’s lyre!
Adieu to the greetingOf damsel and dame,When home from the beatingOf foemen we came,If Edward the daughtersOf Walia would spare,He dooms them the fettersOf vassals to wear;To hear the war rattle,To see the land burn,While foes from the battleIn triumph return.
Farewell, and for ever,Dear land of my birth,Again we shall neverKnow revels or mirth,The cloud mantled castle,My ancestors’ pride,The pleasure and wassailIn rapture allied;The preludes of dangerApproach thee from far,The spears of strangers,The beacons of war.
Farewell to the gloryI dreamed of in vain;Behold on the storyA blood tinctured stain!Nor this the sole tokenThe records can blast,Our lances are broken,Our trophies are lost;The children of freedom,The princely, the brave,Have none to succeed themTheir country to save.
Yet still there are foemenThe tyrant to meet,Will laugh at each omenOf death and defeat;Despise every warningHis mandate may bringThe promises scorningOf Loegria’s king:Who seek not to varyTheir purpose or change,But firm as Eryri{81}Are fixed for revenge.
Between the rude barriersOf yonder dark hill,A few gallant warriorsAre lingering still;While fate pours her phials,Unmoved they remain,Resolved on the trialOf battle again;Resolved on their honour,Which yet they can boast,To rescue their bannerThey yesterday lost.
Shall Roderic then tremble,And cowardly leaveThe faithful assemblyTo fight for a grave?Regardless of breathingThe patriot’s law,His country forsakingAnd basely withdrawFrom liberty’s quarrel,Forgetting his vow,And tarnish the laurelThat circles his brow?
But art thou not, Helen,Reproving this stay,While fair sails are swellingTo bear thee away?And must we then sever,My country, my home?Thus part and for everSubmit to our doom?Ah! let me not lingerThus long by the wayLest memory’s fingerUnman me for aye!
Hark, hart, yonder bugle!’Tis Gwalchmai’s shrill blastExclaiming one struggle,Then all will be past,Another, another!It peals the same noteAs erst when togetherDelighted we fought!But then it resoundedWith victory’s swell,While now it hath sounded,Life, liberty’s knell!
Adieu, then my daughterLoved Helen adieu,The summons of slaughterIs pealing anew;Yet can I thus leave thee,Defenceless and lorn,No home to receive you,A by-word and scorn?’Tis useless reflection,All soon will be o’er,Heaven grant you protectionWhen Roderic’s no more
Cease, Saxons, your scorningPrepare for the war;So Roderic’s returningTo battle once more!The vulture and ravenAre tracking his breath;For fate has engravenA record of death:They mark on his weaponFrom many a breast,A stream that might deepenThe crimsonest crest!
While darkness benightingEngirdled the zone,The chieftain was fightingHis way to renown;But ere morn had risenIn purple and gold,The heart’s blood was frozen,Of Roderic the bold!The foemen lay scatteredIn heaps round his grave;His buckler was batteredAnd broke was his glaive!
And fame the fair daughterOf victory came,And loud ’mid the slaughterWas heard to proclaim,“A hero is fallen!A warrior’s at rest,The banner of GwyneddEnshrouded his breast,His name shall inheritThe conqueror’s prize,His purified spiritAscend to the skies.”
By Taliesin.
[Taliesin was the greatest of the ancient Welsh bards, and was a contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appears to have been a native of Cardiganshire, for we find him at an early age living at the court of Gwyddno, a petty king of Cantre y Gwaelod, who appointed him his chief bard and tutor to his son Elphin. He was afterwards attached to the court of Urien Rheged, a Welsh prince, king of Cambria and of Scotland as far as the river Clyde, who fought and conquered in the great battle of Gwenystrad, and is celebrated by the bard in the following song. Taliesin composed many poems, but seventy seven of them only have been preserved. The subjects of his poetry were for the most part religion and history, but a few of his poems were of a martial character.]
If warlike chiefs with dawning dayAt Cattraeth met in dread array,The song records their splendid name;But who shall sing of Urien’s fame?His patriot virtues far excelWhate’er the boldest bard can tell:His dreadful arm and dauntless browSpoil and dismay the haughty foe.
Pillar of Britain’s regal line!’Tis his in glorious war to shine;Despair and death attend his course,Brave leader of the Christian force!
See Prydyn’s men, a valiant train,Rush along Gwenystrad’s plain!Bright their spears for war addrest,Raging vengeance fires their breast;Shouts like ocean’s roar arise,Tear the air, and pierce the skies.Here they urge their tempest force!Nor camp nor forest turns their course:Their breath the shrieking peasants yieldO’er all the desolated field.
But lo, the daring hosts engage!Dauntless hearts and flaming rage;And, ere the direful morn is o’er,Mangled limbs and reeking gore,And crimson torrents whelm the ground,Wild destruction stalking round;Fainting warriors gasp for breath,Or struggle in the toils of death.
Where the embattled fortress rose,(Gwenystrad’s bulwark from the foes,)Fierce conflicting heroes meet—Groans the earth beneath their feet.
I mark, amidst the rolling flood,Where hardy warriors stain’d with bloodDrop their blunt arms, and join the dead,Grey billows curling o’er their head:Mangled with wounds, and vainly brave,At once they sink beneath the wave.
Lull’d to everlasting rest,With folded arms and gory breast—Cold in death, and ghastly pale,Chieftains press the reeky vale,Who late, amidst their kindred throng,Prepar’d the feast, and join’d the song;Or like the sudden tempest rose,And hurl’d destruction on the foes.
Warriors I saw who led the fray,Stern desolation strew’d their way;Aloft the glitt’ring blade they bore,Their garments hung with clotted gore.The furious thrust, the clanging shield,Confound the long-disputed field.
But when Rheged’s chief pursues,His way through iron ranks he hews;Hills pil’d on hills, the strangers bleed:Amaz’d I view his daring deed!Destruction frowning on his brow,Close he urg’d the panting foe,’Till hemm’d around, they met the shock,Before Galysten’s hoary rock.Death and torment strew’d his path;His dreadful blade obey’d his wrath:Beneath their shields the strangers lay,Shrinking from the fatal day.
Thus in victorious armour bright,Thou brave Euronwy, pant for fight:With such examples in thine eyes,Haste to grasp the hero’s prize.
And till old age has left me dumb—Till death has call’d me to the tomb—May cheerful joys ne’er crown my days,Unless I sing of Urien’s praise!
By Mrs. Hemans.
A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among,O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung,The path of unborn ages is trac’d upon my soul,The clouds, which mantle things unseen, away before me roll.
A light, the depths revealing, hath o’er my spirit passed;A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful on the blast,And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue,To which the harp of Mona’s woods by Freedom’s hand was strung.
Green island of the mighty!{87a}I see thine ancient raceDriv’n from their fathers’ realm, to make the rocks their dwelling place!I see from Uthyr’s{87b}kingdom the sceptre pass away,And many a line of bards and chiefs, and princely men decay.
But long as Arvon’s mountains shall lift their sovereign forms,And wear the crown to which is giv’n dominion o’er the storms,So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue,To which the harp of Mona’s woods by Freedom’s hand was strung.
By Mrs. Hemans.
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time,Ere spoilers had breath’d the free air of your clime!All that its eagles beheld in their flightWas yours from the deep to each storm-mantled height!Though from your race that proud birthright be torn,Unquench’d is the spirit for monarchy born.Darkly though clouds may hang o’er us awhile,The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle!{88}Ages may roll ere your children regainThe land for which heroes have perish’d in vain.Yet in the sound of your names shall be pow’r,Around her still gath’ring, till glory’s full hour.Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep,Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep.Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile,Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle!
By Mrs. Hemans.
The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear;Farewell; and a blessing be with thee, Greenland;In thy halls, thy hearths, in thy pure mountain air,On the strings of the harp and the minstrel’s free hand;From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,Whilst I leave thee, O land of my home and my dead.
I bless thee; yet not for the beauty which dwellsIn the heart of thy hills, in the waves of thy shore;And not for the memory set deep in thy dellsOf the bard and the warrior, the mighty of yore;And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled,Greenland, Poetland of my home and my dead.
I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat,Where e’er a low hamlet smiles, under thy skies,For thy peasant hearths burping the stranger to greet,For the soul that looks forth from thy children’s bright eyes,May the blessing, like sunshine, around thee be spread,Greenland of my childhood, my home and my dead.
By Rev. Daniel Evans, B.D.
Ye fortresses grey and giganticI see on the hills of my land,To my mind ye appear terrific,When I muse on your ruins so grand;Your walls were a shelter the strongestFrom the enemies’ countless array,When they spilt with the blood of the bravest,Your sides in our ancestors’ day.
Around you the war-horse was neighing,And pranced his rich trappings to feel,While through you were frightfully gleamingBright lances and spears of steel;The fruits of the rich-laden harvest,Were ruthlessly trod by the foe,And the thunder of battle was loudest,To herald its message of woe.
While viewing your dilapidation,My memory kindles with joy,To think that the foes of our nation,No longer these valleys destroy;By sowing his fields in the winter,In hope of a rich harvest-home,The husbandman now feels no terrorOf war with its havoc to come.
When I look at the sheep as they shelterIn safety beneath your rude walls,Where erst the dread agents of slaughterFell’d thousands, nor heeded their calls;The hillock where crossed the sharp spearsNow shadows the ewe and its lamb,While seeing the peace of these years,My heart is with gratitude warm.
Ye towers that saw the wild ravens,And the eagles with hunger impell’d,Exultingly gorge ’mid your ruins.On corpses of men which they held;How sweet for you now ’tis to hearThe shepherd, so peaceful and meek,Tune his reed with a melody clear,While his flock in you shelter do seek.
Upon your battlements sitting,To view the bright landscape below,My heart becomes sad when rememberingThat silent in death is the foe,And the friends who bravely did combat,And raised your grey towers so steep,Declaring their life-blood should stagnate,Ere ever in chains they would weep.
When I think of their purpose so pure,The tear must fast trickle from me,Their hearts did Providence allureTo their country, and her did they free;We now live beneath a meek power,And feel the full blessings of peace,While on us abundantly shower,The mercies of Heaven with increase.
By Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson.{91}
Strike the harp: awake the lay!Let Cambria’s voice be heard this dayIn music’s witching strain!Wide let her ancient “soul of song,”The echo of its notes prolong,O’er valley, hill, and plain!Minstrels! awake your harps aloud,Bid Cambria’s nobles hither crowd,Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud,Nor shall the call be vain!
Let gen’rous wine around be pour’d!To many a chief in mem’ry stored,Of Cambria’s ancient day!Sons of the mountain and the flood,Who shed for her their dearest blood,Nor own’d a conqueror’s sway!Be they extolled in music’s strain,Remembered, when the cup we drain,And let their deeds revive againIn ev’ry minstrel’s lay!
’Tis now the feast of soul and song!As roll the festive hours along,Here wealth and pow’r combineWith beauty’s smiles, (a rich reward,)To cheer the rugged mountain bard,And honour Cambria’s line!Then, minstrels! wake your harps aloud,Behold her nobles hither crowd,Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud,Like gems around they shine!
[Llywarch Hen, warrior and poet, was the contemporary of Aneurin and Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the battle of Cattraeth, where he witnessed the fall of three of his sons, and in the endless wars of that period. He had twenty four sons, all of whom were slain in battle in the bard’s lifetime. He retired for refuge to the Court of Cynddylan, then Prince of Powys, at Pengwern, now Shrewsbury. The Saxons at length drove Cynddylan from Pengwern, and the bard retired to Llanfor, near Bala, in Merionethshire, where he died at the long age of 150 years. Hence the appellationhen, or the aged. Twelve poems of this bard remain, but all are imbued with the melancholy of the poet’s life.]
Cynddylan’s hearth is dark to-night,Cynddylan’s halls are lone;War’s fire has revell’d o’er their might,And still’d their minstrel’s tone;And I am left to chant apartOne murmur of a broken heart!
Pengwern’s blue spears are gleamless now,Her revelry is still;The sword has blanched his chieftain’s brow,Her fearless sons are chill:And pagan feet to dust have trodThe blue-robed messengers of God.{92}
Cynddylan’s shield, Cynddylan’s pride,The wandering snows are shading,One palace pillar stands to guideThe woodbine’s verdant braiding;And I am left, from all apart,The minstrel of the broken heart!
By Mrs. Hemans.
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringingWith song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom;But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing,The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb!
Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding,Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave?Why smile the waste flow’rs, my sad footsteps surrounding?My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!
Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing,As on to the fields of your glory you trod!Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing,Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod!
I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding,Which rouses ye not, oh, my lovely, my brave!When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding,I turn from heav’n’s light, for it smiles on your grave!
By Mrs. Hemans.
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night,I weep, for the grave has extinguished its light;The beam of its lamp from the summit is o’er,The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more!
The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still,The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill!Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene,Nor let e’en an echo recall what hath been!
The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare,No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there!Oh! where are the warriors who circled its board?—The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour’d.
The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night,Since he is departed whose smile made it bright:I mourn, but the sigh of my soul shall be brief,The pathway is short to the grave of my chief!
I called on the sun, in his noonday height,By the power and spell a wizard gave:Hast thou not found, with thy searching light,The island monarch’s grave?
“I smile on many a lordly tomb,Where Death is mock’d by trophies fair;I pierce the dim aisle’s hallow’d gloom;King Arthur sleeps not there.”
I watched for the night’s most lovely star,And, by that spell, I bade her say,If she had been, in her wand’rings far,Where the slain of Gamlan lay.{94b}
“Well do I love to shine uponThe lonely cairn on the dark hill’s side,And I weep at night o’er the brave ones gone,But not o’er Britain’s pride.”
I bent o’er the river, winding slowThrough tangled brake and rocky bed:Say, do thy waters mourning flowBeside the mighty dead?
The river spake through the stilly hour,In a voice like the deep wood’s evening sigh:“I am wand’ring on, ’mid shine and shower,But that grave I pass not by.”
I bade the winds their swift course hold,As they swept in their strength the mountain’s bre’st:Ye have waved the dragon banner’s fold,Where does its chieftain rest?
There came from the winds a murmured note,“Not ours that mystery of the world;But the dragon banner yet shall floatOn the mountain breeze unfurl’d.”
Answer me then, thou ocean deep,Insatiate gulf of things gone by,In thy green halls does the hero sleep?And the wild waves made reply:
“He sleeps not in our sounding cells,Our coral beds with jewels pearl’d;Not in our treasure depths it dwells,That mystery of the world.
“Long must the island monarch roam,The noble heart and the mighty hand;But we shall bear him proudly homeTo his father’s mountain land.”
[Owain Gwynedd, the subject of the following poem was the eldest son of Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and he succeeded his father on his death in 1137. Father and son were illustrious warriors and patriotic rulers. They were also celebrated for their munificent protection of the Welsh Bards. The Saxons had established themselves at the castle of Wyddgrug, now Mold, and thence committed great ravages on the Welsh in that vicinity. Owain collected his forces, and by a sudden and fierce attack he conquered the Saxons in their stronghold, and afterwards razed it with the ground in 1144. This celebrated Prince died in 1162, and was buried at Bangor, where a monument to his memory still remains.]
“It may be bowedWith woes far heavier than the ponderous tombThat weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloudMight gather o’er her beauty, and a gloomIn her dark eye, prophetic of the doom,Heaven gives its favourites—early death.”
“It may be bowedWith woes far heavier than the ponderous tombThat weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloudMight gather o’er her beauty, and a gloomIn her dark eye, prophetic of the doom,Heaven gives its favourites—early death.”
childe harold.
“Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth,Thy name is gone, thy rights invaded,And hopelessly the strong oak pineth,Where the tall sapling faded;The mountain eagle idly cowersBeside his slaughtered young,Our sons must bow to other powers,Must learn a stranger tongue.Pride, valour, freedom, treasures that have been,Do they all slumber in the grave of Rhûn?”
Thus sad and low the murmurs spreadRound Owain’s stately walls,While he, a mourner o’er the dead,Sate lonely in his halls;And not the hardiest warrior there,Unpitying, might blameThe reckless frenzy of despairWhich shook that iron frame;Eyes that had coldly gazed on woman’s grief,Wept o’er the anguish of their stern old chief.
Not all unheard those murmurs past,They reached a lady’s bower,Where meekly drooped beneath the blastProud Gwynedd’s peerless flower;And she, the hero’s widow’d bride,Has roused her from her sorrow’s spell,And vowed one effort should be triedFor that fair land he loved so well.
There came a footstep, light and lone,To break the Chieftain’s solitude,And, bending o’er a harp’s low tone,A form of fragile beauty stood;More like the maid, in fairy lay,{97}Whose very being was of flowers,Than creature, moulded from the clay,To dwell in this cold sphere of ours.
Her snowy brow through dark locks gleamed,And long and shadowy lashes curled,O’er eyes whose deep’ning radiance seemedCaught from the light of another world;And on her cheek there was a glow,Like clouds that kiss the parting sun;Death’s crimson banner, spread to showHis mournful triumph was begun.
Has grief so dulled Prince Owain’s ear,Her melody he may not hear?No kindly look, or word, or token,His trance of wretchedness has broken,Yet knows she, in that lonely spot,Her presence felt, tho’ greeted not;Knows that no foot, save hers, unbidden;Had dared to tread the living tomb,No other hand had waked, unchidden,The echoes of that sullen gloom;And now her voice’s gentle toneBlends with the harp, in dirge-like moan:
“I mourn for Rhûn; the spider’s patient trailHangs fairy cordage round his useless mail;The pennon, never seen to yield,Bends in the light breeze, idly gay,And rusted spear, and riven shieldTell of a warrior past away.
“I mourn for Rhûn; alas! the damp earth liesHeavy and chill on those unconscious eyes;Around those cold and powerless fingers,The earthworm coils her slimy rings;Above his grave the wild bird lingers,And many a requiem o’er it sings.
“I mourn for Rhûn; doth not the stranger tread,With spurning foot, upon his lowly bed?Doth not his spirit wailing roam,The land his dying wishes bless’d?And finds, within the Cymry’s home,But the oppressor and oppress’d.”
The minstrel pauses in her strain,To gaze on Owain’s altered brow,Where shame and sorrow, pride and pain,Are striving for the mastery now.
Not long the pause, again she flingsHer fingers o’er the sounding strings;Mournfully still, yet hurriedly,Waking a bolder melody;Her form assumes a loftier height,Her dark eyes flash more wildly bright,And the voice, that seem’d o’er the ear to float,Now stirs the heart like a trumpet’s note.
“Whence is the light on my spirit cast,A glance of the future, a dream of the past?There’s a coming sound in the shelter’d glen,Like the measur’d tread of warlike men,And the mingled hum of a gathering crowd,And the war-cry echoing far and loud.
“I hear their shields and corselets clashing,I see the gleam of their blue spears flashing,And the sun on plume-deck’d helmets glance,And the banners that on the free wind dance,And the steed of the chief in his gallant arrayAs he rushes to glory, away, away!”
“Sweep on, sweep on, in your crushing might,Bear ye that banner o’er hill and height!Sweep on, sweep on, in your ’whelming wrath,The far-scented raven shall follow your path;Let him track the step of the mountain ranger,And his beak shall be red with the blood of the stranger.
“On, for the fortress, whose gloomy heightLooks down on the valley in scornful might,Leave not one stone on another to tellThat the Saxon has dwelt where no more he shall dwell;Let the green weed o’ershadow the desolate hearthThat has rung to the spoiler’s exulting mirth.
“On! When the strife grows fierce and high,Vengeance and Rhûn be your battle-cry!Star of the Cymry! can it beThey go to conquer and not with thee?Thy blood is on the foeman’s glaive,My lost, my beautiful, my brave!”
The song has ceased, but ere its close,The lustre from those eyes is gone,The cheek has lost its crimson rose,The voice has changed its thrilling tone,Till the last notes in murmurs die,Faint as the echo of a sigh.
The task is done, the spell is cast,And, left in silent loneliness,The o’erwrought spirit breaks at last,Her hands her throbbing temples press,And tears are gushing fast and bright,Down those small palms and fingers slight.
Oh, human love! how beautiful thou art,Shading the ruin, clinging round the tomb,And ling’ring still, tho’ all beside depart;Can the cold sceptic, with his creed of gloom,Deem that thy final dwelling is the dust,Thy faith but folly, nothingness thy trust?
The Saxon feasted high that night,In Wyddgrug’s fortress proud,Where countless torches lent their light,And the song of mirth was loud;And ruby juice of Southern vineSparkled in cups of golden shine.
Sudden there rose a fearful cry,That drowned the voice of revelry,And then a glare so fiercely bright,It paled the torches’ waning light,And as its blaze more redly glowed,Leaving no niche or grey stone darkling,A deep and deadly current flowedTo mingle with the wine-cup’s sparkling.
And, in that triumph’s wild’ring hourOf sated vengeance, grappled power,Owain has lost the show of grief,Once more his Cymry’s warlike chief,With dauntless mien he proudly stands,The centre of his faithful bands,Who gladly view the haughty brow,Whence care and pain seem banished now,And little reck what deeper lies,All is not joy that wears its guise,And, not, ’mid valour’s trophies won,Can he forget his slaughtered son.
Forget! no, time and absence have estrangedThose who in sundered paths must tread,We may forget the distant or the changed,But not—oh, not the dead:All other things, that round us come and pass,Some with’ring chance or change have proved,But they still bear, in mem’ry’s magic glass,The semblance we have loved.
The morning breaks all calm and brightOn ruins stern and bloody plain,Flinging her rich and growing lightO’er many a ghastly heap of slain;And pure and fresh her lustre showersOn shattered helm and dinted mail,As when her coming wakes the flowersIn some peace-hallow’d vale.
But where is she, whose voice had powerTo rouse the war storm’s awful might?Glad eager footsteps seek her bower,With tidings of the glorious fight;On her loved harp her head is bowed,One slender arm still round it clings,And her dark tresses in a cloud,Are clust’ring o’er the silent strings.They clasp her hands, they call her name,They bid her strike the harp once more,And sing of victory, and fame,The song she loved in days of yore.Vain, vain, there comes no breath or soundThose faded lips to sever,The broken heart its rest hath found,The harp is hushed for ever.