III ANCIENT ARMORICAN (Breton)

Blood, wine, and glee, Sun, to thee,— Blood, wine, and glee! Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel! Fire, fire! steel and fire! Oak! oak, earth, and waves! Waves, oak, earth and oak! Glee of dance and song, And battle-throng,— Battle, dance, and song! Fire! fire! steel, etc. Let the sword blades swing In a ring,— Let the sword blades swing! Fire! fire! steel, etc. Song of the blue steel, Death to feel,— Song of the blue steel! Fire! fire! steel, etc. Fight, whereof the sword Is the Lord,— Fight of the fell sword! Fire! fire! steel, etc. Sword, thou mighty king Of battle’s ring,— Sword thou mighty king! Fire! fire! steel, etc. With the rainbow’s light Be thou bright,— With the rainbow’s light! Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel! Fire, fire! steel and fire! Oak! oak, earth and waves! Waves, oak, earth, and oak!

The good Lord Nann and his fair bride Were young when wedlock’s knot was tied— Were young when death did them divide. But yesterday that lady fair Two babes as white as snow did bear; A man-child and a girl they were. “Now, say what is thy heart’s desire, For making me a man-child’s sire? ’Tis thine, whate’er thou may’st require,— “What food soe’er thee lists to take, Meat of the woodcock from the lake, Meat of the wild deer from the brake.” “Oh, the meat of the deer is dainty food! To eat thereof would do me good, But I grudge to send thee to the wood.” The Lord of Nann, when this he heard, Hath gripp’d his oak spear with never a word; His bonny black horse he hath leap’d upon, And forth to the greenwood hath he gone. By the skirts of the wood as he did go, He was ware of a hind as white as snow. Oh, fast she ran, and fast he rode, That the earth it shook where his horse-hoofs trode. Oh, fast he rode, and fast she ran, That the sweat to drop from his brow began— That the sweat on his horse’s flank stood white; So he rode and rode till the fall o’ the night. When he came to a stream that fed a lawn, Hard by the grot of a Corrigaun. The grass grew thick by the streamlet’s brink, And he lighted down off his horse to drink. The Corrigaun sat by the fountain fair, A-combing her long and yellow hair. A-combing her hair with a comb of gold,— (Not poor, I trow, are those maidens cold).— “Now who’s the bold wight that dares come here To trouble my fairy fountain clear? “Either thou straight shall wed with me, Or pine for four long years and three; Or dead in three days’ space shall be.” “I will not wed with thee, I ween, For wedded man a year I’ve been; “Nor yet for seven years will I pine, Nor die in three days for spell of thine; “For spell of thine I will not die, But when it pleaseth God on high. “But here, and now, I’d leave my life, Ere take a Corrigaun to wife. . . . . . . . . . . “O mother, mother! for love of me, Now make my bed, and speedily, For I am sick as a man can be. “Oh, never the tale to my lady tell; Three days and ye’ll hear my passing bell; The Corrigaun hath cast her spell.” Three days they pass’d, three days were sped, To her mother-in-law the ladye said; “Now tell me, madam, now tell me, pray, Wherefore the death-bells toll to-day? “Why chaunt the priests in the street below, All clad in their vestments white as snow?” “A strange poor man, who harbour’d here, He died last night, my daughter dear.” “But tell me, madam, my lord, your son— My husband—whither is he gone?” “But to the town, my child, he’s gone; And at your side he’ll be back anon.” “What gown for my churching were’t best to wear,— My gown of grain, or of watchet fair?” “The fashion of late, my child, hath grown, That women for churching black should don.” As through the churchyard porch she stept, She saw the grave where her husband slept. “Who of our blood is lately dead, That our ground is new raked and spread?” “The truth I may no more forbear, My son—your own poor lord—lies there!” She threw herself on her knees amain, And from her knees ne’er rose again. That night they laid her, dead and cold, Beside her lord, beneath the mould; When, lo!—a marvel to behold!— Next morn from the grave two oak-trees fair, Shot lusty boughs high up in air; And in their boughs—oh wondrous sight!— Two happy doves, all snowy white— That sang, as ever the morn did rise, And then flew up—into the skies!

The bearded fox is yelping, yelp, yelping through the glades; Woe to the foreign rabbits! His eyes are two keen blades. His teeth are keen; his feet are swift; his nails are red with blood. Alain the fox is yelping war: yelp, yelping in the wood. The Bretons making sharp their arms of terror I did see, It was on cuirasses of Gaul, not stones of Brittany. The Bretons reaping did I see, upon the fields of war; It was not notched reaping-hooks, but swords of steel they bore. They reapt no wheat of our own land, they reaped not our rye; But the beardless ears, the beardless ears of Gaul and Saxony. I saw upon the threshing-floor the Bretons threshing corn: I saw the beaten chaff fly out from beardless ears off-torn. It was not with their wooden flails the Bretons thresht the wheat; But with their iron boar-spears and with their horses’ feet. I heard the cry when threshing’s done, the joy-cry onward borne Far, far from Mont-Saint-Michel to the valleys of Elorn: From the abbey of Saint Gildas far on to the Land’s-End rocks. In Brittany’s four corners give a glory to the Fox! From age to age give glory to the Fox a thousand times! But weep ye for the rhymer, though he recollect his rhymes! For he that sang this song the first since then hath never sung: Ah me, alas! Unhappy man! The Gauls cut out his tongue. But though no more he hath a tongue, a heart is always his: He has both hand and heart to shoot his arrowy melodies.

Wounded full sore is Bran the knight; For he was at Kerloan fight; At Kerloan fight, by wild seashore Was Bran-Vor’s grandson wounded sore; And, though we gained the victory, Was captive borne beyond the sea. He when he came beyond the sea, In the close keep wept bitterly. “They leap at home with joyous cry While, woe is me, in bed I lie. Could I but find a messenger, Who to my mother news would bear!” They quickly found a messenger; His best thus gave the warrior: “Heed thou to dress in other guise, My messenger, dress beggar-wise! Take thou my ring, my ring of gold, That she thy news as truth may hold! Unto my country straightway go, It to my lady mother show! Should she come free her son from hold, A flag of white do thou unfold! But if with thee she come not back, Unfurl, ah me, a pennon black!” So, when to Leon-land he came, At supper table sat the dame, At table with her family, The harpers playing as should be. “Dame of the castle, hail! I bring From Bran your son this golden ring, His golden ring and letter too; Read it, oh read it, straightway through!” “Ye harpers, cease ye, play no more, For with great grief my heart is sore! My son (cease harpers, play no more!) In prison, and I did not know! Prepare to-night a ship for me! To-morrow I go across the sea.” The morning of the next, next day The Lord Bran question’d, as he lay: “Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say! Seest thou no vessel on its way?” “My lord the knight, I nought espy Except the great sea and the sky.” The Lord Bran askt him yet once more, Whenas the day’s course half was o’er; “Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say! Seest thou no vessel on its way?” “I can see nothing, my lord the knight, Except the sea-birds i’ their flight.” The Lord Bran askt him yet again, Whenas the day was on the wane; “Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say! Seest thou no vessel on its way?” Then that false sentinel, the while Smiling a mischief-working smile; “I see afar a misty form— A ship sore beaten by the storm.” “The flag? Quick give the answer back! The banner? Is it white or black?” “Far as I see, ’tis black, Sir knight, I swear it by the coal’s red light.” When this the sorrowing knight had heard Again he never spoke a word; But turn’d aside his visage wan; And then the fever fit began. Now of the townsmen askt the dame, When at the last to shore she came, “What is the news here, townsmen, tell! That thus I hear them toll the bell?” An aged man the lady heard, And thus he answer’d to her word: “We in the prison held a knight; And he hath died here in the night.” Scarcely to end his words were brought, When the high tower that lady sought; Shedding salt tears and running fast, Her white hair scatter’d in the blast, So that the townsmen wonderingly Full sorely marvell’d her to see; Whenas they saw a lady strange, Through their streets so sadly range Each one in thought did musing stand; “Who is the lady, from what land?” Soon as the donjon’s foot she reacht, The porter that poor dame beseecht; “Ope, quickly ope, the gate for me! My son! My son! Him would I see!” Slowly the great gate open drew; Herself upon her son she threw, Close in her arms his corpse to strain, The lady never rose again. There is a tree, that doth look o’er From Kerloan’s battle-field to th’ shore; An oak. Before great Evan’s face The Saxons fled in that same place. Upon that oak in clear moonlight, Together come the birds at night; Black birds and white, but sea birds all; On each one’s brow a blood-stain small, With them a raven gray and old; With her a crow comes young and bold. Both with soil’d wings, both wearied are; They come beyond the seas from far: And the birds sing so lovelily That silence comes on the great sea. All sing in concert sweet and low Except the raven and the crow. Once was the crow heard murmuring: “Sing, little birds, ye well may sing! Sing, for this is your own countrie! Ye died not far from Brittany!”

Soul, since I was made in necessity blameless True it is, woe is me that thou shouldst have come to my design, Neither for my own sake, nor for death, nor for end, nor for beginning. It was with seven faculties that I was thus blessed, With seven created beings I was placed for purification; I was gleaming fire when I was caused to exist; I was dust of the earth, and grief could not reach me; I was a high wind, being less evil than good; I was a mist on a mountain seeking supplies of stags; I was blossoms of trees on the face of the earth. If the Lord had blessed me, He would have placed me on matter. Soul, since I was made——

The tops of the ash glisten, that are white and stately, When growing on the top of the dingle: The breast rackt with pain, longing is its complaint. Brightly glitters the top of the cliff at the long midnight hour; Every ingenious person will be honoured: ’Tis the duty of the fair, to afford sleep to him that is in pain. Brightly glistens the willow tops; the fish are merry in the lakes, Blustering is the wind over the tops of the small branches: Nature over learning doth prevail. Brightly glisten the tops of the furze; have confidence with the wise, But from the unwise tear thyself afar; Besides God there is none that sees futurity. Brightly glisten the clover tops: the timid has no heart; Wearied out are the jealous ones: Cares attend the weak. Brightly glisten the tops of reed-grass; furious is the jealous, If any should perchance offend him: ’Tis the maxim of the prudent to love with sincerity. Brightly glare the tops of the mountains from the blustering of winter, Full are the stalks of reeds; heavy is oppression: Against famine bashfulness will vanish. Brightly glare the tops of mountains assail’d by winter cold; Brittle are the reeds; the mead is incrusted over; Playful is the heedless in banishment. Bright are the tops of the oaks, bitter are the ash branches; Before the duck, the dividing waves are seen: Confident is deceit; care is deeply rooted in my heart. Brightly glisten the tops of the oaks, bitter are the ash branches; Sweet is the sheltering hedge; the wave is a noisy grinner; The cheek cannot conceal the trouble of the heart. Bright is the top of the eglantine; hardship dispenses with forms, Let everyone keep his fire-side: The greatest blemish is ill-manners. Brightly glitters the top of the broom; may the lover have a home; Very yellow seem the clustered branches; Shallow is the ford; sleep visits the contented mind. Brightly glitters the top of the apple-tree; the prosperous is circumspect. In the long day the stagnant pool is warm; Thick is the veil on the light of the blind prisoner. Very glittering are the hazel-tops by the hill of Dig; Every prudent one will be free from harm; ’Tis the act of the mighty to keep a treaty. Glittering are the tops of the reeds; the fat are drowsy And the young imbibe instruction; None but the foolish will break faith. Glittering is the top of the lily; let every bold one be a drinker; The word of a tribe is superior; ’Tis usual for the unjust to break his word. Bright are the tops of heath; miscarriage attends the timid; Boldly laves the water on its banks. Tis the maxim of the just to keep his word. The tops of the rushes glitter; the kine are gentle; Running are my tears this day, Social comfort from man there is not. Glittering are the tops of fern, yellow is the wild marygold; The sea is a fence for blind ones: Swift and active are the young men. Glittering are the tops of the service-tree; care attends the old; The bees frequent the wilds; Vengeance only to God belongs. Brightly glitters the tops of the oak; incessant is the tempest; The bees are high in their flight, brittle is the charr’d brushwood, The wanton is apt to laugh too frequently. The hazel grove brightly glitters, even and uniform seem the brakes; And with leaves the oaks envelop themselves; Happy is he who sees the one he loves! Glittering seems the top of the oak; coolly purls the stream; I wish to obtain the top of the birchen grove; Abruptly goes the arrow of the haughty to give pain. Brightly glitters the top of the hard holly, that opens its golden leaves; When all are asleep on the surrounding walls, God slumbers not when He means to give deliverance. Glittering are the tops of the willows, brittle and tender; In the long day of summer the war-horse flags, Those that have mutual friendships will not offend. Glittering are the tops of rushes, the stems are full of prickles; When drawn under the pillow; The wanton mind will be haughty. Bright is the top of the hawthorn; confident is the fight of the steed; It behoves the dependant to be grateful; May it be good what the speedy messenger brings. Glittering are the tops of cresses; warlike is the steed; Trees are fair ornaments of the ground; Joyful is the soul with the one it loves. Brightly glares the top of the bush, valuable is the steed; Reason joined with strength is effectual; Let the unskilful be void of strength. Glittering are the tops of the brakes, birds are their fair jewels; The long day is the gift of the radiant light, Mercy was formed by God, the most beneficent. Glittering are the elmwood tops, sweet the music of the grove; Boisterous among the trees the wind doth whistle; Interceding with the obdurate will not avail. Glittering are the tops of elder-trees; bold is the solitary songster; Accustomed is the violent to oppress; By want of care the food in hand may be lost.

Entangling is the snare, clustered is the ash; The ducks are in the pond; white breaks the wave; More powerful than a hundred is the counsel of the heart. Long the night, boisterous is the sea-shore; Usual a tumult in a congregation; The vicious will not agree with the good. Long the night, boisterous is the mountain, The wind whistles over the tops of trees; Ill-nature will not deceive the discreet. The saplings of the green-topped birch Will extricate my foot from the shackle; Disclose not thy secret to a youth. The saplings of oaks in the grove Will extricate my foot from the chain; Disclose no secret to a maid. The saplings of the leafy oaks Will extricate my foot from the prison; Divulge no secret to a babbler. The saplings of bramble have berries on them; The thrush is on her nest; The liar will never be silent. Rain without, the fern is drenched; White the gravel of the sea; there is spray on the margin; Reason is the fairest lamp for man. Rain without, near is the shelter, The furze yellow; the cow-parsnip withered and dry; God the Creator! why hast thou made me a coward? Rain without, my hair is drenched; Full of complaint is the feeble; steep the cliff; Pale white is the sea; salt is the brine. Rain without, the ocean is drenched; The wind whistles over the tops of the reeds; After every feat, still without the genius.

Discover thou what is The strong creature from before the flood, Without flesh, without bone, Without vein, without blood, Without head, without feet; It will neither be older nor younger Than at the beginning; For fear of a denial, These are no rude wants With creatures. Great God! how the sea whitens When first it comes! Great are its gusts When it comes from the south; Great are its evaporations When it strikes on coasts. It is in the field, it is in the wood, Without hand and without foot, Without signs of old age, Though it be co-eval With the five ages or periods; And older still, Though they be numberless years. It is also so wide; As the surface of the earth; And it was not born, Nor was it seen. It will cause consternation Wherever God willeth. On sea, and on land, It neither sees, nor is seen. Its course is devious, And will not come when desired On land and on sea It is indispensable. It is without an equal, It is four-sided; It is not confined, It is incomparable; It comes from four quarters; It will not be advised, It will not be without advice. It commences its journey Above the marble rock. It is sonorous, it is dumb, It is mild, It is strong, it is bold, When it glances over the land. It is silent, it is vocal, It is clamorous, It is the most noisy On the face of the earth. It is good, it is bad, It is extremely injurious. It is concealed, Because sight cannot perceive it. It is noxious, it is beneficial; It is yonder, it is here; It will discompose, But will not repair the injury; It will not suffer for its doings, Seeing it is blameless. It is wet, it is dry, It frequently comes, Proceeding from the heat of the sun, And the coldness of the moon. The moon is less beneficial, Inasmuch as her heat is less. One Being has prepared it, Out of all creatures, By a tremendous blast, To wreak vengeance On Maelgwn Gwynedd.

Month of January—smoky is the vale; Weary the wine-bearer; strolling the minstrel; Lean the cow; seldom the hum of the bee; Empty the milking fold; void of meat the kiln; Slender the horse; very silent the bird; Long to the early dawn; short the afternoon; Justly spoke Cynfelyn, “Prudence is the best guide for man.” Month of February—scarce are the dainties; Wakeful the adder to generate its poison; Habitual is reproach from frequent acknowledgment; The hired ox has not skill to complain; Three things produce dreadful evils, A woman’s counsel, murder, and way-laying; Best is the dog upon a morning in spring; Alas! to him who murders his maid! Month of March—great is the forwardness of the birds, Severe is the cold wind upon the headlands; Serene weather will be longer than the crops; Longer continues anger than grief; Every one feels dread; Every bird wings to its mate. Every thing springs through the earth; But the dead, strong is his prison! Month of April—aerial is the horizon; Fatigued the oxen; bare the land; Common is the visitor without an invitation; Poor the deer; blithesome the hare; Everyone claims his labour; Happy his state who governs himself; Common is separation with virtuous children; Common, after presumption, is a long cessation. Month of May—wanton is the lascivious; Sheltering the ditch to everyone who loves it; Joyous the aged in his robes; Loquacious the cuckoo in the rural vales; Easy is society where there is affection; Covered with foliage are the woods, sportive the amorous, There comes as often to the market, The skin of the lamb as the skin of the sheep. Month of June—beautiful are the fields; Smooth the sea, pleasing the strand; Beautifully long the day, playful the ladies; Full the flocks, apt to be firm the bog; God loves all tranquillity; The devil loves all mischief; Every one covets honour; Every mighty one, feeble his end. Month of July—the hay is apt to smoke; Ardent the heat, dissolved the snow; The vagrant does not love a long confederacy; There is no success to the progeny of an unchaste person; Bare the farm-yard—partly empty the circular eminence; Clean the perfect person, disgraceful the boasting word; Justly spoke the foster-son of Mary, “God judges, though man may prate.” Month of August—covered with foam is the beach; Blithesome the bee, full the hive; Better the work of the sickle than the bow; Fuller the stack than the theatre. He that will neither work nor pray, Is not worthy to have bread; Justly spoke Saint Breda, “Evil will not be approached less than good.” Month of September—benign are the planets; Tending to please, the sea and the hamlet; Common is it for steeds and men to be fatigued; Common is it to possess all kinds of fruit:— A princely girl was born, To be our leader from painful slavery;— Justly spake Saint Berned, “God does not sleep when he gives deliverance.” Month of October—penetrable is the shelter; Yellow the tops of the birch, solitary the summer dwelling; Full of fat the birds and the fish; Less and less the milk of the cow and the goat; Alas! to him who merits disgrace by sin! Death is better than frequent extravagance; Three things follow every crime, Fasting, prayer, and charity. Month of November—very fat are the swine; Let the shepherd go; let the minstrel come; Bloody the blade, full the barn; Pleased the sea, tasteless the caldron; Long the night, active the prisoner; Respected is every one who possesses property; For three things men are not often concerned, Sorrow, angry look, and an illiberal miser. Month of December—the shoe is covered with dirt: Heavy the land, flagging the sun; Bare are the trees, still is the muscle; Cheerful the cock, and determined the thief; Whilst the twelve months proceed so sprightly, Round the youthful mind, is the spoiler Satan; Justly spoke Yscolan, “God is better than an evil prophecy.”

Thou Summer! father of delight, With thy dense spray and thickets deep; Gemm’d monarch, with thy rapt’rous light. Rousing thy subject glens from sleep! Proud has thy march of triumph been, Thou prophet, prince of forest green! Artificer of wood and tree, Thou painter of unrivalled skill, Who ever scatters gems like thee, And gorgeous webs on park and hill? Till vale and hill with radiant dyes Become another Paradise! And thou hast sprinkled leaves and flow’rs, And goodly chains of leafy bow’rs; And bid thy youthful warblers sing On oak and knoll, the song of spring, And black-birds’ note of ecstacy Burst loudly from the woodbine tree, Till all the world is thronged with gladness— Her multitudes have done with sadness! O Summer! do I ask in vain? Thus in thy glory wilt thou deign My messenger to be? Hence from the bowels of the land Of wild, wild Gwyneth to the strand Of fair Glamorgan—ocean’s band— Sweet margin of the sea! To dear Glamorgan, when we part, Oh bear a thousand times my heart! My blessing give a thousand times, And crown with joy her glowing climes? Take on her lovely vales thy stand, And tread and trample round the land, The beauteous shore whose harvest lies All sheltered from inclement skies. Radiant with corn and vineyards sweet, The lakes of fish and mansions neat, With halls of stone where kindness dwells, And where each hospitable lord Heaps for the stranger guest his board! And where the generous wine cup swells; With trees that bear a luscious pear, So thickly clustering everywhere, That the fair country of my love Looks dense as one continuous grove! Her lofty woods with warblers teem, Her fields with flow’rs that love the stream; Her valleys varied crops display, Eight kinds of corn, and three of hay; Bright parlour, with her trefoiled floor! Sweet garden, spread on ocean’s shore! Glamorgan’s bounteous knights award Bright mead and burnished gold to me: Glamorgan boasts of many a bard, Well skilled in harp and vocal glee: The districts round her border spread From her have drawn their daily bread— Her milk, her meat, her varied stores, Have been the life of distant shores! And court and hamlet food have found From the rich soil of Britain’s southern bound. And wilt thou then obey my power, Thou Summer, in thy brightest hour? To her thy glorious hues unfold In one rich embassy of gold! Her morns with bliss and splendour light, And fondly kiss her mansions white; Fling wealth and verdure o’er her bow’rs! And for her gather all thy flow’rs! Glance o’er her castles, white with lime, With genial glimmerings sublime; Plant on the verdant coast thy feet, Her lofty hills, her woodlands greet. Oh! lavish blossoms with thy hand O’er all the forests of the land; And let thy gifts like floods descending, O’er every hill and glen be blending; Let orchard, garden, vine express Thy fulness and thy fruitfulness— O’er all the land of beauty fling The costly traces of thy wing! And thus ’mid all thy radiant flowers, Thy thickening leaves and glossy bowers, The poet’s task shall be to glean Roses and flowers that softly bloom (The jewel of the forest’s gloom!), And trefoils wove in pavement green, With sad humility to grace His golden Ivor’s resting-place.

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, alone, A hermit chorister before God’s throne! Oh! wilt thou climb yon heavens 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.

The wretch my starry bird who slew, Beast of the flameless ember hue, Assassin, glutton of the night, Mixed of all creatures that defile, Land lobster, fugitive of light, Thou coward mountain crocodile; With downcast eye and ragged tail, That haunt’st the hollow rocks, Thief, ever ready to assail The undefended flocks, Thy brass-hued breast and tattered locks Shall not protect thee from the hound, When with unbaffled eye he mocks Thy mazy fortress underground, Whilst o’er my peacock’s shattered plumes shall shine A pretty bower of faery eglantine.

I was on the margin of a plain, Under a wide spreading tree, Hearing the song Of the wild birds; Listening to the language Of the thrush cock, Who from the wood of the valley Composed a verse— From the wood of the steep, He sang exquisitely. Speckled was his breast Amongst the green leaves, As upon branches Of a thousand blossoms On the bank of a brook, All heard With the dawn the song, Like a silver bell; Performing a sacrifice, Until the hour of forenoon; Upon the green altar Ministering Bardism. From the branches of the hazel Of green broad leaves He sings an ode To God the Creator; With a carol of love From the green glade, To all in the hollow Of the glen, who love him; Balm of the heart To those who love. I had from his beak The voice of inspiration, A song of metres That gratified me; Glad was I made By his minstrelsy. Then respectfully Uttered I an address From the stream of the valley To the bird. I requested urgently His undertaking a message To the fair one Where dwells my affection. Gone is the bard of the leaves From the small twigs To the second Lunet, The sun of the maidens! To the streams of the plain St Mary prosper him, To bring to me, Under the green woods The hue of the snow of one night, Without delay.