SPECIMENS OF ANCIENT WELSH POETRY.

A poem composed by Owain Cyveiliog, prince of Powys, entitled by him Hirlas, from a large drinking horn so called, used at feasts in his palace. He was driven out of his country by Owain Gwynedd, prince of North Wales, and Rhys-ap-Griffydd-ap-Rhys-ap-Tewdwr, prince of South Wales, a.d. 1167, and recovered it, by the help of the Normans and English, under Henry the second. He flourished about a.d. 1160, in the time of Owain Gwynedd and his son David. This poem was composed on account of a battle fought with the English at Maelor, which is a part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, according to the modern division.

When the dawn arose, the shout was given; the enemy gave an ominous presage; our men were stained with blood, after a hard contest; and the borders of Maelor Drefred were beheld with wonder and astonishment. Strangers have I driven away undaunted from the field with bloody arms. He that provokes the brave man, ought to dread his resentment.

Fill, cup-bearer, fill with alacrity the horn of Rhys, in the generous prince’s hall; for Owain’s hall was ever supported by spoils taken from the enemy; and in it thou hearest of the relief of thousands. There the gates are ever open.

O cup-bearer, who, with patience, mindest thy duty, forsake us not; fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose gloss is like the wave of the sea; whose green handles shew the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold. Bring the best meath, and put it in Gwgan Draws’s hand, for the noble feats which he hath achieved: the offspring of Gronwy, who valiantly fought in the midst of dangers; a race of heroes for worthy acts renowned: and men, who, in every hardship they undergo, deserve a reward; who are in the battle foremost: the guardians of Sabrina. Their friends exult, when they hear their voice. The festal shout will cease when they are gone.

Fill thou the yellow-tipped horn, badge of honour and mirth, full of frothing meath; and if thou art desirous to have thy life prolonged to the year’s end, stop not the reward due to his virtue, for it is unjust; and bring it to Griffydd, with the crimson lance. Bring wine in the transparent horn; for he is the guardian of Arwystli, [10a] the defence of its borders; a dragon of Owain the generous, whose descent is from Cynvyn; a dragon he was from the beginning, that never was terrified in the battle; his brave actions shall follow him. The warriors went to purchase renown, flushed with liquor, and armed like Edwin; they paid for their mead, like Belyn’s [10b] men, in the days of yore. And as long as men exist, their valour shall be the common theme of Bards.

Fill thou the horn; for it is my inclination, that we may converse in mirth and festivity with our brave general; put it in the hand of the worthy Ednyfed, with his spear broken to pieces, and his shield pierced through.

Like the bursting of a hurricane upon the smooth sea . . . in the conflict of battle, they would soon break in pieces the sides of a golden-bordered shield: their lances were besmeared with gore, after piercing the heads of their enemies; they were vigorous and active in the defence of delightful Garthan. [11a] Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din of arms, their furious onset, loud as in the battle of Bangor, [11b] where fire flashed out of their spears? There two princes engaged, when the carousing of Morach Vorvran [11c] happened.

Fill thou the horn; for it is my delight, in the place where the defenders of our country drink mead, and give it to Selyf the fearless, the defence of Gwygyr; [11d] woe to the wretch that offends him, eagle-hearted hero: and to the son of Madoc, the famous and generous Tudur, like a wolf when he seizes his prey, is his assault in the onset. Two heroes, who were sage in their counsels, but active in the field, the two sons of Ynyr, who, on the day of battle, were ready for the attack, heedless of danger, famous for their exploits; their assault was like that of strong lions, and they pierced their enemies like brave warriors; they were lords of the battle, and rushed foremost with their crimson lances; the weight of their attack was not to be withstood; their shields were broke asunder with much force, as the high-sounding wind on the beach of the green sea, and the encroaching of the furious waves on the coast of Talgarth. [12a]

Fill, cup-bearer, as thou regardest thy life; fill the horn, badge of honour at feasts, the hirlas [12b] drinking-horn, which is a token of distinction, whose tip is adorned with silver, and it’s cover of the same metal; and bring it to Tudur, the eagle of battles, filled with the best wine; and if thou dost not bring us the best of all, thy head shall fly off: give it in the hand of Moreiddig, encourager of songs, whose praise in battle is celebrated; they were brethren of a distant clime, of an undaunted heart, and their valour was observable in their countenance. Can I forget their services? . . . Impetuous warriors, wolves of the battle, their lances are besmeared with gore; they were the heroes of the chief of Mochnant, [12c] in the region of Powys. Their honour was soon purchased by them both; they seized every occasion to defend their country, in the time of need, with their bloody arms, and they kept their borders from hostile invasion. Their lot is praise; it is like a mournful elegy to me to lose them both! O Christ! how pensive am I for the loss of Moreiddig, which is irreparable.

Pour thou out the horn, though they desire it not, the drinking horn, hirlas, with cheerfulness, and deliver it into the hand of Morgant, one who deserves to be celebrated with distinguished praise. It was like poison to me, to be deprived of him, and that he was pierced - - - - by the keen sword.

Pour, cup-bearer, from a silver vessel, an honourable gift, badge of distinction. On the large plains of Gwestun [13a] I have seen a miracle; to stop the impetuosity of Gronwy, was more than a task for an hundred men. The warriors pointed their lances, courted the battle, and were profuse of life; they met their enemies in the conflict, and their chieftain was consumed by fire near the surges of the sea. [13b] They rescued a noble prisoner, Meurig the son of Griffydd, of renowned valour; they were all of them covered with blood when they returned, and the high hills and the dales enjoyed the sun equally. [13c]

Pour the horn to the warriors, Owain’s noble heroes, who were equally active and brave. They assembled in that renowned place, where the shining steel glittered. Madoc and Meilir were men accustomed to violence, and maintained each other in the injuries they did to their enemies; they were the shields of our army, and the teachers of warlike attack. Hear ye, by drinking mead, how the lord of Cattraeth went with his warriors in defence of his just cause, the guards of Mynyddawc [13d] about their distinguished chief. They have been celebrated for their bravery, and their speedy march. But nobody has ever performed so noble an exploit as my warriors, in the tough land of Maelor, in rescuing the captive.

Pour out, cup-bearer, sweet and well strained mead, (the thrust of the spear is red in the time of need,) from the horns of wild oxen, covered with gold, for the honour, and the reward of the souls of those departed heroes. Of the numerous cares that surround princes, no one is conscious here but God and myself. The man who neither gives nor takes quarter, and cannot be forced by his enemies to abide to his word, Daniel the valiant and beautiful: O cup-bearer, great is the task to entreat him; his men will not cease dealing death around them, till he is mollified. Cup-bearer, our shares of mead are to be given us equally before the bright shining tapers. Cup-bearer, hadst thou seen the action in the land of Llidwm, [14a] the men whom I honour have but what is their just reward. Cup-bearer, hadst thou seen the armed chiefs, encompassing Owain, who were his shield against the violence of his foes, when Cawres [14b] was invaded with great fury. Cup-bearer, slight not my commands: may we all be admitted into Paradise by the King of kings; and long may the liberty and happiness of my heroes continue, where the truth is to be discerned distinctly.

A POEM

To Myfanwy Fechan [15a] of Castell Dinas Bran, [15b] composed by Howel-ap-Einion Lygliw, [15c] a Bard who flourished about a.d. 1390.

I am without spirit, O thou that hast enchanted me, as Creirwy [15d] enchanted Garwy. [15e] In whatever part of the world I am, I lament my absence from the marble castle of Myfanwy. Love is the heaviest burden, O thou that shinest like the heavens, and a greater punishment cannot be inflicted than thy displeasure, O beautiful Myfanwy. I who am plunged deeper and deeper in love, can expect no other ease, O gentle fair Myfanwy with the jet eyebrows, than to lose my life upon thy account. I sung in golden verse thy praises, O Myfanwy; this is the happiness of thy lover, but the happiness is a misfortune. The well-fed steed carried me pensive like Trystan, [15f] and great was his speed to reach the golden summit of Bran. Daily I turn my eyes, and see thee, O thou that shinest like the waves of Caswennan. [15g] Charming sight to gaze on thee in the spacious royal palace of Bran. I have rode hard, mounted on a fine high-bred steed, upon thy account, O thou with the countenance of cherry-flower bloom. The speed was with eagerness, and the strong long-ham’d steed of Alban [16a] reached the summit of the highland of Bran. I have composed, with great study and pains, thy praise, O thou that shinest like the new-fallen snow on the brow of Aran. [16b] O thou beautiful flower descended from Trefor. [16c] Hear my sorrowful complaint. I am wounded, and the great love I bear thee will not suffer me to sleep, unless thou givest me a kind answer. I, thy pensive Bard, am in as woeful plight as Rhun [16d] by thy palace, beautiful maid. I recite, without either flattery or guile, thy praise, O thou that shinest like the meridian sun, with thy stately steps. Should’st thou, who art the luminary of many countries, demand my two eyes, I would part with them on thy account, such is the pain I suffer. They pain me while I look on the glossy walls of thy fine habitation, and see thee beautiful as the morning sun. I have meditated thy praise, and made all countries resound with it, and every singer was pleased in chanting it. So affecting are the subjects of my mournful tale, O Myfanwy, [16e] that lookest like flakes of driven snow. My loving heart sinks with grief without thy support, O thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves. Heaven has decreed, that I should suffer tormenting pain, and wisdom and reason were given in vain to guard against love. When I saw thy fine shape in scarlet robes, thou daughter of a generous chief, I was so affected, that life and death were equal to me. I sunk away, and scarce had time to make my confession. Alas! my labour in celebrating thy praises, O thou that shinest like the fine spider’s webs on the grass in a summer’s day, is vain. It would be a hard task for any man to guess how great my pain is. It is so afflicting, thou bright luminary of maids, that my colour is gone. I know that this pain will avail me nothing towards obtaining thy love, O thou whose countenance is as bright as the flowers of the haw-thorn. O how well didst thou succeed in making me to languish, and despair. For heaven’s sake, pity my distressed condition, and soften the penance of thy Bard. I am a Bard, who, though wounded by thee, sing thy praises in well sounding verse, thou gentle maid of slender shape, who hinderest me to sleep by thy charms. I bring thy praises, bright maid, to thy neat palace at Dinbrain; [17] many are the songs that I rehearse to celebrate thy beautiful form.

AN ODE

Of David Benvras, to Llewelyn the Great, Prince of Wales, a.d. 1240.

He who created the glorious sun, and that cold pale luminary the moon, grant that I attain the heights of poetry, and be inspired with the genius of Myrddin; [18a] that I may extol the praise of heroes, like Aneurin, [18b] in the day he sung his celebrated Gododin; that I may set forth the happiness of the inhabitants of Venedotia, the noble and prosperous prince of Gwynedd, the stay and prop of his fair and pleasant country. He is manly and heroic in the battle, his fame overspreadeth the country about the mountain of Breiddin. [18c] Since God created the first man, there never was his equal in the front of battle. Llewelyn the generous, of the race of princes, has struck terror and astonishment in the heart of kings. When he strove for superiority with Loegria’s king, when he was wasting the country of Erbin, [18d] his troops were valiant and numerous. Great was the confusion when the shout was given, his sword was bathed in blood; proud were his nobles to see his army; when they heard the clashing of swords, then was felt the agony of wounds [18e] - - - - - Many were the gashes in the conflict of war. Great was the confusion of the Saxons about the ditch of Knocking. [19a] The sword was broke in the hand of the warrior. Heads were covered with wounds, and the flood of human gore gushed in streams down the knees.

Llewelyn’s empire is wide extended, he is renowned as far as Porth Ysgewin. [19b] Constantine was not his equal in undergoing hardships. Had I arrived to the height of prophecy, and the great gift of ancient poesy, I could not relate his prowess in action; no, Taliesin [19c] himself was unequal to the task. Before he finishes his course in this world, after he has lived a long life on earth, ere he goes to the deep and bone-bestrewed grave, ere the green herb grows over his tomb, may He that turned the water into wine, grant that he may have the Almighty’s protection, and that for every sin, with which he hath been stained, he may receive remission. May Llewelyn, the noble and generous, never be confounded or ashamed when he arrives at that period; and may he be under the protection of the saints.

A POEM

To Llewelyn the Great, composed by Einion the son of Gwgan, about 1244.

I invoke the assistance of the God of Heaven, Christ our Saviour, whom to neglect is impious. That gift is true which descendeth from above. The gifts that are given me are immortal, to discern, according to the great apostle, what is right and decent; and, among other grand subjects, to celebrate my prince, who avoids not the battle nor its danger; Llewelyn the generous, the maintainer of Bards. He is the dispenser of happiness to his subjects, his noble deeds cannot be sufficiently extolled. His spear flashes in a hand accustomed to martial deeds. It kills and puts its enemies to flight by the palace of Rheidiol. [20a] I have seen, and it was my heart’s delight, the guards of Lleision [20b] about its grand buildings; numberless troops of warriors mounted on white steeds. They encompassed our eagle: Llewelyn the magnanimous hero, whose armour glistened; the maintainer of his rights. He defended the borders of Powys, a country renowned for its bravery; he defended its steep passes, and supported the privileges of its prince. Obstinate was his resistance to the treacherous English. In Rhuddlan he was like the ruddy fire flaming with destructive light. There have I seen Llewelyn the brave gaining immortal glory. I have seen him gallantly ploughing the waves of Deva, when the tide was at its height. I have seen him furious in the conflict of Chester, where he doubly repaid his enemies the injuries he suffered from them. It is but just that he should enjoy the praise due to his valour. I will extol thee, and the task is delightful. Thou art like the eagle amongst the nobles of Britain. Thy form is majestic and terrible, when thou pursuest thy foes. When thou invadest thy enemies, where Owain thy predecessor invaded them in former times; full proud was thy heart in dividing the spoils, it happened as in the battles of Kulwydd and Llwyvein. [21a] Thy beautiful steeds were fatigued with the labour of the day, where the troops wallowed in gore, and were thrown in confusion. The bow was full bent before the mangled corse, the spear aimed at the breast in the country of Eurgain. [21b] The army at Offa’s Dike panted for glory, the troops of Venedotia, and the men of London, were as the alternate motion of the waves on the sea-shore, where the sea-mew screams; great was our happiness to put the Normans to fear and consternation. Llewelyn the terrible with his brave warriors effected it; the prince of glorious and happy Mona. He is its ornament and distinguished chief.

The lord of Demetia [21c] mustered his troops, and out of envy met his prince in the field. The inhabitants of Stone-walled Carmarthen were hewn to pieces in the conflict. Nor fort, nor castle, could withstand him: and before the gates the English were trampled under foot. Its chief was sad, the unsheathed sword shone bright, and hundreds of hands were engaged in the onset at Llan Huadain. [22a] In Cilgeran [22b] they purchased glory and honour . . . In Aber Teivi the hovering crows were numberless . . . thick were the spears besmeared with gore. The ravens croaked, they were greedy to suck the prostrate carcases. Llewelyn, may such fate attend thy foes. Mayest thou be more prosperous than the noble Llywarch [22c] with his bloody lance. Thy glory shall not be obscured. There is none that exceedeth thee in bestowing gifts on the days of solemnity. In battle thy sword is conspicuous. Wherever thou goest to war, to whatever distant clime, glory follows thee from the rising to the setting sun. I have a generous and noble prince, the lord of a large territory. He is renowned for his coolness and conduct. Whole troops fall before him; he defendeth his men like an eagle. My prince’s brave actions will be celebrated in the country by Tanad. [22d] He is valorous as a lion, who can resist his lance? He is charitable to the needy, and his relief is not sought in vain. My prince is dressed in fine purple robes. He is like generous Nudd [22e] in bestowing presents. Like valiant Huail [22f] in defying his enemy. He is like Rhydderch [22g] in distributing his gold. Let his praise resound in every country. He possesses a large territory and immense riches wherever you turn your eyes. In wealth he is equal to Mordaf; like him he opens his liberal hand to the Bard. He is like warlike Rhun [23a] in bestowing his favours. He is the subject of my meditation. I am to him as an hand or an eye. [23b] He is not descended from a base degenerate stock; and I myself am descended from his father’s courtiers. His fury in battle is like lightning when he attacks the foe: his heart glows with ardour in the field like magnanimous Gwriad. [23c] His enemies are scattered as leaves on the side of hills drove by tempestuous hurricanes. He is the honourable support and owner of Hunydd. [23d] He is the grace, the ornament of Arvon. [23e] Llewelyn, terror of thy enemy, death issued out of thy hand in the South. Thou art to us like an anchor in the time of storm. Protector of our country, may the shield of God protect thee. Britain, fearless of her enemies, glories in being ruled by him, by a chief who has numerous troops to defend her; by Llewelyn, who defies his enemies from shore to shore. He is the joy of armies, and like a lion in danger. He is the emperor and sovereign of sea and land. He is a warrior that may be compared to a deluge, to the surge on the beach that covereth the wild salmons. His noise is like the roaring wave that rusheth to the shore, that can neither be stopped or appeased. He puts numerous troops of his enemies to flight like a mighty wind. Warriors crowded about him, zealous to defend his just cause; their shields shone bright on their arms. His Bards make the vales resound with his praises; the justice of his cause, and his bravery in maintaining it, are deservedly celebrated. His valour is the theme of every tongue. The glory of his victories is heard in distant climes. His men exult about their eagle. To yield or die is the fate of his enemies—they have experienced his force by the shivering of his lance. In the day of battle no danger can turn him from his purpose. He is conspicuous above the rest, with a large, strong, crimson lance. He is the honour of his country, great is his generosity, and a suit is not made to him in vain. Llewelyn is a tender-hearted prince. He can nobly spread the feast, yet is he not enervated by luxury. May he that bestowed on us a share of his heavenly revelation, grant him the blessed habitation of the saints above the stars.

A PANEGYRIC

Upon Owain Gwynedd, Prince of North Wales, by Gwalchmai, the son of Meilir, in the year 1157.

I will extol the generous hero descended from the race of Roderic, [25a] the bulwark of his country, a prince eminent for his good qualities, the glory of Britain, Owain the brave and expert in arms, a prince that neither hoardeth nor coveteth riches.—Three fleets arrived, vessels of the main, three powerful fleets of the first rate, furiously to attack him on a sudden. One from Iwerddon, [25b] the other full of well-armed Lochlynians, [25c] making a grand appearance on the floods, the third from the transmarine Normans, [25d] which was attended with an immense, though successless toil.

The Dragon of Mona’s sons [26a] were so brave in action, that there was a great tumult on their furious attack, and before the prince himself, there was vast confusion, havoc, conflict, honourable death, bloody battle, horrible consternation, and upon Tal Moelvre a thousand banners. There was an outrageous carnage, [26b] and the rage of spears, and hasty signs of violent indignation. Blood raised the tide of the Menai, and the crimson of human gore stained the brine. There were glittering cuirasses, and the agony of gashing wounds, and mangled warriors prostrate before the chief, distinguished by his crimson lance. Lloegria was put into confusion, the contest and confusion was great, and the glory of our prince’s wide-wasting sword shall be celebrated in an hundred languages to give him his merited praise.

AN ELEGY

To Nest, [27a] the daughter of Howel, by Einion, the son of Gwalchmai, about the year 1240.

The spring returns, the trees are in their bloom, and the forest in its beauty, the birds chaunt, the sea is smooth, the gently-rising tide sounds hollow, the wind is still. The best armour against misfortune is prayer. But I cannot hide nor conceal my grief, nor can I be still and silent. I have heard the waves raging furiously towards the confines of the land of the sons of Beli. [27b] The sea flowed with force, and conveyed a hoarse complaining noise, on account of a gentle maiden. I have passed the deep waters of the Teivi [27c] with slow steps. I sung the praise of Nest ere she died. Thousands have resounded her name, like that of Elivri. [27d] But now I must with a pensive and sorrowful heart compose her elegy, a subject fraught with misery. The bright luminary of Cadvan [27e] was arrayed in silk, how beautiful did she shine on the banks of Dysynni, [27f] how great was her innocence and simplicity, joined with consummate prudence: she was above the base arts of dissimulation. Now the ruddy earth covers her in silence. How great was our grief, when she was laid in her stony habitation. The burying of Nest was an irreparable loss. Her eye was as sharp as the hawk, which argued her descended from noble ancestors. She added to her native beauty by her goodness and virtue. She was the ornament of Venedotia, and her pride. She rewarded the Bard generously. Never was pain equal to what I suffer for her loss. Oh death, I feel thy sting, thou hast undone me. No man upon earth regreteth her loss like me; but hard fate regardeth not the importunity of prayers, whenever mankind are destined to undergo its power. O generous Nest, thou liest in thy safe retreat, I am pensive and melancholy like Pryderi. [28a] I store my sorrow in my breast, and cannot discharge the heavy burden. The dark, lonesome, dreary veil, which covereth thy face, is ever before me, which covereth a face that shone like the pearly dew on Eryri. [28b] I make my humble petition to the great Creator of heaven and earth, and my petition will not be denied, that he grant, that this beautiful maid, who glittered like pearls, may, through the intercession of Holy Dewi, [28c] be received to his mercy, that she may converse with the prophets, that she may come into the inheritance of the All-wise God, with Mary and the Martyrs. And in her behalf I will profer my prayer, which will fly to the throne of Heaven. My love and affection knew no bounds. May she never suffer. Saint Peter be her protector. God himself will not suffer her to be an exile from the mansions of bliss. Heaven be her lot.

A POEM

To Llewelyn-ap-Iorwerth, or Llewelyn the Great; in which many of his victories are celebrated.

Composed by Llywarch Brydydd y Moch, a Bard, who, according to Mr. Edward Llwyd of the Museum’s Catalogue of the British writers, flourished about the year 1240; but this poem is certainly of more ancient date, for prince Llewelyn died in the year 1240. However that be, the original was taken from Llyfr Coch o Hergest, or the Red book of Hergest, kept in the Archives of Jesus College, Oxon. I have no apology to make for the Bards’ method of beginning or concluding their poems, but that it was their general custom ever since the introduction of Christianity to this island, which was very early. We have no poems that I know of before that period, but some few remains of the Druids in that kind of verse called Englyn Milwr. It was the custom of the heathen poets themselves to begin their poems with an invocation of the Supreme Being. As for instance, Theocritus in the beginning of his Idyllium in praise of Ptolemœus Philadelphus,

Έκ Διὸς αρχώμιθα, κι εις Δία λπyετε, Μοισαι.

But I shall not here enter into a critical dissertation of their merits or defects; my business, as a translator, being to give as faithful a version from the original as I possibly could at this distance of time; when many of the matters of fact, the manners of the age, and other circumstances, alluded to in their poems, must remain obscure to those that are best versed in the records of antiquity.

May Christ, the Creator and Governor of the hosts of heaven and earth, defend me from all disasters; may I, through his assistance, be prudent and discreet ere I come to my narrow habitation in the grave. Christ, the son of God, will give me the gift of song to extol my prince, who giveth the warlike shout with joy. Christ who hath formed me of the four elements, and hath endowed me with the deep and wonderful gift of poetry—Llewelyn is the ruler of Britain and her armour. He is a lion-like brave prince, unmoved in action, the son of Iorwerth, [30a] our strength and true friend, a descendant of Owain [30b] the destroyer, whose abilities appeared in his youth. He came to be a leader of forces, dressed in blue, neat and handsome. In the conflicts of battle, in the clang of arms, he was an heroic youth. When ten years old he successfully attacked his kinsman. [30c] In Aber Conwy, ere my prince, the brave Llewelyn, got his right, he contested with David, [30d] who was a bloody chief, like Julius Cæsar. A chief without blemish, not insulting his foes in distress, but in war impetuous and fierce, like the points of flaming fire burning in their rage. It is a general loss to the Bards, that he is covered with earth. We grieve for him.—Llewelyn was our prince ere the furious contest happened, and the spoils were amassed with eagerness. [30e] The purple gore ran over the snow-white breasts of the warriors, and there was an universal havoc and carnage after the shout. The parti-coloured waves flowed over the broken spear, and the warriors were silent. The briny wave came with force, and another met it mixed with blood, when we went to Porth Aethwy on the steeds of the main over the great roaring of the floods. The spear raged with relentless fury, and the tide of blood rushed with force. Our attack was sudden and fierce. Death displayed itself in all its horrors: so that it was a doubt whether any of us should die of old age. Noble troops, in the fatal hour, trampled on the dead like prancing steeds. Before Rhodri was brought to submission, the church-yards were like fallow grounds. When Llewelyn the successful prince overcame near the Alun [31a] with his warriors of the bright arms, ten thousand were killed, and the crows made a noise, and a thousand were taken prisoners. Llewelyn, though in battle he killed with fury, though he burnt like outrageous fire, yet he was a mild prince when the mead-horns were distributed - - - - - - he gave generously under his waving banners to his numerous Bards gold and silver, which he regardeth not, and Gasgony prancing steeds, with rich trappings, and great scarlet cloaks, shining like the ruddy flame: warlike, strong, well-made destroying steeds, with streams of foam issuing out of their mouths. He generously bestoweth, like brave Arthur, snow-white steeds by hundreds, whose speed is fleeter than birds.

Thou that feedest the fowls of the air like Caeawg [31b] the hero, the valiant ruler of all Britain, the numerous forces of England tumble and wallow in the field before thee. He bravely achieved above Deudraeth Dryfan, [31c] the feats of the renowned Ogrfan. [31d] Men fall silently in the field, and are deprived of the rites of sepulture. Thou hast defeated two numerous armies, one on the banks of Alun of the rich soil, where the Normans were destroyed, as the adversaries of Arthur in the battle of Camlan. [32a] The second in Arfon, near the sea shore - - - - - - And two ruling chiefs, flushed with success, encouraged us like lions, and one superior to them both, a stern hero, the ravage of battles, like a man that conquers in all places. Llewelyn with the broken blade of the gilt sword, the waster of Lloegr, a wolf covered with red, with his warriors about Rhuddlan. His forces carry the standard before him waving in the air. Thou art possessed of the valour of Cadwallon, [32b] the son of Cadfan. He is for recovering the government of all Britain. He kindly stretched his hand to us, while his enemies fled to the sea shore, to embark to avoid the imminent destruction, with despair in their looks, and no place of refuge remained, and the crimson lance whizzed dreadfully over their brows. We the Bards of Britain, whom our prince entertaineth on the first of January, shall every one of us, in our rank and station, enjoy mirth and jollity, and receive gold and silver for our reward - - - - - - - Caer Lleon, [32c] the chief of Môn, has brought thee to a low condition. Llewelyn has wasted thy land, thy men are killed by the sea - - - - He has entirely subdued Gwyddgrug, [33a] where the English ran away, with a precipitate flight, full of horror and consternation. Thy fields are miserably wasted, thy cloister, and thy neat houses, are ashes. The palace of Elsmere [33b] was with rage and fury burnt by fire. Ye all now enjoy peace by submitting to our prince, for wherever he goeth with his forces, whether it be hill or dale, it is the possession of one sole proprietor. Our lion has brought to Trallwng three armies that will never turn their backs, the residence of our enemies ever to be abhorred. The numerous Bards receive divers favours from him. He took Gwyddgrug. See you who succeeds in Mochnant [33c] when he victoriously marches through your country. On its borders the enemy were routed, and the Argoedwys [33d] were furiously attacked, and covered with blood. We have two palaces now in our possession. Let Powys [33e] see who is the valiant king of her people, whether it argueth prudence to act treacherously. Whether a Norman chief be preferable to a conquering Cymro. We have a prince, consider it, who, though silent about his own merit, putteth Lloegr to flight, and is fully bent to conquer the land that was formerly in the possession of Cadwallon, the son of Cadfan, the son of Iago - - - - - A noble lion, the governor of Britain, and her defence, Llewelyn, numerous are thy battles, thou brave prince of the mighty, that puttest the enemy to flight. Mayest thou my friend and benefactor overcome in every hardship. He is a prince with terrible looks who will conquer in foreign countries, as well as in Môn the mother of all Wales. His army has made its way broad thro’ the ocean, and filled the hills, promontories, and dales. The blood flowed about their feet when the maimed warriors fought. In the battle of Coed Aneu, [34a] thou supporter of Bards, didst overthrow thy enemies. The other hard battle was fought at Dygen Ddyfnant, [34b] where thousands behaved themselves with manly valour. The next contest, where noble feats were achieved, was on the hill of Bryn yr Erw, [34c] where they saw thee like a lion foremost in piercing thy enemies, like a strong eagle, a safeguard to thy people. Upon this account they will no longer dispute with thee. They vanish before thee like the ghosts of Celyddon. [34d] Thou hast taken Gwyddgrug and Dyfnant by force, and Rhuddlan with its red borders, and thousands of thy men overthrew Dinbych, [34e] Foelas, [34f] and Gronant; [34g] and the men of Carnarvon, thy friends, were busy in action, and Dinas Emreis [34h] strove bravely in thy cause, and they vanquished with the renowned Morgant [34i] at their head all that stood before them. Thy pledges know not where to turn their faces, they cannot enjoy mirth or rest. Thou wert honourably covered with blood, and thy wound is a glory to thee. When thou didst resist manfully the attack of the enemy, thou wert honoured by thy sword, with thy buckler on thy shoulders. Thou didst bravely lead thy forces, the astonishment of Lloegr, to the borders of Mechain [35a] and Mochnant. Happy was the mother who bore thee, who art wise and noble, and freely distributest rich suits of garments, thy gold and silver. And thy Bards celebrate thee for presenting them thy bred steeds, when they sit at thy tables. And I myself am rewarded for my gift of poetry, with gold and distinguished respect. And should I desire of my prince the moon as a present, he would certainly bestow it on me. Thy praise reacheth as far as Lliwelydd, [35b] and Llywarch is the man who celebrates with his songs - - - - - - My praises are not extravagant to thee the prodigy of our age, thou art a prince firm in battle like an elephant. When thou arrivest at the period of thy glory, when thy praises cease to be celebrated by the Bard and the harp, my brave prince, ere thou comest, before thy last hour approaches, to confess thy sins, after thou hast through thy prowess vanquished thy enemies, mayest thou at last become a glorious saint.

AN ODE

To Llewelyn, the son of Griffydd, last prince of Wales of the British line, composed by Llygad Gwr, about the year 1270.

in five parts.

I.

I address myself to God, the source of joy, the fountain of all good gifts, of transcendent majesty. Let the song proceed to pay its tribute of praise, to extol my hero, the prince of Arllechwedd, [36a] who is stained with blood, a prince descended from renowned kings. Like Julius Cæsar is the rapid progress of the arms of Griffydd’s heir. His valour and bravery are matchless, his crimson lance is stained with gore. It is natural to him to invade the lands of his enemies. He is generous, the pillar of princes. I never return empty-handed from the North. My successful and glorious prince, I would not exchange on any conditions. I have a renowned prince, who lays England waste, descended from noble ancestors. Llewelyn the destroyer of thy foes, the mild and prosperous governor of Gwynedd, Britain’s honour in the field, with thy sceptered hand extended on the throne, and thy gilt sword by thy side. The lion of Cemmaes, [36b] fierce in the onset, when the army rusheth to be covered with red. Our defence who slighteth alliance with strangers, who with violence maketh his way through the midst of his enemy’s country. His just cause will be prosperous at last. About Tyganwy [37a] he has extended his dominion, and his enemies fly from him with maimed limbs, and the blood flows over the soles of men’s feet. Thou dragon of Arfon [37b] of resistless fury, with thy beautiful well-made steeds, no Englishman shall get one foot of thy country. There is no Cymro thy equal.

II.

There is none equal to my prince with his numerous troops in the conflict of war. He is a generous Cymro descended from Beli Hir, [37c] if you enquire about his lineage. He generously distributeth gold and riches. An heroic wolf from Eryri. [37d] An eagle among his nobles of matchless prowess; it is our duty to extol him. He is clad in a golden vest in the army, and setteth castles on fire. He is the bulwark of the battle with Greidiawl’s [37e] courage. He is a hero that with fury breaketh whole ranks, and fighteth manfully. His violence is rapid, his generosity overflowing. He is the strength of armies arrayed in gold. He is a brave prince whose territories extend as far as the Teivi, [37f] whom nobody dares to punish. Llewelyn the vanquisher of England is a noble lion descended from the race of kings. Thou art the king of the mighty, the entertainer and encourager of Bards. Thou makest the crows rejoice, and the Bryneich [38a] to vomit blood, they feasted on their carcases. He never avoided danger in the storm of battle, he was undaunted in the midst of hardships. The Bards [38b] prophecy that he shall have the government and sovereign power; every prediction is at last to be fulfilled. The shields of his men were stained with red in brave actions from Pwlffordd [38c] to the farthest bounds of Cydweli. [38d] May he find endless joys, and be reconciled to the Son of God, and enjoy Heaven by his side.

III.

We have a prudent prince, his lance is crimson, his shield is shivered to pieces; a prince furious in action, his palace is open to his friends, but woe is the lot of his enemies. Llewelyn the vanquisher of his adversaries is furious in battle like an outrageous dragon; to be guarded against him availeth not, when he cometh hand to hand to dispute the hardy contest. May he that made him the happy governor of Gwynedd and its towns, strengthen him for length of years to defend his country from hostile invasion. It is our joy and happiness that we have a brave warrior with prancing steeds, that we have a noble Cymro, descended from Cambrian ancestors, to rule our country and its borders. He is the best prince that the Almighty made of the four elements. He is the best of governors, and the most generous. The eagle of Snowdon, and the bulwark of battle. He pitched a battle where there was a furious contest to obtain his patrimony on Cefn Gelorwydd; [39a] such a battle never happened since the celebrated action of Arderydd. [39b]

He is the brave lion of Mona, the kind-hearted Venedotian, the valiant supporter of his troops in Bryn Derwen. He did not repent of the day in which he assaulted his adversaries: it was like the assault of a hero descended from undaunted ancestors. I saw a hero disputing with hosts of men like a man of honour in avoiding disgrace. He that saw Llewelyn like an ardent dragon in the conflict of Arfon and Eiddionydd, [39c] would have observed that it was a difficult task to withstand his furious attack by Drws Daufynydd. [39d] No man has ever compelled him to submit: may the Son of God never put him to confusion.

IV.

Like the roaring of a furious lion in the search of prey, is thy thirst of praise, like the sound of a mighty hurricane over the desert main, thou warlike prince of Aberffraw. [39e] Thy ravage is furious, thy impetuosity irresistible, thy troops are enterprising in brave actions, they are fierce and furious like a conflagration. Thou art the warlike prince of Dinefwr, [40a] the defence of thy people, the divider of spoils. Thy forces are comely and neat, and of one language. Thy proud Toledo sword is gilt with gold and its edge broke in war. Thou prince of Mathrafal, [40b] extensive are the bounds of thy dominions, thou rulest people of four languages. He staid undaunted in battle against a foreign nation, and its strange language. May the great King of heaven defend the just cause of the warlike prince of the three provinces.

V.

I make my address to God, the source of praise, in the best manner I am able, that I may extol with suitable words the chief of men, who rageth like fire from the flashes of lightning, who exchangeth thrusts with the burnished steel. I stand in armour by the side of my prince with the red spear in the conflict of war, he is a brave fighter, and the foremost in action. Llewelyn, thy qualities are noble, I will valiantly make my path broad with the edge of my sword. May the prints of the hoofs of my prince’s steeds be seen as far as Cornwall. Numerous are the persons that congratulate him upon this success, for he is a sure friend. The lion of Gwynedd, and its extensive territories, the governor of the men of Powys, and the South, who hath a general assembly of his armed troops at Chester, who ravageth Lloegr to amass spoils. In battle his success is certain, in killing, burning, and in overthrowing castles. In Rhos, and Penfro, [40c] and in contests with the Normans, his impetuosity prevaileth. The offspring of Griffydd, of worthy qualities, generous in distributing rewards for songs. His shield shines, and the strong lances quickly meet the streams of gushing gore. He extorteth taxes from his enemies, and claimeth another country as a sovereign prince. His noble birth is an ornament to him. He besiegeth fortified towns, and his furious attacks like those of Fflamddwyn [41] reach far. He is a prosperous chief with princely qualities, his Bards are comely about his tables. I have seen him generously distributing his wealth, and his mead-horns filled with generous liquors. Long may he live to defend his borders with the sharp sword, like Arthur with the lance of steel. May he who is lawful king of Cymru, endued with princely qualities, have his share of happiness at the right hand of God.

A POEM

Entitled the Ode of the Months, composed by Gwilym Ddu of Arfon, to Sir John Griffydd Llwyd, of Tregarnedd and Dinorwig.

Why the Bard called this piece the “Ode of the Months” I cannot guess; but by what he intimates in the poem, which is that when all nature revives, and the whole animal and vegetable creation are in their full bloom and vigour, he mourned and pined for the decayed state of his country. The hero he celebrates made a brave but successless attempt to rescue it from slavery. It will not be amiss to give a short account of the inhuman massacre of the Bards made by that cruel tyrant Edward the first, which gave occasion to a very fine Ode by Mr. Gray. Sir John Wynne, of Gwydir, a descendant in a direct line from Owain Gwynedd, mentions this particular, and says he searched all the records in the Exchequer at Carnarvon, and in the Tower of London, for the antiquities of his country in general, and of his own family in particular. I shall set down his own words, as I find them in a very fair copy of that history lent me by Sir Roger Mostyn, of Gloddaeth and Mostyn, Bart., a person no less eminent for his generous communicative temper, than for many other public and private virtues.

“This is the most ancient song (i.e. one of Rhys Goch of Eryri’s, a Bard who flourished a.d. 1400) I can find extant of my ancestors since the reign of Edward the first, who caused our Bards all to be hanged by martial law, as stirrers of the people to sedition; whose example being followed by the governors of Wales until Henry the Fourth’s time, was the utter destruction of that sort of men; and since then that kind of people were at some further liberty to sing, and to keep pedigrees, as in ancient time they were wont; since which time we have some light of antiquity by their songs and writings,” &c.

The following is taken from an old British grammar, written in English, by William Salesbury, printed at London, 1567. I have transcribed it faithfully according to the old orthography. “Howbeit when the whole Isle was commonlye called Brytayne, the dwellers Brytons, and accordingly their language Brytishe, I will not refell nor greatly deny; neither can I justly gainsaye, but their tongue then was as copious of syt woordes, and all manner of proper vocables, and as well adornated with woorshipful sciences and honourable knowledge as any other of the barbarous tongues were. And so still continued (though their sceptre declined, and their kingdom decayed, and they also by God’s hand were driven into the most unfertyl region, barenest country, and most desart province of all the isle) untyll the conquest of Wales. For then, as they say, the nobles and the greatest men beyng captives and brought prysoners to the tower of London, there to remayne during their lyves, desired of a common request, that they might have with them all such bokes of their tongue, as they most delited in, and so their petition was heard, and for the lightness soon granted, and thus brought with them all the principallest and chiefest books, as well of their own as of other their friends, of whom they could obtain anye to serve for their purpose. Whose mind was none other but to pass the time, and their predestinate perpetual captivitie in the amenous varietie of over reading and revoluting many volumes and sundry books of divers sciences and strange matters.

“And that is the common answer of the Welshe Bardes (for so they call their country poets) when a man shall object or cast in their teeth the foolysh uncertainty and the phantasticall vanities of their prophecies (which they call Bruts) or the doubtful race and kinde of their uncanonized saynctes: whom that notwithstanding they both invocate and worship wyth the most hyghe honoure and lowliest reverence. Adding and allegying in excuse thereof, that the reliques and residue of the books and monuments, as well as the saynctes lyves, as of their Brutysh prophecies and other sciences (which perished not in the tower, for there, they say, certain were burned) at the commotion of Owain Glyndwr, were in like manner destroyed, and utterly devastat, or at the least wyse that there escaped not one, that was not uncurablye maymed, and irrecuperably torn and mangled.

“‘Llyfrau Cymru au llofrudd Ir twr Gwyn aethant ar gudd Ysceler oedd Yscolan Fwrw’r twrr lyfrau ir tan.’

Gutto’r Glyn. a.d. 1450.

“The books of Cymru and their remains went to the White Tower, where they were hid. Cursed was Ysgolan’s act in throwing them in heaps into the fire.”

It is not improbable that our Bard might have been one of those who suffered in the cause of his country, though he had the good luck to escape Edward’s fury. I wish I may be so happy as to convey some faint idea of his merit to the English reader. The original has such touches, as none but a person in the Bard’s condition could have expressed so naturally. However not to anticipate the judicious reader’s opinion, to which I submit mine with all deference, I shall now produce some account of this great man, taken from that skilful and candid antiquary Mr. Robert Vaughan of Hengwrt’s notes on Dr. Powel’s history of Wales, printed at Oxford, 1663.

“Sir John Griffydd Llwyd, knight, the son of Rhys ap Griffydd ap Ednyfed Fychan, was a valiant gentleman, but unfortunate, ‘magnæ quidem, sed calamitosæ virtutis,’ as Lucius Florus saith of Sertorius. He was knighted by king Edward, when he brought him the first news of his queen’s safe delivery of a son at Carnarvon Castle; the king was then at Rhuddlan, at his parliament held there. This Sir Griffydd afterwards taking notice of the extreme oppression and tyranny exercised by the English officers, especially Sir Roger Mortimer, lord of Chirk, and justice of North Wales, towards his countrymen the Welsh, became so far discontented, that he broke into open rebellion, verifying that saying of Solomon, ‘Oppression maketh a wise man mad.’ He treated with Sir Edward Bruce, brother to Robert, then king of Scotland, who had conquered Ireland, to bring or send over men to assist him in his design against the English; but Bruce’s terms being conceived too unreasonable, the treaty came to nought; however being desperate, he gathered all the forces he could, and, in an instant, like a candle that gives a sudden blaze before it is out, overran all North Wales and the Marches, taking all the castles and holds; but to little purpose, for soon after he was met with, his party discomfited, and himself taken prisoner. This was in the year of our Lord 1322.”

I thought so much by way of introduction necessary to commemorate so gallant a person; what became of him afterwards is not mentioned by our historians. However the following poem remains not only as a monument of the hero’s bravery, but of the Bard’s genius.

Before the beginning of May I lived in pomp and grandeur, but now, alas! I am deprived of daily support, the time is as disastrous as when our Saviour Christ was taken and betrayed. How naked and forlorn is our condition! We are exposed to anxious toils and cares. O how heavy is the Almighty’s punishment, that the crimson sword cannot be drawn! I remember how great its size was, and how wide its havoc; numerous are now the oppressed captives who languish in gnashing indignation. Our native Bards are excluded from their accustomed entertainments. How great a stop is put to generosity since a munificent hero, like Nudd, [46a] is confined in prison. The valorous hawk of Griffydd, [46b] so renowned for ravaging and destroying his enemies, is deplored by the expert Bards, who have lost their festivity and mirth in the place where mead was drunk. I cannot bear to think of his injurious treatment. His hospitality has fed thousands. He is, alas! in a forlorn prison, such is the unjust oppression of the land of the Angles. [46c] Years of sorrow have overwhelmed me. I reckon not what becomes of the affairs of this world. The Bards of two hundred regions lament that they have now no protector. This is a certain, but a sad truth. Though the unthinking vulgar do not reflect as I do on the time when my eagle shone in his majesty. I am pierced by the lance of despair. Hard is the fate of my protector, Gwynedd [47a] is in a heavy melancholy mood, its inhabitants are oppressed because of their transgressions. Long has the bright sword, that shone like a torch, been laid aside, and the brave courage of the dauntless Achilles been stopped. The whole pleasant season of May is spent in dismal sorrow; and June is comfortless and cheerless. It increaseth my tribulation, that Griffydd with the red lance is not at liberty. I am covered with chilly damps. My whole fabric shakes for the loss of my chief. I find no intermission to my pain. May I sink, O Christ! my Saviour, into the grave, where I can have repose; for now, alas! the office of the Bard is but a vain and empty name. I am surprised that my despair has not burst my heart, and that it is not rent through the midst in twain. The heavy stroke of care assails my memory, when I think of his confinement, who was endowed with the valour of Urien [47b] in battle. My meditation on past misfortunes is like that of the skilful Cywryd, [47c] the Bard of Dunawd. [47d] My praise to the worthy hero is without vicious flattery, and my song no less affecting than his. My panegyric is like the fruitful genius of Afan Ferddig [48a] in celebrating Cadwallon [48b] of royal enterprise. I can no more sing of the lance, in well-laboured verse. Since thou doest not live, what avails it that the world has any further continuance? Every region proclaims thy generosity. The world droops since thou art lost. There are no entertainments or mirth, Bards are no longer honoured: the palaces are no longer open, strangers are neglected, there are no caparizoned steeds, no trusty endearing friendship. No, our country mourns, and wears the aspect of Lent. There is no virtue, goodness, or any thing commendable left among us, but vice, dissoluteness, and cowardice bear the sway. The great and towering strength of Môn [48c] is become an empty shadow, and the inhabitants of Arfon [48d] are become insignificant below the ford of Rheon. [48e] The lofty land of Gwynedd is become weak. The heavy blow of care strikes her down. We must now renounce all consolation. We are confined in a close prison by a merciless unrelenting enemy; and what avails a bloody and brave contest for liberty.

Having finished the present small collection of the British Bards, I take this opportunity to acquaint the reader, that the time in which they flourished is not accurately set down by Dr. Davies, at the end of his Dictionary, nor by Mr. Llwyd, of the Museum, in his Catalogue of British Writers, in the Archæologia Britannica. Indeed it is impossible to be so exact, as to fix the year when the Bards wrote their several pieces, unless the actions they celebrate are mentioned in our Annals, because some of them lived under several princes. This I thought proper to mention, lest any should blame the translator for his inaccuracy, in settling the Chronology of the Poems.

A SHORT ACCOUNT OF TALIESIN,

The Chief of Bards, and Elphin, the son of Gwyddno Goranhir, his Patron.

Gwyddno Goranhir, was a petty king of Cantre’r Gwaelod, whose country was drowned by the sea, in a great inundation that happened about the year 560, through the carelessness of the person into whose care the dams were committed, as appears from a poem of Taliesin upon that sad catastrophe. In his time the famous Taliesin lived, whose birth and education is thus related in our ancient manuscripts. He was found exposed in a wear belonging to Gwyddno, the profit of which he had granted to his son, Prince Elphin, who being an extravagant youth, and not finding the usual success, grew melancholy; and his fishermen attributed his misfortune to his riotous irregular life. When the prodigal Elphin was thus bewailing his misfortune, the fishermen espied a coracle with a child in it, enwrapped in a leathern bag, whom they brought to the young prince, who ordered care to be taken of him, and when he grew up gave him the best education, upon which he became the most celebrated Bard of his time. The accomplished Taliesin was introduced by Elphin to his father Gwyddno’s court, where he delivered him a poem, giving an account of himself, entitled, Hanes Taliesin, or Taliesin’s History; and at the same time another to his patron and benefactor Elphin to console him upon his past misfortune, and to exhort him to put his trust in Divine Providence. This is a fine moral piece, and very artfully addressed by the Bard, who introduces himself in the person and character of an exposed infant. As it is probable that the prince’s affairs took another turn since that period, this was done with great propriety. Sir John Pryse mentions the poem that Taliesin delivered to king Gwyddno, in his Historiæ Britannicæ defensio. “Taliesinus quidem in odula, quam de suis erroribus composuit, sic inscripta Britannicè (Hanes Taliesin) videlicet errores Taliesini, ait se tandem divertisse ad reliquias Trojæ;

“‘Mi a ddaethum yma at Weddillion Troia;’

“neque dubitandum est hoc fuesse opus Taliesini: nam præter innumeros codices vetustissimos, qui inscriptionem hujusmodi attestentur, nullo reclamante, nullus est recentiorum qui vel phrasin illius tam antiquam, carminisve majestatem assequi potuit. Et ideo summus ille vates inter Britannos censetur et nominatur.” I never could procure a perfect nor correct copy of this poem of Taliesin, otherwise I would gratify the curious with a translation of it. It is certain from his history, that he was a very learned man for his time, and seems to have been well versed in the doctrine of the Druids, particularly the μετεμψύχωσις, which accounts for the extravagant flights frequent in his poems. I have now in my possession above fifty of them; but they are so difficult to be understood, on account of their great antiquity, and numerous obsolete words, and negligence of transcribers, that it is too great a task for any man at this distance of time to go about a translation of them. However I have selected this ode, as a specimen of his manner of writing, not as it is the best in the collection, but as it is the only one I could thoroughly understand. There are many spurious pieces fathered upon this Bard, in a great many hands in North Wales; but these are all forged either by the monks, to answer the purposes of the church of Rome, or by the British Bards, in the time of the latter princes of Wales, to spirit up their countrymen against the English, which anybody versed in the language may easily find by the style and matter. It has been my luck to meet with a manuscript of all his genuine pieces now extant, which was transcribed by the learned Dr. Davies, of Mallwyd, from an old manuscript on vellum of the great antiquary Mr. R. Vaughan, of Hengwrt. This transcript I have shewn to the best antiquaries and critics in the Welsh language now living. They all confess that they do not understand above one half of any of his poems. The famous Dr. Davies could not, as is plain from the many obsolete words he has left without any interpretation in his dictionary. This should be a caveat to the English reader concerning the great antiquity of the poems that go under the name of Ossian, the son of Fingal, lately published by Mr. Macpherson. It is a great pity Taliesin is so obscure, for there are many particulars in his poems that would throw great light on the history, notions, and manners of the Ancient Britons, especially of the Druids, a great part of whose learning it is certain he had imbibed. This celebrated Bard was in great favour with all the great men of his time, particularly with Maelgwn Gwynedd, the warlike and victorious king of all Britain, with Elphin his patron, whom he redeemed with his songs from the castle of Tyganwy, where he was upon some account confined by his uncle Maelgwn. He likewise celebrated the victories of Urien Reged, king of Cumbria, and a great part of Scotland, as far as the river Clyde. In short, he was held in so great esteem by posterity, that the Bards mentioned him with the greatest honour in their works. In his poem entitled Anrheg Urien, or Urien’s Present, he says that his habitation was by Llyn Geirionnydd, in the parish of Llan Rhychwyn, in Carnarvonshire, and mentions therein his cotemporary, the famous Aneurin Gwawdrydd, author of the Gododin, an heroic poem on the battle of Cattraeth, of which some account is given in the Dissertatio de Bardis.

A wn ni enw Aneurin Gwawdrydd Awenydd A minnau Daliesin o lann Llyn Geirionnydd.

i.e. I know the fame of that celebrated genius Aneurin Gwawdrydd, who am Taliesin, whose habitation is by the pool Geirionnydd.—

Having finished this short account of our author, I shall now proceed to his poem, entitled, Dyhuddiant Elphin, or Elphin’s Consolation, which I offer now to the public.

Dr. John David Rhys quotes it at length in his Linguæ Cymraecæ Institutiones Accuratæ; which, to save further trouble, I shall beg leave to transcribe here in his own words. “Cæterum nunc et propter eorum authoritatem, et quod huic loco inter alia maxime quadrant, non pigebit quædem antiquissima Taliesini Cambro-Britannica Carmina subjungere,” &c.

I have nothing more to acquaint the reader with, but that I have used two copies in my translation, one in print by the said Dr. John David Rhys, the other in manuscript by Dr. Thomas Williams. I have followed the copy I thought most correct, and have given the different reading of the manuscript in the margin.

TALIESIN’S POEM

To Elphin, the son of Gwyddno Goranhir, king of Cantre’r Gwaelod, to comfort him upon his ill success at the Wear; and to exhort him to trust in Divine providence.

I.

Fair Elphin, cease to weep, let no man be discontented with his fortune; to despair avails nothing. It is not that which man sees that supports him. Cynllo’s prayer will not be ineffectual. God will never break his promise. There never was in Gwyddno’s Wear such good luck as to-night.

II.

Fair Elphin, wipe the tears from thy face! Pensive melancholy will never profit thee; though thou thinkest thou hast no gain; certainly too much sorrow will do thee no good; doubt not of the great Creator’s wonders; though I am but little, yet am I endowed with great gifts. From the seas and mountains, and from the bottom of rivers, God sends wealth to the good and happy man.

III.

Elphin with the lovely qualities, thy behaviour is unmanly, thou oughtest not to be over pensive. To trust in God is better than to forebode evil. Though I am but small and slender on the beach of the foaming main, I shall do thee more good in the day of distress than three hundred salmons.

IV.

Elphin with the noble qualities, murmur not at thy misfortune: though I am but weak on my leathern couch, there dwelleth a gift on my tongue. While I continue to be thy protection, thou needest not fear any disaster. If thou desirest the assistance of the ever blessed Trinity, nothing can do thee hurt.