Part 9

On Snowdon's haughty brow I stood, And view'd afar old Menai's flood; Carnarvon Castle, eagle crowned And all the beauteous prospect round; But soon each gay idea fled, For Snowdon's favourite bard was dead. Poor bard accept one genuine tear, And read thy true eulogium here; Here in my heart, that rues the day, Which stole Eryri's pride away. But, lo, where seen by Fancy's eye His visionary form glides by, Pale, ghastly pale, that hollow cheek, That frantic look does more than speak, And tells a tale so full of woe, My bosom swells, my eyes o'erflow. On Snowdon's rocks, unhomed, unfed, The tempest howling round his head; Far from the haunts of men, alone, Unheard, unpitied, and unknown, To want and to despair a prey, He pined and sighed his soul away. Ungrateful countrymen, your pride, Your glory, wanted bread, and died! Whilst ignorance and vice are fed, Shall wit and genius droop their head? Shall fawning sycophants be paid, For flattering fools? while thou art laid On thy sick bed, the mountain heath, Waiting the slow approach of death, Beneath inhospitable skies, Without a friend to close thine eyes. Thus shall the chief of bards expire, The master of the British lyre; And shall thy hapless reliques rot, Unwept, unhallowed, and forgot? No! while one grateful muse remains, And Pity dwells on Cambria's plains, Thy mournful story shall be told, And wept, till time itself grows old.

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SELECTIONS FROM THE POETICAL WORKS & CORRESPONDENCE OF THE REV. EVAN EVANS, (IEUAN PRYDYDD HIR.)

A PARAPHRASE OF THE 137TH PSALM.

_Alluding to the captivity and treatment of the Welsh Bards by King Edward I._

Sad near the willowy Thames we stood, And curs'd the inhospitable flood; Tears such as patients weep, 'gan flow, The silent eloquence of woe, When Cambria rushed into our mind, And pity with just vengeance joined; Vengeance to injured Cambria due, And pity, O ye Bards, to you. Silent, neglected, and unstrung, Our harps upon the willows hung, That, softly sweet in Cambrian measures, Used to sooth our souls to pleasures, When, lo, the insulting foe appears, And bid us dry our useless tears.

"Resume your harps," the Saxons cry, "And change your grief to songs of joy; Such strains as old Taliesin sang, What time your native mountains rang With his wild notes, and all around Seas, rivers, woods return'd the sound."

What!--shall the Saxons hear us sing, Or their dull vales with Cambrian music ring? No--let old Conway cease to flow, Back to her source Sabrina go: Let huge Plinlimmon hide his head, Or let the tyrant strike me dead, If I attempt to raise a song Unmindful of my country's wrong. What!--shall a haughty king command Cambrians' free strain on Saxon land? May this right arm first wither'd be, Ere I may touch one string to thee, Proud monarch; nay, may instant death Arrest my tongue and stop my breath, If I attempt to weave a song, Regardless of my country's wrong!

Thou God of vengeance, dost thou sleep, When thy insulted Druids weep, The Victor's jest the Saxon's scorn, Unheard, unpitied, and forlorn? Bare thy right arm, thou God of ire, And set their vaunted towers on fire. Remember our inhuman foes, When the first Edward furious rose, And, like a whirlwind's rapid sway, Swept armies, cities, Bards away.

"High on a rock o'er Conway's flood" The last surviving poet stood, And curs'd the tyrant, as he pass'd With cruel pomp and murderous haste. What now avail our tuneful strains, Midst savage taunts and galling chains? Say, will the lark imprison'd sing So sweet, as when, on towering wing, He wakes the songsters of the sky, And tunes his notes to liberty? Ah no, the Cambrian lyre no more Shall sweetly sound on Arvon's shore, No more the silver harp be won, Ye Muses, by your favourite son; Or I, even I, by glory fir'd, Had to the honour'd prize aspir'd. No more shall Mona's oaks be spar'd Or Druid circle be rever'd. On Conway's banks, and Menai's streams The solitary bittern screams; And, where was erst Llewelyn's court, Ill-omened birds and wolves resort. There oft at midnight's silent hour, Near yon ivy-mantled tower, By the glow-worm's twinkling fire, Tuning his romantic lyre, Gray's pale spectre seems to sing, "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King."

THE PENITENT SHEPHERD.

A pensive Shepherd, on a summer's day, Unto a neighb'ring mountain bent his way, And solitary mus'd, with thoughts profound, Whilst ev'ry thing was silent all around; The firmament was clear, the sky serene, And not a cloud eclips'd the rural scene. Not so the Shepherd, all was storm within, He mourn'd his frailty, and bewail'd his sin; His soul alone engross'd his utmost care, Decoy'd by cursed Satan to his snare; (Alas! with what success he tempts mankind, And leads them to their ruin with the blind!) Awhile he stood, as one in woeful pain; At last, he broke in melancholy strain, And cried,--

"O great Creator, ever good and wise, I dare not lift to thee mine eyes-- Thy violated laws for vengeance call, And on offenders heavy judgment fall; Which hurl them flaming to eternal pains, To suffer ever on infernal plains. The terrors of thy justice make me fear, For who can everlasting torment bear? My soul with grief is rent, Oh! stop thy hand, Shivering before thy Majesty I stand; Long have I trod the 'luring path of vice, And tire thy patience, and thy grace despise. Before thy throne I bow with suppliant knee, Grant gracious God, thy pardon unto me: In solitude my follies I repent, The life so long, so viciously, I spent, O God! I wish undone my wicked deeds, My contrite heart with inward sorrows bleeds. Thou, O my God! art witness of my grief, And thou alone canst grant me a relief. I promise faithfully to sin no more, (I sue for mercy, and thy grace implore,) And spend my life, for ever, in thy fear, Thy laws to keep, thy holy name revere." Thus plain'd the pensive Shepherd, and his moan, Christ, his Mediator, brought before the throne! Him graciously answer'd God to Sire, His face resplendent with a globe of fire:-- "My Son hath paid thy ransom, go in peace, Eternal justice bids thee be at ease!" He said, and all the choir of angels sung, Harmonious melody, their harps they strung, And heaven's Empyreum to their music rung, Such is the joy when a poor sinner turns, That with uncommon glow each seraph burns. Thus I may compare small things with great, The Prodigal his tender father met; Such as the Gospel paints in tatter'd weed, Willing with husks to satisfy his need: And none would give them, though the hungry roam, Till he returned unto his Father's home; Who kill'd the fatted calf, and spread the feast, Where wine and minstrelsy his joy exprest. The Shepherd thus refresh'd with heavenly grace, Return'd with joy eternal in his face; The Saviour's wond'rous love to man he prais'd, And thus his voice with gratitude he rais'd:--

"All glory to the gracious SON of GOD, Who hast alone the grevious wine-press trod, To satisfy his justice, and for me Hast wrought endless salvation on the tree; Who hast redeem'd us, and destroyed our foes, That neither death nor grave can work our woes: Hast overthrown the dragon, and no more Hell, nor its gates have terrors left in store!"

Thus did the Shepherd testify his joy, A theme that might an angel's tongue employ; He praised Christ, who for mankind did die; His praise let all resound, to all eternity.

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VERSES

_On seeing the Ruins of Ivor Hael's Palace_.

Amidst its alders IVOR'S palace lies, In heaps of ruins to my wondering eyes; Where greatness dwelt in pomp, now thistles reign, And prickly thorns assert their wide domain.

No longer Bards inspired, thy tables grace. Nor hospitable deeds adorn the place; No more the generous owner gives his gold To modest merit, as to Bards of old.

In plaintive verse his IVOR--GWILYM moans, His Patron lost the pensive Poet groans; What mighty loss, that IVOR'S lofty hall, Should now with schreeching owls rehearse its fall!

Attend, ye great, and hear the solemn sound, How short your greatness this proclaims around, Strange that such pride should fill the human breast, Yon mouldering walls the vanity attest.

A Letter from Mr. Thomas Carte to the Rev. Evan Evans.

DEAR SIR,

I cannot sufficiently acknowledge Sir Thomas Mostyn's kindness, in the trouble he has taken, of sending up the catalogue of his historical MSS. and in his obliging offer of communicating them to me. Those which I am desirous to see more than the rest, are these, viz.--

"The Annals of the Abbey of Chester, to A.D. 1297.

"Beda de Gestis Anglorum, if it be a different work from his Chronicon and Ecclesiastical History. It is the same.

"History of England, from William the Conqueror to the 6th of Edward the 6th.

"Annales Cambriae ignoti autoris, et Chronica Cambriae; both which seem to be in the same volume, which begins with a Welsh history of the Kings of the Britons and Saxons, and Princes of Wales, to the time of Edward 4th.

"A chronology from Vortigern downwards, supposed to be collected by Robert Vaughan, of Hengwrt, Esquire, which seems to be in the volume beginning with Sir John Wynne's pedigree of the family of Gwydir.

"Treatises concerning the courts of wards and chancery."

As Sir Thomas proposes to come to town soon, I hope he will be so good as to bring those MSS. with him (as Sir W. W. Wynne will several others, that he has found at Llanvorda) because they will be very useful to me as I conceive, for my first volume.

There are some others I should be glad to look over, but shall have more time for it. Were I on the spot, I should be very curious to consult the MS. of Froissart, though that author's history, so favourable to the English, is printed. My edition of it is that of Paris, 1520, which I take to be the last of any: but there is a MS. finely wrote and illuminated of this author, in the monastery called Elizabeth, at Breslaw, in Silesia, which contains a third part more than any printed edition. Count Bicklar, a Silesian nobleman, who was at Paris, A.D. 1727, promised me to get a printed edition of Froissart collated with that MS. but he could find no monk in the monastery, or any about the place, capable of doing it. I desired him to buy a MS. that seemeth useless to the convent, at the price of 200 ducats, but my offer made them fancy it the more valuable, and they would not sell it. I have seen a MS. in the king's library at Paris, and that of the capuchins at Rouen, but they contained no more than my edition: I should be glad to know if Sir Thomas's does. I gave the Benedictine, who has the care of the new collections of French historians, notice of the MS. at Breslaw, that he might make use of it in his new edition of Froissart; but I have not heard whether he has got the MS. collated, and the supplement copied.

Adredus Rievallensis, Robert of Gloucester, Caradoc of Llancarvan, and Geoffry of Monmouth, are printed; and I have examined several MSS. of the case in the Cotton, Oxford and Cambridge libraries; so are the MSS. of Giraldus Cambrensis; but if Sir Thomas's MSS. contain more than the printed editions, I shall be extremely glad to see them, as also Trussel's original of cities, and antiquities of Westminster, as also the digression left out of Milton's history. The tracts of state in the times of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I. I shall be very glad to see: but they, as well as some others, I can the better stay for, because they relate to more modern times.

Pray make my humble service and acknowledgments acceptable to Sir Thomas; which will oblige me to be more, if possible, than I am,

Dear Sir,

Your affectionate, and obedient servant, THOS. CARTE.

_Gray's Inn_, _Nov._ 14, 1744.

Mr. Lewis Morris to the Rev. Evan Evans.

DEAR BARD,

I received your's last post, without date, with a _Cowydd Merch_, for which I am very much obliged to you. I cannot see why you should be afraid of that subject being the favourite of your _Awen_. It is the most copious subject under heaven, and takes in all others; and, for a fruitful fancy, is certainly the best field to play in, during the poet's tender years. Descriptions of wars, strife, and the blustering part of man's life, require the greatest ripeness of understanding, and knowledge of the world; and is not to be undertaken but by strong and solid heads, after all the experience they can come at.

Is it not odd, that you will find no mention made of _Venus_ and _Cupid_ amongst our Britons, though they were very well acquainted with the Roman and Greek writers? That god and his mother are implements that modern poets can hardly write a love-poem without them: but the Britons scorned such poor machines. They have their _Essyllt_, _Nyf_, _Enid_, _Bronwen_, _Dwynwen_, of their own nation, which excelled all the Roman and Greek goddesses.--I am now, at my leisure hours, collecting the names of these famous men and women, mentioned by our poets, (as Mr. Edward Llwyd once intended,) with a short history of them; as we have in our common Latin dictionaries, of those of the Romans and Grecians. And I find great pleasure in comparing the _Triades_, _Beddau_, _Milwyr Ynys Prydain_, and other old records, with the poets of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries; which is the time when our Britons wrote most and best.

Let me have a short _Cowydd_ from you now and then; and I will send you my observations upon them, which may be of no disservice to you. That sent in your last letter, I here return to you; with a few corrections. It doth not want many: use them, or throw them in the fire, which you please. Do not swallow them without examination. The authority of good poets must determine all.

Y forwyn gynt, fawr iawn gais, Deg aruthr erioed a gerais.

The word _Aruthr_, though much used, in the sense you take it, seems not proper here; yet Dr. Davies translates it _Mirus_. I cannot think but the original import of the word is _terrible_; and they cannot say in English of a woman, she is _terribly fair_. _Rhuthr_, from whence _Aruthr_ is compounded, I dare say had that sense, at least:--

"Y cythraul accw ruthrwas."

W. LLEYN.

Deg wawr erioed a gerais,

may do as well, and sounds better.

A roist ofal i'm calon, A brath o hiraeth i'm bron: Ni wyr un ar a anwyd A roist o gur, os teg wyd; Enwa anhunedd yn henaint A yr wyn fyth yr un faint.

The first line of the last couplet is too long, and I should write both thus:

Enwa'n hunedd yn henaint E yr wyn fyth yr un faint.

Again:

Cyrchaf, ac ni fynnaf au, I dir angov drwy angau.

The last couplet is a beautiful expression; but it hath too much sweet in it; what our poets call _Eisiau Cyfnewid Bogail_. _Ang_, _ang_, is a fault, which our musicians term _too many_ _concords_; and therefore they mix discords in music, to make it more agreeable to the ear. So the rhetoricians call the same fault in their science, _Caniad y gog_. Therefore, suppose you would turn it thus:

O dir ing af drwy angau.

Again:

Lle bo dyfnaf yr afon, Ar fy hynt yr af i hon, Oni roi, Gwen eurog wedd, Drwy gariad ryw drugaredd.

_Eurog wedd_ is no great compliment to a fair woman; for _Gwen_, a Flavia, loves to be called white; and the last line hath _gar_--_gar_, therefore I would write thus, or the like:

Oni roi, Gwen ir ei gwedd, Yn gywrain, ryw drugaredd.

But I do not like _ir ei gwedd_.

Af i graig fwyaf o gred Y mor, i gael ymwared, Ag o'r graig fawr i'r eigion Dygaf gyrch i dyrch y don--

An excellent expression--

Ag o'r don egr hyd annwfn Af ar y dafl i for dwfn.

Here is a charming opening for you, to describe the country you go to, and the wonders of the deep; and something like the following lines might be inserted:

Lle mae'r morfil friwfil fron, A'r enwog _forforwynian_,

To proceed:

A fynno Gwen ysplennydd Yn ddiau o'm rhwymau 'n rhydd, Ni chaf gur, ni chaf garu Na phoen gwn, na hoffi 'n gu; Ni roddaf gam i dramwy, I gred i'th ymweled mwy: Dyna'r modd dan wir i mi, A dyr unwaith drueni.

The expression _Dan_ _wir_, is too local, and is not understood all over Wales. Local expressions must be avoided as much as possible. Suppose you said then,

Oni chaf heb warafun Dy fodd fyth difeiwedd fun.

After all these corrections, which are not very material, you have this comfort, (and I mention it that you may not be discouraged,) that I do not know a man in our country who can write a poem which shall want as few corrections. So make poetry and antiquity (when you can come at materials) branches of your study; and, depend upon it, you will make a figure in the world. There are flights and turns in this poem, which even David ab Gwilym would not have been ashamed of.

I would have you write to my brother, and let him know the reason of your not going to London, and that you are alive. If you send him this poem, he will be pleased with it.

Is there any hopes of your seeing the Llyfr Coch o Hergest? Who is keeper, or under-keeper, of Jesus-College Library? And who is principal; and who are the fellows? perhaps I may know some of them; or can make interest some way or other for you to get the use of those MSS.

But it ought to be considered, that you are to mind the main chance of reading the classics, in order to come to a tolerable being, before you launch too far into any other studies; and you must only take a snatch by the bye, which will serve to whet your genius; _oblegid mae newid gwaith cystal a gorphwyso_.

When you can come at Llyfr Coch o Hergest, or any other ancient MSS., I will send you directions to read it, and understand it: the chief difficulty being in the orthography: the language of all Britain (even Scotland) was the same as it is now in Wales, 1200 years ago.

I wrote to you lately, which I suppose you had not received when you sent your dateless letter. I desire your answer when convenient.

Yours sincerely, LEWIS MORRIS.

_Galltvadog_, _July_ 14, 1751.

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The same to the same.

DEAR EVAN,

Your letter of the second instant, I received this day; and I was very glad to hear that you had procured leave to go to the private library in Jesus College. It is charming to get into conversation with _Llywarch Hen_, _Aneurin_, _Merddin_, &c. They are most pleasing old companions.

I understand that my copy of _Brut y Brenhinoedd_ is not the same with that in _Llyfr Coch o Hergest_. Mine was copied out of five MSS. three of them upon vellum, very ancient; but the transcriber, not understanding the occasion of the difference between the copies, stuffed all into this, that he could find in all the MSS. Had he known that some of those MSS. were from Walter the Archdeacon's original translation of the history, out of the Armoric; and some again from his second translation from Galfrid's Latin, he would have kept the copies separate. The transcriber of my copy mentions sometimes--"thus in such a MS. and thus in such a MS.," but it is impossible to find which is which.

_Brut y Tywysogion_ is only the history of Caradoc of Llancarvan, which was Englished by Humphrey Lloyd, and published by Dr. Powell; and afterwards a very bad edition by Mr. W. Wynne. I would not have you take the trouble upon you to transcribe that; for there are many copies of it. What is most worth your care is the works of the poets; especially that part of them that is historical, as some of Taliesin, Merddin, Llywarch Hen's are. Merddin mentions the war in Scotland, between Rhydderch Hael, Aeddan ab Gafran, Gwenddolau ab Ceidio, &c., and Taliesin mentions several battles, that none of our historians ever so much as heard of. These are matters of great curiosity--Llywarch Hen in one of his Elegies, mentions _Eglwysau Bassa_, that was destroyed by the Saxons. Nennius says, that one of the twelve battles fought by Arthur against the Saxons, was upon the river _Bassas_. Who is that great Apollo among our historians who knows anything of these affairs?--Is there ever a MS. of Nennius, which you can come at? I wish that book was translated into English: it is but small. However, since you are now about the Llyfr Coch, I would have you first to write an index of the contents of it, and send it me, sheet by sheet, and I will give you my opinion what is best to transcribe, and is most uncommon or curious. I do not remember whether the book is paged; let it be as it will, you cannot be long in making such an index, with the first line of each piece. There are some other curious MSS. there; some _Bucheddau_ (Lives) as far as I recollect. But the silly copy of _Brut y Brenhinoedd_, in a modern hand there, is not worth talking of.--How do you know it is the same with the Bodleian? I presume, that the _Brut y Brenhinoedd_, in _Llyfr Coch_, is not the original translation from the Bretonic copy; for I think it mentions Galfrid's translation in the conclusion of it.--But it is many years since I saw it. I shall ask some questions about certain passages in it, when I have leisure to look into my own copy. I have written abundance of notes, in defence of mine, since you saw it; and the more I examine into it, the better I like it. I had at first but a poor opinion of it; being prepossessed with the character given if by English writers; but when I find the poets, and our genealogies, and ancient inscriptions and coins agree with it; and some foreign writers, I do not wonder that the inveteracy of the old Saxons should still remain against it, as long as Bede is in being. I shall only ask you now,--whether the son of Ascanius is called _Silius_ or _Silvius_, in Llyfr Coch? It is in the beginning of my copy, which begins--Eneas gwedi ymladd Troya, &c. Mine is not divided into chapters or books. I have time to write no more, but that

I am, Yours sincerely, LEWIS MORRIS.

_Galltvadog_, _Oct._ 13, 1751.

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The same to the same.

SIR,

I happened to come upon business to this place; and being so near you, and having an hour's leisure, I could not help sending this to remind you that there is such a one alive, who wishes you well, and who is really glad you have got into such a worthy family. I hope that you will make the best use of your time; you will not be able to see how precious it is till most part of it is gone. This world (or this age) is so full of people that take no time to think at all, that a young fellow is in the greatest danger as can be to launch out among them. The terrestrial part of men being predominant, is as apt as a monkey to imitate everything that is bad. So that the little good which is to be done, must be done in spite of nature.