Chapter 5
THE ROSE OF LLAN MEILEN.
BY DAFYDD AB GWILYM.
Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever in moments of pleasure we met; You bid me remember no longer a name The muse hath already companioned with fame; And future ap Gwilyms, fresh wreaths who compose, Shall twine with the chaplet of song for the brows Of each fair Morvida, Llan Meilen's sweet Rose.
Had the love I had loved been inconstant or gay, Enduring at most but a long summer's day, Growing cold when the splendour of noontide hath set, I might have forgotten that ever we met. But long as Eryri its peak shall expose To the sunshine of summer, or winter's cold snows, My love will endure for Llan Meilen's sweet Rose.
Then bid me not, maiden, remember no more A name which affection and love must adore, 'Till affection and love become one with the breath Of life in the silent oblivion of death, Perchance in that hour of the spirit's repose, But not until then, when the dark eyelids close, Can this fond heart forget thee, Llan Meilen's sweet Rose.
MY NATIVE COT.
The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mountain side, The stream which flowed beside the door Adown the mossy slope doth glide; The holly tree that hid one end Is shaken by the moaning wind, Like as it was in days of yore When 'neath its boughs I shade did find.
Clear is the sky of morning tide, Bright is the season time of youth, Before the mid-day clouds appear, And fell deceit obliterates truth; Black tempest in the evening lowers, The rain descends with whirlwind force, And long ere midnight's hour nears Full is the heart of deep remorse.
Where are my old companions dear, Who in those days with me did play? The green graves in the parish yard Will soon the mournful answer say: Farewell therefore ye pleasures light, Which in my youth I did enjoy, Dark evening's come with all its trials, And these the bliss of life destroy.
UNDER THE ORCHARD TREE.
Under the deep-laden boughs of the orchard Walks a maid that is fairer than all its rich fruit, And little I doubt if I stood beneath them, To which of the objects I'd offer my suit. 'Twas little I thought when I was a stripling While gazing upon the apples so sweet, I ever should see beneath the green branches An object which yet I much sooner would greet.
Thy father was careful about his rich orchard, To fence well and strong lest the neighbours should stray, For now there doth, wander amid its green arbours A maiden more lovely than aught in the way; Its fruit I would leave to the one who may wish it, But her, who moves so majestic between, I'd steal from the orchard without a misgiving, And never would touch its apples so green.
THE BANKS OF THE DEE.
One morning in May, when soft breezes were blowing O'er Dee's pleasant tide with a ripple and swell, A shepherdess tended her flock that was feeding Upon the green meadows that lay in the dell, Her blue eye she raised, and she looked all around her, As if she'd fain see some one far on the lea, And spite of its brightness, I saw the salt tear For one who was far from the banks of the Dee.
The maiden I thought was preparing to solace Her stay with a song amid the fair scene, Nor long was I left in suspense of her object, Before she broke forth with a melody clean; The tears she would wipe away with her napkin, While often a sigh would escape from her breast, And as she sent forth the notes of her mourning, I could find that to love the lay was address'd:
"Four summers have pass'd since I lost my sweet William, And from this fair valley he mournful did go; Four autumns have shower'd their leaves on the meadows Since he on these eyelids a smile did bestow; Four winters have sped with their snowflakes and tempest Since he by my side did sing a light glee; But many more springs will be sown for the harvest Ere William revisit the banks of the Dee."
GWILYM GLYN AND RUTH OF DYFFRYN.
In the depth of yonder valley, Where the fields are bright and sunny, Ruth was nurtured fair and slender Neath a mother's eye so tender.
Listening to the thrush's carols. Was her pleasure in her gambols, And ere she grew up a maiden Gwilym's voice was sweet in Dyffryn.
Together did they play in childhood, Together ramble in the greenwood, Together dance upon the meadow, Together pluck the primrose yellow.
Both grew up in youthful beauty On the lap of peace and plenty, And before they could discover Love had linked its silent fetter.
Ruth had riches--not so Gwilym, Her stern sire grew cold unto him, And at length forbade him coming Any more to visit Dyffryn.
Gwilym thence would roam the wild-wood, Where he wander'd in his childhood, And would shun his home and hamlet, Pensive sitting in the thicket.
Ruth would, weeping, walk the garden, And survey the blank horizon For a passing glimpse of Gwilym-- But all vain her tears and wailing.
Gwilym said, "I'll cross the ocean, And abide among the heathen, In the hope of getting riches, Which alone the father pleases."
But, before he left his country, Once, by stealth, he met the lady, And beneath the beech's shadow Vow'd undying love in sorrow.
Much the weeping--sad the sighing, When they parted in the gloaming, Gwilym for a distant region, Ruth behind in desolation.
Time flew fast, and many a wooer Came to Ruth an ardent lover; But in vain they sought the maiden, For she held her troth unbroken.
Owain Wynn had wealth in plenty, Earnest was his deep entreaty, And tho' favour'd by the father, Yet all vain was his endeavour.
Years now pass'd since Ruth saw Gwilym, But her dreams were always of him, And tho' morning undeceived her, Nightly did she see him near.
One fair evening Ruth was sitting In the spot of their last parting, When she thought she saw her Gwilym Cross the meadows green of Dyffryn.
Was it fact or apparition? Slow she mov'd to test the vision, Who was there but her own true love Come to claim her in the green grove.
Gwilym now possessed abundance, Gold and pearls displayed their radiance, Soon the father gave him welcome To his house and daughter handsome.
Quick the wedding-day was settled, Ruth to Gwilym then was married, Long they lived in bliss and plenty, Pride and envy of the valley.
THE LORD OF CLAS.
The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and sedgy moor; The glare of his bridle bit has shone On the heights of wild Benmore.
Why does he stay away from hound? Nor urge the fervid chase? Where is the shrill blast of his bugle sound? And the bloom of his radiant face?
The Lord of Clas has found other game Than the buck and timid roe; His heart is warm'd by other flame, His eyes with love-light glow.
On the mountain side a damsel he met Collecting flowers wild; Her eyes like diamonds were set, And modest as a child.
Fair was her face, and lovely to see Her form of slender mould, Her dark hair waved in tresses free On shoulders arch and bold.
The Lord of Clas did blush and sigh When the lovely maid he saw; He stoutly tried to pass her by; His bridle rein did draw.
But his heart quick flutter'd in his breast, The rein fell from his hand, In accents weak the maid address'd, While trembling did he stand.
"Fair lady, may I ask your name? And what your purpose here? From what bright homestead far you came? And is your guardian near?"
Answer'd the maid with haughty mien, That show'd her high estate: "I know not, sir, why you should glean Such knowledge as you prate.
I ask'd not your name, or whence you came? Nor on you deign'd a look; Wherefore should you my wrath inflame, By taking me to book?"
The chieftain high was now subdu'd, And lower'd was his crest; With deep humility imbued The maid he thus address'd:
"My lady fair, your beauteous mien My heart has deep impress'd; Altho' I hear the chase so keen, My thoughts with you do rest.
I did essay to pass your charms, And spurr'd my steed to flight, But your dazzling beauty numb'd my arms, And chain'd me to your sight.
If I may humbly crave your love, I'll tell you my degree: I am the Lord of yonder grove And of this mountain free.
These broad lands will your dowry be, If you my suit receive, And ye shall urge the chase with me From morn to winter eve."
The maid's reply was firm, yet bland, And in a calmer mood: "I thank you, sir, for your offer'd hand, With dowry large and good.
I thank you for all your praises fair, And for your gallant grace; Had we but met an earlier year I might be Lady Clas.
Behold this ring on my finger worn-- A token of plighted love; Lo, he who plac'd it there this morn Sits on yon cairn above."
The chieftain look'd to the lonely cairn And saw the Knight of Lleyn! Like mountain deer he flew o'er the sarn, And there no more was seen!
THE ROSE OF THE GLEN.
Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or cottage wherein I may live, Altho' I can't boast of high blood or degree, Than all these my sweet Rose is dearer to me.
The lambs on the mountain are frisky and gay, The birds in the forest are restless with play, The maidens rejoice at the advent of spring, Yet my fair Rose to me more enjoyment can bring.
THE MOUNTAIN GALLOWAY.
BY MADOC MERVYN.
My tried and trusty mountain steed, Of Aberteivi's hardy breed, Elate of spirit, low of flesh, That sham'st thy kind of vallies fresh; And three score miles and twelve a day Hast sped, my gallant galloway.
Like a sea-boat, firm and tight, Dancing on the ocean, light, That the spirit of the wind Actuates to heart and mind Elastic, buoyant, proud, and gay, Art thou, my mountain galloway.
Thou'st borne me, like a billow's sweep, O'er mountains high and vallies deep, Oft drank at lake and waterfall, Pass'd sunless gulfs whose glooms appall, And shudder'd oft at ocean's spray, Where breakers roar'd, destruction lay.
And thou hast snuff'd sulphureous fumes 'Mid rural nature's charnel tombs; Thou hast sped with eye unscar'd Where Merthyr's fields of fire flar'd; And thou wert dauntless on thy way, My faithful mountain galloway.
There is a vale, 'tis far away, But we must reach that vale to-day; There is a mansion in that vale, Its white walls well the eye regale! And there's a hand more white they say, Shall pat my gallant galloway.
And she is young, and she is fair, The lovely one who sojourns there; Oh, truly dear is she to me! As thou art mine, she'll welcome thee: Then off we go, at break of day, On, on! my gallant galloway.
GLAN GEIRIONYDD.
FROM THE REV. EVAN EVANS.
One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the shore Of swift Geirionydd's waters blue, Where oft I walked before In youth's bright season gone, And spent life's happiest morn In drawing from its crystal waves The trout beneath the thorn, When every thought within my breast Was light as solar ray, Enjoying every pastime dear Throughout the livelong day.
The breeze would soften on the lake, Unruffled be its deep, And all surrounding nature be As calm as silent sleep, Except the raven's dismal shriek Upon the lofty spray, And bleat of sheep beside the bush Where light their lambkins play, And noise made by the busy mill Upon the river shore, With cuckoo's song perch'd in the ash To show that winter's o'er.
The impressive scene would rather tend To nurse reflection deep, Than cast the gay and sprightly fly Beneath the rocky steep; 'Twould fill my spirit now subdued With sober earnest thought, Of other days, and other things, My youthful hands had wrought; The tears would spring into my eyes, My heart with heaving fill, To think of all that I had been, And all that I am still.
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The sober stillness would beget Thoughts of departed friends, Who not long since companions were Upon the river's bends; And soon will come the sombre day When I shall meet their doom, And 'stead of fishing by the lake, I shall be in the tomb. Some brother bard may chance to stray And ask for Ieuan E'an?-- "Geirionydd lake is still the same, But here no Ieuan's seen."
THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD AFTER ITS FATHER'S DEATH.
BY THE REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.
My gentle child, thou dost not know Why still on thee I am gazing so, And trace in meditation deep Thy features fair in silent sleep.
Thy mien, my babe, so full of grace, Reminds me of thy father's face; Although he rests beneath the tree, His features all survive in thee.
Thou knowest not, my gentle child, The deep remorse that makes me wild, Nor why sometimes I can't bestow A smile for smile when thine doth glow.
Thy father, babe, lies in the clay, Lock'd in the tomb, his prison gray; And yet methinks he still doth live, When on thy face a glance I give.
And dost thou smile, my baby fair, Before my face so pale with care? What for the world and its deceit, With myriad snares for youthful feet?
These are before thee, while the aid Of father's counsel is deep laid; And soon thy mother wan may find A last home there--and thou behind.
Thy sad condition then will be Like some lone flower upon the lea, Without a cover from the wind, Or winter's hail and snow unkind.
But smile thou on--in heaven above Thy father lives, and He is love; He knows thy lot, and well doth care For all, and for thee will prepare.
If through His help, Jehovah good! Thou smilest now in blissful mood; May I not think, safe in His hand Thou mayest travel through this land?
Smile on, my child, for thou wilt find In Him a friend and father kind; He'll guide the orphan on his way, Nor ever will his trust betray.
At last in the eternal land We all shall meet a joyous band, Without ought danger more to part, Or tear or sigh to heave the heart.
WOMAN.
BY REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.
Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Architect; Pearl and beauty of creation, Rose of earth by all confession.
Myriad times thy smiles are sweeter Than the morning sun doth scatter, All the loveliness of Nature Into thee almost doth enter.
The rose's hues and of the lily, Verdant spring in all its beauty, Brighter yet among the flowers Is fair woman in her bowers.
As the water fills the river, Full of feeling is her temper, And her love, once it doth settle, Truer than the steel its mettle.
Full of tenderness her bosom, Deep affection there doth blossom, Gentle Woman! who can wonder After thee man's heart doth wander?
I have seen without emotion Fields of blood and desolation, But I never saw the tear On woman's eye and mine not water.
From her lips a word of soothing Will disarm all angry feeling, On her tongue a balm of comfort, Great its virtue, strong its support.
Pleasant is it for the traveller On his way to meet with succour, Sweeter far when at his own home, To receive fair woman's welcome.
Woman cheerful in a family Makes the group around so happy, And her voice filled with affection, Yields an Eden of communion.
Poor the man that roams creation Without woman for companion, Destitute of all protection, Without her to bless his station.
Gentle Woman! all we covet Without thee would be but wretched, Without thy voice to banish sorrow, Or sweet help from thee to borrow.
Thou art light to cheer our progress, Star to brighten all our darkness, For the troubled soul an anchor On each stormy sea of terror.
THE FAITHFUL MAIDEN.
BY REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.
At the dawning of day on a morning in May, When the birds through the forests were skipping so gay; While crossing the churchyard of a parish remote, In a district of Cambria, whose name I don't note:
I saw a fair maiden so rich in attire, Second but to an angel her mien did appear; Quick were her footsteps in tripping the sand, And flowers resplendent were borne in her hand.
I fled to concealment that I might best learn Her object and wish in a place so forlorn, Without a companion--so early the hour-- For a region so gloomy thus leaving her bower.
Anon she advanced to a new tomb that lay By the churchyard path, and there kneeling did stay, While she planted the flowers with hands so clear, And her looks were replete of meekness and fear.
The tears she would dry from eyelids fair With a napkin so snow-white its hue and so rare; And I heard a voice, that sadden'd my mind, While it smote the breeze with words of this kind:--
"Here lieth in peace and quiet the one I loved as dear as the soul of my own; But death did us part to my endless woe, Just when each to the other his hand would bestow.
Here resteth from turmoil, and sorrow to be, The whole that in this world was precious to me; Grow sweetly, ye flowers! and fair on his tomb, Altho' you'll ne'er rival his beauty and bloom.
He erst received from me gifts that were more dear, My hand for a promise--and a lock of my hair, With total concurrence my portion to bear Of his weal or his woe, whether cloudy or fair.
While sitting beside him how great my content, In this place where my heart is evermore bent; If I should e'er travel the wide globe around, To this as their centre my thoughts would rebound.
Altho' from the earth thou dost welcome nor chide, Nor smilest as once thou didst smile on thy bride; And yet my beloved! 'tis comfort to me, To sit but a moment so near to thee.
Thy eyes bright and tender my mind now doth see, And remembers thy speech like the honey to me; Thy grave I'll embrace though the whole world beheld, That all may attest the love we once held."
THE EWE.
BY REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles feeling; And every bosom doth bedew, Each true affection stealing.
Thou hast no weapon of aught kind Against thy foes to combat; No horn or hoof the dog to wound That worries thee so steadfast.
No, nought hast thou but feeble flight, Therein thy only refuge; And every cur within thy sight Is swifter since the deluge.
And when thy lambkin weak doth fail, Tho' often called to follow, Thy best protection to the frail Wilt give through death or sorrow.
Against the ground her foot will beat, Devoutly pure her purpose; Full many a time the sight thus meet Brought tears to me in billows.
But if wise nature did not give To her sharp tooth or weapon, She compensation doth receive From human aid and reason.
She justly has from man support 'Gainst wounds and tribulation; And has the means without distort To yield him retribution.
Yea, of more value is her gift Than priceless mines of silver Or gold which from the depth they lift Through India's distant border.
To man she gives protection strong From winds and tempests howling, From pelting rain, and snow-drifts long, When storms above are beating.
The mantle warm o'er us the night Throughout the dismal shadows; What makes our hearts so free and light? What but the sheep so precious!
Then let us not the Ewe forget When winter bleak doth hover; When rains descend--and we safe set-- Let us be grateful to her.
Her cloak to us is comfort great When by the ditch she trembles; Let us then give her the best beat For her abode and rambles.
THE SONG OF THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE.
BY REV. JOHN BLACKWELL, B.A.
Restless wave! be still and quiet, Do not heed the wind and freshet, Nature wide is now fast sleeping, Why art thou so live and stirring? All commotion now is ending, Why not thou thy constant rolling?
Rest thou sea! upon thy bosom Is one from whom my thoughts are seldom, Not his lot it is to idle, But to work while he is able; Be kind to him, ocean billow! Sleep upon thy sandy pillow!
Wherefore should'st thou still be swelling? Why not cease thy restless heaving? There's no wind to stir the bushes, And all still the mountain breezes: Be thou calm until the morning When he'll shelter in the offing.
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Deaf art thou to my entreaty, Ocean vast! and without mercy. I will turn to Him who rules thee, And can still thy fiercest eddy: Take Thou him to Thy protection Keep him from the wave's destruction!
THE WITHERED LEAF.
BY REV. JOHN BLACKWELL, B.A.
Dry the leaf above the stubble, Soon 'twill fall into the bramble, But the mind receives a lesson From the leaf when it has fallen.
Once it flourished in deep verdure, Bright its aspect in the arbour, Beside myriad of companions, Once it danc'd in gay rotations.
Now its bloom is gone for ever, 'Neath the morning dew doth totter, Sun or moon, or breezes balmy Can't restore its verdant beauty.
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Short its glory! soon it faded, One day's joy, and then it ended; Heaven declared its task was over, It then fell, and that for ever.
SAD DIED THE MAIDEN.
Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish she felt in expiring, The moonbeams were weeping the evening dew When the life of the Maiden was sinking.
Sad died the Maiden! beside the fast door, With her head resting low on the flagging, And the raindrops froze as they fell in store On a bosom that lately was bleeding.
She died on the sill of her father's dear home, From which he had forc'd her to wander, While her clear white hands were trying to roam In search of the latch and warm shelter.
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She died! and her end will for ever reveal A father devoid of affection, While her green grave will always testify well To the strength of love and devotion.
THE WORLD AND THE SEA: A COMPARISON.
Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it rages, Sometimes full and sometimes shallow, Sometimes green and sometimes yellow.
Salt the sea to all who drink it, Bitter is the world in spirit, Deep the sea to all who fathom, Deep the world and without bottom.
Unsupporting in his danger Is the sea unto the sailor, Less sustaining to the traveller Is the world through which he'll wander.
Full the sea of rocky places, Shoals and quicksands in its mazes, Full the world of sore temptation Charged with sorrow and destruction.
THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE.
BY THE REV. J. EMLYM JONES, M.A., LL.D.
'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound its verdant head, As if to receive the riches Which the dew of heaven doth spread; Many a foot doth inconsiderate Tread upon the humble pile, And doth crush the turf so ornate:-- That's the Poor Man's Grave the while.
The paid servants of the Union Followed mute his last remains, Piling the earth in fast confusion, Without sigh, or tear or pains; After anguish and privation, Here at last his troubles cease, Quiet refuge from oppression Is the Poor Man's Grave of peace.
The tombstone rude with two initials, Carved upon its smoother side, By a helpmate of his trials, Is now split and sunder'd wide; And when comes the Easter Sunday, There is neither friend nor kin To bestow green leaves or nosegay On the Poor Man's Grave within.
Nor doth the muse above his ashes Sing a dirge or mourn his end, And ere long time's wasting gashes Will the mound in furrows rend: Level with the earth all traces, Hide him in oblivion deep; Yet, for this, God's angel watches, O'er the Poor Man's Grave doth weep.
THE BARD'S LONG-TRIED AFFECTION FOR MORFYDD.
BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.
All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden mien!" I have loved beyond belief, Many a day to love and grief For her sake have been a prey, Who has on the moon's array! Pledged my truth from youth will now To the girl of glossy brow. Oh, the light her features wear, Like the tortured torrent's glare! Oft by love bewildered quite, Have my aching feet all night Stag-like tracked the forest shade For the foam-complexioned maid, Whom with passion firm and gay I adored 'mid leaves of May! 'Mid a thousand I could tell One elastic footstep well! I could speak to one sweet maid-- (Graceful figure!)--by her shade. I could recognize till death, One sweet maiden by her breath! From the nightingale could learn Where she tarries to discern; There his noblest music swells Through the portals of the dells!
When I am from her away, I have neither laugh nor lay! Neither soul nor sense is left, I am half of mind bereft; When she comes, with grief I part, And am altogether heart! Songs inspired, like flowing wine, Rush into this mind of mine; Sense enough again comes back To direct me in my track! Not one hour shall I be gay, Whilst my Morfydd is away!
THE GROVE OF BROOM.
BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.
The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in golden dress, No longer dares to give her plight To meet the bard at dawn or night! To the blythe moon he may not bear The maid, whose cheeks the daylight wear-- She fears to answer to his call At midnight, underneath yon wall-- Nor can he find a birchen bower To screen her in the morning hour; And thus the summer days are fleeting Away, without the lovers meeting! But stay! my eyes a bower behold, Where maid and poet yet may meet, Its branches are arrayed in gold, Its boughs the sight in winter greet With hues as bright, with leaves as green, As summer scatters o'er the scene. (To lure the maiden) from that brake, For her a vesture I will make, Bright as the ship of glass of yore, That Merddin o'er the ocean bore; O'er Dyfed's hills there was a veil In ancient days--(so runs the tale); And such a canopy to me This court, among the woods, shall be; Where she, my heart adores, shall reign, The princess of the fair domain.
To her, and to her poet's eyes, This arbour seems a paradise; Its every branch is deftly strung With twigs and foliage lithe and young, And when May comes upon the trees To paint her verdant liveries, Gold on each threadlike sprig will glow, To honour her who reigns below. Green is that arbour to behold, And on its withes thick showers of gold! Joy to the poet and the maid, Whose paradise is yonder shade! Oh! flowers of noblest splendour, these Are summer's frost-work on the trees! A field the lovers now possess, With saffron o'er its verdure roll'd, A house of passing loveliness, A fabric of Arabia's gold-- Bright golden tissue, glorious tent, Of him who rules the firmament, With roof of various colours blent! An angel, 'mid the woods of May, Embroidered it with radiance gay-- That gossamer with gold bedight-- Those fires of God--those gems of light! 'Tis sweet those magic bowers to find, With the fair vineyards intertwined; Amid the wood their jewels rise, Like gleams of starlight o'er the skies-- Like golden bullion, glorious prize! How sweet the flowers which deck that floor, In one unbroken glory blended-- Those glittering branches hovering o'er-- Veil by an angel's hand extended. Oh! if my love will come, her bard Will, with his case, her footsteps guard, There, where no stranger dares to pry, Beneath yon Broom's green canopy!
ADDRESS TO A BIRCH TREE,
THAT HAD BEEN CONVERTED INTO A MAY-POLE IN THE TOWN OF LLANIDLOES, IN MONTGOMERYSHIRE.
BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.
Ah! birch tree, with the verdant locks, And reckless mind--long hast thou been A wand'rer from thy native rocks; With canopy of tissue green, And stem that 'mid the sylvan scene A sceptre of the forest stood-- Thou art a traitress to the wood! How oft, in May's short nights of old, To my love-messenger and me Thou didst a couch of leaves unfold! Thou wert a house of melody,-- Proud music soared from every bough; Ah! those who loved thee sorrow now! Thy living branches teemed and rang With every song the woodlands know, And every woodland flow'ret sprang To life--thy spreading tent below. Proud guardian of the public way, Such wert thou, while thou didst obey The counsel of my beauteous bride-- And in thy native grove reside! But now thy stem is mute and dark, No more by lady's reverence cheered; Rent from its trunk, torn from its park, The luckless tree again is reared-- (Small sign of honour or of grace!) To mark the parish market-place! Long as St. Idloes' town shall be A patroness of poesy-- Long as its hospitality The bard shall freely entertain, My birch! thy lofty stature shall remain!
THE HOLLY GROVE.
BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.
Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed bower! In front of all the forest Thy coral-loaded branches tower. Thou shrine of love, whose depth defies The axe--the tempest of the skies; Whose boughs in winter's frost display The brilliant livery of May! Grove from the precipice suspended, Like pillars of some holy fane; With notes amid thy branches blended, Like the deep organ's solemn strain.
* * * * *
House of the birds of Paradise, Round fane impervious to the skies; On whose green roof two nights of rain May fiercely beat and beat in vain! I know thy leaves are ever scathless; The hardened steel as soon will blight; When every grove and hill are pathless With frosts of winter's lengthened night, No goat from Hafren's {141} banks I ween, From thee a scanty meal may glean! Though Spring's bleak wind with clamour launches His wrath upon thy iron spray; Armed holly tree! from thy firm branches He will not wrest a tithe away! Chapel of verdure, neatly wove, Above the summit of the grove!
THE SWAN.
BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.
Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like abbot white! Bird of the spray, to whom is giv'n The raiment of the men of heav'n; Bird of broad hand, in youth's proud age, Syvaddon was thy heritage! Two gifts in thee, fair bird, unite To glean the fish in yonder lake, And bending o'er yon hills thy flight A glance at earth and sea to take. Oh! 'tis a noble task to ride The billows countless as the snow; Thy long fair neck (thou thing of pride!) Thy hook to catch the fish below; Thou guardian of the fountain head, By which Syvaddon's waves are fed! Above the dingle's rugged streams, Intensely white thy raiment gleams; Thy shirt like crystal tissue seems; Thy doublet, and thy waistcoat bright, Like thousand lilies meet the sight; Thy jacket is of the white rose, Thy gown the woodbine's flow'rs compose, {142} Thou glory of the birds of air, Thou bird of heav'n, oh, hear my pray'r! And visit in her dwelling place The lady of illustrious race: Haste on an embassy to her, My kind white-bosomed messenger-- Upon the waves thy course begin, And then at Cemaes take to shore; And there through all the land explore, For the bright maid of Talyllyn, The lady fair as the moon's flame, And call her "Paragon" by name; The chamber of the beauty seek, And mount with footsteps slow and meek; Salute her, and to her reveal The cares and agonies I feel-- And in return bring to my ear Message of hope, my heart to cheer! Oh, may no danger hover near (Bird of majestic head) thy flight! Thy service I will well requite!
MAY AND NOVEMBER.
BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.
Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for thy wild band of choristers weaves; Proud knight, that subduest with glory and power, Each glen into verdure, to joy every bower; That makest the wilderness laugh and rejoice, In the chains of thy love, in thy cuckoo's shrill voice; That fillest the heart of the lover with glee, And bringest my Morfydd's dear image to me.
Alas! that dark Winter thy mansions should blight, With his chill mottled show'rs, and his flickering light, His moon that gleams wanly through snows falling fast, His pale mist that floats on the wings of the blast: With the voice of each river more fearfully loud-- Every torrent all foam, and the heaven all cloud! Alas! that stern Winter has power to divide Each lover from hope--from the poet his bride.
THE CUCKOO'S TALE.
BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.
Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the tidings of summer thy bright pinions roam-- The summer that thickens with foliage the glade, And lures to the woodland the poet and maid. Sweet as "sack," gentle bird, is thy beautiful voice, In thy accents the lover must ever rejoice: Oh! tell me at once, in thy musical lay, Where tarries the girl whose behest I obey.
"Poor bard," said the cuckoo, "what anguish and pain Hast thou stored for thyself, all thy cares are in vain, All hopes of the maid thou awaitest resign, She has wedded another, and ne'er can be thine."
"For the tale thou hast told"--to the cuckoo I cried, "For thus singing to me of my beautiful bride These strains of thy malice--may winter appear And dim the sun's light--stay the summer's career; With frost all the leaves of the forest boughs fill, And wither the woods with his desolate chill, And with cold in the midst of thy own forest spray, Take thy life and thy song, foolish cuckoo, away!"
DAFYDD AP GWILYM'S ADDRESS TO MORFYDD AFTER SHE MARRIED HIS RIVAL.
Too long I've loved the fickle maid, My love is turned to grief and pain; In vain delusive hopes I stray'd, Through days that ne'er will dawn again; And she, in beauty like the dawn, From me has now her heart withdrawn! A constant suitor--on her ear My sweetest melodies I pour'd; Where'er she wander'd I was near; For her whose face my soul ador'd My wealth I madly spent in wine, And gorgeous jewels of the mine. I deck'd her arms with lovely chains, With bracelets wove of slender gold; I sang her charms in varied strains, Her praise to every minstrel told: The bards of distant Keri know That she is spotless as the snow. These proofs of love I hoped might bind My Morfydd to be ever true: Alas! to deep despair consign'd, My bosom's blighted hopes I rue, And the base craft that gave her charms, Oh, anguish! to another's arms!