Part 2
Some former owner has pencilled below, "By Mr. Borrer of Norwich" (_sic_). From Mr. Wise's green quartos, already referred to, or from MSS. in his library, come the two Goronwy Owen poems, "The Pedigree of the Muse," and "The Harp." Also Lewis Morris the Elder's lines, "The Cuckoo's Song in Meirion," or Merion, according to Borrow. The Epigrams by Carolan and "Song of Deirdra" are Irish items from the same source; while "Pwll Cheres, the Vortex of Menai," and "The Mountain Snow," are two Welsh ones, which have not, I believe, been printed in any other form. The familiar pages of "Wild Wales," and the less-known volume, "Targum," account for the bulk of the remaining poems and fragments; while Borrow's "Quarterly Review" article on Welsh Poetry (January, 1861) provides us with four more translations. The versions are printed with all their faults on their head; and if he put a whiting into a fresh-water fish-pond (in the Ode on Sycharth, original text), or mistook a saint for a secular detail, the collector of his works will be glad to have the plain evidence under his hand, and will not wonder a bit the less at the boyish achievement of this East-country Celt. It remains to be said that, being Borrow, he was duly astonished at himself, and under the Sycharth poem wrote in Welsh a footnote which runs in effect: "The English translation is the work of George Borrow, an English lad of the City of Norwich, who has never been in Wales, and has never in all his life heard a word of Welsh from man or woman."
GLENDOWER'S MANSION.
IOLO GOCH was a celebrated Bard of North Wales, and flourished about the end of the fourteenth and commencement of the fifteenth century. He was the contemporary of the celebrated Owain Glendower, and one of the most devoted and not the least effectual of his partisans; for by his songs he kindled the spirit of his countrymen against the English, and by his praises of Glendower increased their pre-existing enthusiasm for that chieftain. The present poem was composed some years previous to the insurrection of Glendower against Henry the Fourth, and describes with the utmost possible minuteness his place of residence at Sycharth, to which place Iolo, after receiving frequent invitations from its owner, repaired to reside in his old age.
A PROMISE has been made by me Twice of a journey unto thee; His promises let every man Perform, as far as e'er he can. Easy is done the thing that's sweet, And sweet this journey is and meet; I've vow'd to Owain's court to go, To keep that vow no harm will do; And thither straight I'll take the way, A happy thought, and there I'll stay, Respect and honor whilst I live With him united to receive. My Chief of long-lin'd ancestry, Can harbour sons of poesy. To hear the sweet Muse singing bold A fine thing is when one is old; And to the Castle I will hie, There's none to match it 'neath the sky; It is a Baron's stately court, Where bards for sumptuous fare resort. The Lord and star of powis land, He granteth every just demand. Its likeness now I will draw out: Water surrounds it in a moat; Stately's the palace with wide door, Reach'd by a bridge the blue lake o'er; It is of buildings coupled fair, Coupled is every couple there; A quadrate structure tall it is, A cloister of festivities. Conjointly are the angles bound; In the whole place no flaw is found. Structures in contact meet the eye Grottoways, on the hill on high. Into each other fasten'd, they The form of a hard knot display. There dwells the Chief, we all extoll, In fair wood house on a light knoll. Upon four wooden columns proud Mounteth his mansion to the cloud. Each column's thick, and firmly bas'd, And upon each a loft is plac'd. In these four lofts, which coupled stand, Repose at night the minstrel band: These four lofts, nests of luxury Partition'd, form eight prettily. Tiled is the roof, on each house top Chimneys, where smoke is bred, tower up. Nine halls in form consimilar, And wardrobes nine to each there are, Wardrobes well stock'd with linen white Equal to shops of London quite. A church there is, a cross which has, And chapels neatly paned with glass. All houses are contained in this, An orchard, vineyard 'tis of bliss. Beside the Castle, 'bove all praise, Within a park the red deer graze. A coney park the Chief can boast, Of ploughs and noble steeds a host; Meads, where for hay the fresh grass grows, Cornfields which hedges trim enclose; Mill a perennial stream upon, And pigeon tower fram'd of stone; A fish pond deep and dark to see, To cast nets in when need there be; And in that pond there is no lack Of noble whitings and of jack. Three boards he keeps, his birds abound, Peacocks and cranes are seen around. All that his household-wants demand Is order'd straight by his command: Ale he imports from Shrewsbury far, Glorious his beer and bragget are. All drinks he keeps, bread white of look, And in his kitchen toils his cook. His castle is the minstrels' home, You'll find them there whene'er you come. Of all her sex his wife's the best, Her wine and mead make life thrice blest. She's scion of a knightly tree, She's dignified, she's kind and free; His bairns come to me pair by pair, O what a nest of chieftains fair! There difficult it is to catch A sight of either bolt or latch; The porter's place there none will fill-- There handsels shall be given still, And ne'er shall thirst and hunger rude In Sycharth venture to intrude. The noblest Welshman, lion for might, The Lake possesses, his by right, And 'midst of that fair water plac'd, The Castle, by each pleasure grac'd.
ODE TO THE COMET.
Which appeared in the Month of March, A.D. 1402.
By IOLO GOCH.
THIS piece appears to have been written at the period when Glendower had nearly attained the summit of his greatness; the insurrection which he commenced in September, 1400, by sacking and burning the town of Ruthin, having hitherto sustained no check whatever. In the present poem his bard hails the appearance of the Comet as a divine prognostic of the eventual success of the Welsh Hero, and of his elevation to the throne of Britain.
'BOUT the stars' nature and their hue Much has been said, both false and true; They're wondrous through their countenance-- Signs to us in the blue expanse. The first that came, to merit praise, Was that great star of splendid rays, From a fair country seen of old High in the East, a mark of gold; Conveying to the sons of Earth News of the King of glory's birth. In the advantage I had share, Though some to doubt the event will dare, That Christ was born from Mary maid, A merciful and timely aid, With his veins' blood to save on high The righteous from the enemy. The second, a right glorious lamp, Of yore went over Uther's camp. There as it flam'd distinct in view Merddin amongst the warrior crew Standing, with tears of anguish, thought Of the dire act on Emrys wrought, {34} And he caus'd Uther back to turn, The victory o'er the foe to earn; From anger to revenge to spring Is with the frank a common thing. Arthur the generous, bold and good, Was by that comet understood. Man to be cherish'd well and long, Foretold through ancient Bardic song: With ashen shafted lance's thrust He shed his foe's blood on the dust. The third to Gwynedd's hills was born By time and tempest-fury worn, Similar to the rest it came, In origin and look the same, Powerfully lustrous, yellow, red Both, both as to its beam and head. The wicked far about and near Enquire of me, who feel no fear, For where it comes there luck shall fall, What means the hot and starry ball? I know and can expound aright The meaning of the thing of light: To the son of the prophecy Its ray doth steel or fire imply; There has not been for long, long time A fitting star to Gwynedd's clime, Except the star this year appearing, Intelligence unto us bearing; Gem to denote we're reconcil'd At length with God the undefil'd. How beauteous is that present sheen, Of the excessive heat the queen; A fire upmounting 'fore our face, Shining on us God's bounteous grace; For where they sank shall rise once more The diadem and laws of yore. 'Tis high 'bove Mona in the skies, In the angelic squadron's eyes; A golden pillar hangs it there, A waxen column of the air. We a fair gift shall gain ere long, Either a pope or Sovereign strong; A King, who wine and mead will give, From Gwynedd's land we shall receive; The Lord shall cease incens'd to be, And happy times cause Gwynedd see, Fame to obtain by dint of sword, Till be fulfill'd the olden word.
ODE TO GLENDOWER After His Disappearance.
By IOLO GOCH.
FORTUNE having turned against Glendower, he fought many unsuccessful battles, in which all his sons perished, bravely maintaining the cause of their father. His adherents being either slaughtered or dispirited, the Welsh Chieftain retired into concealment--but where, no mortal at the present day can assert with certainty, but it is believed that he died of grief and disappointment in the year 1415, at the house of his daughter, the wife of Sir John Scudamore, of Monington in Herefordshire. The fall of Glendower was a bitter mortification to the Bards, whom he had so long feasted in the watery valley {39} from which he derived his surname; many poetical compositions are still preserved, written with the view of reviving the hopes of his dispirited friends. Amongst these the following by Iolo Goch is perhaps the most remarkable. He hints that the Chieftain has repaired to Rome, from which he will return with a warrant under the seal of the Pope, to take possession of his right. Then he flings out a surmise that he has travelled to the Holy Sepulchre, and will re-appear, with a Danish and Irish fleet to back his cause. Notwithstanding the little regard paid to truth and probability in this piece, and notwithstanding its strange metaphors and obscure allusions, it displays marks of no ordinary poetic talent, and is a convincing proof that the fire and genius of the author had not deserted him at fourscore, to which advanced age he had attained when he wrote it.
TALL man, whom Harry loves but ill, Thou'st had reverses, breath'st thou still? If so, with fire-spear seek the fray, Come, and thy target broad display. From land of Rome, which glory's light Environs, come in armour dight, With writ, which bears the blest impression Of Peter's seal, to take possession. Big Bull! from eastern climates speed, Bursting each gate would thee impede. Flash from thy face shall fiery rays, On thee shall all with reverence gaze. Fair Eagle! earl of trenchant brand! Betake thee to the Lochlin land, Whose sovereign on his buckler square, Sign of success, is wont to bear Three lions blue, through fire to see Like azure, and steel-fetters three. We'll trust, far casting black despair, Hence in the peacock, hog and bear! For O the three shall soon unite, A dread host in the hour of fight. Launch forth seven ships, do not delay, Launch forth seven hundred, tall and gay; From the far north, at Mona's pray'r, To verdant Eirin's shore repair. To seek O'Neil must be thy task, And at his hand assistance ask; Ere feast of John we shall not fail To hear a rising of the Gael: Through the wild waste to Dublin town Shall come a leader of renown. Prepare a fleet with stout hearts mann'd From Irishmen's dear native land. Come thou who did'st by treachery fall, Where'er thou art my soul is all. Yellow and red, before a feast, The colours are, the Erse love best, Deck with the same, their hearts to win, The banner old of Llywellin. Call Britain's host (may woe betide England for treachery!) to thy side; Come to our land, tough steel, and o'er The islands rule, an Emperor; A fire ignite on shore of Mon Staunch Eagle! ere an hour be flown. The castles break, retreats of care, Conquer of Caer Ludd's dogs the lair! Mona's gold horn! the Normans smite, Kill the mole and his men outright: A prophecy there stands from old, That numerous battles thou shalt hold; Where'er thou'st opportunity Fight the tame Lion furiously; Fierce shall thy hands' work prove, I trow, Dying and dead shall Merwyg strow; War shall my Chief through summer wage, That the wheel turn, my life I'll gage; Like to the burst of Derri's stream The onset of his war shall seem. With Mona's flag through Iaithon's glen Shall march a host of armed men: Nine fights he'll wage and then have done, Successful in them every one. Come heir of Cadwallader blest, And thy sire's land from robbers wrest: Take thou the portion that's thine own, Us from the chains 'neath which we groan.
HERE'S THE LIFE I'VE SIGH'D FOR LONG.
By IOLO GOCH.
HERE'S the life I've sigh'd for long: Abash'd is now the Saxon throng, And Britons have a British lord Whose emblem is the conquering sword; There's none I trow but knows him well The hero of the watery dell. Owain of bloody spear in field, Owain his country's strongest shield; A sovereign bright in grandeur drest, Whose frown affrights the bravest breast. Let from the world upsoar on high A voice of splendid prophecy! All praise to him who forth doth stand To 'venge his injured native land! Of him, of him a lay I'll frame Shall bear through countless years his name: In him are blended portents three, Their glories blended sung shall be: There's Owain, meteor of the glen, The head of princely generous men; Owain, the lord of trenchant steel, Who makes the hostile squadrons reel; Owain besides, of warlike look, A conqueror who no stay will brook; Hail to the lion leader gay, Marshaller of Griffith's war array; The scourger of the flattering race, For them a dagger has his face; Each traitor false he loves to smite, A lion is he for deeds of might; Soon may he tear, like lion grim, All the Lloegrians limb from limb! May God and Rome's blest father high Deck him in surest panoply! Hail to the valiant carnager, Worthy three diadems to bear! Hail to the valley's belted King! Hail to the widely conquering, The liberal, hospitable, kind, Trusty and keen as steel refined! Vigorous of form he nations bows, Whilst from his breast-plate bounty flows. Of Horsa's seed on hill and plain Four hundred thousand he has slain. The cope-stone of our nation's he, In him our weal, our all we see; Though calm he looks his plans when breeding, Yet oaks he'd break his clans when leading. Hail to this partisan of war, This bursting meteor flaming far! Where'er he wends Saint Peter guard him, And may the Lord five lives award him!
THE PROPHECY {49a} OF TALIESIN.
_From the Ancient British_.
WITHIN my mind I hold books confin'd, Of Europa's land all the mighty lore; O God of heaven high! With how many a bitter sigh, I my prophecy upon Troy's line {49b} pour:
A serpent coiling, And with fury boiling, From Germany coming with arm'd wings spread, Shall Britain fair subdue From the Lochlin ocean blue, To where Severn rolls in her spacious bed.
And British men Shall be captives then To strangers from Saxonia's strand; From God they shall not swerve, They their language shall preserve, But except wild Wales, they shall lose their land.
THE HISTORY OF TALIESIN.
_From The Ancient British_.
TALIESIN was a foundling, discovered in his infancy lying in a coracle, on a salmon-weir, in the domain of Elphin, a prince of North Wales, who became his patron. During his life he arrogated to himself a supernatural descent and understanding, and for at least a thousand years after his death he was regarded by the descendants of the ancient Britons in the character of a prophet or something more. The poems which he produced procured for him the title of "Bardic King;" they display much that is vigorous and original, but are disfigured by mysticism and extravagant metaphor; one of the most spirited of them is the following, which the author calls his "Hanes" or history.
THE head Bard's place I hold To Elphin, chieftain bold; The country of my birth Was the Cherubs' land of mirth; I from the prophet John The name of Merddin won; And now the Monarchs all Me Taliesin call.
I with my Lord and God On the highest places trod, When Lucifer down fell With his army into hell. I know each little star Which twinkles near and far; And I know the Milky Way Where I tarried many a day.
My inspiration's {54a} flame From Cridwen's cauldron came; Nine months was I in gloom In Sorceress Cridwen's womb; Though late a child--I'm now The Bard of splendid brow; {54b} When roar'd the deluge dark, I with Noah trod the Ark.
By the sleeping man I stood When the rib grew flesh and blood. To Moses strength I gave Through Jordan's holy wave; The thrilling tongue was I To Enoch and Elie; I hung the cross upon, Where died the . . . (_only son_)
A chair of little rest 'Bove the Zodiac I prest, Which doth ever, in a sphere, Through three elements career; I've sojourn'd in Gwynfryn, In the halls of Cynfelyn; To the King the harp I play'd, Who Lochlyn's sceptre sway'd.
With the Israelites of yore I endur'd a hunger sore; In Africa I stray'd Ere was Rome's foundation laid; Now hither I have hied With the race of Troy to bide; In the firmament I've been With Mary Magdalen.
I work'd as mason-lord When Nimrod's pile up-soar'd; I mark'd the dread rebound When its ruins struck the ground; When stroke to victory on The men of Macedon, The bloody flag before The heroic King I bore.
I saw the end with horror Of Sodom and Gomorrah! And with this very eye Have seen the . . . (_end of Troy_;) I till the judgment day Upon the earth shall stray: None knows for certainty Whether fish or flesh I be.
THE MIST.
A TRYSTE with Morfydd true I made, 'Twas not the first, in greenwood glade, In hope to make her flee with me; But useless all, as you will see. I went betimes, lest she should grieve, Then came a mist at close of eve; Wide o'er the path by which I passed, Its mantle dim and murk it cast. That mist ascending met the sky, Forcing the daylight from my eye. I scarce had strayed a furlong's space When of all things I lost the trace. Where was the grove and waving grain? Where was the mountain, hill and main? O ho! thou villain mist, O ho! What plea hast thou to plague me so! I scarcely know a scurril name, But dearly thou deserv'st the same; Thou exhalation from the deep Unknown, where ugly spirits keep! Thou smoke from hellish stews uphurl'd To mock and mortify the world! Thou spider-web of giant race, Spun out and spread through airy space! Avaunt, thou filthy, clammy thing, Of sorry rain the source and spring! Moist blanket dripping misery down, Loathed alike by land and town! Thou watery monster, wan to see, Intruding 'twixt the sun and me, To rob me of my blessed right, To turn my day to dismal night. Parent of thieves and patron best, They brave pursuit within thy breast! Mostly from thee its merciless snow Grim January doth glean, I trow. Pass off with speed, thou prowler pale, Holding along o'er hill and dale, Spilling a noxious spittle round, Spoiling the fairies' sporting ground! Move off to hell, mysterious haze; Wherein deceitful meteors blaze; Thou wild of vapour, vast, o'ergrown, Huge as the ocean of unknown. Before me all afright and fear, Above me darkness dense and drear. My way at weary length I found Into a swaggy willow ground, Where staring in each nook there stood Of wry-mouthed elves a wrathful brood. Full oft I sunk in that false soil, My legs were lamed with length of toil. However hard the case may be, No meetings more in mist for me.
THE CUCKOO'S SONG IN MERION.
_From the Welsh of Lewis Morris_.
THOUGH it has been my fate to see Of gallant countries many a one; Good ale, and those that drank it free, And wine in streams that seemed to run; The best of beer, the best of cheer, Allotted are to Merion.
The swarthy ox will drag his chain, At man's commandment that is done; His furrow break through earth with pain, Up hill and hillock toiling on; Yet with more skill draw hearts at will The maids of county Merion.
Merry the life, it must be owned, Upon the hills of Merion; Though chill and drear the prospect round, Delight and joy are not unknown; O who would e'er expect to hear 'Mid mountain bogs the cuckoo's tone?
O who display a mien full fair, A wonder each to look upon? And who in every household care Defy compare below the sun? And who make mad each sprightly lad? The maids of county Merion.
O fair the salmon in the flood, That over golden sands doth run; And fair the thrush in his abode, That spreads his wings in gladsome fun; More beauteous look, if truth be spoke, The maids of county Merion.
Dear to the little birdies wild Their freedom in the forest lone; Dear to the little sucking child The nurse's breast it hangs upon; Though long I wait, I ne'er can state How dear to me is Merion.
Sweet in the house the Telyn's {64} strings In love and joy where kindred wone; While each in turn a stanza sings, No sordid themes e'er touched upon; Full sweet in sound the hearth around The maidens' song of Merion.
And though my body here it be Travelling the countries up and down; Tasting delights of land and sea, True pleasure seems my heart to shun; Alas! there's need home, home to speed-- My soul it is in Merion.
THE SNOW ON EIRA.
COLD is the snow on Snowdon's brow, It makes the air so chill; For cold, I trow, there is no snow Like that of Snowdon's hill.
A hill most chill is Snowdon's hill, And wintry is his brow; From Snowdon's hill the breezes chill Can freeze the very snow.
THE INVITATION.
_By Goronwy Owen_.
_From the Cambrian British_.
[Sent from Northolt, in the year 1745, to William Parry, Deputy Comptroller of the Mint.]
PARRY, of all my friends the best, Thou who thy Maker cherishest, Thou who regard'st me so sincere, And who to me art no less dear; Kind friend, in London since thou art, To love thee's not my wisest part; This separation's hard to bear: To love thee not far better were.