Part 4

Heavy's the heart, the pressure below, Of all the griefs I have mentioned now; But were they together all met in a mass, There's one grief still would all surpass; Hope frees from each woe, while we this side Of the wall abide-- At every tide 'Tis an outlet cranny. But there's a grief beyond the bier; Hope will ne'er Its victims cheer, That cheers so many.

Heavy's the heart therewith that's fraught; How heavy is mine at merely the thought! Our worldly woes, however hard, Are trifles when with that compared: That woe--which is not known here--that woe The lost ones know, And undergo In the nether regions; How wretched the man who, exil'd to Hell, In Hell must dwell, And curse and yell With the Hellish legions!

At nought, that may ever betide thee, fret If at Hell thou art not arrived yet; But thither, I rede thee, in mind repair Full oft, and observantly wander there; Musing intense, after reading me, Of the flaming sea, Will speedily thee Convert by appalling. Frequent remembrance of the black deep Thy soul will keep, Thou erring sheep, From thither falling.

RYCE OF TWYN.

["I'll bet a guinea that however clever a fellow you may be, you never sang anything in praise of your landlord's housekeeping equal to what Dafydd Nanmor sang in praise of that of Ryce of Twyn four hundred years ago."]

FOR Ryce if hundred thousands plough'd, The lands around his fair abode; Did vines of thousand vineyards bleed, Still corn and wine great Ryce would need; If all the earth had bread's sweet savour, And water all had cyder's flavour, Three roaring feasts in Ryce's hall Would swallow earth and ocean all.

LLYWELYN.

By Dafydd Benfras.

LLYWELYN of the potent hand oft wrought Trouble upon the kings and consternation; When he with the Lloegrian monarch fought, Whose cry was "Devastation!" Forward impetuously his squadrons ran; Great was the tumult ere the shout began; Proud was the hero of his reeking glaive, Proud of their numbers were his followers brave. O then were heard resounding o'er the fields The clash of faulchions and the crash of shields! Many the wounds in yonder fight receiv'd! Many the warriors of their lives bereaved! The battle rages till our foes recoil Behind the Dike which Offa built with toil, Bloody their foreheads, gash'd with many a blow, Blood streaming down their quaking knees below. Llywelyn, we as our high chief obey, To fair Porth Ysgewin extends his sway; For regal virtues and for princely line He towers above imperial Constantine.

PLYNLIMMON.

By Lewis Glyn Cothi.

FROM high Plynlimmon's shaggy side Three streams in three directions glide, To thousands at their mouth who tarry Honey, gold and mead they carry.

Flow also from Plynlimmon high Three streams of generosity; {137} The first, a noble stream indeed, Like rills of Mona runs with mead;

The second bears from vineyards thick Wine to the feeble and the sick; The third, till time shall be no more, Mingled with gold shall silver pour.

QUATRAINS AND STRAY STANZAS FROM "WILD WALES."

I.

CHESTER ale, Chester ale! I could ne'er get it down, 'Tis made of ground-ivy, of dirt, and of bran, 'Tis as thick as a river below a huge town! 'Tis not lap for a dog, far less drink for a man.

II.

Gone, gone are thy gates, Dinas Bran on the height! Thy warders are blood-crows and ravens, I trow; Now no one will wend from the field of the fight To the fortress on high, save the raven and crow.

III.

Here, after sailing far, I, Madoc, lie, Of Owain Gwynedd lawful progeny: The verdant land had little charms for me; From earliest youth I loved the dark-blue sea. God in his head the Muse instill'd, And from his head the world he fill'd.

IV. EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH WILLIAMS.

Though thou art gone to dwelling cold, To lie in mould for many a year, Thou shalt, at length, from earthy bed, Uplift thy head to blissful sphere.

V. THE LAST JOURNEY. From Huw Morus.

Now to my rest I hurry away, To the world which lasts for ever and aye, To Paradise, the beautiful place, Trusting alone in the Lord of Grace.

VI. THE FOUR AND TWENTY MEASURES. From Edward Price.

I've read the master-pieces great Of languages no less than eight, But ne'er have found a woof of song So strict as that of Cambria's tongue.

VII. MONA. By Robert Lleiaf.

Av i dir Mon, er dwr Menai, Tros y traeth, ond aros trai.

I will go to the land of Mona, notwithstanding the water of the Menai, across the sand, without waiting for the ebb.

VIII. MONA. From "Y Greal."

I got up in Mona as soon as 'twas light, At nine in old Chester my breakfast I took; In Ireland I dined, and in Mona, ere night, By the turf fire sat, in my own ingle nook.

IX. ERYRI.

Easy to say, "Behold Eryri!" But difficult to reach its head; Easy for him whose hopes are cheery To bid the wretch be comforted.

X. ERYRI. From Goronwy Owen.

Ail i'r ar ael Eryri, Cyfartal hoewal a hi.

The brow of Snowdon shall be levelled with the ground, and the eddying waters shall murmur round it.

XI. ELLEN. From Goronwy Owen.

Ellen, my darling, Who liest in the churchyard of Walton.

XII. MON. From the Ode by Robin Ddu.

Bread of the wholesomest is found In my mother-land of Anglesey; Friendly bounteous men abound In Penmynnydd of Anglesey. . . .

Twelve sober men the muses woo, Twelve sober men in Anglesey, Dwelling at home, like patriots true, In reverence for Anglesey. . .

Though Arvon graduate bards can boast, Yet more canst thou, O Anglesey.

XIII. MON. From Huw Goch.

Brodir, gnawd ynddi prydydd; Heb ganu ni bu ni bydd.

A hospitable country, in which a poet is a thing of course. It has never been and will never be without song.

XIV. LEWIS MORRIS OF MON. From Goronwy Owen.

"As long as Bardic lore shall last, science and learning be cherished, the language and blood of the Britons undefiled, song be heard on Parnassus, heaven and earth be in existence, foam be on the surge, and water in the river, the name of Lewis of Mon shall be held in grateful remembrance."

XV. THE GRAVE OF BELI.

Who lies 'neath the cairn on the headland hoar, His hand yet holding his broad claymore, Is it Beli, the son of Benlli Gawr?

XVI. THE GARDEN. From Gwilym Du o Eifion.

In a garden the first of our race was deceived; In a garden the promise of grace he received; In a garden was Jesus betray'd to His doom; In a garden His body was laid in the tomb.

XVII. THE SATIRIST. From Gruffydd Hiraethog.

He who satire loves to sing, On himself will satire bring.

XVIII. ON GRUFFYDD HIRAETHOG. From William Lleyn.

In Eden's grove from Adam's mouth Upsprang a muse of noble growth; So from thy grave, O poet wise, Cross Consonancy's boughs shall rise.

XIX. LLANGOLLEN ALE. (George Borrow).

Llangollen's brown ale is with malt and hop rife; 'Tis good; but don't quaff it from evening till dawn; For too much of that ale will incline you to strife; Too much of that ale has caused knives to be drawn.

XX. TOM EVANS _alias_ Twm o'r Nant. By Twm Tai.

Tom Evan's the lad for hunting up songs, Tom Evan to whom the best learning belongs; Betwixt his two pasteboards he verses has got, Sufficient to fill the whole country, I wot.

XXI. ENGLYN ON A WATERFALL.

Foaming and frothing from mountainous height, Roaring like thunder the Rhyadr falls; Though its silvery splendour the eye may delight, Its fury the heart of the bravest appals.

XXII. DAVID GAM. Attributed to Owain Glyndower.

Shouldst thou a little red man descry Asking about his dwelling fair, Tell him it under the bank doth lie, And its brow the mark of the coal doth bear.

XXIII. LLAWDDEN. From Lewis Meredith.

Whilst fair Machynlleth decks thy quiet plain, Conjoined with it shall Lawdden's name remain.

XXIV. TWM O'R NANT.

Tom O Nant is a nickname I've got, My name's Thomas Edwards, I wot.

XXV. SEVERN AND WYE.

O pleasantly do glide along the Severn and the Wye; But Rheidol's rough, and yet he's held by all in honour high.

XXVI. GLAMORGAN. From Dafydd ab Gwilym.

If every strand oppression strong Should arm against the son of song, The weary wight would find, I ween, A welcome in Glamorgan green.

XXVII. DAFYDD AB GWILYM. From Iolo Goch (?).

To Heaven's high peace let him depart, And with him go the minstrel art.

XXVIII. TO THE YEW TREE on the Grave of Dafydd ab Gwilym at Ystrad Flur. After Gruffydd Grug.

Thou noble tree; who shelt'rest kind The dead man's house from winter's wind: May lightnings never lay thee low, Nor archer cut from thee his bow; Nor Crispin peel thee pegs to frame, But may thou ever bloom the same, A noble tree the grave to guard Of Cambria's most illustrious bard! O tree of yew, which here I spy, By Ystrad Flur's blest monast'ry, Beneath thee lies, by cold Death bound, The tongue for sweetness once renown'd.

* * *

Better for thee thy boughs to wave, Though scath'd, above Ab Gwilym's grave, Than stand in pristine glory drest Where some ignobler bard doth rest; I'd rather hear a taunting rhyme From one who'll live through endless time, Than hear my praises chanted loud By poets of the vulgar crowd.

XXIX. HU GADARN. From Iolo Goch.

The Mighty Hu who lives for ever, Of mead and wine to men the giver, The emperor of land and sea, And of all things that living be, Did hold a plough with his good hand, Soon as the Deluge left the land, To show to men both strong and weak, The haughty-hearted and the meek, Of all the arts the heaven below The noblest is to guide the plough.

XXX. EPITAPH.

Thou earth from earth reflect with anxious mind That earth to earth must quickly be consigned, And earth in earth must lie entranced, enthralled, Till earth from earth to judgment shall be called.

XXXI. GOD'S BETTER THAN ALL. By Vicar Pritchard of Llandovery.

GOD'S better than heaven or aught therein, Than the earth or aught we there can win, Better than the world or its wealth to me-- God's better than all that is or can be.

Better than father, than mother, than nurse, Better than riches, oft proving a curse, Better than Martha or Mary even-- Better by far is the God of heaven.

If God for thy portion thou hast ta'en There's Christ to support thee in every pain, The world to respect thee thou wilt gain, To fear the fiend and all his train.

Of the best of portions thou choice didst make When thou the high God to thyself didst take, A portion which none from thy grasp can rend Whilst the sun and the moon on their course shall wend.

When the sun grows dark and the moon turns red, When the stars shall drop and millions dread, When the earth shall vanish with its pomps in fire, Thy portion still shall remain entire.

Then let not thy heart though distressed, complain! A hold on thy portion firm maintain. Thou didst choose the best portion, again I say-- Resign it not till thy dying day.

XXXII. THE SUN IN GLAMORGAN. From Dafydd ab Gwilym.

EACH morn, benign of countenance, Upon Glamorgan's pennon glance! Each afternoon in beauty clear Above my own dear bounds appear! Bright outline of a blessed clime, Again, though sunk, arise sublime-- Upon my errand, swift repair, And unto green Glamorgan bear Good days and terms of courtesy From my dear country and from me! Move round--but need I thee command?-- Its chalk-white halls, which cheerful stand-- Pleasant thy own pavilions too-- Its fields and orchards fair to view.

O, pleasant is thy task and high In radiant warmth to roam the sky, To keep from ill that kindly ground, Its meads and farms, where mead is found, A land whose commons live content, Where each man's lot is excellent. Where hosts to hail thee shall upstand, Where lads are bold and lasses bland; A land I oft from hill that's high Have gazed upon with raptur'd eye;

Where maids are trained in virtue's school, Where duteous wives spin dainty wool; A country with each gift supplied, Confronting Cornwall's cliffs of pride.

ADDITIONAL POEMS FROM THE "QUARTERLY REVIEW."

I. THE AGE OF OWEN GLENDOWER.

ONE thousand four hundred, no less and no more, Was the date of the rising of Owen Glendower; Till fifteen were added with courage ne'er cold Liv'd Owen, though latterly Owen was old.

II. THE SPIDER.

FROM out its womb it weaves with care Its web beneath the roof; Its wintry web it spreadeth there-- Wires of ice its woof.

And doth it weave against the wall Thin ropes of ice on high? And must its little liver all The wondrous stuff supply?

III. THE SEVEN DRUNKARDS.

O WHERE are there seven beneath the sky Who with these seven for thirst can vie? But the best for good ale these seven among Are the jolly divine and the son of song.

SIR RHYS AP THOMAS.

"Great Rice of Wales."

Y BRENIN biau'r ynys, Ond sy o ran i Syr Rys.

The King owns all the island wide Except the part where Rice doth bide.

* * *

Y Brenin biau'r ynys; A chyriau Frank, a chorf Rys.

The King owns all the island wide, A part of France, and Rice beside.

_Rhys Nanmor a'i Kant_.

HIRAETH. {167} A Short Elegy.

" . . . An old bard, who wrote a short elegy on the death of the governor of -- and his dame, and who says that he himself was fading with longing on their account."

--_Borrow MS._

LONGING for them doth fade my cheek; He was a man, and she was meek; A lion was he, she full of glee; He handsome was, she fair to see. A wondrous concord here was view'd; He was wise, and she was good; He liberal was, she kind of mood; To heaven he went, she him pursued.

PWLL CHERES: THE VORTEX OF MENAI.

PWLL CHERES, the dread whirlpool of Menai, Twisteth the waves, as if a knot should tie: A hideous howling hollow, an abyss Enough to scare the heart is Pwll Cheres.

THE MOUNTAIN SNOW.

THE mountain snow: the stag doth fly, The wind about the roofs doth sigh. Love cannot in concealment lie.

The mountain snow: the grove is dark, The raven black; the hound doth bark. God keep you from all evil work.

The mountain snow: the crust is sound; The wind doth twist the reeds around. Where ignorance is, no grace is found.

CAROLAN'S LAMENT.

_From the Irish_.

THE arts of Greece, Rome, and of Eirin's fair earth, If at my sole command they this moment were all, I'd give, though I'm fully aware of their worth, Could they back from the dead my lost Mary recall.

I'm distrest every noon, now I sit down alone, And at morn, now with me she arises no more: With no woman alive after thee would I wive, Could I flocks and herds gain, and of gold a bright store.

Awhile in green Eirin so pleasant I dwelt, With her nobles I drank to whom music was dear; Then left to myself, O how mournful I felt At the close of my life, with no partner to cheer.

My sole joy and my comfort wast thou 'neath the sun, Dark gloom, now I'm reft of thee, filleth my mind; I shall know no more happiness now thou art gone, O my Mary, of wit and of manners refin'd.

EPIGRAMS BY CAROLAN.

_On Friars_.

WOULD'ST thou on good terms with friars live, Ever be humble and admiring; All they ask of thee freely give, And in return be nought requiring.

_On a Surly Butler_, _who had refused him admission to the cellar_.

O Dermod Flynn, it grieveth me Thou keepest not Hell's portal; As long as thou should'st porter be, Thou would'st admit no mortal.

THE DELIGHTS OF FINN MAC COUL. {187}

_From the Ancient Irish_.

FINN MAC COUL 'mongst his joys did number To hark to the boom of the dusky hills; By the wild cascade to be lull'd to slumber, Which Cuan Na Seilg with its roaring fills. He lov'd the noise when storms were blowing, And billows with billows fought furiously; Of Magh Maom's kine the ceaseless lowing, And deep from the glen the calves' feeble cry; The noise of the chase from Slieve Crott pealing, The hum from the bushes Slieve Cua below, The voice of the gull o'er the breakers wheeling, The vulture's scream, over the sea flying slow; The mariners' song from the distant haven, The strain from the hill of the pack so free, From Cnuic Nan Gall the croak of the raven, The voice from Slieve Mis of the streamlets three; Young Oscar's voice, to the chase proceeding, The howl of the dogs, of the deer in quest. But to recline where the cattle were feeding That was the delight which pleas'd him best.

TO ICOLMCILL.

_From the Gaelic of MacIntyre_.

ON Icolmcill may blessings pour! It is the island blest of yore; Mull's sister-twin in the wild main, Owning the sway of high Mac-Lean; The sacred spot, whose fair renown To many a distant land has flown, And which receives in courteous way All, all who thither chance to stray.

There in the grave are many a King And duine-wassel {191} slumbering; And bodies, once of giant strength, Beneath the earth are stretch'd at length; It is the fate of mortals all To ashes fine and dust to fall; I've hope in Christ, for sins who died, He has their souls beatified.

Now full twelve hundred years, and more, On dusky wing have flitted o'er, Since that high morn when Columb grey Its wall's foundation-stone did lay; Images still therein remain And death-memorials carv'd with pain; Of good hewn stone from top to base, It shows to Time a dauntless face.

A man this day the pulpit fill'd, Whose sermon brain and bosom thrill'd, And all the listening crowd I heard Praising the mouth which it proffer'd. Since death has seiz'd on Columb Cill, And Mull may not possess him still, There's joy throughout its heathery lands, In Columb's place that Dougal stands.

THE DYING BARD.

_From the Gaelic_.

O FOR to hear the hunter's tread With his spear and his dogs the hills among; In my aged cheek youth flushes red When the noise of the chase arises strong.

Awakes in my bones the marrow whene'er I hark to the distant shout and bay; When peals in my ear, "We've kill'd the deer"-- To the hill-tops boundeth my soul away;

I see the slug-hound tall and gaunt, Which follow'd me, early and late, so true; The hills, which it was my delight to haunt, And the rocks, which rang to my loud halloo.

I see Scoir Eild by the side of the glen, Where the cuckoo calleth so blithe in May, And Gorval of pines, renown'd 'mongst men For the elk and the roe which bound and play.

I see the cave, which receiv'd our feet So kindly oft from the gloom of night, Where the blazing tree with its genial heat Within our bosoms awak'd delight.

On the flesh of the deer we fed our fill-- Our drink was the Treigh, our music its wave; Though the ghost shriek'd shrill, and bellow'd the hill, 'Twas pleasant, I trow, in that lonely cave.

I see Benn Ard of form so fair, Of a thousand hills the Monarch proud; On his side the wild deer make their lair, His head's the eternal couch of the cloud.

But vision of joy, and art thou flown? Return for a moment's space, I pray,-- Thou dost not hear--ohone, ohone,-- Hills of my love, farewell for aye.

Farewell, ye youths, so bold and free, And fare ye well, ye maids divine! No more I can see ye--yours is the glee Of the summer, the gloom of the winter mine.

At noon-tide carry me into the sun, To the bank by the side of the wandering stream, To rest the shamrock and daisy upon, And then will return of my youth the dream.

Place ye by my side my harp and shell, And the shield my fathers in battle bore; Ye halls, where Oisin and Daoul {197} dwell, Unclose--for at eve I shall be no more.

THE SONG OF DEIRDRA.

FAREWELL, grey Albyn, much loved land, I ne'er shall see thy hills again; Upon those hills I oft would stand And view the chase sweep o'er the plain.

'Twas pleasant from their tops, I ween, To see the stag that bounding ran; And all the rout of hunters keen, The sons of Usna in the van.

The chiefs of Albyn feasted high, Amidst them Usna's children shone; And Nasa kissed in secrecy The daughter fair of high Dundron.

To her a milk-white doe he sent, With little fawn that frisked and played, And once to visit her he went, As home from Inverness he strayed.

The news was scarcely brought to me When jealous rage inflamed my mind; I took my boat and rushed to sea, For death, for speedy death, inclined.

But swiftly swimming at my stern Came Ainlie bold and Ardan tall; Those faithful striplings made me turn And brought me back to Nasa's hall.

Then thrice he swore upon his arms, His burnished arms, the foeman's bane, That he would never wake alarms In this fond breast of mine again.

Dundron's fair daughter also swore, And called to witness earth and sky, That since his love for her was o'er A maiden she would live and die.

Ah, did she know that slain in fight, He wets with gore the Irish hill, How great would be her moan this night, But greater far would mine be still.

THE WILD WINE.

_From the Gaelic of MacIntyre_.

THE wild wine of nature, Honey-like in its taste, The genial, fair, thin element Filtering through the sands, Which is sweeter than cinnamon, And is well-known to us hunters. O, that eternal, healing draught, Which comes from under the earth, Which contains abundance of good And costs no money!

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PRINTED BY JARROLD AND SONS, LTD., NORWICH, ENGLAND

FOOTNOTES.

{17} "The Visions of the Sleeping Bard:" Being Ellis Wynne's "Gweledigaethau y Bardd Cwsg," Translated by Robert Gwyneddon Davies. Carnarvon (Welsh Publishing Co., Ltd.), 1909.

{34} Emrys, King of Britain, lying sick at Canterbury, a Saxon of the name of Eppa disguised himself as a religious person, and pretending to be versed in medicine, obtained admission to the Monarch and administered to him a poisoned draught, of which he died.

{39} Glyndwr signifies watery valley.

{49a} Written in the fifth century.

{49b} The British, like many other nations, whose early history is involved in obscurity, claim a Trojan descent.

{54a} Awen, or poetic genius, which he is said to have imbibed in his childhood, whilst employed in watching the cauldron of the Sorceress Cridwen.

{54b} I was but a child, but am now Taliesin,--Taliesin signifies: brow of brightness.

{64} The harp.

{74} Ale.

{137} The "streams of generosity" were those of Dafydd ab Thomas Vychan. (See "Wild Wales," chap. lxxxviii.)--_Ed._

{167} "What is _hiraeth_? Hiraeth is longing, the mourning, consuming feeling which one experiences for the loss of a beloved object."--_G.B._

{187} The personage who figures in the splendid forgeries of MacPherson under the name of Fingal.

{191} The Gaelic word for nobleman.

{197} Ancient bards, to whose mansion, in the clouds, the speaker hopes that his spirit will be received.