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From me has now her heart withdrawn!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!