The Poetry of Wales

by Unknown

THE DEATH OF OWAIN.

By Aneurin.

Lo! the youth, in mind a man,
Daring in the battle’s van;
See the splendid warrior’s speed
On his fleet and thick-maned steed,
As his buckler, beaming wide,
Decks the courser’s slender side,
With his steel of spotless mould,
Ermined vest and spurs of gold!
Think not, youth, that e’er from me
Hate or spleen shall flow to thee;
Nobler deeds thy virtues claim,
Eulogy and tuneful fame.
Ah! much sooner comes thy bier
Than thy nuptial feast, I fear;
Ere thou mak’st the foe to bleed,
Ravens on thy corse shall feed.
Owain, lov’d companion, friend,
To birds a prey—is this thy end!
Tell me, steed, on what sad plain
Thy ill-fated lord was slain.

RODERIC’S LAMENT.

Farewell every mountain
To memory dear,
Each streamlet and fountain
Pelucid and clear;
Glad halls of my father,
From banquets ne’er freed,
Where chieftains would gather
To quaff the bright mead,
Each valley and woodland
Whose coverts I knew,
Lov’d haunts of my childhood
For ever, adieu!

The mountains are blasted
And burnt the green wood,
The fountain untasted
Flows crimsoned with blood,
The halls are deserted,
Their glory appear
Like dreams of departed
And desolate years,
The wild wood and valley,
The covert, the glade,
Bereft of their beauty,
Invaded! betrayed!

Farewell hoary minstrel,
Gay infancy’s friend,
What roof will protect thee?
What chieftain defend?
Alas for the number,
And sweets of their song,

Soon, soon they must slumber,
The mountains among;
The breathing of pleasure
No more will aspire,
For changed is the measure,
Of liberty’s lyre!

Adieu to the greeting
Of damsel and dame,
When home from the beating
Of foemen we came,
If Edward the daughters
Of Walia would spare,
He dooms them the fetters
Of vassals to wear;
To hear the war rattle,
To see the land burn,
While foes from the battle
In triumph return.

Farewell, and for ever,
Dear land of my birth,
Again we shall never
Know revels or mirth,
The cloud mantled castle,
My ancestors’ pride,
The pleasure and wassail
In rapture allied;
The preludes of danger
Approach thee from far,
The spears of strangers,
The beacons of war.

Farewell to the glory
I dreamed of in vain;
Behold on the story
A blood tinctured stain!
Nor this the sole token
The records can blast,
Our lances are broken,
Our trophies are lost;

The children of freedom,
The princely, the brave,
Have none to succeed them
Their country to save.

Yet still there are foemen
The tyrant to meet,
Will laugh at each omen
Of death and defeat;
Despise every warning
His mandate may bring
The promises scorning
Of Loegria’s king:
Who seek not to vary
Their purpose or change,
But firm as Eryri [{81}]
Are fixed for revenge.

Between the rude barriers
Of yonder dark hill,
A few gallant warriors
Are lingering still;
While fate pours her phials,
Unmoved they remain,
Resolved on the trial
Of battle again;
Resolved on their honour,
Which yet they can boast,
To rescue their banner
They yesterday lost.

Shall Roderic then tremble,
And cowardly leave
The faithful assembly
To fight for a grave?
Regardless of breathing
The patriot’s law,
His country forsaking
And basely withdraw

From liberty’s quarrel,
Forgetting his vow,
And tarnish the laurel
That circles his brow?

But art thou not, Helen,
Reproving this stay,
While fair sails are swelling
To bear thee away?
And must we then sever,
My country, my home?
Thus part and for ever
Submit to our doom?
Ah! let me not linger
Thus long by the way
Lest memory’s finger
Unman me for aye!

Hark, hart, yonder bugle!
’Tis Gwalchmai’s shrill blast
Exclaiming one struggle,
Then all will be past,
Another, another!
It peals the same note
As erst when together
Delighted we fought!
But then it resounded
With victory’s swell,
While now it hath sounded,
Life, liberty’s knell!

Adieu, then my daughter
Loved Helen adieu,
The summons of slaughter
Is pealing anew;
Yet can I thus leave thee,
Defenceless and lorn,
No home to receive you,
A by-word and scorn?
’Tis useless reflection,
All soon will be o’er,

Heaven grant you protection
When Roderic’s no more

Cease, Saxons, your scorning
Prepare for the war;
So Roderic’s returning
To battle once more!
The vulture and raven
Are tracking his breath;
For fate has engraven
A record of death:
They mark on his weapon
From many a breast,
A stream that might deepen
The crimsonest crest!

While darkness benighting
Engirdled the zone,
The chieftain was fighting
His way to renown;
But ere morn had risen
In purple and gold,
The heart’s blood was frozen,
Of Roderic the bold!
The foemen lay scattered
In heaps round his grave;
His buckler was battered
And broke was his glaive!

And fame the fair daughter
Of victory came,
And loud ’mid the slaughter
Was heard to proclaim,
“A hero is fallen!
A warrior’s at rest,
The banner of Gwynedd
Enshrouded his breast,
His name shall inherit
The conqueror’s prize,
His purified spirit
Ascend to the skies.”

THE BATTLE OF GWENYSTRAD.

By Taliesin.

[Taliesin was the greatest of the ancient Welsh bards, and was a contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appears to have been a native of Cardiganshire, for we find him at an early age living at the court of Gwyddno, a petty king of Cantre y Gwaelod, who appointed him his chief bard and tutor to his son Elphin. He was afterwards attached to the court of Urien Rheged, a Welsh prince, king of Cambria and of Scotland as far as the river Clyde, who fought and conquered in the great battle of Gwenystrad, and is celebrated by the bard in the following song. Taliesin composed many poems, but seventy seven of them only have been preserved. The subjects of his poetry were for the most part religion and history, but a few of his poems were of a martial character.]

If warlike chiefs with dawning day
At Cattraeth met in dread array,
The song records their splendid name;
But who shall sing of Urien’s fame?
His patriot virtues far excel
Whate’er the boldest bard can tell:
His dreadful arm and dauntless brow
Spoil and dismay the haughty foe.

Pillar of Britain’s regal line!
’Tis his in glorious war to shine;
Despair and death attend his course,
Brave leader of the Christian force!

See Prydyn’s men, a valiant train,
Rush along Gwenystrad’s plain!
Bright their spears for war addrest,
Raging vengeance fires their breast;
Shouts like ocean’s roar arise,
Tear the air, and pierce the skies.
Here they urge their tempest force!
Nor camp nor forest turns their course:
Their breath the shrieking peasants yield
O’er all the desolated field.

But lo, the daring hosts engage!
Dauntless hearts and flaming rage;
And, ere the direful morn is o’er,
Mangled limbs and reeking gore,
And crimson torrents whelm the ground,
Wild destruction stalking round;
Fainting warriors gasp for breath,
Or struggle in the toils of death.

Where the embattled fortress rose,
(Gwenystrad’s bulwark from the foes,)
Fierce conflicting heroes meet—
Groans the earth beneath their feet.

I mark, amidst the rolling flood,
Where hardy warriors stain’d with blood
Drop their blunt arms, and join the dead,
Grey billows curling o’er their head:
Mangled with wounds, and vainly brave,
At once they sink beneath the wave.

Lull’d to everlasting rest,
With folded arms and gory breast—
Cold in death, and ghastly pale,
Chieftains press the reeky vale,
Who late, amidst their kindred throng,
Prepar’d the feast, and join’d the song;
Or like the sudden tempest rose,
And hurl’d destruction on the foes.

Warriors I saw who led the fray,
Stern desolation strew’d their way;
Aloft the glitt’ring blade they bore,
Their garments hung with clotted gore.
The furious thrust, the clanging shield,
Confound the long-disputed field.

But when Rheged’s chief pursues,
His way through iron ranks he hews;
Hills pil’d on hills, the strangers bleed:
Amaz’d I view his daring deed!

Destruction frowning on his brow,
Close he urg’d the panting foe,
’Till hemm’d around, they met the shock,
Before Galysten’s hoary rock.
Death and torment strew’d his path;
His dreadful blade obey’d his wrath:
Beneath their shields the strangers lay,
Shrinking from the fatal day.

Thus in victorious armour bright,
Thou brave Euronwy, pant for fight:
With such examples in thine eyes,
Haste to grasp the hero’s prize.

And till old age has left me dumb—
Till death has call’d me to the tomb—
May cheerful joys ne’er crown my days,
Unless I sing of Urien’s praise!

TALIESIN’S PROPHECY. [{86}]

By Mrs. Hemans.

A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among,
O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung,
The path of unborn ages is trac’d upon my soul,
The clouds, which mantle things unseen, away before me roll.

A light, the depths revealing, hath o’er my spirit passed;
A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful on the blast,
And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue,
To which the harp of Mona’s woods by Freedom’s hand was strung.

Green island of the mighty! [{87a}] I see thine ancient race
Driv’n from their fathers’ realm, to make the rocks their dwelling place!
I see from Uthyr’s [{87b}] kingdom the sceptre pass away,
And many a line of bards and chiefs, and princely men decay.

But long as Arvon’s mountains shall lift their sovereign forms,
And wear the crown to which is giv’n dominion o’er the storms,
So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue,
To which the harp of Mona’s woods by Freedom’s hand was strung.

THE MONARCHY OF BRITAIN. [{87c}]

By Mrs. Hemans.

Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time,
Ere spoilers had breath’d the free air of your clime!
All that its eagles beheld in their flight
Was yours from the deep to each storm-mantled height!
Though from your race that proud birthright be torn,
Unquench’d is the spirit for monarchy born.

Darkly though clouds may hang o’er us awhile,
The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle! [{88}]
Ages may roll ere your children regain
The land for which heroes have perish’d in vain.
Yet in the sound of your names shall be pow’r,
Around her still gath’ring, till glory’s full hour.
Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep,
Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep.
Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile,
Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle!