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.