“‘Llyfrau Cymru au llofrudd
Ir twr Gwyn aethant ar gudd
Ysceler oedd Yscolan
Fwrw’r twrr lyfrau ir tan.’Gutto’r Glyn. a.d. 1450.
“The books of Cymru and their remains went to the White Tower, where they were hid. Cursed was Ysgolan’s act in throwing them in heaps into the fire.”
It is not improbable that our Bard might have been one of those who suffered in the cause of his country, though he had the good luck to escape Edward’s fury. I wish I may be so happy as to convey some faint idea of his merit to the English reader. The original has such touches, as none but a person in the Bard’s condition could have expressed so naturally. However not to anticipate the judicious reader’s opinion, to which I submit mine with all deference, I shall now produce some account of this great man, taken from that skilful
and candid antiquary Mr. Robert Vaughan of Hengwrt’s notes on Dr. Powel’s history of Wales, printed at Oxford, 1663.
“Sir John Griffydd Llwyd, knight, the son of Rhys ap Griffydd ap Ednyfed Fychan, was a valiant gentleman, but unfortunate, ‘magnæ quidem, sed calamitosæ virtutis,’ as Lucius Florus saith of Sertorius. He was knighted by king Edward, when he brought him the first news of his queen’s safe delivery of a son at Carnarvon Castle; the king was then at Rhuddlan, at his parliament held there. This Sir Griffydd afterwards taking notice of the extreme oppression and tyranny exercised by the English officers, especially Sir Roger Mortimer, lord of Chirk, and justice of North Wales, towards his countrymen the Welsh, became so far discontented, that he broke into open rebellion, verifying that saying of Solomon, ‘Oppression maketh a wise man mad.’ He treated with Sir Edward Bruce, brother to Robert, then king of Scotland, who had conquered Ireland, to bring or send over men to assist him in his design against the English; but Bruce’s terms being conceived too unreasonable, the treaty came to nought; however being desperate, he gathered all the forces he could, and, in an instant, like a candle that gives a sudden blaze before it is out, overran all North Wales and the Marches, taking all the castles and holds; but to little purpose, for soon after he was met with, his party discomfited, and himself taken prisoner. This was in the year of our Lord 1322.”
I thought so much by way of introduction necessary to commemorate so gallant a person; what became of him afterwards is not mentioned by our historians. However the following poem remains not only as a monument of the hero’s bravery, but of the Bard’s genius.
Before the beginning of May I lived in pomp and grandeur, but now, alas! I am deprived of daily support, the time is as disastrous as when our Saviour Christ was taken and betrayed. How naked and forlorn is our condition! We are exposed to anxious toils and cares. O how heavy is the Almighty’s punishment, that the crimson sword cannot be drawn! I remember how great its size was, and how wide its havoc; numerous are now the oppressed captives who languish in gnashing indignation. Our native Bards are excluded from their accustomed entertainments. How great a stop is put to generosity since a munificent hero, like Nudd, [46a] is confined in prison. The valorous hawk of Griffydd, [46b] so renowned for ravaging and destroying his enemies, is deplored by the expert Bards, who have lost their festivity and mirth in the place where mead was drunk. I cannot bear to think of his injurious treatment. His hospitality has fed thousands. He is, alas! in a forlorn prison, such is the unjust oppression of the land of the Angles. [46c] Years of sorrow have overwhelmed me. I reckon not what becomes of the affairs of this world. The Bards of two hundred regions lament that they have now no protector. This is a certain, but a sad truth. Though the unthinking vulgar do not reflect as I do on the time when my eagle shone in his majesty. I am pierced by the lance of despair.
Hard is the fate of my protector, Gwynedd [47a] is in a heavy melancholy mood, its inhabitants are oppressed because of their transgressions. Long has the bright sword, that shone like a torch, been laid aside, and the brave courage of the dauntless Achilles been stopped. The whole pleasant season of May is spent in dismal sorrow; and June is comfortless and cheerless. It increaseth my tribulation, that Griffydd with the red lance is not at liberty. I am covered with chilly damps. My whole fabric shakes for the loss of my chief. I find no intermission to my pain. May I sink, O Christ! my Saviour, into the grave, where I can have repose; for now, alas! the office of the Bard is but a vain and empty name. I am surprised that my despair has not burst my heart, and that it is not rent through the midst in twain. The heavy stroke of care assails my memory, when I think of his confinement, who was endowed with the valour of Urien [47b] in battle. My meditation on past misfortunes is like that of the skilful Cywryd, [47c] the Bard of Dunawd. [47d] My praise
to the worthy hero is without vicious flattery, and my song no less affecting than his. My panegyric is like the fruitful genius of Afan Ferddig [48a] in celebrating Cadwallon [48b] of royal enterprise. I can no more sing of the lance, in well-laboured verse. Since thou doest not live, what avails it that the world has any further continuance? Every region proclaims thy generosity. The world droops since thou art lost. There are no entertainments or mirth, Bards are no longer honoured: the palaces are no longer open, strangers are neglected, there are no caparizoned steeds, no trusty endearing friendship. No, our country mourns, and wears the aspect of Lent. There is no virtue, goodness, or any thing commendable left among us, but vice, dissoluteness, and cowardice bear the sway. The great and towering strength of Môn [48c] is become an empty shadow, and the inhabitants of Arfon [48d] are become insignificant below the ford of Rheon. [48e] The lofty land of
Gwynedd is become weak. The heavy blow of care strikes her down. We must now renounce all consolation. We are confined in a close prison by a merciless unrelenting enemy; and what avails a bloody and brave contest for liberty.