Lleucu Llwyd, a great beauty, was a native of Pennal, in Comit. Meirion; she was greatly beloved by Llewelyn Goch ap Meirig Hen o Nannau, and died when he was gone on a journey to South Wales; upon his return, he composed this Elegy; which is a master-piece in its kind.
“Llyma haf llwm i hoew-fardd,
A llyma fyd llwm i fardd;” &c.
Lo, to the jocund Bard, here’s a barren summer; to the Bard the world is desolate.
How is Venedotia bereft of its bright luminary? How its heaven is enveloped with darkness, ever since the full moon of beauty has been laid in the silent tomb! Mournful deed! a lovely Fair, in the oaken chest; my speech can find no utterance since thou art gone, O thou of shape divine! Lamp of Venedotia; how long hast thou been confined in the gloomy grave! Arise, thou that art dearer to me than life; open the dismal door of thine earthly cell! Leave, O fair one, thy sandy bed; shine upon the face of thy lover. Here by the tomb, generous maid of noble descent, stands one whose mirthful days are past, whose countenance is pale with the loss of thee; even Llewelyn Goch, the celebrater of thy praise, pining
for the love of thee, helpless and forlorn, unequal to the task of song.
I heard, O thou that art confined in the deep and dismal grave, nought out of thy lips but truth, my speechless Fair! Nought, O thou of stately growth, fairest of virgins fair! But thou hadst promised, now unfeeling to the pangs of love, to stay till I came from South Wales; lovely silk-shrouded maid! The false Destinies snatched thee out of my sight; it nought concerns me to be exposed to the stormy winds, since the agreement between thee and pensive me is void! Thou! thou! lovely maid, wert true; I, even I was false; and now fruitlessly bemoan! From henceforth I will bid adieu to fair Venedotia. It concerns me not whither I go. I must forego my native soil for a virtuous maid, where it were my happiness to live, were she alive! O thou whose angelic face was become a proverb; thy beauty is laid low in the lonesome tomb! The whole world without thee is nothing, such anguish do I suffer! I, thy pensive Bard, ramble in distress, bewailing the loss of thee, illustrious maid! Where, O where shall I see thee, thou of form divine, bright as the full moon! Is it on the Mount of Olives, loveliest of women? Ovid’s love was nothing in comparison of mine, lovely Lleucu; thy form was worthy of heaven, and my voice hath failed in invoking thy name. Alas! woe is me, fair maid of Pennal. It sounded as a dream to me, to hear that thy charms were laid in the dust; and those lips which I oft have praised, excelled the utmost efforts of my Muse. O my soul, whiter than the foam of the rapid streams, my love, I have now the heavy task of composing thy Elegy.
Lovely virgin! How are thy bright shining eyes closed in everlasting sleep in the stony tomb! Arise to thy pensive Bard, who can smile no more, were he possessed
of a kingdom; arise in thy silken vest, lift up thy countenance from the dismal grave!
I tell no untruth, my feet are benumbed by walking around thy dwelling place, O Lleucu Llwyd, where heretofore, bright lamp of Venedotia, I was wont to celebrate thy beauty in fine flowing verse, where I was wont to be merry in praising thy delicate hand and tapering fingers, ornamented with rings of gold, lovely Lleucu, delicate sweet-tempered Lleucu! Thou wert far more precious than reliques to me! The soul of the darling of Meirionydd is gone up to God, its original Author, and her fair corpse is deposited in the sanctuary of holy ground, far, far from me in the silent tomb! The treasure of the world is left in the custody of a haughty black man. Longing and melancholy dirges are the portion of my lot. I lament with faltering accents over the lovely Lleucu! whiter than the flakes of riven snow. Yesterday I poured down my cheeks showers of tears over thy tomb. The fountains of my head are dry, my eyes are strangers to sleep, since thou art gone; thou fair-formed speechless maid hast not deigned to answer thy weeping Bard. How I lament, alas, that earth and stones should cover thy lovely face; alas that the tomb should be made so fast, that dust should ever cover the paragon of beauty, that stony walls and coffin should separate thee and me, that the earth should lock thee fast in her bosom, that a shroud should enclose a beauty that rivalled the dawn of the morn; alas that strong doors, bolts, and stately locks should divide us for ever!
Evan Evans, alias Ieuan Prydydd Hir.