When he was gone I sat down on the brow of the hill, and with my face turned to the east, began slowly to chant a translation made by myself in the days of my boyhood of an ode to Sycharth, composed by Iolo Goch when upwards of a hundred years old, shortly after his arrival at that place, to which he had been invited by Owen Glendower:—
Twice have I pledg’d my word to thee
To come thy noble face to see;
His promises let every man
Perform as far as e’er he can!
Full easy is the thing that’s sweet,
And sweet this journey is and meet;
I’ve vowed to Owain’s court to go,
And I’m resolv’d to keep my vow;
So thither straight I’ll take my way
With blithesome heart, and there I’ll stay,
Respect and honour, whilst I breathe,
To find his honour’d roof beneath.
My chief of long lin’d ancestry
Can harbour sons of poesy;
I’ve heard, for so the muse has told,
He’s kind and gentle to the old;
Yes, to his castle I will hie;
There’s none to match it ’neath the sky:
It is a baron’s stately court,
Where bards for sumptuous fare resort;
There dwells the lord of Powis land,
Who granteth every just demand.
Its likeness now I’ll limn you out:
’Tis water girdled wide about;
It shows a wide and stately door
Reached by a bridge the water o’er;
’Tis form’d of buildings coupled fair,
Coupled is every couple there;
Within a quadrate structure tall
Muster the merry pleasures all.
Conjointly are the angles bound—
No flaw in all the place is found.
Structures in contact meet the eye
Upon the hillock’s top on high;
Into each other fastened they
The form of a hard knot display.
There dwells the chief we all extol
In timber house on lightsome knoll;
Upon four wooden columns proud
Mounteth his mansion to the cloud;
Each column’s thick and firmly bas’d,
And upon each a loft is plac’d;
In these four lofts, which coupled stand,
Repose at night the minstrel band;
Four lofts they were in pristine state,
But now partitioned form they eight.
Tiled is the roof, on each house-top
Rise smoke-ejecting chimneys up.
All of one form there are nine halls
Each with nine wardrobes in its walls
With linen white as well supplied
As fairest shops of fam’d Cheapside.
Behold that church with cross uprais’d
And with its windows neatly glaz’d;
All houses are in this comprest—
An orchard’s near it of the best,
Also a park where void of fear
Feed antler’d herds of fallow deer.
A warren wide my chief can boast,
Of goodly steeds a countless host.
Meads where for hay the clover grows,
Corn-fields which hedges trim inclose,
A mill a rushing brook upon,
And pigeon tower fram’d of stone;
A fish-pond deep and dark to see
To cast nets in when need there be,
Which never yet was known to lack
A plenteous store of perch and jack.
Of various plumage birds abound;
Herons and peacocks haunt around.
What luxury doth his hall adorn,
Showing of cost a sovereign scorn;
His ale from Shrewsbury town he brings;
His usquebaugh is drink for kings;
Bragget he keeps, bread white of look,
And, bless the mark! a bustling cook.
His mansion is the minstrels’ home,
You’ll find them there whene’er you come
Of all her sex his wife’s the best;
The household through her care is blest.
She’s scion of a knightly tree,
She’s dignified, she’s kind and free.
His bairns approach me, pair by pair,
O what a nest of chieftains fair!
Here difficult it is to catch
A sight of either bolt or latch;
The porter’s place here none will fill;
Here largess shall be lavish’d still,
And ne’er shall thirst or hunger rude
In Sycharth venture to intrude.
A noble leader, Cambria’s knight,
The lake possesses, his by right,
And midst that azure water plac’d,
The castle, by each pleasure grac’d.
And when I had finished repeating these lines I said, “How much more happy, innocent and holy I was in the days of my boyhood, when I translated Iolo’s ode, than I am at the present time!” Then covering my face with my hands, I wept like a child.
CHAPTER LXVII
Cup of Coffee—Gwen—Bluff old Fellow—A Rabble Rout—All from Wrexham.
After a while I arose from my seat, and descending the hill, returned to the house of my honest friends, whom I found sitting by their fire, as I had first seen them.
“Well,” said the man, “did you bring back Owen Glendower?”
“Not only him,” said I, “but his house, family, and all relating to him.”
“By what means?” said the man.
“By means of a song made a long time ago, which describes Sycharth as it was in his time, and his manner of living there.”