Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again.
O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! They were indeed too much akin, The drift wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within.
H. W. Longfellow.
[ THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS VAWR]
The mountain sheep are sweeter, But the valley sheep are fatter; We therefore deemed it meeter To carry off the latter. We made an expedition; We met an host and quelled it; We forced a strong position, And killed the men who held it.
On Dyfed’s richest valley, Where herds of kine were browsing, We made a mighty sally, To furnish our carousing. Fierce warriors rushed to meet us; We met them, and o’erthrew them: They struggled hard to beat us; But we conquered them, and slew them.
As we drove our prize at leisure, The king marched forth to catch us: His rage surpassed all measure, But his people could not match us. He fled to his hall-pillars; And, ere our force we led off, Some sacked his house and cellars, While others cut his head off.
We there, in strife bewildering, Spilt blood enough to swim in, We orphaned many children, And widowed many women. The eagles and the ravens We glutted with our foemen The heroes and the cravens, The spearmen and the bowmen.
