But since thy once harmonious shore
Resounds th’ inspiring strain no more,
That snatch’d in fields of ancient date,
The palm from number, strength, and fate;
Since to thy grove no more belong
The sacred eulogies of song;
Since thou hast rued the waste of age,
And war, and Scolan’s fiercer rage;—[{76}]
The spirit of renown expires,
The brave example of thy sires
Is lost; thy high heroic crest
Oblivion and inglorious rest
Have torn with rude rapacious hand;
And apathy usurps the land.
Lo! silent as the lapse of time
Sink to the earth thy towers sublime;
Where whilom harp’d the minstrel throng,
The night-owl pours her feral song:
For ever sinks blest Cambria’s fame,
By ignorance, and sword, and flame
Laid with the dust, amidst her woes
The taunt of her ungenerous foes;
For ever sleeps her warlike praise,
Her wealth, dominion, language, lays.
AN ODE ON THE DEATH OF HOEL.
By Aneurin.
Translated by Thomas Gray, Esq. [{77}]
[Aneurin was the son of a Welsh chieftain, and was born in the early part of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and distinguished himself at the battle of Cattraeth, fought between the Welsh and Saxons, in or about the year 560, but was disastrous to the former and especially to the bard, who was there taken prisoner, and kept for several years in confinement. He composed his principal poem, the Gododin, upon the battle of Cattraeth. This is the oldest Welsh poem extant, and is full of boldness, force, and martial fire. It has been translated into English by the Rev. John Williams, (ab Ithel,) and published by the Messrs. Rees, of Llandovery. The bard died, according to tradition, from the blow of an assassin before the close of the sixth century.]
Had I but the torrent’s might,
With headlong rage, and wild affright,
Upon Deïra’s squadrons hurl’d,
To rush and sweep them from the world!
Too, too secure in youthful pride,
By them my friend, my Hoel, dy’d,
Great Cian’s son; of Madoc old,
He ask’d no heaps of hoarded gold;
Alone in Nature’s wealth array’d
He asked and had the lovely maid.
To Cattraeth’s vale, in glitt’ring row,
Twice two hundred warriors go;
Ev’ry warrior’s manly neck
Chains of regal honour deck,
Wreath’d in many a golden link:
From the golden cup they drink
Nectar that the bees produce,
Or the grape’s ecstatic juice.
Flush’d with mirth and hope they burn,
But none from Cattraeth’s vale return,
Save Aeron brave and Conan strong,
(Bursting through the bloody throng,)
And I, the meanest of them all,
That live to weep and sing their fall.
THE DEATH OF OWAIN.
By Aneurin.