* * * * *
Three things there are that ne’er stand still;
A pig upon a high-topt hill,
A snail the naked stones among,
And Tom the Miller’s rattling tongue.
* * * * *
Three things ’tis difficult to scan;
The day, an aged oak, and man:
The day is long, the oak is hollow,
And man—he is a two fac’d fellow.
PART V. THE SENTIMENTAL.
THE ROSE OF LLAN MEILEN.
By Dafydd Ab Gwilym.
Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget
That ever in moments of pleasure we met;
You bid me remember no longer a name
The muse hath already companioned with fame;
And future ap Gwilyms, fresh wreaths who compose,
Shall twine with the chaplet of song for the brows
Of each fair Morvida, Llan Meilen’s sweet Rose.
Had the love I had loved been inconstant or gay,
Enduring at most but a long summer’s day,
Growing cold when the splendour of noontide hath set,
I might have forgotten that ever we met.
But long as Eryri its peak shall expose
To the sunshine of summer, or winter’s cold snows,
My love will endure for Llan Meilen’s sweet Rose.
Then bid me not, maiden, remember no more
A name which affection and love must adore,
’Till affection and love become one with the breath
Of life in the silent oblivion of death,
Perchance in that hour of the spirit’s repose,
But not until then, when the dark eyelids close,
Can this fond heart forget thee, Llan Meilen’s sweet Rose.