Sweet holly grove, that soarest
A woodland fort, an armed bower!
In front of all the forest
Thy coral-loaded branches tower.
Thou shrine of love, whose depth defies
The axe—the tempest of the skies;
Whose boughs in winter’s frost display
The brilliant livery of May!
Grove from the precipice suspended,
Like pillars of some holy fane;
With notes amid thy branches blended,
Like the deep organ’s solemn strain.
* * * * *
House of the birds of Paradise,
Round fane impervious to the skies;
On whose green roof two nights of rain
May fiercely beat and beat in vain!
I know thy leaves are ever scathless;
The hardened steel as soon will blight;
When every grove and hill are pathless
With frosts of winter’s lengthened night,
No goat from Hafren’s [{141}] banks I ween,
From thee a scanty meal may glean!
Though Spring’s bleak wind with clamour launches
His wrath upon thy iron spray;
Armed holly tree! from thy firm branches
He will not wrest a tithe away!
Chapel of verdure, neatly wove,
Above the summit of the grove!
THE SWAN.
By Dafydd ap Gwilym.
Thou swan, upon the waters bright,
In lime-hued vest, like abbot white!
Bird of the spray, to whom is giv’n
The raiment of the men of heav’n;
Bird of broad hand, in youth’s proud age,
Syvaddon was thy heritage!
Two gifts in thee, fair bird, unite
To glean the fish in yonder lake,
And bending o’er yon hills thy flight
A glance at earth and sea to take.
Oh! ’tis a noble task to ride
The billows countless as the snow;
Thy long fair neck (thou thing of pride!)
Thy hook to catch the fish below;
Thou guardian of the fountain head,
By which Syvaddon’s waves are fed!
Above the dingle’s rugged streams,
Intensely white thy raiment gleams;
Thy shirt like crystal tissue seems;
Thy doublet, and thy waistcoat bright,
Like thousand lilies meet the sight;
Thy jacket is of the white rose,
Thy gown the woodbine’s flow’rs compose, [{142}]
Thou glory of the birds of air,
Thou bird of heav’n, oh, hear my pray’r!
And visit in her dwelling place
The lady of illustrious race:
Haste on an embassy to her,
My kind white-bosomed messenger—
Upon the waves thy course begin,
And then at Cemaes take to shore;
And there through all the land explore,
For the bright maid of Talyllyn,
The lady fair as the moon’s flame,
And call her “Paragon” by name;
The chamber of the beauty seek,
And mount with footsteps slow and meek;
Salute her, and to her reveal
The cares and agonies I feel—
And in return bring to my ear
Message of hope, my heart to cheer!
Oh, may no danger hover near
(Bird of majestic head) thy flight!
Thy service I will well requite!
MAY AND NOVEMBER.
By Dafydd ap Gwilym.