Pwll Cheres, the dread whirlpool of Menai,
Twisteth the waves, as if a knot should tie:
A hideous howling hollow, an abyss
Enough to scare the heart is Pwll Cheres.
THE MOUNTAIN SNOW.
The mountain snow: the stag doth fly,
The wind about the roofs doth sigh.
Love cannot in concealment lie.
The mountain snow: the grove is dark,
The raven black; the hound doth bark.
God keep you from all evil work.
The mountain snow: the crust is sound;
The wind doth twist the reeds around.
Where ignorance is, no grace is found.
CAROLAN’S LAMENT.
From the Irish.
The arts of Greece, Rome, and of Eirin’s fair earth,
If at my sole command they this moment were all,
I’d give, though I’m fully aware of their worth,
Could they back from the dead my lost Mary recall.
I’m distrest every noon, now I sit down alone,
And at morn, now with me she arises no more:
With no woman alive after thee would I wive,
Could I flocks and herds gain, and of gold a bright store.
Awhile in green Eirin so pleasant I dwelt,
With her nobles I drank to whom music was dear;
Then left to myself, O how mournful I felt
At the close of my life, with no partner to cheer.