Gwench'lan is said to have composed many songs in praise of the warriors of his country—those who marched to battle invoking the Sun-god, and, on returning victorious, danced in his honor to the "Sword, King of Battle." A collection of his poems and prophecies was preserved until the French revolution, in the abbey of Landevenec; but the ferocious joy with which, in some fragments that remain, he contemplates the slaughter of the Christians in the Menez Bré, and the extermination of their faith, makes their destruction small matter of regret to any but the antiquary.
Gwench'lan, however, continues to be famous throughout Brittany, where the remnants of his compositions still are sung; especially The Prophecy, of which a part has been translated by M. de Villemarqué from Barzaz Breiz, (Breton Ballads.)
Diougan Gwench'lan.
Prophecy Of Gwench'lan.
I.
When the sun is setting,
When the sea is swelling,
I sit upon the threshold of my door.
I sang when I was young,
And still, grown old, I sing,
By night, by day, though with sad heart and sore.
If my head is bent low,
If my trouble presses;
It is not causeless care that weighs me down.
It is not that I fear;
I fear not to be slain:
For long enough my life has lingered on.
When they seek not Gwench'lan,
Gwench'lan, they will find him:
But find they shall not, when they seek for me.
Yet, whatsoe'er betide,
To me it matters not
That alone which ought to be, will be.
Thrice all must die, ere rest at last they see.
II.
Wild boar, I behold him,
From the wood forth comes he;
Much he drinks; he hath a wounded foot:
His hair is white with age;
Round him his hungry young
Are howling. Bloodstained is his gaping throat.
White horse of the sea, lo!
Comes to the encounter.
The shore for terror trembles 'neath his tread.
Bright and dazzling he,
Bright as the sparkling snow;
And silver horns are gleaming on his head.
Foams the water 'neath him,
At the thunder-fire
Of those fierce nostrils. Sea-horses around
Press, thick and close as grass
Upon a lakelet's bank.
Horse of the sea! strike well! Strike—strike him to the ground!
…
III.
As I was sweetly sleeping, in my cold, cold tomb.
I heard the eagle calling, at midnight calling, "Come!
Rise on your wings, O eaglets! and all ye birds of heaven.
To you, nor flesh of dogs, nor sheep, but Christians, shall be given!"
"Old raven of the sea,
What hold'st thou?—say to me."
"The chieftain's head I bear away:
His two red eyes shall be my prey,
For taking thy two eyes away."
"And thou too, what hast thou, O Reynard sly?"
"His heart, which was as false as mine, have I;
It sought thy death, and long hath made thee die."
"What dost thou by the corner of his mouth, O toad?"
"I wait to seize his soul upon her road,
Long as I live must I be her abode."
Thus he meeteth his reward
For his crime against the bard
Who dwells no more between Roch-allaz and Porz-Gwen'n.
The Submersion of the City of Ys, or Is, presents to us one of those legends which has its counterpart in so many other branches of the Celtic race. Its historical basis is as follows:
"In the year 440, there reigned in Armorica King Gradlon-veur, or the Great. His capital was the city of Is, since destroyed; and he occasionally consulted a holy man named Gwenolé, founder and abbot of the first monastery erected in Armorica.
"This is all which contemporary and authentic history tell us of this city, this prince, and this monk; but popular tradition, always more rich than history, furnishes us with additional particulars. According to this, the city of Is was protected from the invasions of the sea by an immense basin or reservoir, which at high tide received the waters of the ocean, as formerly the Lake Moeris those of the Nile. This basin had a secret door, of which the king alone had the key, and which he opened or closed himself when needed. One night, while he slept, the Princess Dahut, wishing to crown the follies of a banquet given to a suitor, stole the key; she, or, according to another variation of the story, her suitor, who was in truth the author of evil under an assumed form, opened the door, and, as had been foretold by Saint Gwenolé, submerged the city.
"This tradition, adds M. de Villemarqué, ascends to the very cradle of the Celtic race, and is common to its three great branches, the Bretons, Welsh, and Irish.
"The Is of Armorica is the Gwaeleod of Wales, and the Neaz of Ireland; the name in each instance signifying low or hollow. According to all three, the daughter of the king is the cause of the catastrophe, and is punished by being changed into a siren, after a death by drowning. The Welsh version of this ballad, which is apparently of the date of the fifth century, and composed by the bard Gwezno, contains two strophes which are almost literally repeated in the Armorican. It begins in a way very like the conclusion of the latter. Some one comes to awaken the king, whom the bard calls Seizenin:
"'Seizenin! arise, and look! The land of warriors, the country of Gwezno, is overwhelmed by the ocean.'