Part 8 (1/2)
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 princ.i.p.al poem, the G.o.dodin, 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 a.s.sa.s.sin before the close of the sixth century.]
Had I but the torrent's might, With headlong rage, and wild affright, Upon Deira'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 h.o.a.rded 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 b.l.o.o.d.y throng,) And I, the meanest of them all, That live to weep and sing their fall.
THE DEATH OF OWAIN.
BY ANEURIN.
Lo! the youth, in mind a man, Daring in the battle's van; See the splendid warrior's speed On his fleet and thick-maned steed, As his buckler, beaming wide, Decks the courser's slender side, With his steel of spotless mould, Ermined vest and spurs of gold!
Think not, youth, that e'er from me Hate or spleen shall flow to thee; n.o.bler deeds thy virtues claim, Eulogy and tuneful fame.
Ah! much sooner comes thy bier Than thy nuptial feast, I fear; Ere thou mak'st the foe to bleed, Ravens on thy corse shall feed.
Owain, lov'd companion, friend, To birds a prey--is this thy end!
Tell me, steed, on what sad plain Thy ill-fated lord was slain.
RODERIC'S LAMENT.
Farewell every mountain To memory dear, Each streamlet and fountain Pelucid and clear; Glad halls of my father, From banquets ne'er freed, Where chieftains would gather To quaff the bright mead, Each valley and woodland Whose coverts I knew, Lov'd haunts of my childhood For ever, adieu!
The mountains are blasted And burnt the green wood, The fountain untasted Flows crimsoned with blood, The halls are deserted, Their glory appear Like dreams of departed And desolate years, The wild wood and valley, The covert, the glade, Bereft of their beauty, Invaded! betrayed!
Farewell h.o.a.ry minstrel, Gay infancy's friend, What roof will protect thee?
What chieftain defend?
Alas for the number, And sweets of their song, Soon, soon they must slumber, The mountains among; The breathing of pleasure No more will aspire, For changed is the measure, Of liberty's lyre!
Adieu to the greeting Of damsel and dame, When home from the beating Of foemen we came, If Edward the daughters Of Walia would spare, He dooms them the fetters Of va.s.sals to wear; To hear the war rattle, To see the land burn, While foes from the battle In triumph return.
Farewell, and for ever, Dear land of my birth, Again we shall never Know revels or mirth, The cloud mantled castle, My ancestors' pride, The pleasure and wa.s.sail In rapture allied; The preludes of danger Approach thee from far, The spears of strangers, The beacons of war.
Farewell to the glory I dreamed of in vain; Behold on the story A blood tinctured stain!
Nor this the sole token The records can blast, Our lances are broken, Our trophies are lost; The children of freedom, The princely, the brave, Have none to succeed them Their country to save.
Yet still there are foemen The tyrant to meet, Will laugh at each omen Of death and defeat; Despise every warning His mandate may bring The promises scorning Of Loegria's king: Who seek not to vary Their purpose or change, But firm as Eryri {81} Are fixed for revenge.
Between the rude barriers Of yonder dark hill, A few gallant warriors Are lingering still; While fate pours her phials, Unmoved they remain, Resolved on the trial Of battle again; Resolved on their honour, Which yet they can boast, To rescue their banner They yesterday lost.
Shall Roderic then tremble, And cowardly leave The faithful a.s.sembly To fight for a grave?
Regardless of breathing The patriot's law, His country forsaking And basely withdraw From liberty's quarrel, Forgetting his vow, And tarnish the laurel That circles his brow?