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account of his fuperior merit. The names of the two affaffins, fuborned to commit this execrable deed, were Dyvnwal, fon of Mynyddawg, and Llovan llawddino, of Edinburg, who were both Britons that ferved in his troops, and are recorded in the Triades; where this is reckoned to be one of the three villainous maders committed in Britain, and which contributed most to its ruin. Urien is also celebrated, in the Triades, as one of the three Bulls of War. Taliefin dedicated to him upwards of twelve poems, in which he describes most of his battles; and he likewife wrote an Elegy on his Death. Also, Prince Llowarch Hên compofed a Lamentation, on the lofs of this diftinguished Hero.

Gwaith Gwenytrad.

Arwyre gwŷr Cattraeth gan ddydd;
Am Wledig gwaith fuddig gwarthegydd,
Urien hwn anwawd ei neuydd;
Cyfeddeily Teyrnedd, ai gofyn rhyfelgar,
Rhwyfg anwar rwyf bedydd.
Gwyr Prydain adwythain yn lluydd,
Gwenyftrad ystadl cad cynnygydd;

Ni ddodes na maes na choedydd tud achles,
Diormes pan ddyfydd,

Mal tonnawr toft ei gwawr tros elfydd,
Gwelais wyr gwychr yn luydd.

A gwedi boregad briwgig;
Gwelais i dwrf teurflin trancedig,
Gwaed goboyw gofaran gowlychid.
Yn

amwyn Gwenystrad y gwelid gofwr, Rag angwyr llawr lluddedig:

Yn nrws rbyd gwelais i wyr lledruddion,
Eirf dillwng rbag blawr gofedon;
Unynt tanc gan aethant golluddion;
Llaw y'ngbroes gryd y'ngro granwynion,
Cyfeddwynt y gynrbain gwyndon,
Gwaneuawr gollychynt rawn y caffon;
Gwelais i wyr gofpeithig gofpylliad,
A gwyar a faglai ar ddillad,
A dulliaw diaflym dwys wrth gad,
Cad gwortho, ni bu ffo pan bwylled.

Glyw Reged, rhyfeddaf pan feiddiad!
Gwelais i ran reodig gan Urien,

Pan amwyth ei alon yn Llechwen Galyften;

Ei wythiant oedd llafn aefawr gwyr,
Goberthid wrth angen.

Awydd cad a dyffo Euronwy,

Ac yn y fallwyfi hen,

Ym dygyn Angau anghen,

Ni byddif yn dirwen

Na molwyf fi Urien.

Taliefin.

The Battle of Gwenytrad.

Extol the warriors, who on Cattraeth's lawn,
Went forth to battle with the rifing dawn.-
Victorious Urien's praife, the Bard hext fings:
The first of heroes! and the fhield of Kings!

The British hoft, impatient for the fray,
Repair'd to Gwenyftrad in fim array:
As when the Ocean with tremendous roar,
By tempefts driven, overwhelms the shore ;—
So furious is their onfet thro' the field;
Nor vales, nor woods, the fpoilers shelter yield.

But near the Fort the conflict fiercer raged,
For heroes at the pafs the foe engaged :
There horror stalk'd in hideous forms around,
While blood in purple streams deluged the ground:
And ere the long difputed Fort they gain,
What numbers lifelefs ftrew th' enfanguin'd plain!
+Chiefs! that rufh'd on the hoftile rank as faft,
As chaff is whirl'd before the northern blaft,
See mangled lie!-ne'er when the battle 's ceas'd
Shall they again among their kindred feast!
Batter'd their arms! their garments dyed in gore,
And defolation marks their path no more

10

See Reged's dauntless Chriftian Chief appear!
And confternation feize the Saxon rear.

At Llechwen-Galyften, on Urien's brow,
Destruction as terrific frown'd as now:

His fword with flaughter'd foes o'erfpread the field;
And prov'd his arm, his people's ftrongest shield.
For war, Euronwy, may thy bofom glow,

And till death bids my numbers cease to flow:

May Peace to me, her balmy fweets ne'er bring,
If I can Urien's praise, forget to fing.

10 Though they were fuccefsful, it may be faid in the words of Shakspeare, to have been among thofe victories,

"For which the conquerors mourn'd fo many fell,”

Canu

CANU Y MED D.

THE MEAD SONG, by Taliefin.

It appears, that Prince Elphin had been invited by his uncle, King Maelgwyn, to keep his Christmas at his Court, at the Castle of Diganwy, in Carnarvonshire; where fome difpute arifing between them about Religion, or Politics (probably when heated with Mead,) Elphin was thrown into prison, and remained confined, untill his Bard Taliefin obtained his release, by the following celebrated Song, addreffed to Maelgwyn; to which I have fubjoined an English verfion.

Golychaf wledig pendefig pob fa,

Gwêr a gynnail y nef, Arglwydd pôb tra;
Gor a wnaeth y dwfr i bawb yn dda,
Gr a wnaeth pob llâd, ac a'i llwydda :
Meddwer Maelgwyn Món, ac a'n meddwa:
Ai feddgorn, ewyn gwerlyn gwymba,
As gynnull gwenyn ac nis mwynha.

Medd hidlaid, molaid, molud i bob tra,
Llears creadur a fág terra;

A wnaeth Duw i ddyn er ei ddonha,
Rhai drúd, rhai múd, ef a'i mwynha:
Rhai gwyllt, rhai dóf, Dofydd ai gwna
Yn dillig iddynt, yn ddillad ydd â;

Yn fwyd, yn ddiawd, hyd frawd yd barba.

Golychaf i wledig pendefig gwlad hedd,
I ddillwng Elphin o alltudedd:

Y gær am rhoddes y gwîn, a'r cwrwf, ar medd,

Ar meirch, mawr modur mirain eu gwedd;

Am rhothwy etwa mal diwedd,

Trwy fodd Duw y rhydd trwy enrhydedd
Pum pembwnt calan ynghaman hedd;
Elphinawg farchawg medd! hwyr dy ogledd!

TALIESIN.

To him that rules fupreme ;-our Sovereign Lord,
Creation's Chief by all that lives ador'd.
Who made the waters, and fuftains the skies;
Who gives, and profpers, all that's good and wife.-
To him I'll pray, that Maelgwn ne'er may need,
Exhaustless stores of fparkling, nect'rous, mead :
Such as with mirth our hours has often crown'd,
When from his horn, the foaming draught went round.
Delicious Mead! Man's folace and his pride,
Who finds in thee his ev'ry want supplied:
The Bee, whofe toils produce thee, never fips
Thy juice, ordain'd by Heav'n for human lips.

Oh, Power Supreme!-Prince of the Realm of Peace;
Let Elphin's bondage, I beseech thee cease.
Who, to the beauteous fteeds, giv'n heretofore,
And Wine, and Ale, and Mead, would give me more.
He in the paths of peace, if Heav'n so will,
Myriads of Feafts, fhall give with honour still.
Elphinian Knight of Mead! flow is thy truft..

Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the aged, a Cumbrian prince, is the third noted Bard of the British annals. He past his younger days at the Court of King Arthur, with the honourable distinction of a free guest. When the British power was weakened by the death of Arthur, Llywarch was called to the aid of his kinfman, Urien Reged, King of Cumbria, and the defence of his own principality, against the irruptions of the Saxons. This princely Bard had four and twenty fons, all invested with the golden torques, which appears to have been the antient badge of British nobility'. Many of them were flain in the Cumbrian wars, and the Saxons at length prevailed. The unfortunate Llywarch, with his few furviving fons, fled into Powys, there to revive the unequal and unsuccessful contest under the auspices of the Prince of Powys, Cynddylan. Having loft, in the iffue of these wars, all his fons and friends, he retired to a hut at Aber Ciog in North Wales, to footh with his harp the remembrance of misfortune, and vent with elegiac numbers the forrows of old age in diftrefs. His poems are in fome places rather unintelligible: not because they want fimplicity, which

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South Wales is Ofai, for any kind of liquor that is made of the juice of fruit, fuch as Cyder, Perry, Rafberry-wine, Currantwine, Gooseberry-wine, Cowlip-wine, Elder-wine, Servicewine, Birch-wine, &c.

1 Hybarch yw máby marchog,
(Yn aur) yn arian golérog
Dorchog.

We find alfo, in the Book of Numbers, Chap. xxxi. ver. 50. that chief commanders wore chains of gold.

2 Now Dol Giog near Machynllaith in Montgomeryshire. There Llywareh died, near the age of 150, about the year 634; and probably was buried at Llanvawr, near Bala in Merionethfhire, where, in the weft window of the church, is a ftone with an infeription. Llywarch Hen, was a fon of Elidir Lydanwyn, of trad Clwyd, in the North.

is their characteristic beauty, but from the antiquity of the language, which is partly the Venedotian, and partly the Cumbrian dialect, and from scantiness of information concerning the facts. The compofitions of Llywarch are pure nature, unmixed with that learning and contrivance which appears in the writings of Taliefin: he did not, like that great bard, extend the bounds of British poetry, but followed implicitly the works of the Druids, clofing many of his ftanzas with their venerable maxims. He writes in fuch a fimple, undisguised, pathetic manner, that it is impoffible to fufpect him of mifrepresentation; he has no fictions, no embellishments, no difplay of art; but gives an affecting narrative of events and circumstances. Since I published the first Edition of this Book, Mr. Francis Percival Eliot, of Shenftone Mofs near Litchfield, has favoured me with the following verfion of several stanzas in the first and second poems, of Llywarch Hen; which I with pleasure prefent my readers (inftead of the former profe tranflation,) as an elegant and animated fpecimen of the poetry of that princely Bard 3.

The Lamentations of Prince Llywarch Hên.

Hark! the cuckow's plaintive note,
Doth thro' the wild vale fadly float;
As from the rav'nous hawk's purfuit,

In Ciog refts her weary foot;

And there with mournful founds and low,
Echoes my harp's refponfive, woe.

Returning spring, like opening day
That makes all nature glad and gay,
Prepares Andate's fiery car,
To roufe the brethren of the war;
When, as each youthful hero's breaft
Gloweth for the glorious teft,
Rufhing down the rocky steep,
See the Cambrian legions sweep,
Like meteors on the boundless deep.
Old Mona fmiles

Monarch of an hundred ifles.

And Snowdon from his awful height,

His hoar head waves propitious to the fight.

But I no more in youthful pride,

Can dare the steep rock's haughty fide;
For fell disease, my finews rends,

My arm unnerves, my ftout heart bends;
And raven locks, now filver-grey,
heep me from the field away.

Hark! how the fongfters of the vale,
Spring's glad return with carols hail;
Sweet is their fong- and loud the cry,
When the strong-fcented hound, doth fly
Where the gaunt wolf's ftep is trac'd
O'er the defart's dreary waste.
Again they fing; again they cry;
But low in grief my foul doth lye.

3 Those who may be incited to a further acquaintance with the beauties of Prince Llywarch Hen, will fhortly have access to them in an edition of all his works extant, with a literal tranilation and notes; which will be published in the Second Volume of this Work, with feveral other things worthy of

2

Yet once again, the tuneful choir
Sing, but me no joys infpire;
The babbling brook that murmurs by,
The filver moon that fhines on high,
Sees me tremble, hears me figh.
How cold the midnight hour appears!
How droops my heart with ling'ring cares!

And hear'st thou not yon wild wave's roar,
Dashing on the rocky shore?
And the hollow midnight blast,
Loft fenfation binding fast,

In the adamantine chain

Of Terror?-Hark! it howls again.

And lo! what fcenes invade my fight,
Fear-form'd fhadows of the night!—
See great Urien's princely fhade,
Cambria's monarch, fhoots the glade;
Gory drops his locks diftil,
Ever flows the fanguine rill,
Yet, feated ftill as it was wont,
Valour crowns his awful front.
Next Cyndylan treads the plain,
Raife, my harp, to him the ftrain;
Powys' prince, and Llywarch's hoft,
Llivon's pride, and Morlas' boaft:
Great as Caradoc in war;
Swift as Howel's scythed car;
Still the Saxons seem to fear
Cynddylan's arm, and think him near.
Next a warlike train advance,
Skill'd to poize the pondrous lance;
Golden chains their breafts adorn;
Sure for conqueft they were born. —-

prefervation. Llywarch Hen's Poems were to have been pub
lifhed by my late worthy friend, the Rev. John Walters, of
Jefus College, Oxford, if God had prolonged his life; to whom
I am infinitely indebted for his communications and affiftance in
the first Edition of this Book.

Four

Four and twice ten fons were mine,

Us'd in the battle's front to fhine ; —
But, low in duft my fons are laid,
Nor one remains his fire to aid.
Ghaftly looks, oh Pyll! thy wound,
Streaming on the blood-ftain'd ground;
As the yellow flames, thy might
Blaz'd around the field of fight;
Or when the fiery fteed thou prefs'd,
How joy'd thy lovely confort's breast!
But now no more thy might they dread,
Nor joys the partner of thy bed;
For low in duft thy honours lye,
And quick her tranfient pleasures fly.

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Where the mighty rivers end,

And their course to ocean bend,
There, with the eagle's rapid flight,
How wouldst thou brave the thickest fight!
Oh fatal day! oh ruthlefs deed!
When the fifters cut thy thread.—
Cease, ye waves, your troubled roar;
Nor flow, ye mighty rivers more;

For Gwen great, and Gwên good,
Breathlefs lies, and drench'd in blood!

Four and twice ten fons were mine,
Us'd in battle's front to fhine;

But low in duft my fons are laid,

Nor one remains his fire to aid.

Hold, oh hold, my Brain thy feat;
How doth my bofom's monarch beat!
Ceafe thy throbs, perturbed heart;
Whither would thy ftretch'd ftrings ftart!
From frenzy dire, and wild affright,

Keep my fenfes thro' this night.

The British language,, in which rhyme is as old as poetry itself, had, in the fixth century, attained such copiousness and musical refinement, that the Bards commonly compofed in unirythm ftanzas of many lines. The rhymes of modern Italy are as famous for their number, as its language is admired for its pliability in yielding to all the inflexions of the voice. Yet the Italian poets are conftrained to change the rhyme more than once in a stanza, without producing any other effect than confufion from the diverfity. The old performances of the Bards were therefore most happily calculated for accompanying the harp.

For this quality none of the remains of this remote period are more remarkable than the works of Myrddin ap Morvryn, often called Merlin the Wild; whofe reputation as a Bard is not inferior to the prophetic and magical fame of his great predeceffor, Myrddin Emrys 4. He was born at Caerwerthevin, near the forest of Celyddon, or Dunkell, in Scotland; where he poffeffed a great estate, which he lost in the war of his Lord Gwenddolau ap Ceidio, and Aeddan Vradog against Rhydderch Hael. His misfortunes in Scotland drove him to Wales and there is now extant a poetical dialogue between him and his preceptor Taliefin. He was prefent at the battle of Camlan, in the year 542, where, fighting under the banner of King Arthur, he accidentally flew his own nephew, the son of his fifter Gwenddydds. In confequence of this calamity, he was feized with madnefs, which affected him every other hour. He fled back into Scotland, and concealed himself in the woods of that country, where, in an interval of recollection, he compofed the following poem, which has many beauties, and is strongly tinctured with the enthusiasm of frenzy. He afterwards returned to North Wales, and was buried in the Ifle of Enlli, or Bardfey, where there was a college of Black-cowled Monks.

Myrddin Emrys, or Merdhin Ambrofe, the prophet and reputed magician, born at Caermarthen, was the fon of a Welsh Nun, daughter of a King of South Wales. His father was unknown. He was made King of West Wales by Vortigern, who then reigned in Britain.

Nennius fays, that Gwrtheyrn (or King Vortigern,) on his leaving North Wales, when he went to fortify himself at Caergwrtheyrn, gave Myrddin the Castle he had built in Eryri, and allo all the provinces of the Weft Country of Britain. When the Western Counties of Great Britain were infefted with the plague, Gwrtheyrn and his magi (wife men, or poets,) went to Gwennefi (Gwenwys, or Monmouthshire;) he made Myrddin his Arwyddvardd, or Herald, for the Weft of Britain. Nennius, C. 44. and J. D. Rhys's Grammar.

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THE ORCHARD:

Which was given to Myrddin by Lord Gwenddolau fon of Ceidio.

Was ever given to man fo acceptable a gift, as that bestowed on Myrddin ere age had overtaken him? a fair orchard, seven score and feven fweet apple trees, all equal in age, height, and magnitude: they poffeffed the flope of a majestic hill, branching high and wide, crowned with lovely foliage a lovely nymph, whofe hair flowed in beauteous ringlets, guarded them; her name Gloywedd, with the pearly teeth.

Sweet and excellent apple-tree! thy branches are loaded with delicious fruit; I am full of care and trouble for thy fafety, left the deftructive woodman should dig thee up by the roots, or otherwife fo injure thy prolific nature, that apples would no more grow on thy branches: for this I am wild with grief, torn with anxiety, anguish pierces me to the heart; I suffer no garment to cover my body. These trees are the ineftimable gifts of Gwenddolau, he who is now, as if he was not.

Sweet apple-tree, of tall and stately growth! how admired thy fhade and fhelter, thy profit, and beauty! Often will mighty lords and princes form a thousand pretences for frequenting thy recefs; nor lefs eager the falfe and luxurious monks; and equally intent are the idle talkative youths: all hankering after thy apples; they all pretend to prophefy the warlike exploits of their prince.

Sweet apple-tree, vigorous in growth, verdant in foliage! large are thy branches, beautiful thy form. Ere the depredations of flaughtering war caused my thoughts to boil with grief; how beautiful was the fight of thy robe of vivid green! yet fhall my prophetic fong announce the day, when a mighty legion fhall revenge my wrongs: the valourous armies of Pengwern, fierce in battle, animated by mighty mead.

Sweet apple-tree, growing in the lonely glade! fervent valour shall still keep thee fecure from the ftern lords of Rhydderch. Bare is the ground about thee, trodden by mighty warriors; their heroic forms ftrike their foes with terror. Alas! Gwenddydd loves me not, the greets me not: I am hated by the chiefs of Rhydderch; I have ruined his fon

and

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