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...in distress. His poems are in some places almost unintelligible: not because they lack simplicity, which is their characteristic beauty, but because of the antiquity of the language—which is partly the Venedotian original: "Venedotian." The dialect of Gwynedd in North Wales. and partly the Cumbrian original: "Cumbrian." Referring to the dialect of the Britons of the "Old North," located in northern England and southern Scotland. dialect—and from a lack of information concerning the historical facts. The compositions of Llywarch are pure nature, unmixed with the learning and artifice which appear in the writings of Taliesin. He did not, like that great Bard A professional poet, singer, and storyteller in Celtic cultures., expand the boundaries of British poetry, but followed the works of the Druids Ancient high-ranking members of Celtic society who served as priests, legal authorities, and keepers of lore. strictly, closing many of his stanzas with their venerable maxims. He writes in such a simple, undisguised, and moving original: "pathetic." In the 18th century, this meant "evoking pity or strong emotion" rather than "pitiful." manner that it is impossible to suspect him of misrepresentation; he uses no fictions, no embellishments, and no display of art, but gives an affecting narrative of events and circumstances.
The following specimen, which is a close and literal prose translation of stanzas from the first and second poems of this princely Bard, will give my readers a taste for his excellence in natural, sentimental, and martial description p Referencing the note at the bottom of the page regarding the source..
From Poem I.
The Cuckoo sends forth her longing and complaining voice,
When she has fled from the pursuit of the Hawk,
And condoles with me at the waters of Ciog The river Ceiog..
In spring all nature is beautiful and glad:
It is the season when heroes hasten to the field of war:
But I cannot go; infirmity will not allow me.
The birds sing, and loud is the cry
Of the strong-scented hounds in the desert:
Again the birds are heard to warble.
The birds sing, the brooks murmur,
The moon shines out; it is the cold hour of midnight;
And my heart droops under its lingering cares.
Do you not hear how the waves roar,
And dash from rock to rock?
Oh, my weak heart! May my senses be granted to me tonight!
From Poem II.
Before I used a staff, I was comely and eloquent:
I was a free and welcome guest in the palace
Of Powis Powys, a kingdom in mid-Wales., the Paradise of Wales.
Before I used a staff, I was splendidly dressed:
My spear was of the largest size; its thrust was terrible:
But now my years are many; I am feeble, I am miserable.
Oh, my staff! In summer
The furrows are red, and the tender blades spring forth:
You are to me in the place of my lost kindred, when I look upon your handle original: "beak." Referring to the curved head of a walking staff..
Valleys were dug out for the trenches of the fortress:
And I will arm myself with my shield.
My mind must be disordered before I give way.
When danger overtakes you, O Urien King Urien of Rheged, Llywarch's cousin and patron.,
Blow the horn which I gave you,
Whose mouth is tipped with gold.
Ghastly was the wound when Pyll One of Llywarch's many sons. was slain:
Blood streamed from his hair
On the bank of the rapid river Ffraw.
Distinguished among all my sons
When they singled out their adversaries,
Pyll rushed with the violence of flames through the streams of Llifon.
When, mounted on his prancing steed,
He halted at the door of his tent,
The wife of Pyll gloried in her husband.
Gwen Another of Llywarch's sons, often considered the bravest.! How joyous did I behold you last night!
You had no roof to cover you,
But did traverse, cold, the banks of the river Morlas.
Oh, Gwen! You who were dreadful in your anger!
My thoughts are bloody because you are slain:
Relentless was he who killed you.
Oh, Gwen! Fire of a powerful progeny!
You were like the attack of an eagle
At the mouths of mighty rivers.
Let the waves cease to roar and the rivers to flow,
Since this fatal deed has been committed!
Alas! My Gwen! In my trembling old age, I have lost you.
My son was a hero: the sun was below Gwen.
He was the nephew of Urien;
He was slain by the Ford of Morlas.
p Those who shall be encouraged to seek a further acquaintance with the beauties of Llywarch Hen will shortly have access to them in an edition of all his surviving works, with a literal version and notes, recently announced to the public by the Reverend Mr. J. Walters of Jesus College, Oxford; to whom I am much indebted for adding some notes to this preface.
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