To Ivor the Generous
This and several of the following poems contain allusions to incidents which are detailed at length in the life of the poet, by Dr. Owen Pughe, at the end of this volume. Ivor was the patron of the bard. The following translation is introduced—not on account of any poetical beauty in the ideas— but as a specimen of the style adopted by the Welsh bards in addressing their patrons.
Ivor, generous as gold,
Meek and beauteous to behold,
Yet the boldest in the fray—
Is the master I obey;
None but men of matchless might
Dare attend him in the fight!
Bounteous Ivor made the bard
Steward o’er his wealth to guard;
Chieftain, eloquent, refined,
Fierce in wrath, yet wise in mind,
To the bard a golden hoard
Is the goodness of his lord.
I, in gratitude, have sung
Praise to him with brilliant tongue;
He, my praises to requite,
Gives me “braggat” dark and bright;
I his gold will pay with fame,
And will give him Rhydderch’s name.
Armed with the armed, from battle fray
Never known to turn away,
Yet to bards a patron true,
Denizen of minstrel crew;
And to minstrelsy a slave,
Yet the sunrise of the brave.
Noblest in his pedigree,
Meekest in his piety,
Is the baron brave and free;
To his bard from distant land,
He is dear as hand to hand.
To his glory I will frame,
(Truth will never bring him shame,)
In my native tongue a lay
That shall never pass away,
Till the last of mortal birth
Shall have ceased to tread our earth,
And the summer’s sun to ply
His bold journey through the sky,
Wheat to ripen, dew-drops hoar
Moisture o’er the earth to pour.
Long as ear can listen—long
As the eye can see—the tongue
Of the Cambrian race survives,—
Long as seed of flow’ret thrives—
Will I scatter in my lays
Seeds of glory through the land,
Of thy glory, of thy praise;
Chief that wieldest the long brand!
The bard sends a messenger to Anglesea, from the court of his patron, Ivor the Generous, a potent chieftain in Monmouthshire and Glamorganshire, to acquaint his friends that he did not intend to return thither in consequence of the kind reception he had experienced from Ivor. This poem contains many interesting allusions to the manners and habits of the times.
Hence, my boy, thy path pursue
The bright birchen thickets thro’,
(Bowers of white yet verdant hue!)
From Glamorgan bear for me
Joy to Gwyneth, land of glee.
Lov’d and native Mon salute,
Tell her I have paid my suit,
With the Psalms of Solomon,
(And not vainly) unto one
Who above fair Cardiff dwells;
That my suit has not been paid
Unto frail and feeble maid,
But that Ivor’s love compels
The obedience of my soul,
With a paramount control
O’er my bosom—which the coy
Saxon girls may ne’er enjoy.
I with him my home will make,
Ne’er to towns my course will take,
Ne’er Glamorgan will forsake.
Warrior who, ’mid social throngs,
Loves the minstrel’s notes and songs.
Wealthy “Hawk,” all honored man,
Firm upon his battle steed;
Furious fighter in the van,
Clear of voice, sage “Hawk,” in rede.
Deathless Stag! whose faithful band
Deivria never may withstand:
Honors great for me are stored,
(If I live) from Ivor’s hand;
Hound and huntsman at command,
Daily banquet at his board,
(Princely baron!) at the game
With his piercing shafts to aim;
And to let his falcons fly
On the breezes of the sky.
Ev’ry melody that rings
From the harp’s sweet treble strings—
Every “solo” that is sung,
His Maesaleg’s halls among—
Dice and draughts, and ev’ry sport
Of Maesaleg’s joyous court—
Will the host who governs there,
Freely with the poet share.
There is none, through all the land,
Like the prince of generous hand.
Him I’ll bless in many a lay,
(Songs his gifts cannot repay).
None are ever fearless—none
Are munificent but one;
None but he are ever meek—
Other home I’ll never seek!
To Ivor the Generous, on the Bard Going on His “Clera” to North Wales
In this poem the bard extols Ivor in a strain somewhat similar to the preceding poem. He thanks him for the munificence with which he had been treated during his stay at Maesaleg.
I obtained from thee the gifts I desired,
Kind words and silver,
And pure gold,
And gay French arms;
Abundance of mead and wine;
Jewels fit for a second Taliesin.
The Gloves
The poet thanks Ivor for a present of a pair of gloves, containing a gift of money. This poem was probably written on the same occasion as the preceding one, viz., the bard’s departure from North Wales.
All who Ivor’s palace leave,
Gold from Ivor’s hand receive.
On the day the poet went
From his halls—the baron sent
Gloves, replete with precious store,
(To the bard) of radiant ore;
On the better hand bestowed
Gold—the left with silver glowed:
From his grasp these gloves to gain,
Maidens oft have vied in vain;
For the bard, to fair or friend,
Ivor’s gift will never lend.
He extols these gloves made of “buck-skin,” as superior to gloves made of “sheep-skin,” and declares he will never trust them in the possession of others, but will keep them on his own fingers. He then proceeds to express his gratitude in a strain of considerable beauty.
May for this the glories all—
That, at Taliesin’s call,
Urien Rheged’s palace bless’d—
On thy mansions ever rest;
On thy hearth-stone and thy board,
In thy halls—by bards ador’d—
With illustrious children graced,
Gallant youths and virgins chaste;
Where, ’mid feasts and banquets gay,
Nobles while their lives away;
Where with constant radiance shine
Ladies of distinguished line,
In magnificent array—
And where hawks, and steeds, and wine,
Words of courtesy divine,
And bright robes of gold combine,
Ivor’s splendour to display.
He concludes by extolling his “gloves” above those worn by the “surly Saxon,”—the epithet with which he generally honours the English nation—and by reiterating the praises of his benefactor.
To the Nun
This nun was the daughter of the poet’s patron, Ivor. She was placed in a nunnery in consequence of an attachment that had arisen between her and the bard, while the latter was an inmate of Ivor’s household.
The dark-eyed maid my love has won,
And hence all food and rest I shun.
Oh, did my heart another prize,
None but the fool would deem me wise!
Girl of my love, and can it be,
That the luxuriant birchen tree
Of summer has no charms for thee?
That thou dost ceaselessly repeat
Thy psalter in yon still retreat?
And that, oh, star-hued maid! thou art
Of yonder holy choir a part?
Hence with the bread and water—hence
With the vile cresses—and dispense
With Pater Nosters—and give o’er
The Romish monks’ religious lore:
Join not in spring the devotees,
Groves are more bright than nunneries!
Thy vows, oh, beauty, bright and mild!
With love can not be reconciled;
The ring, the cloak, and verdant dress
Are better pledge of holiness.
Haste to the knotted birchen tree,
And learn the cuckoo’s piety;
There in the green wood will thy mind
A path to heav’n, O lady, find.
There Ovid’s volume shalt thou read,
And there a spotless life we’ll lead—
A life of liberty, where rise
The woodbines o’er the precipice.
Doubt not there too thou may’st be “shriven;”
Full “absolution” may be given;
Nor is it harder to reach heav’n,
For those who make the groves their home,
Than to the sojourners at Rome!
To Dyddgu
It would appear from some of the allusions in this poem that Dyddgu was of humble origin.
Thou dear perfect Dyddgu—thou lamp of my heart!
That rulest my thoughts with thy wiles and thy art; I am none of your lovers who gravely revere Every nobly-born damsel, as stiff as a spear.
I leave the mad squirrel to clamber and climb,
’Mid brushwood, and brambles, and branches sublime:
The squirrel may scramble so high up the tree
That he cannot come down—but no climbing for me!
I leave the rash sailor the ocean to sweep,
With a puny inch plank between him and the deep:
Let him rove till he tires o’er his perilous track,
A proverb of luck if he ever comes back.
The archer who aims at the target his blow,
Flings the dust from his arrow, the dust from his bow;
And rarely he poises his arrow in vain,
If he aim but aright—if he shoot, but with pain.
But, poor bard! if one maiden but fall to his lot
In a thousand—alas, ’tis a mere random shot!
Thou girl with the eye-brow so auburn and thin,
Thrice happy the man who thy beauty shall win;
Thou wilt not be mine for abundance of song—
I know that thou wilt not, while thou art yet young;
But still I despair not, enchantress divine!
When nobody’ll have thee, thou then shalt be mine!
In the next poem he asks the roebuck to be his love-envoy to Dyddgu, telling him that he has nothing to fear from the hounds of the “tall baron;’’ that if they pursue him he may hide himself in the fern. He adds, that if he carries the love-letter safe to Dyddgu he will be rewarded.
No hand shall flay thee; thou shalt live in health and joy;
Thy skin shall not be possessed by an old Saxon,
Nor shall thy horns nor thy hoofs
Fall to the lot of false Eiddig.
Thou shalt be preserved against treachery,
With the strength of the arm of Cyhelyn.
I will ever welcome thee,
Should I live to old age, thou
With horns like Eglantine.