The Echo Rock
The bard accuses the echo of having prevented him from meeting Morvyth.
Yon old bald rock and rugged stones,
That peer and totter o’er the dell,
And murmur forth unearthly tones
Like some base witch that casts a spell,
Babble more wildly after rain
Than seven-locked Merddin the insane!
As that loquacious summit near
I watched for Morvyth to appear,
By those delusive tones betrayed,
Our footsteps far asunder strayed;
Like old Hu Gadarn’s oxen twain,
I called to her—and she to me—
But still, with wicked mimickry,
That traitor answered us again;
And to the softest tones I sighed,
He still perfidiously replied:
And thus we failed, “my golden glaive,”
To meet beside the mountain cave.
O lady, of thy voice beware!
In yonder rocky citadels
A profligate pretender dwells,
Who fabricates thy accents there.
Yon bellowing crag with trumpet’s voice,
Bare as the ramparts of the sky,
Hob-goblins in its depths rejoice,
Or dogs amid its caldrons cry.
Its tones are like the scream of pain
Of gander, by the nightmare slain,
Or the hoarse wailing of a hound
Within a stony vessel bound,
Or hag that strives with hollow sound
To terrify the country round,—
Disastrous voice, perfidious guide,
That kept me from my lady’s side!
The Moon. The Moon His Love Envoy, or Guide to Morvyth
Ah, woe is me! I long to roam
Far as the foam-hued lady’s home;
But how, alas! can I command
A guide to that far distant land?
I am too poor—I cannot pay
A youthful guide for that long way.
A withered beldame’s footsteps slow,
Cold-blooded wretch! I will not hire,
Nor journey with a lamp of fire
At night, or waxen flambeau’s glow.
I love not thus at night to stray,
And sleep at home the livelong day;
How can the beauty recognize
Her bard, when darkness veils the skies!
To me the candles will be giv’n
Of him who rules above in heav’n,
To guide me safely through the night—
My path to Morvyth’s home to light!
Praise to the great Creator’s name,
Who made that sparkling orb of flame,
Nought has he dress’d in lovelier rays
Than that round star so small and clear.
Candle of God, whose golden blaze
Illumes the land to me most dear,
From me nor treachery nor time
Can snatch thy guardian light sublime!
Nor autumn’s blast at random driv’n,
Blessed “wafer” lifted up in heav’n!
The Peat Pool
The bard, on returning from a visit to Morvyth, falls into a pool amongst the peat bogs.
Woe to the bard who, far astray,
Moans o’er his errors with dismay!
Dark is the night upon the shore—
All dark upon the mountain moor—
All—all is darkness far and near—
(Oh, madness, thou hast brought me here!)
Dark is the treacherous earth to-night,
And dark the young moon’s orb of light!
Oh that the maid of glorious hue,
The gloom of this black midnight knew;
And that the bard who sings her praise,
In the keen blasts of darkness strays!
Oh, luckless hour! Oh, wayward thought!
That to this pass his footsteps brought,
And far from home, on hostile ground,
Him and his dappled steed have bound;
And worst of all, that such a fate,
Him journeying homeward should await,
With lady’s tenderness elate!
It was a grievous fate, indeed,
That plunged the poet and his steed
Into this gulf upon the heath,
This fishing-pond of Gwyn ap Neath;
Abyss that glen and mead divides—
This palace of the elfin race—
“Lake vinegar,” with bay-hued tides,—
The foul swine’s fav’rite bathing place!
I spoiled with mud my stockings there,
My “kersey” stockings brought from Caer.
Oh, sad disgrace! Oh, shame decreed!
In this dark swamp to bard and steed!
Cold breezes pinch him for his pains,
Who dug this pond in sunlight clear;
If e’er firm land the bard regains,
He’ll never send his blessing here!
The Swan
The bard asks the swan of Llyn Syvaddon (Anglice, Brecknock Mere), a lake near Brecon, to be his love envoy.
Thou swan, upon the waters bright,
In lime-hued vest, like abbot white!
Bird of the spray, to whom is giv’n
The raiment of the men of heav’n;
Bird of broad hand, in youth’s proud age,
Syvaddon was thy heritage!
Two gifts in thee, fair bird, unite
To glean the fish in yonder lake,
And bending o’er yon hills thy flight
A glance at earth and sea to take!
Oh! ’tis a noble task to ride
The billows countless as the snow;
Thy long fair neck (thou thing of pride!)
Thy hook to catch the fish below;
Thou guardian of the fountain head,
By which Syvaddon’s waves are fed!
Above the dingle’s rugged streams,
Intensely white thy raiment gleams;
Thy shirt like crystal tissue seems;
Thy doublet, and thy waistcoat bright,
Like thousand lilies meet the sight,
Thy jacket is of the white rose,
Thy gown the woodbine’s flow’rs compose;
Thou glory of the birds of air,
Thou bird of heav’n, oh, hear my pray’r!
And visit in her dwelling place
The lady of illustrious race:
Haste on an embassy to her,
My kind white-bosomed messenger—
Upon the waves thy course begin,
And then at Cemaes take to shore;
And there through all the land explore,
For the bright maid of Tal y llyn,
The lady fair as the moon’s flame,
And call her “Paragon” by name;
The chamber of the beauty seek,
And mount with footsteps slow and meek;
Salute her, and to her reveal
The cares and agonies I feel—
And in return bring to my ear
Message of hope, my heart to cheer!
Oh, may no danger hover near
(Bird of majestic head) thy flight!
Thy service I will well requite!
The Bard Declares That Hunchback (Eithig) Has Destroyed Morvyth’s Beauty by His Breath
It is my purpose to resign
The girl of clear and brilliant cheek,
And gestures modest, kind, and meek—
With grief so fearfully I pine,
That all my powers of mind decline!
The world will deem me wise to shun
The maid who in the birks was won,
And to renounce my hopeless suit,
It is a labour without fruit;
For her complexion’s radiant glow,
With deep intensity of woe,
Has been discoloured long ago!
I can not nerve with strength the weak—
And who can beautify the cheek?
For sickness, and, alas! for care,
She never can again be fair;
The smoke from Eithig’s mouth that reeks
Such havoc, on her features wreaks,
And, like the fumes of burning peat,
Sullies soft Enid’s features sweet!
An image of frail alder made,
By Saxon workman soon decays,
Robbed of its varnish—if displayed
By the full lamp’s polluting blaze;
The cloth of England soon is soiled
By the peat fire—the sun is spoiled
By mists that gather in the sky
Of all his power and brilliancy;
A chair of oak—high soaring tree—
Crumbles to dust beside the sea!
When brightest shone her mien divine,
A transient stewardship was mine,
But in her charms—O fatal chance!
I have not an inheritance!
Well does the wretch know how to mar
Features as fair as Morvyth’s are!
Eithig, the dark, cold, ruthless wight,
Would rather that they were not bright;
Still with his mouth’s destructive haze
He blasts her beauty’s radiant blaze!
With bitterness of heart I mourn
Her faded form by anguish worn;
But worn and blighted, shrunk and sear,
Still will that form to me be dear!
God and St. Cadvan save her still,
In this extremity of ill;
In truth, she wants heav’n’s guardian care,
In this her need—she was too fair!
Bardic Controversies. The Controversy Between Davyth Ap Gwilym and Gryffyth Gryg
This poetical dispute consists chiefly of terms of abuse; the following, however, the first poem by Gryffyth, has some naiveté and humour, and may serve as a specimen of the style in which these poetical quarrels were carried on.
Gryffyth Gryg’s Satire on Davyth Ap Gwilym
This sad and simple bard of ours,
In song—a thousand sorrows kill him,
Despair o’er all his visions lowers,
And yet—he lives—the sweet ap Gwilym!
Still lives, and woos, and loves, and sings:
And though he suffers ten times more
Than Cambrian e’er endured before—
No sickness stops his carollings!
Pangs, numerous as the stars of night,
Consume the body of the wight!
And yet this tuneful man of sorrow,
From love—draws every pang and pain,
And thus, though slain to-day—to-morrow
He lives to groan and grieve again!
This warrior, against arms more stern
Than Morvyth wields, his fame must earn!
Were he—as oft he boasts in sighs—
A man of martial enterprise,
With goodly shaft and steady bow
His love and chivalry he’d shew!
The following poems, which were originally published in the Cambrian Quarterly Magazine, may serve as a more interesting specimen of the poetical quarrels of the Welsh bards.
Controversy Between Two Bards, the Lovers of Gwen of Dol
Two bards were in love with this lady; one of them sent a peacock to her as a ‘llatai,’ or love messenger. As soon as his rival gained intelligence of this, he addressed himself to the fox in a strain, of which the following is an imitation, entreating him to murder the peacock.
To the Fox
Most dainty thief, with dusky tail,
Wouldst thou on choicest food regale—
In lonely grove romantic dine—
To Dol thy lordly limbs incline!
Plump ducks thy crafty taste have fed
(As well thy dignity becomes);
All birds that skim the mountain’s head
Please thy white paunch and lordly gums;
Though wisdom dwells in thine own yellow sconce,
Yet, reynard, list to friendly tale for once:
The beauteous Elen of my heart,
Fair as the waxen forms of art,
I love with all devotion true—
But, ah! another loves her too!
A rival—mid wild Snowdon dwelling,
A minstrel of his Awen vain,
But still a bard, most bards excelling,—
Of him, sir envoy, I complain!
Dog of the earth, three choicest geese,
With a good lamb of fairest fleece,
To thee I’ll give—then mid the fern,
By Dol thy wages neatly earn;
But be penurious of thy sounds,
Beware of Eithig and his hounds!
And when the worm-fed bird appears,
Then homeward chase from grove to grove,
And seize and slay with dental sheers,
The bright deluder of my love!
It would appear that the fox faithfully performed his commission; for Rhys Goch of Eryri, or Red Rhys of Snowdon, the other bard, has left us an ode in which he abuses the fox for killing his peacock. This poem is composed of such harsh sounds, that Sion Tudur, another bard, humorously termed it the ‘Shibboleth of Sobriety,’ because no man, when drunk, could possibly pronounce it.