UPON THE DEATH OF GWLAITH, A WELSH CHIEF. Give me some music ; Now good Cesario; but that piece of song, SHAKSPEARE. 66 "SON of Beli Mawr, alas! the beams of thy glory are set; thy wide extended hall shall no more give shelter to heroes that quaff the sparkling mead who gladdened at thy presence. A silence that is only introduced by death, there spreads her contagion.-To us the days of sorrow are at hand; thy cup-bearer treads not with alacrity.-The trembling strings of the harp forget to vibrate: no longer the note of victory, at the waving of the hand of thy bard, awakens the soul from her mansion with enchantment. The foot of time, which we hear not, has trodden upon thy shield red and moist with blood; already has it defiled with rust thy corslet; over thy war-worm helm the spider begins to scatter the thin web of Oblivion:-let this be thy solace; the journeying stranger shall not pass by the spot of thy rest without recollecting (as the hollow blast moves the herb that trembles at its comfortless breath) the force of thy arm, and the heart-shaking thunder of thy footsteps; the tale that fame has told of thee, shall lead him far from his path, and delay him at thy grave. The blue-ey'd damsel of his bed, at each returning day, shall view the sun with aversion, and cast a look over the hills for his return.-The Eagle of battle (to which thou wert like,) mangling her prey on thy grave, shall oft mark with her princely foot where thou liest, thou that wert her feeder, and shall flap her firm-set wing as she hears the neighbouring torrent rushing near thy corse.-Oft at eve does thy father say, my son, my son," and bids thy younger brother hearken as he tells of thee: thy brother's blood, like that of the lion's whelp, kindles for the contest, and longs to succeed thee.-As wandering to pay the my tribute of grief, I distinguish the slow and tremulous accents of thy sire (for he yet lives,) the fall of Orwan by the prowess of thy spear, th' ensanguined waters of Tarwarth (from memory) oft seem to sparkle in his deep-sunk eye; my heart is weighed down at the painful pleasure of his sigh, and the deepened luxury of his mourning.-Thy white steed that of old snuff'd the breeze in the vale, I meet lonely straying near thy grave, cropping the long tall grass that quivers over thee.-Where is now the noise of his hoofs, his flowing mane, the joy of the field, and IMITATIONS OF OLD WELCH POETRY. 213 the lightning of his eye at the downfal of enemies? Many are they whom fate has overtaken, whom memory shall never recal, whom no future bard shall awaken from silence, when the hirlas-horn shall open the hearts of posterity, and of the yet unborn; the evening and the morning sun shall gild their grave with its rays, and the winter's wind shall rudely salute their wasting limbs, as it passes in its course to shake the turrets of Aberffraw, and agitate the sullen waters of Thee Danger oft has met in the tented field, and fled dismayed. Snowden and our mother Mona have resounded the clash of thy deeds; the cottager on their heavy-hanging brows, at midnight, has started at the sound by the sinking blue taper-whilst his trembling consort lull'd her affrighted babes to their broken slumber. Still visible are the prints of thy steeds upon Deudraeth; the hours of life are past, and death only has been thy conqueror." LLWEN AND GYNETH. O fellow, come, the song we had last night, The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, SHAKSPEARE. 66 LLWEN. MY troubled soul, I see nought save the hollowbeating wave; the cold luminary of the night shows me the gloomy turrets of Llathryth:-through the broken wall it may touch the cheek of my love as he thinks or dreams of me! Moon, how I envy thy beams! Gyneth, thou youth of the spear, breaker of the crimson shield, Llwen has left her bed of leaves, and wanders to find thee; the blast flows cold from the mountains, the hunter's dog is at rest-thou art not gone to thy grave! for who can look in thy face with the thoughts of death in his heart? yet fierce is the black-brow'd Branworth, fate is in the glare of his eye; but I am a woman, and thou art my Love!-Branworth, sweeping storm of the South, Llwen entreats for the joy of her heart; the snow-bearded bard of her father shall resound thy name in his hall with stately steps; the horn in the palace of thine enemy shall be filled to the brim, and Llwen shall not forget thy mercy. IMITATIONS OF OLD WELCH POETRY. 215 What do I see? Gyneth lives in my sight, come down from thy prison of death, haste from thy grated window, the sun will soon arise, the quick-scented foe will be near; but, alas! thou art not the same, I am chill'd as I look at thy face; speak, where is thy blooming cheek and thy ravenblack eye? my heart keeps not its seat as I gaze."— GYNETH. "THOU dost not see me alive; away, I am cold as the dead man's hand, the eagle has eat my bones-I am but thy Gyneth's ghost-let Rodric and Owain, my brothers, revenge me, let to-morrow's sun gleam on their shieldsaway, where the faint traveller stops at the stream of Teivi, let a few stones mark my grave-we soon shall meet graceful daughter of Yrganvy-till the hunter has seen my grave, and the shepherd's boy has brushed the thistle from my resting place, wretched am I and forlorn, frightful is my dwelling-place, it cannot be named."— LLWEN. "LION of the field, art thou fallen? Rodric and Owain are not; old is my father, he heareth not the gladdening sound of the harp or the spear; Llwen, his daughter, and Gyneth he cannot remember; he is even at the door of death-many have perished before me, and have not returned; surely they are happy? why then should I weep? sorrow beats hard at my heart, I obey thee, my love, and haste to make thy tomb; I will not look back upon Arfoel *-the turf of thy tomb I will build up where the summer-lasting flower lifts its head; oft shall I view it in * Arfoel, probably her father's seat. |