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; Ni ddodes na maes na choedydd tud achles, Mal tonnawr toft ei gwawr tros elfydd, A gwedi boregad briwgig; amwyn Gwenystrad y gwelid gofwr, Rag angwyr llawr lluddedig: Yn nrws rbyd gwelais i wyr lledruddion, Glyw Reged, rhyfeddaf pan feiddiad! Pan amwyth ei alon yn Llechwen Galyften; Ei wythiant oedd llafn aefawr gwyr, 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, The British hoft, impatient for the fray, But near the Fort the conflict fiercer raged, 10 See Reged's dauntless Chriftian Chief appear! At Llechwen-Galyften, on Urien's brow, His fword with flaughter'd foes o'erfpread the field; And till death bids my numbers cease to flow: May Peace to me, her balmy fweets ne'er bring, 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; Medd hidlaid, molaid, molud i bob tra, A wnaeth Duw i ddyn er ei ddonha, Yn fwyd, yn ddiawd, hyd frawd yd barba. Golychaf i wledig pendefig gwlad hedd, 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 TALIESIN. To him that rules fupreme ;-our Sovereign Lord, Oh, Power Supreme!-Prince of the Realm of Peace; 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 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, 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, In Ciog refts her weary foot; And there with mournful founds and low, Returning spring, like opening day 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; My arm unnerves, my ftout heart bends; Hark! how the fongfters of the vale, 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 And hear'st thou not yon wild wave's roar, In the adamantine chain Of Terror?-Hark! it howls again. And lo! what fcenes invade my fight, prefervation. Llywarch Hen's Poems were to have been pub Four Four and twice ten fons were mine, Us'd in the battle's front to fhine ; — Where the mighty rivers end, And their course to ocean bend, For Gwen great, and Gwên good, Four and twice ten fons were mine, But low in duft my fons are laid, Nor one remains his fire to aid. Hold, oh hold, my Brain thy feat; 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. 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 |