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And vindicate his wrongs;
His gallant actions still are told
By youthful Bards, by Druids old,

And grateful Cambria's songs.

5

On sea, on land, thou still didst brave
The dangerous cliff and rapid wave;
Like Urien, who fubdu'd the knight,
And the fell dragon put to flight,

Yon moss-grown fount, beside;
The grim, black warrior of the flood,
The dragon, gorg'd with human blood,

The waters' scaly pride,
Before his sword the mighty fled:
But now he's number'd with the dead.
Oh! may his great example sire
My noble patron to aspire
To deeds like his! impetuous fly,
And bid the Saxon squadrons die:
So shall thy laurel'd bard rehearse
Thy praise in never-dying verse;
Shall sing the prowess of thy sword,
Beloved and victorious Lord.'
6.

In future times thy honour'd name

Shall emulate brave Urien's fame!

Surrounded by the numerous foe,

Well didst thou deal th' unequal blow.
How terrible thy ashen spear,
Which shook the bravest heart with fear I
Yon hostile towers beneath!

More horrid than the lightning's glance,

Flastj'd the red meteors from thy lance,
The harbinger of death.

Dire, and more dire, the conflict grew;

Thousands before thy presence flew;

While borne in thy triumphal car,

Majestic as the god of war,

Midst charging hosts unmov'd you stood,

Or waded thro' a sea of blood.

7

Immortal fame shall be thy meed,

Due to every glorious deed ,

Which latest annals shall record,

Beloved and victorious Lord! - <

Grace, Wisdom, Valour, all are thine,

Owain Glyndwrdwy divine!

Meet emblem of a two-edg'd sword,

Dreaded in war, in peace ador'd!

Steer thy swift ships to Albion's coast

Pregnant with thy martial host.

Thy robes are white as driven snow,
And Virtue smiles upon thy brow:

8. Clywsom

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But terrible in war thou art,
And swift and certain is the dart,
Thou hurlest at a Saxon's heart.

8.

Loud Fame has told thy gallant deeds,
In every word a Saxon bleeds;
Terror, and flight, together came,
Obedient to thy mighty name:
Death, in the van, with ample stride,
Hew'd thee a passage deep and wide.
Stubborn as steel, thy nervous chest
With more than mortal strength possess'd:
And every excellence belongs
To the bright subjects of our songs.

9

Strike then your harps, ye Cambrian Bards;
The song of triumph best rewards
An hero's toils. Let Henry weep;
His warrior's wrapt in everlasting sleep:
Success and victory are thine,
Owain Glyndwrdwy divine!
Dominion, honour, pleasure, praise,
Attend upon thy vigorous days!
And, when thy evening fun is set,
May grateful Cambria ne'er forget
Thy noon-tide blaze; but on thy tomb
Never-fading laurels bloom * !——

Though heroic Poetry was afterwards no more attempted in Wales, a long series of Bards succeeded, who by their elegies and odes have made their names memorable to ages. Among these Davydd ab Gwilym ', the Welsh Ovid, possesses a deserved pre-eminence. He often adds the sublime to the beautiful; of which his Cywydd y Daran1, or Ode of the Thunder, is a noble proof. It is the picture of a well-chosen scene, admirably varied: it opens with placid ideas, and rural images; a lovely maiden, and a delightful prospect: then succeeds a sudden and tremendous change of the elements i the beauties of nature overshadowed and concealed; the terror of animals, and the shrieks of the fair-one. A thousand instances of similar excellence might be produced from the writings of this elegant Bard, and his contemporaries. Let those who complain that by the present scarcity of works of genius they are reduced to bestow on Horace, Pindar, and Gray, a tenth perusal, explore the buried treasures of Welsh Poetry, and their search will be rewarded with new sources of pleasure, and new beauties of language and fancy.

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* The seal of O-wain Glyndnxir, as described in a MS. was, the effigy of Oivain sitting in a chair of state, holding a scepter in his right hand, and a globe in his left; and by his side were three lions, two and one: on the other, he is represented on horseback.

1 Davydd ab Gnxilym, flourished about the year 1370. All this Bard's poems are published in an octavo volume, with an account of his life, &c. in English. The title is, Barddouiaclh Davydd ab Gwilym 1 and fold by Williams, Bookieller, in the Strand.

1 The Ode of the Thunder is in p. 20 of Davydd ab Gwi lym's Works. For the following remarks I am obliged to that excellent Welfli critic, the late Mr. Lewis Morris. "Mr. Pope, in his Preface to the Iliad, enumerating Homer's excellencies, next to his boundless invention places his imitative sounds, and

makes them peculiar to him and Firgil, and fays that no other poet ever reached this point of art.

"Davydd ab G-ivilym, if I mistake nor, has also a strong claim to this excellency. You mult either allow of the atomical philosophy; or thar, copying nature by its own light, he intended his Cyiuydd y Daran should found what it really is—a description bt thunder and lightning, though in his love poems, and other soft subjects (of which I have now by me near a hundred), he is as'smooth, and glides as easy, as an Italian song.

"Let those who are not over partial to the school languages, and are proper judges of ours, compare this poem in its sounds, and the loftiness ot its metaphors, with the best passages of this kind in the above authors; and I doubt not but they will deem this boldness of comparison exculable, let Homer's character be ever so sacred." Thsau V ben oesoedd.

ODE ODE TO THE SUN*, by Davydd ab Gwilym K

Translated into English, by Mr. David Samiuell.

This Ode was written by the Bard, to testify his gratitude to the inhabitants of the county of Glamorgan, who had (it would seem) by a general subscription, raised a sum of money to liberate him from confinement, into which he had been thrown, on account of a sine laid upon him, for an illicit amour with the wife of a person of the name of Cymirig Cynin\ whom he had latiiizcd in several parts of his work, under the name of B<wa bah, or the little Hunchback.

Yr Haul dig ar vy neges

Rbed ti, cyd bycb rhod y tis, &c.

While Summer reigns, delightful Sun!
For me with happy tidings run,
O'er Guy>:rdb's 4 towering hills sublime,
To fair Morgamvg's 5 distant clime.

The fairest planet thou, that flies
By God's command along the skies!
Immense and powerful is thy flame,
Thou to the Sabbath giv'st tRy name:
From thy first rising in the East,
How great thy journey to the West!
And though at night we fee thee lave
Thy sheeny locks in Ocean's cave,
Th' ensuing morn thy steps we spy
Advancing up the eastern sky.

O thou! with radiant glory crown'd,
Whose beams are fcatter'd wide around,
'Tis from thy ample orb so bright
The moon receives her silver light:
Great ruler of the sky, thy force
Controuls the planets in their course;
Fair gem, in the empyrean set,
Fountain of light, and source of heat.

Before all planets thee I prize,
Bright ornament of summer skies!
Oh! deign with influence divine
On fair Morganivg's plains to share ;
Where thy all-seeing eye may trace
A manly and a generous race,
From Gwent6, for valiant men renown'd,
To Neatb7, with royal forests crown'd.
Oh! for my fake, my gift of song,
Thy blessings to this land prolong;
Guard all her hills and verdant plains
From whirlwinds and o'erflowing rains;
Nor frost, nor long-continued snow,
Let sweet Morganwg ever know;
No blights her autumn fruits annoy,
No April showers her bees destroy •,

* Milton finely calls the Sun, "The eye and foul of this world."

'See the I ife and Writings of Davydd ab Giuilym, p. 180. glinted by Williams, in the Strand.

But o'er her green vales through the day,
Th' effulgence of thy light display;
And court her still, in modest pride,
With gentler beams at even-tide.
Return, and in thy splendor drest
Again illume the rosy East;
Again, my love a hundred times
Bear to Morganzvg's pleasant climes:
Greet all her sons with happy days,
And gild their white-domes with thy rays.
Their high woods, waving to the gales,
Their orchards, and their fertile vales.

Great Sun! how wide thy glory streams!
Through æther dart thy genial beams;
Make industry with wealth be crown'd,
Let honey and the vine abound,
Through all Morganivg's happy vales,
Fann'd by the health inspiring gales;
Those vales, for ancient chieftains fam'd,
And commons, virtuous and untam'd j
Those vales so eminently blest,
Whose sons are brave, whose daughters chaste;
Where simple, hospitable fare
Displays th' industrious housewife's care,
Where oft, by love and friendship borne,
With wine and mead I fill my horn.

A name immortal shall belong
To those bright vales in Gwilym's song:
Where fair Morganwg shall be seen,
Of every country peerless queen.

Were hospitality denied
And spurned by all the world beside,
Still there, in every splendid dome,
The lovely guest would find a home.
And should the Bard, of lofty lays,
Perchance have fall'n on evil days j
Morganwg, soother of his pains,
Would cherish his immortal strains, ■

4 North Wales. s Glamorgan.

6 Monmoutbjhire.

'A river in Glamorganshire. Also, there is a venerable town and castle of that name.

ODE

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Dear Morvydh claims my first regard,
And I am Morvydb's faithful Bard;
Soft as the moon-light on the main
Is she, to whom I breathe my strain;
From youth's gay prime, the cruel fair
Hath been sole object of my care:
At length her pride and high disdain,
Have turn'd her love-sick poet's brain.

Full oft, when Night her mantle spread,
To meet my fair-one have I sped,
To offer in the silent grove
My ardent vows of endless love.
I know her by her footstep's found,
Among a thousand maidens round;
I know her shadow on the heath,
I know her by her fragrant breath;

Her voice I know the groves among,
Sweeter than Philomela's song.

Absent from her I find no rest,
My Muse is silent and deprest;
Against despair in vain I strive,
The most unpleasant Bard alive,
With every spark of reason flown,
My spirit and remembrance gone.

At her approach my sorrows fly, My heart exults with ecstasy; The faithful Muse renews her strain, Poetic Visions fire my brain; Sound judgement leads my steps along, And flowing language crowns my song; But not one happy hour have I If lovely Morvydh be not nigh.

Monody on Sion ESs, or John the Nightingale, so called from his celebrity on the Harp, for which he had no equal. He was sentenced to die for man-slaughter: his weight in gold was offered for his ransom; but the law required life for life!

This pathetic Elegy was fung by Davydd ab Edmwnt, a celebrated Bard, who obtained the badge of the British Olympics, about A. D. 1450.

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