THE CAMBRIAN WREATH: Poems, Historical, Legendary, and Humorous. THE INUNDATION OF CANTREV Y GWAELOD. From the Welsh of Gwyddno Garanhîr. By Anthony Todd Thomson, Esq. GWYDDNO GARAN HIR was a prince and bard of the sixth century; his domain was called Cantrev y Gwaelod, "the Lowland Hundred," a fine champaign district, said to extend from Harlech in North Wales, to St. David's head, in South Wales, and; according to the Welsh historical Triads, to have filled the space now occupied by the "tempestuous bay of Cardigan," having in it sixteen fortified towns, surpassing all in Wales except Caerlleon on Uske. couplet from an ancient Welsh bard has become an adage in Cardiganshire, when any great tribulation takes place, the sufferer's pain is compared to Ochenaid Gwyddno Garanhîr, "The sigh of Gwyddno Garanhîr, When o'er his land rush'd waves severe." A COME forth, Seithenyn! and behold,— Accursed, Awrfin, ever be, Accursed Mactaith, whose fatal spleen From Caer's high brow, smit by despair, From Gwinau comes Mererid's moan, Dismal this night Mererid's cry ELPHIN'S CONSOLATION. From the Welsh of Taliesin. ENNANT, who introduces this poem in his "Tour," says ;The history of our famous bard (Taliesin) begins like that of ses. He was found, exposed on the water, wrapped in a leathern , in a fishing wear which had been granted to Elphin, son of yddno Garanhîr, a petty prince of Cantrev y Gwaelod for support. The young prince, reduced by his extravagance, rst into tears at finding, as he imagined, so unprofitable Dooty. He took pity on the infant, and caused proper care be taken of him. After this Elphin prospered; and Taliesin, en he grew up, addressed to him the following moral ode. ake the liberty of using the beautiful translation, which a countrywoman of mine has lately favored the world." I. ELPHIN! fair as roscate morn, Then despair will fade away, Like demons at the approach of day. He who form'd the sky is just, II. ELPHIN fair! the clouds dispel Then doubt, and fear, and pain will fly, III. ELPHIN fair, with virtue blest, Let not that virtue idly rest; If roused, 'twill yield thee sure relief, Think on that Power, whose arm can save, The weak can raise, confound the strong: |