Am not I better, Elphin, say, IV. ELPHIN! fair as roseate morn, THE HALLS OF CYNDDYLAN. From the Welsh of Llywarch Hên. y the Rev. John Walters, Master of Ruthin School, late Fellow of Jesus College, Oxford. In the original, this is a long and very pathetic elegy. lywarch Hên, or Llywarch the aged, was one of those to signalized themselves in an age remarkable, in the history Britain, for terrible war and devastation. He was the connporary of king Arthur, and reigned over the Britons of Cumberid; a brave prince, and an eminent bard, of the sixth century. iven from his dominions, he outlived all his sons, friends, and * In the original, Salmons. protectors; and being reduced to extreme misery, he retired to solitary hut at Abercuawg, in Montgomeryshire, from whence removed to Llan vor, near Bala, where there is still a seclud place called Pabell Llywarch Hén, or the cot of old Llyware It is supposed he died there about the year 646, at the age of 1 years, and was buried in the church of Llanyor.* COME forth and see, ye Cambrian dames, (The foe that speaks a barbarous tongue) O'er the pale corse, with boding cries * Dr. William Owen Pughe, in his account of this venera prince, says: "It may be inferred that Llywarch composed m of the pieces now extant, after his retreat into Wales, to sooth mind borne down with calamities, and the infirmities of an uncomm old age. Cold must be that breast, that can be unmoved persuing his artless complaint, that death lingered, after he been bereft of four-and-twenty sons, wearing the golden chain, high-prized badge of honor of a British warrior." He is honor recorded in the Triads, and among other distinctions ranked as of the three disinterested princes of the isle of Britain." Pengwern, (the brow of Alders) the Welsh name of Shre bury, then the chief residence of the princes of Powys. The ancient name of Powys. No more the mansion of delight, Its hospitable fires are dead: No longer, ranged on either hand But all above, around, below, Dread sights, dire sounds, and shrieks of woe. Awhile I'll weep Cynddylan slain, THE HEROES OF THE GODODIN. rom a new version, (unpublished,) of Aneurin's Gododin. By T. J. Llewelyn Prichard. ANEURIN was a Briton of Manau-Gododin, a country which luded the sea coast of Northumberland, and extended as far as east Lothian. Thirteen hundred years have nearly rolled away e he tuned his country's lyre, and sung the famed Gododin. re are several hints given in the poem to prove that Cattraeth ia British town, and apparently one of consequence; and Mr. bert is of opinion that it stood in the district of the Ottadini, and the term Gododin, derived thence, was given to the poem in conence of the battle having been fought there. The Gododin brates, what is very strange, the defeat of the bard's country# by the Saxons, from having too confidently rushed into the of battle while in a state of intoxication. It consists, with very detail, of elegies in lyric and heroic measures, on the deaths of various chieftains that perished in that disastrous action. Mr. Sharon Turner in his History of the Anglo-Saxons, and Mr. Probe in an introduction to his literal translation of the Gododin, have ve ably proved the genuineness of this ancient bard's poems. THE SON OF MARCO. Of years though brief, the youthful chief Hung on his slender, thick-maned steed; With bright blue sword, and spurs of gold, A kinder, nobler part be mine! Ere thou achieve the hero's deed- CAEOG. Caeog, foremost in the battle's van, The foe of noteless, or of feeble men; Their wrath he treated with subdued disdain, When once from Gwyneth to the north* he came To share the counsel of a youth of name— Ysgaron's son, his fellow in the field, A hapless hero of imperfect shield. Caeog-mighty one! thy day is o'er, Five bands of yeomen fell beneath thy blade; Great hapless chieftain! sooner will there be THE MARCH TO GODODIN. a to Gododin march'd the mighty force, hose awful war-cry as they charged them rose :— ey slew with sword-blades in the grasp of strength, id all is voiceless as the grave, at length e living column of heroic men, w like the cold clod of the mountain glen. 1 to Cattraeth march'd the warriors-each as loud, vociferous, and free of speech, From North Wales to the North of England. |