When hostile wolves imbrued the ground On Cattraeth's glorious fatal day, Four hundred warriors sped their way,* To trace the path where danger led. Their sons revered their deeds, and mourn'd Their mighty fall, for none return'd; None but three+ of all the throng, Cynan and Cattraeth's deathless name But for their bard whom many a wound The true number of the nobles, or warriors, who went to the tle of Cattraeth was 363. The translator has taken the nearest ind number. The names of the three who survived, as appears from the Godo, were Cindihi, Cinric, or Cinon, of Adron in Galloway, and Cynon arawd. NEST, THE DAUGHTER OF HOWEL. From the Welsh of Einion ab Gwalchmai. By John Walters, B. A. EINION AB GWALCHMAI flourished about 1240, but we have historical record respecting Nest, the heroine of the poem. THE spring returns, the hills are green, ·1 The wind now gently dies away.- Like fair Elivri's was her fame, And thousands have adored her name— In silence now, the matchless maid, Tyrant death, thou ruthless foe, LLEWELYN AB IORWERTH. From the Welsh of Llywarch Prydydd y Môch. THE original was taken from Llyvr Coch o Hergest, or the Red ok of Hergest, kept in the archives of Jesus College, Oxon. H Llywarch ab Llewelyn, or Llywarch Prydydd y Môch, was one of the most illustrious of the bards of the middle ages. He flourished from 1160 to 1220. Many of his compositions are printed in the Welsh Archaiology, and are valuable on account of the historical notices contained in them. No antiquary has hitherto ventured to throw even a conjecture on the meaning of the strange name he adopted-Llywarch Prydydd y Môch-Llywarch, Bard to the Pigs!As his poems are generally addressed to the princes who reigned in his time, may he not have considered himself exclusively their bard, and finding his muse neglected by them, is it not probable that, in a spirit of resentment, he designated himself the bard-not of the princes, but of the Pigs? As Môch also means quick, in that sense probably the bard meant his designation to be Llywarch the quick-witted. EDITOR. HE who the glorious sun display'd, The praise of Gwyneth's prosp❜rous king, Who drives the Saxon host to flight; The unreas'ning crowd's unbridled rage; Or countless host, or vaunted name, Abate his boundless thirst of fame ? Clogg'd with the slaughter of his sword, Green Teivi blush'd, smooth Cledau roar'd. At Snowdon's hill, and Conway's flood He bathed his blade in Saxon blood: Returning thence o'er Menai's stream, Red conquest on his sword, he came.— His foes are fall'n, or scatter'd wide Like leaves upon the mountain side, When the hurricane descends, And all the sounding forest rends: A feast for wolves they fell in fight, Torn youthful from the nuptial rite : Each snow-white breast, each tressy head, The purple streaming gore o'erspread. Now the sea the corses laves, Floating on their bed of waves; His squadrons, like the prancing steed, Victorious trample o'er the dead, Point their lances, court the strife, And onward rush, profuse of life, Where thronging thick with horrid roar, The steeds of ocean beat the shore. Around, where'er we turn our eyes, His riches and his realms arise; Nor fruitless is the poet's strain, Nor seeks his large relief in vain. Beneath his banners, to his bards Llewelyn deals his rich rewards; Like generous Rutherch to bestow, Like Howel to defy the foe: Oft to his friends his bounty flows, Despair the portion of his foes. To combat, see! before his car Rush onward, wild, the dogs of war, |