shinest like the new-fallen snow on the brow of Aran. [16b]  O thou beautiful flower descended from Trefor. [16c]  Hear my sorrowful complaint.  I am wounded, and the great love I bear thee will not suffer me to sleep, unless thou givest me a kind answer.  I, thy pensive Bard, am in as woeful plight as Rhun [16d] by thy palace, beautiful maid.  I recite, without either flattery or guile, thy praise, O thou that shinest like the meridian sun, with thy stately steps.  Should’st thou, who art the luminary of many countries, demand my two eyes, I would part with them on thy account, such is the pain I suffer.  They pain me while I look on the glossy walls of thy fine habitation, and see thee beautiful as the morning sun.  I have meditated thy praise, and made all countries resound with it, and every singer was pleased in chanting it.  So affecting are the subjects of my mournful tale, O Myfanwy, [16e] that lookest like flakes of driven snow.  My loving heart sinks with grief without thy support, O thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves.  Heaven has decreed, that I should suffer tormenting pain, and wisdom and reason were given in vain to guard against love.  When I saw thy fine shape in scarlet robes, thou daughter of a generous chief, I was so affected, that life and death were equal to me.  I sunk away, and scarce had

time to make my confession.  Alas! my labour in celebrating thy praises, O thou that shinest like the fine spider’s webs on the grass in a summer’s day, is vain.  It would be a hard task for any man to guess how great my pain is.  It is so afflicting, thou bright luminary of maids, that my colour is gone.  I know that this pain will avail me nothing towards obtaining thy love, O thou whose countenance is as bright as the flowers of the haw-thorn.  O how well didst thou succeed in making me to languish, and despair.  For heaven’s sake, pity my distressed condition, and soften the penance of thy Bard.  I am a Bard, who, though wounded by thee, sing thy praises in well sounding verse, thou gentle maid of slender shape, who hinderest me to sleep by thy charms.  I bring thy praises, bright maid, to thy neat palace at Dinbrain; [17] many are the songs that I rehearse to celebrate thy beautiful form.

AN ODE

Of David Benvras, to Llewelyn the Great, Prince of Wales, a.d. 1240.

He who created the glorious sun, and that cold pale luminary the moon, grant that I attain the heights of poetry, and be inspired with the genius of Myrddin; [18a] that I may extol the praise of heroes, like Aneurin, [18b] in the day he sung his celebrated Gododin; that I may set forth the happiness of the inhabitants of Venedotia, the noble and prosperous prince of Gwynedd, the stay and prop of his fair and pleasant country.  He is manly and heroic in the battle, his fame overspreadeth the country about the mountain of Breiddin. [18c]  Since God created the first man, there never was his equal in the front of battle.  Llewelyn the generous, of the race of princes, has struck terror and astonishment in the heart of kings.  When he strove for superiority with Loegria’s king, when he was wasting the country of Erbin, [18d] his troops were valiant and numerous.  Great was the confusion when the shout was given, his sword was bathed in blood; proud were his nobles to see his army; when they heard the clashing of swords, then was felt the agony of wounds [18e] - - - - -

Many were the gashes in the conflict of war.  Great was the confusion of the Saxons about the ditch of Knocking. [19a]  The sword was broke in the hand of the warrior.  Heads were covered with wounds, and the flood of human gore gushed in streams down the knees.

Llewelyn’s empire is wide extended, he is renowned as far as Porth Ysgewin. [19b]  Constantine was not his equal in undergoing hardships.  Had I arrived to the height of prophecy, and the great gift of ancient poesy, I could not relate his prowess in action; no, Taliesin [19c] himself was unequal to the task.  Before he finishes his course in this world, after he has lived a long life on earth, ere he goes to the deep and bone-bestrewed grave, ere the green herb grows over his tomb, may He that turned the water into wine, grant that he may have the Almighty’s protection, and that for every sin, with which he hath been stained, he may receive remission.  May Llewelyn, the noble and generous, never be confounded or ashamed when he arrives at that period; and may he be under the protection of the saints.

A POEM

To Llewelyn the Great, composed by Einion the son of Gwgan, about 1244.

I invoke the assistance of the God of Heaven, Christ our Saviour, whom to neglect is impious.  That gift is true which descendeth from above.  The gifts that are given me are immortal, to discern, according to the great apostle, what is right and decent; and, among other grand subjects, to celebrate my prince, who avoids not the battle nor its danger; Llewelyn the generous, the maintainer of Bards.  He is the dispenser of happiness to his subjects, his noble deeds cannot be sufficiently extolled.  His spear flashes in a hand accustomed to martial deeds.  It kills and puts its enemies to flight by the