and sovereign of sea and land.  He is a warrior that may be compared to a deluge, to the surge on the beach that covereth the wild salmons.  His noise is like the roaring wave that rusheth to the shore, that can neither be stopped or appeased.  He puts numerous troops of his enemies to flight like a mighty wind.  Warriors crowded about him, zealous to defend his just cause; their shields shone bright

on their arms.  His Bards make the vales resound with his praises; the justice of his cause, and his bravery in maintaining it, are deservedly celebrated.  His valour is the theme of every tongue.  The glory of his victories is heard in distant climes.  His men exult about their eagle.  To yield or die is the fate of his enemies—they have experienced his force by the shivering of his lance.  In the day of battle no danger can turn him from his purpose.  He is conspicuous above the rest, with a large, strong, crimson lance.  He is the honour of his country, great is his generosity, and a suit is not made to him in vain.  Llewelyn is a tender-hearted prince.  He can nobly spread the feast, yet is he not enervated by luxury.  May he that bestowed on us a share of his heavenly revelation, grant him the blessed habitation of the saints above the stars.

A PANEGYRIC

Upon Owain Gwynedd, Prince of North Wales, by Gwalchmai, the son of Meilir, in the year 1157.

I will extol the generous hero descended from the race of Roderic, [25a] the bulwark of his country, a prince eminent for his good qualities, the glory of Britain, Owain the brave and expert in arms, a prince that neither hoardeth nor coveteth riches.—Three fleets arrived, vessels of the main, three powerful fleets of the first rate, furiously to attack him on a sudden.  One from Iwerddon, [25b] the other full of well-armed Lochlynians, [25c] making a grand appearance on the floods, the third from the transmarine Normans, [25d] which was attended with an immense, though successless toil.

The Dragon of Mona’s sons [26a] were so brave in action, that there was a great tumult on their furious attack, and before the prince himself, there was vast confusion, havoc, conflict, honourable death, bloody battle, horrible consternation, and upon Tal Moelvre a thousand banners.  There was an outrageous carnage, [26b] and the rage of spears, and hasty signs of violent indignation.  Blood raised the tide of the Menai, and the crimson of human gore stained the brine.  There were glittering cuirasses, and the agony of gashing wounds, and mangled warriors prostrate before the chief, distinguished by his crimson lance.  Lloegria was put into confusion, the contest and confusion was great, and the glory of our prince’s wide-wasting sword shall be celebrated in an hundred languages to give him his merited praise.

AN ELEGY

To Nest, [27a] the daughter of Howel, by Einion, the son of Gwalchmai, about the year 1240.

The spring returns, the trees are in their bloom, and the forest in its beauty, the birds chaunt, the sea is smooth, the gently-rising tide sounds hollow, the wind is still.  The best armour against misfortune is prayer.  But I cannot hide nor conceal my grief, nor can I be still and silent.  I have heard the waves raging furiously towards the confines of the land of the sons of Beli. [27b]  The sea flowed with force, and conveyed a hoarse complaining noise, on account of a gentle maiden.  I have passed the deep waters of the Teivi [27c] with slow steps.  I sung the praise of Nest ere she died.  Thousands have resounded her name, like that of Elivri. [27d]  But now I must with a pensive and sorrowful heart compose her elegy, a subject fraught with misery.  The bright luminary of Cadvan [27e] was arrayed in silk, how beautiful did she shine on the banks of Dysynni, [27f] how great was her innocence and simplicity, joined with consummate prudence: she was above the base arts of dissimulation.  Now the ruddy earth covers her in silence.  How great was our grief, when she was laid in her stony habitation.  The burying of Nest was an irreparable loss.  Her eye was as sharp as the hawk, which argued her descended from noble ancestors.  She added to her native beauty by her goodness and virtue. 

She was the ornament of Venedotia, and her pride.  She rewarded the Bard generously.  Never was pain equal to what I suffer for her loss.  Oh death, I feel thy sting, thou hast undone me.  No man upon earth regreteth her loss like me; but hard fate regardeth not the importunity of prayers, whenever mankind are destined to undergo its power.  O generous Nest, thou liest in thy safe retreat, I am pensive and melancholy like Pryderi. [28a]  I store my sorrow in my breast, and cannot discharge the heavy burden.  The dark, lonesome, dreary veil, which covereth thy face, is ever before me, which covereth a face that shone like the pearly dew on Eryri. [28b]  I make my humble petition to the great Creator