_Entitled the Ode of the Months_, _composed by Gwilym Ddu of Arfon_, _to
Sir John Griffydd Llwyd_, _of Tregarnedd and Dinorwig_.
Why the Bard called this piece the "Ode of the Months" I cannot guess;
but by what he intimates in the poem, which is that when all nature
revives, and the whole animal and vegetable creation are in their full
bloom and vigour, he mourned and pined for the decayed state of his
country. The hero he celebrates made a brave but successless attempt to
rescue it from slavery. It will not be amiss to give a short account of
the inhuman massacre of the Bards made by that cruel tyrant Edward the
first, which gave occasion to a very fine Ode by Mr. Gray. Sir John
Wynne, of Gwydir, a descendant in a direct line from Owain Gwynedd,
mentions this particular, and says he searched all the records in the
Exchequer at Carnarvon, and in the Tower of London, for the antiquities
of his country in general, and of his own family in particular. I shall
set down his own words, as I find them in a very fair copy of that
history lent me by Sir Roger Mostyn, of Gloddaeth and Mostyn, Bart., a
person no less eminent for his generous communicative temper, than for
many other public and private virtues.
"This is the most ancient song (i.e. one of Rhys Goch of Eryri's, a
Bard who flourished A.D. 1400) I can find extant of my ancestors
since the reign of Edward the first, who caused our Bards all to be
hanged by martial law, as stirrers of the people to sedition; whose
example being followed by the governors of Wales until Henry the
Fourth's time, was the utter destruction of that sort of men; and
since then that kind of people were at some further liberty to sing,
and to keep pedigrees, as in ancient time they were wont; since which
time we have some light of antiquity by their songs and writings,"
&c.
The following is taken from an old British grammar, written in English,
by William Salesbury, printed at London, 1567. I have transcribed it
faithfully according to the old orthography. "Howbeit when the whole
Isle was commonlye called Brytayne, the dwellers Brytons, and accordingly
their language Brytishe, I will not refell nor greatly deny; neither can
I justly gainsaye, but their tongue then was as copious of syt woordes,
and all manner of proper vocables, and as well adornated with woorshipful
sciences and honourable knowledge as any other of the barbarous tongues
were. And so still continued (though their sceptre declined, and their
kingdom decayed, and they also by God's hand were driven into the most
unfertyl region, barenest country, and most desart province of all the
isle) untyll the conquest of Wales. For then, as they say, the nobles
and the greatest men beyng captives and brought prysoners to the tower of
London, there to remayne during their lyves, desired of a common request,
that they might have with them all such bokes of their tongue, as they
most delited in, and so their petition was heard, and for the lightness
soon granted, and thus brought with them all the principallest and
chiefest books, as well of their own as of other their friends, of whom
they could obtain anye to serve for their purpose. Whose mind was none
other but to pass the time, and their predestinate perpetual captivitie
in the amenous varietie of over reading and revoluting many volumes and
sundry books of divers sciences and strange matters.
"And that is the common answer of the Welshe Bardes (for so they call
their country poets) when a man shall object or cast in their teeth the
foolysh uncertainty and the phantasticall vanities of their prophecies
(which they call BRUTS) or the doubtful race and kinde of their
uncanonized saynctes: whom that notwithstanding they both invocate and
worship wyth the most hyghe honoure and lowliest reverence. Adding and
allegying in excuse thereof, that the reliques and residue of the books
and monuments, as well as the saynctes lyves, as of their Brutysh
prophecies and other sciences (which perished not in the tower, for
there, they say, certain were burned) at the commotion of OWAIN GLYNDWR,
were in like manner destroyed, and utterly devastat, or at the least wyse
that there escaped not one, that was not uncurablye maymed, and
irrecuperably torn and mangled.
"'Llyfrau Cymru au llofrudd
Ir twr Gwyn aethant ar gudd
Ysceler oedd Yscolan
Fwrw'r twrr lyfrau ir tan.'
Gutto'r Glyn. A.D. 1450.
"The books of Cymru and their remains went to the White Tower, where they
were hid. Cursed was Ysgolan's act in throwing them in heaps into the
fire."
It is not improbable that our Bard might have been one of those who
suffered in the cause of his country, though he had the good luck to
escape Edward's fury. I wish I may be so happy as to convey some faint
idea of his merit to the English reader. The original has such touches,
as none but a person in the Bard's condition could have expressed so
naturally. However not to anticipate the judicious reader's opinion, to
which I submit mine with all deference, I shall now produce some account
of this great man, taken from that skilful and candid antiquary Mr.
Robert Vaughan of Hengwrt's notes on Dr. Powel's history of Wales,
printed at Oxford, 1663.
"Sir John Griffydd Llwyd, knight, the son of Rhys ap Griffydd ap
Ednyfed Fychan, was a valiant gentleman, but unfortunate, 'magnae
quidem, sed calamitosae virtutis,' as Lucius Florus saith of
Sertorius. He was knighted by king Edward, when he brought him the
first news of his queen's safe delivery of a son at Carnarvon Castle;
the king was then at Rhuddlan, at his parliament held there. This
Sir Griffydd afterwards taking notice of the extreme oppression and
tyranny exercised by the English officers, especially Sir Roger
Mortimer, lord of Chirk, and justice of North Wales, towards his
countrymen the Welsh, became so far discontented, that he broke into
open rebellion, verifying that saying of Solomon, 'Oppression maketh
a wise man mad.' He treated with Sir Edward Bruce, brother to
Robert, then king of Scotland, who had conquered Ireland, to bring or
send over men to assist him in his design against the English; but
Bruce's terms being conceived too unreasonable, the treaty came to
nought; however being desperate, he gathered all the forces he could,
and, in an instant, like a candle that gives a sudden blaze before it
is out, overran all North Wales and the Marches, taking all the
castles and holds; but to little purpose, for soon after he was met
with, his party discomfited, and himself taken prisoner. This was in
the year of our Lord 1322."
I thought so much by way of introduction necessary to commemorate so
gallant a person; what became of him afterwards is not mentioned by our
historians. However the following poem remains not only as a monument of
the hero's bravery, but of the Bard's genius.
* * * * *
Before the beginning of May I lived in pomp and grandeur, but now, alas!
I am deprived of daily support, the time is as disastrous as when our
Saviour Christ was taken and betrayed. How naked and forlorn is our
condition! We are exposed to anxious toils and cares. O how heavy is
the Almighty's punishment, that the crimson sword cannot be drawn! I
remember how great its size was, and how wide its havoc; numerous are now
the oppressed captives who languish in gnashing indignation. Our native
Bards are excluded from their accustomed entertainments. How great a
stop is put to generosity since a munificent hero, like Nudd, {46a} is
confined in prison. The valorous hawk of Griffydd, {46b} so renowned for
ravaging and destroying his enemies, is deplored by the expert Bards, who
have lost their festivity and mirth in the place where mead was drunk. I
cannot bear to think of his injurious treatment. His hospitality has fed
thousands. He is, alas! in a forlorn prison, such is the unjust
oppression of the land of the Angles. {46c} Years of sorrow have
overwhelmed me. I reckon not what becomes of the affairs of this world.
The Bards of two hundred regions lament that they have now no protector.
This is a certain, but a sad truth. Though the unthinking vulgar do not
reflect as I do on the time when my eagle shone in his majesty. I am
pierced by the lance of despair. Hard is the fate of my protector,
Gwynedd {47a} is in a heavy melancholy mood, its inhabitants are
oppressed because of their transgressions. Long has the bright sword,
that shone like a torch, been laid aside, and the brave courage of the
dauntless Achilles been stopped. The whole pleasant season of May is
spent in dismal sorrow; and June is comfortless and cheerless. It
increaseth my tribulation, that Griffydd with the red lance is not at
liberty. I am covered with chilly damps. My whole fabric shakes for the
loss of my chief. I find no intermission to my pain. May I sink, O
Christ! my Saviour, into the grave, where I can have repose; for now,
alas! the office of the Bard is but a vain and empty name. I am
surprised that my despair has not burst my heart, and that it is not rent
through the midst in twain. The heavy stroke of care assails my memory,
when I think of his confinement, who was endowed with the valour of Urien
{47b} in battle. My meditation on past misfortunes is like that of the
skilful Cywryd, {47c} the Bard of Dunawd. {47d} My praise to the worthy
hero is without vicious flattery, and my song no less affecting than his.
My panegyric is like the fruitful genius of Afan Ferddig {48a} in
celebrating Cadwallon {48b} of royal enterprise. I can no more sing of
the lance, in well-laboured verse. Since thou doest not live, what
avails it that the world has any further continuance? Every region
proclaims thy generosity. The world droops since thou art lost. There
are no entertainments or mirth, Bards are no longer honoured: the palaces
are no longer open, strangers are neglected, there are no caparizoned
steeds, no trusty endearing friendship. No, our country mourns, and
wears the aspect of Lent. There is no virtue, goodness, or any thing
commendable left among us, but vice, dissoluteness, and cowardice bear
the sway. The great and towering strength of Mon {48c} is become an
empty shadow, and the inhabitants of Arfon {48d} are become insignificant
below the ford of Rheon. {48e} The lofty land of Gwynedd is become weak.
The heavy blow of care strikes her down. We must now renounce all
consolation. We are confined in a close prison by a merciless
unrelenting enemy; and what avails a bloody and brave contest for
liberty.
* * * * *
_Having finished the present small collection of the British Bards_, _I
take this opportunity to acquaint the reader_, _that the time in which
they flourished is not accurately set down by Dr. Davies_, _at the end of
his Dictionary_, _nor by Mr. Llwyd_, _of the Museum_, _in his Catalogue
of British Writers_, _in the Archaeologia Britannica. Indeed it is
impossible to be so exact_, _as to fix the year when the Bards wrote
their several pieces_, _unless the actions they celebrate are mentioned
in our Annals_, _because some of them_ _lived under several princes_.
_This I thought proper to mention_, _lest any should blame the translator
for his inaccuracy_, _in settling the Chronology of the Poems_.