Had I but the torrent's might,
With headlong rage, and wild affright,
Upon Deïra's[2] squadrons hurl'd,
To rush and sweep them from the world!
Too, too secure in youthful pride,
By them my friend, my Hoel, died,
Great Cian's son; of Madoc old
He ask'd no heaps of hoarded gold;
Alone in Nature's wealth array'd,
He ask'd and had the lovely maid. 10
To Cattraeth's[3] vale, in glittering row,
Twice two hundred warriors go;
Every warrior's manly neck
Chains of regal honour deck,
Wreath'd in many a golden link:
From the golden cup they drink
Nectar that the bees produce,
Or the grape's ecstatic juice.
Flush'd with mirth and hope they burn:
But none from Cattraeth's vale return, 20
Save Aëron brave and Conan strong,
--Bursting through the bloody throng--
And I, the meanest of them all,
That live to weep and sing their fall.
[Footnote 1: 'Hoel:' from the Welsh of Aneurim, styled 'The Monarch of
the Bards.' He flourished about the time of Taliessin, A.D. 570. This
ode is extracted from the Gododin.]
[Footnote 2: 'Deïra:' a kingdom including the five northernmost
counties of England.]
[Footnote 3: 'Cattraeth:' a great battle lost by the ancient Britons.]
* * * * *