THE CUCKOW sends forth her longing and complaining voice, | |
When she has fled from the pursuit of the Hawk, | |
And condoles with me at the waters of Ciog. | |
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In spring all nature is beautiful and glad: | |
It is the season when heroes hasten to the field of war: | 5 |
But I cannot go; infirmity will not suffer me. | |
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The birds sing, and loud is the cry | |
Of the strong-scented hounds in the desert: | |
Again the birds are heard to warble. | |
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The birds sing, the brooks murmur, | 10 |
The moon shines out; it is the cold hour of midnight; | |
And my heart droops under its lingering cares. | |
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Hear you not how the waves roar, | |
And dash from rock to rock? | |
O my weak heart! may my senses be granted me to-night! * * * * * | 15 |
Before I used a staff, I was comely and eloquent: | |
I was a free and welcome guest in the palace | |
Of Powys, the paradise of Wales. | |
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Before I used a staff, I was splendidly apparelled: | |
My spear was of the largest size; its thrust was terrible: | 20 |
But now my years are many; I am feeble, I am miserable. | |
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O my staff! in summer | |
The furrows are red, and the tender blades spring forth: | |
Thou art to me instead of my lost kindred, when I look upon thy beak. | |
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Valleys were thrown up for the trenches of the fortress: | 25 |
And I will arm myself with my shield. | |
My mind must be disordered ere I give way. | |
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When danger overtakes thee, O Urien, | |
Blow thou the horn which I gave thee, | |
Whose mouth is tipped with gold. | 30 |
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Ghastly was the wound when Pyll was slain: | |
Blood streamed from his hair | |
On the bank of the rapid Ffraw. | |
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Distinguished among all my sons | |
When they singled out their adversaries, | 35 |
Pyll rushed with the violence of flames through the streams of Llifon. | |
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When, mounted on his prancing steed, | |
He halted at the door of his tent, | |
The wife of Pyll gloried in her husband. | |
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Gwên! how joyous did I behold thee last night! | 40 |
Thou hadst no roof to cover thee, | |
But didst traverse, cold, the banks of Morlas. | |
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O Gwên! thou that wert dreadful in thine anger! | |
My thoughts are bloody because thou art slain: | |
Relentless was he that slew thee. | 45 |
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O Gwên! sire of a powerful progeny! | |
Thou wert the attack of an eagle | |
At the mouths of mighty rivers. | |
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Let the waves cease to roar, the rivers to flow, | |
Since this fatal deed has been perpetrated! | 50 |
Alas! my Gwên! in my trembling age have I lost thee. | |
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My son was a hero: the sun was below Gwên. | |
He was the nephew of Urien. | |
He was slain by the Ford of Morlas. | |
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I had four-and-twenty sons; | 55 |
All leaders of armies, all decked with the golden torques: | |
Gwên was the bravest of them all. | |
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I had four-and-twenty sons, | |
All princely chiefs, all decked with chains of gold. | |
But compared with Gwên, the rest were children. | 60 |
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These were my sons, | |
The favorites of bards; | |
And fair is their renown. | |
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