Some Specimens of the Poetry of the Ancient Welsh Bards Part 10

"_N.B._ This Commission was copied exactly from the original now at Mostyn, A.D. 1693: where the _Silver Harp_ also is."

3. _Since this Commission has been in the Press_, _the Author has had an opportunity to see the following Account of what has been done in consequence of such a Commission in the tenth Year of the Reign of Queen_ Elizabeth. _This is translated from the Original in_ Welsh.

Know all Men, by these Presents, that there is a Congress of Bards, and Musicians, to be held in the Town of Caerwys, in the County of Flint, on the twenty-sixth day of May, in the tenth Year of the Reign of her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, before Ellis Price, Esquire, Doctor of the Civil Law, and one of her Majesty's Council in the Marches of Wales, and before William Mostyn, Peres Mostyn, Owen John ap Hywel Vaughan, John William ap John, John Lewis Owen, Morris Griffith, Simon Thelwat, John Griffith Serjeant, Robert Pulesdon, Evan Lloyd of Ial, and William Glyn, Esquires.

And that we the said Commissioners, by virtue of the said Commission, being her Majesty's Council, do give and grant to Simwnt Vychan, Bard, the degree of Pencerdd; and do order that Persons receive and hospitably entertain him in all Places fit for him to go and come to receive his Perquisites according to the Princely Statutes in that Case made and provided. Given under our Hands, in the Year 1568.

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR Of the preceding Work.

"In the church-yard of Llanfihangel Lledrod, situated at some distance from Crosswood, on the other side of Ystwyth, are deposited, without stone or epitaph, the remains of the Rev. Evan Evans, the author of 'Specimens of the Poetry of the Ancient Welsh Bards,' &c., and equally distinguished for his genius as a poet, and his knowledge of the British language and antiquities. He was born at Cynhawdref in this parish, about the year 1730, and received the first part of his education at the Grammar School at Ystrad Meirig, then under the care of the celebrated Mr. Richards. Hence he removed to Jesus College, Oxford, towards the beginning of 1751. He afterwards took orders, and served successively several churches in the capacity of curate, but was never fortunate enough to hold a living of his own. His disappointment in his profession preyed considerably on his mind, and led him to seek an oblivion to his vexation in excesses which impaired his health and greatly limited his usefulness. He devoted considerable attention in early life to the study of his native language, in which he composed several poetical pieces.

Some of these, as appears from a correspondence inserted in the 'Cambrian Register,' were submitted to the criticism, and received the corrections of Mr. Lewis Morris, who speaks highly of Mr. Evans's talents and promise of future excellence. His chief literary productions are the 'Specimens,' above mentioned, which were published in 4to. in 1764. In these he has given a literal prose version of the writings of some of the earlier Welsh bards. For the copy-right he received thirty pounds. He wrote also several English poems, and a great number of short poems in Welsh, (some of which are inserted in the following pages,) and a translation into Welsh of two volumes of sermons, selected out of Tillotson and other eminent divines. A great part of his life was spent in collecting and transcribing ancient Welsh ma.n.u.scripts. He was admitted to the collection of Sir Roger Mostyn, which preserves a very great number of ancient ma.n.u.scripts, of great value: he likewise copied the works of the oldest bards, from a very large vellum ma.n.u.script, called 'Y Llyfr Coch,' in the library of Jesus College, Oxford. He thence also copied several valuable historical tracts of the 12th century. He, besides what has been mentioned, explored every corner of Wales, in quest of ma.n.u.scripts, and met with considerable success; but the neccessary encouragement, which was solicited towards putting a part of what he had thus collected to press was withheld from him."-_Partly extracted from Rees's Historical description of South Wales_.

We are told that the ancient Welsh MSS. which our industrious author collected and transcribed, occupy upwards of eighty volumes. They were purchased by the late Paul Panton Esq., of Plasgwyn, Anglesea.

Mr. Evans had a lengthy correspondence with Bishop Percy and other eminent antiquaries; the most interesting portions of which will be found in the following pages together with selections from his poetical works.

He was of tall stature,-hence his Bardic name of Prydydd Hir, (the tall poet.) He was very benevolently disposed, and highly national and patriotic, and as might be expected, was most averse to the appointment of English prelates to Welsh dioceses. That will partly account for his stationary position in the Establishment. His excessive love of the 'wine cup' may also have had something to do in preventing his appointment to a more lucrative position in the Church. Mr Evans died suddenly in the month of May 1789; some say that he perished on a mountain; _others_ say that he died at, or near his native home; but _none_ deny that poverty and sorrow hastened the death of our talented but unfortunate author.

AN ELEGY

_On the Death of the Rev. E. Evans_, (_Ieuan Prydydd Hir_,) _by the Rev.

R. Williams_, (_Companion to Mr. Pennant in his Welsh tours_.)

On Snowdon's haughty brow I stood, And view'd afar old Menai's flood; Carnarvon Castle, eagle crowned And all the beauteous prospect round; But soon each gay idea fled, For Snowdon's favourite bard was dead.

Poor bard accept one genuine tear, And read thy true eulogium here; Here in my heart, that rues the day, Which stole Eryri's pride away.

But, lo, where seen by Fancy's eye His visionary form glides by, Pale, ghastly pale, that hollow cheek, That frantic look does more than speak, And tells a tale so full of woe, My bosom swells, my eyes o'erflow.

On Snowdon's rocks, unhomed, unfed, The tempest howling round his head; Far from the haunts of men, alone, Unheard, unpitied, and unknown, To want and to despair a prey, He pined and sighed his soul away.

Ungrateful countrymen, your pride, Your glory, wanted bread, and died!

Whilst ignorance and vice are fed, Shall wit and genius droop their head?

Shall fawning sycophants be paid, For flattering fools? while thou art laid On thy sick bed, the mountain heath, Waiting the slow approach of death, Beneath inhospitable skies, Without a friend to close thine eyes.

Thus shall the chief of bards expire, The master of the British lyre; And shall thy hapless reliques rot, Unwept, unhallowed, and forgot?

No! while one grateful muse remains, And Pity dwells on Cambria's plains, Thy mournful story shall be told, And wept, till time itself grows old.

SELECTIONS FROM THE POETICAL WORKS & CORRESPONDENCE OF THE REV. EVAN EVANS, (IEUAN PRYDYDD HIR.)

A PARAPHRASE OF THE 137TH PSALM.

_Alluding to the captivity and treatment of the Welsh Bards by King Edward I._

Sad near the willowy Thames we stood, And curs'd the inhospitable flood; Tears such as patients weep, 'gan flow, The silent eloquence of woe, When Cambria rushed into our mind, And pity with just vengeance joined; Vengeance to injured Cambria due, And pity, O ye Bards, to you.

Silent, neglected, and unstrung, Our harps upon the willows hung, That, softly sweet in Cambrian measures, Used to sooth our souls to pleasures, When, lo, the insulting foe appears, And bid us dry our useless tears.

"Resume your harps," the Saxons cry, "And change your grief to songs of joy; Such strains as old Taliesin sang, What time your native mountains rang With his wild notes, and all around Seas, rivers, woods return'd the sound."

What!-shall the Saxons hear us sing, Or their dull vales with Cambrian music ring?

No-let old Conway cease to flow, Back to her source Sabrina go: Let huge Plinlimmon hide his head, Or let the tyrant strike me dead, If I attempt to raise a song Unmindful of my country's wrong.

What!-shall a haughty king command Cambrians' free strain on Saxon land?

May this right arm first wither'd be, Ere I may touch one string to thee, Proud monarch; nay, may instant death Arrest my tongue and stop my breath, If I attempt to weave a song, Regardless of my country's wrong!

Thou G.o.d of vengeance, dost thou sleep, When thy insulted Druids weep, The Victor's jest the Saxon's scorn, Unheard, unpitied, and forlorn?

Bare thy right arm, thou G.o.d of ire, And set their vaunted towers on fire.

Remember our inhuman foes, When the first Edward furious rose, And, like a whirlwind's rapid sway, Swept armies, cities, Bards away.

"High on a rock o'er Conway's flood"

The last surviving poet stood, And curs'd the tyrant, as he pa.s.s'd With cruel pomp and murderous haste.

What now avail our tuneful strains, Midst savage taunts and galling chains?

Say, will the lark imprison'd sing So sweet, as when, on towering wing, He wakes the songsters of the sky, And tunes his notes to liberty?

Ah no, the Cambrian lyre no more Shall sweetly sound on Arvon's sh.o.r.e, No more the silver harp be won, Ye Muses, by your favourite son; Or I, even I, by glory fir'd, Had to the honour'd prize aspir'd.

No more shall Mona's oaks be spar'd Or Druid circle be rever'd.

On Conway's banks, and Menai's streams The solitary bittern screams; And, where was erst Llewelyn's court, Ill-omened birds and wolves resort.

There oft at midnight's silent hour, Near yon ivy-mantled tower, By the glow-worm's twinkling fire, Tuning his romantic lyre, Gray's pale spectre seems to sing, "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King."

THE PENITENT SHEPHERD.

A pensive Shepherd, on a summer's day, Unto a neighb'ring mountain bent his way, And solitary mus'd, with thoughts profound, Whilst ev'ry thing was silent all around; The firmament was clear, the sky serene, And not a cloud eclips'd the rural scene.

Not so the Shepherd, all was storm within, He mourn'd his frailty, and bewail'd his sin; His soul alone engross'd his utmost care, Decoy'd by cursed Satan to his snare; (Alas! with what success he tempts mankind, And leads them to their ruin with the blind!) Awhile he stood, as one in woeful pain; At last, he broke in melancholy strain, And cried,-

"O great Creator, ever good and wise, I dare not lift to thee mine eyes- Thy violated laws for vengeance call, And on offenders heavy judgment fall; Which hurl them flaming to eternal pains, To suffer ever on infernal plains.

The terrors of thy justice make me fear, For who can everlasting torment bear?

My soul with grief is rent, Oh! stop thy hand, Shivering before thy Majesty I stand; Long have I trod the 'luring path of vice, And tire thy patience, and thy grace despise.

Before thy throne I bow with suppliant knee, Grant gracious G.o.d, thy pardon unto me: In solitude my follies I repent, The life so long, so viciously, I spent, O G.o.d! I wish undone my wicked deeds, My contrite heart with inward sorrows bleeds.

Thou, O my G.o.d! art witness of my grief, And thou alone canst grant me a relief.

I promise faithfully to sin no more, (I sue for mercy, and thy grace implore,) And spend my life, for ever, in thy fear, Thy laws to keep, thy holy name revere."

Thus plain'd the pensive Shepherd, and his moan, Christ, his Mediator, brought before the throne!

Him graciously answer'd G.o.d to Sire, His face resplendent with a globe of fire:- "My Son hath paid thy ransom, go in peace, Eternal justice bids thee be at ease!"

He said, and all the choir of angels sung, Harmonious melody, their harps they strung, And heaven's Empyreum to their music rung, Such is the joy when a poor sinner turns, That with uncommon glow each seraph burns.

Thus I may compare small things with great, The Prodigal his tender father met; Such as the Gospel paints in tatter'd weed, Willing with husks to satisfy his need: And none would give them, though the hungry roam, Till he returned unto his Father's home; Who kill'd the fatted calf, and spread the feast, Where wine and minstrelsy his joy exprest.

The Shepherd thus refresh'd with heavenly grace, Return'd with joy eternal in his face; The Saviour's wond'rous love to man he prais'd, And thus his voice with grat.i.tude he rais'd:-

"All glory to the gracious SON of G.o.d, Who hast alone the grevious wine-press trod, To satisfy his justice, and for me Hast wrought endless salvation on the tree; Who hast redeem'd us, and destroyed our foes, That neither death nor grave can work our woes: Hast overthrown the dragon, and no more h.e.l.l, nor its gates have terrors left in store!"

Thus did the Shepherd testify his joy, A theme that might an angel's tongue employ; He praised Christ, who for mankind did die; His praise let all resound, to all eternity.