Targum Part 8

THE HISTORY OF TALIESIN.

From the Ancient British.

Talieson was a foundling, discovered in his infancy lying in a coracle, on a salmon-weir, in the domain of Elphin, a prince of North Wales, who became his patron. During his life he arrogated to himself a supernatural descent and understanding, and for at least a thousand years after his death he was regarded by the descendants of the ancient Britons in the character of a prophet or something more. The poems which he produced procured for him the t.i.tle of "Bardic King;" they display much that is vigorous and original, but are disfigured by mysticism and extravagant metaphor; one of the most spirited of them is the following, which the Author calls his "Hanes" or history.

The head Bard's place I hold To Elphin, Chieftain bold; The country of my birth Was the Cherubs' land of mirth; I from the prophet John The name of Merddin won; And now the Monarchs all Me Taliesin call.

My inspiration's {74} flame From Cridwen's cauldron came; Nine months was I in gloom In Sorceress Cridwen's womb; Though late a child--I'm now The Bard of splendid brow {75}; When roar'd the deluge dark, I with Noah trod the Ark.

By the sleeping man I stood When the rib grew flesh and blood.

To Moses strength I gave Through Jordan's holy wave; The thrilling tongue was I To Enoch and Elie; I hung the cross upon, Where died the .....................

A chair of little rest 'Bove the Zodiac I prest, Which doth ever, in a sphere, Through three elements career; I've sojourn'd in Gwynfryn, In the halls of Cynfelyn; To the King the harp I play'd, Who Lochlyn's sceptre sway'd.

With the Israelites of yore I endur'd a hunger sore; In Africa I stray'd Ere was Rome's foundation laid; Now hither I have hied With the race of Troy to bide; In the firmament I've been With Mary Magdalen.

I work'd as mason-lord When Nimrod's pile up-soar'd; I mark'd the dread rebound When its ruins struck the ground; When strode to victory on The men of Macedon, The b.l.o.o.d.y flag before The heroic King I bore.

I saw the end with horror Of Sodom and Gomorrah!

And with this very eye Have seen the . . . ; I till the judgment day Upon the earth shall stray: None knows for certainty Whether fish or flesh I be.

EPIGRAM.

On a Miser who had built a stately Mansion.

From the Cambrian British.

Of every pleasure is thy mansion void; To ruin-heaps may soon its walls decline.

O heavens, that one poor fire's but employ'd, One poor fire only for thy chimneys nine!

Towering white chimneys--kitchen cold and drear-- Chimneys of vanity and empty show-- Chimneys unwarm'd, unsoil'd throughout the year-- Fain would I heatless chimneys overthrow.

Plague on huge chimneys, say I, huge and neat, Which ne'er one spark of genial warmth announce; Ignite some straw, thou dealer in deceit-- Straw of starv'd growth--and make a fire for once!

The wretch a palace built, whereon to gaze, And sighing, shivering there around to stray; To give a penny would the n.i.g.g.ard craze, And worse than bane he hates the minstrel's lay.

THE INVITATION.

By Goronwy Owen.

From the Cambrian British.

(Sent from Northolt, in the year 1745, to William Parry, Deputy Comptroller of the Mint.)

Parry, of all my friends the best, Thou who thy maker cherishest, Thou who regard'st me so sincere, And who to me art no less dear; Kind friend, in London since thou art, To love thee's not my wisest part; This separation's hard to bear: To love thee not far better were.

But wilt thou not from London town Journey some day to Northolt down, Song to obtain, O sweet reward, And walk the garden of the Bard?-- But thy employ, the year throughout, Is wandering the White Tower about, Moulding and stamping coin with care, The farthing small and shilling fair.

Let for a month thy Mint lie still, Covetous be not, little Will; Fly from the birth-place of the smoke, Nor in that wicked city choke; O come, though money's charms be strong, And if thou come I'll give thee song, A draught of water, hap what may, Pure air to make thy spirits gay And welcome from an honest heart, That's free from every guileful art.

I'll promise--fain thy face I'd see-- Yet something more, sweet friend, to thee: The poet's cwrw {79} thou shalt prove, In talk with him the garden rove, Where in each leaf thou shalt behold The Almighty's wonders manifold; And every flower, in verity, Shall unto thee show visibly, In every fibre of its frame, His deep design, who made the same.-- A thousand flowers stand here around, With glorious brightness some are crown'd: How beauteous art thou, lily fair!

With thee no silver can compare: I'll not forget thy dress outshone The pomp of regal Solomon.

I write the friend, I love so well, No sounding verse his heart to swell.

The fragile flowerets of the plain Can rival human triumphs vain.

I liken to a floweret's fate The fleeting joys of mortal state; The flower so glorious seen to-day To-morrow dying fades away; An end has soon the flowery clan, And soon arrives the end of man; The fairest floweret, ever known, Would fade when cheerful summer's flown; Then hither haste, ere turns the wheel!

Old age doth on these flowers steal; Though pa.s.s'd two-thirds of Autumn-time, Of summer temperature's the clime; The garden shows no sickliness, The weather old age vanquishes, The leaves are greenly glorious still-- But friend! grow old they must and will.

The rose, at edge of winter now, Doth fade with all its summer glow; Old are become the roses all, Decline to age we also shall; And with this prayer I'll end my lay, Amen, with me, O Parry say; To us be rest from all annoy, And a robust old age of joy; May we, ere pangs of death we know, Back to our native Mona go; May pleasant days us there await, United and inseparate!

And the dread hour, when G.o.d shall please To bid our mutual journey cease, May Christ, who reigns in heaven above, Receive us to his breast of love!

THE RISING OF ACHILLES.

From the Iliad.

Straightway Achilles arose, the belov'd of Jove, round his shoulders Brawny her AEgis spread, fair fring'd, his guardian Athena, And his head with a cloud of golden hue and transparent She has encircled about, whence darted fire resplendent.

As when fire from the town ascending clambers the ether Out of the island afar, around which enemies gather-- Fierce the defenders all day engage in desperate warfare, Forth from the town advanc'd; but soon as the sun has descended Flame with beacons the dense, huge turrets; upwards the blazes Flaring, struggling ascend to be seen by friends and by neighbours, If with a.s.sistance in war o'er the sea in ships they are coming-- So from Achilles's head uptower'd the blazes to heaven; Striding from out the wall, he stood o'er the trench, but he mingled Not with the Greeks, for he heeded his mother's solemn injunction; Standing, he shouted there, conjointly Pallas Athena Scream'd, and trouble immense was caus'd thereby to the Trojans; Like to the clamorous sound that's heard, when pealing the trumpet Thrills through the city, besieg'd by bands of turbulent foemen, E'en was the clamorous sound sent forth by Eacus' grandson-- Soon as the dreadful voice was heard of Eacus' grandson, All their minds were amaz'd--the fair-man'd beautiful horses Back'd with the chariots amain, such fear was awak'd in their bosoms; Ghasted the charioteers survey'd the untameable blazes Horribly round the brow of high, heroic Peleides Burning, ignited by her the blue-eyed G.o.ddess Athena Thrice then o'er the deep trench loud shouted G.o.d-like Achilles, Thrice were the Trojans confus'd and all their ill.u.s.trious aiders; Already round that trench had twice six champions fallen, Spoil'd of their chariots and arms, so that gladly now the Achaians Out of the tempest of darts the slain Patroclus dragging Plac'd on the sorrowful couch; his comrades round it arrang'd them Loudly lamenting, and thither there came swift-footed Achilles Shedding the hottest of tears, when he saw his comrade so faithful Stretch'd on that sorrowful couch, transfixt with the sharp pointed iron-- Him he had lately despatch'd with chariot and steeds to the war-field Never, alas, to receive from that red war-field returning.

THE MEETING OF ODYSSES AND ACHILLES.

In Hades.

From the Odyssey.

Tow'rds me came the Shade of Peleidean Achilles, And of Patroclus belov'd, and Antilochus daring and blameless, And of Aias--of Him, who in bulk and beauty of figure Far excell'd every Greek, to Peleides only inferior.

Me on the instant knew the Shade of Eacus' grandson, And in sorrowful mood with words swift flowing address'd me.

Tell me Laertes' son, Odysses matchless in wisdom, What fresh wondrous deed within thy brain thou art brooding, That to the vasty deep of Hades down thou descendest, Where the poor dead abide, mere idle shapes of the living.

Soon as the Hero ceas'd, in answer thus I address'd him: Know, O Peleus' son, Achilles bravest of Grecians, Seeking Tiresias. .h.i.ther I've come, to beg of him counsel How I may Ithaca reach with its high-ridg'd, cloud-cover'd mountains; Nor to Achaia I've been, nor my foot on the sh.o.r.e of my country Wretch have I plac'd, whom ever misfortunes pursue; but no mortal E'er was so blest, as Thou, or ever will be, O Achilles, For when alive, as a G.o.d, we Argives held thee in honor; Now e'en here, how high above the mighty departed Thou dost in majesty rise; grieve not though dead, O Achilles.

Soon as these words I'd said, the Shade in answer address'd me: Talk not of death to me, in mercy, glorious Odysses, For on the Earth's green sod I'd rather toil as the hireling Of some inglorious wight, and of one as poor as inglorious, Than over all the dead in Hades reign as a Monarch; But of my n.o.ble boy some tiding give me, I pray thee, Whether or not he's fam'd as a gallant leader in battle; And if aught thou hast heard of good old Peleus, tell me; Still is he held in dread in Myrmidonian cities, Or has he lost respect in h.e.l.las-land and in Pthia, Now old age has robb'd his hands and feet of their vigour?

Think not an aid so good I'm now in the light of the sun-beam, As of old time I prov'd on the broad domain of the Trojans, When, in the Argives aid, I slew the best of their army; Were I to enter now, as I am, the hall of my father, Full little dread these hands would wake in the bosoms of any, Who in that hall do serve, and are kept by fear in obeisance.

Soon as the Hero ceas'd, in answer thus I address'd him: Nothing, alas, which regards the good, old Peleus know I; But the whole tale of thy boy, thy Neoptolemus cherish'd, I will with truth relate, by thee, great Shade, as commanded: I myself had the luck in my own hollow ship to convey him Forth from Scyros afar with a band of well-greav'd Achaians.

Ever when round Troy's town in council grave we a.s.sembled He was the first to rise with a flow of eloquence faultless, So that Nestor divine and myself confess'd him our master; But when on Troy's champain we strove with spear and with buckler Never amid the crowd you'd have found him or in the phalanx-- Far in front he advanc'd, in courage shining the foremost, And full many a man he slew in the rage of the combat; There's no need to recount and to name in endless succession All the renown'd he slew, whilst a.s.sisting strongly the Argives; Let it suffice that with steel he stretch'd Eurypilus lifeless, Telephos' hero-son, and around that hero were slaughter'd All his Ceteian friends, ensnar'd by the smiles of the damsels.