Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
The Dirge of Llywelyn
By Gruffydd ap Yr Ynad Coch (fl. 12771282)
F
Frequent the tears of sorrow flow;
Such sounds as erst in Camlan heard,
Roused to wrath old Arthur’s bard,
Cambria’s warrior we deplore;
Our Llywelyn is no more.
Who like Llywelyn now remains,
To shield from wrong his native plains?
My soul with piercing grief is filled;
My vital blood with horror chilled:
Nature herself is changed, and lo!
Now all things sympathize below!
Hark how the howling wind and rain
In loudest symphony complain!
Hark how the consecrated oaks,
Unconscious of the woodman’s strokes,
With thundering crash proclaim he ’s gone;
Fall in each other’s arms and groan!
Hark how the sullen tempests roar!
See how the white waves lash the shore!
See how eclipsed the sun appears!
See how the stars fall from their spheres!
Each awful Heaven-sent prodigy,
Ye sons of infidelity,
Believe and tremble. Guilty land,
Lo! thy destruction is at hand!
Thou great Creator of the world,
Why are not thy red lightnings hurled?
Will not the sea at thy command
Swallow up this guilty land?
Why are we left to mourn in vain
The guardian of our country slain?
No place, no refuge, for us left,
Of homes, of liberty, bereft;
Where shall we flee? to whom complain,
Since our dear Llywelyn’s slain?