strong and mighty, poured forth from the mountain fastnesses of Montgomery and Carnarvon, and with that weapon only, long harassed and defeated their Anglo-Saxon and Norman invaders. Davyd ap Gwillim, one of the most famed of the Celtic bards, lived in the thirteenth century. He was an enthusiastic, and therefore a skilful archer. One of his allusions to this accomplishment, affords us a curious insight into Welsh fashions of that age. It would appear that to possess a costly bow of Spanish yew, was as indispensable to the modish equipment of a handsome young Welsh gallant five centuries ago, as a polished steel-hilted rapier to the modern fullcourt dress. “Yesterday,” says one of his stanzas, “I was in anxious mood and ardent expectation, beneath a shadowy tree, with the gold and jewel upon my brow, waiting the arrival of Gwenllian, maid of dark and glossy tresses.” Whilst thus engaged, there appears in the distance what he styles “a harsh-voiced, dog-hating, poultry-eating fox.” He then turns vulpicide, a character most hateful to modern country gentlemen, but a public benefactor in ancient Wales. “I aimed between my handes, he adds, “with a valuable yew bow that came from abroad, intending to send a keen arrow from the dark-headed forest, to dye his hair in blood. I drew—unlucky shot! it passed by his head altogether. Alas! my good bow is splintered into a thousand pieces.” When lamenting the ill-success that attended his addresses to Morryth, he compares himself to a man standing on the beach, “with a yew bow in his hand,” shooting at sea-gulls; who neither recovers his shafts, nor gains possession of the objects at which he aims. “My poetic strains,” exclaims the bard, “are all sent forth in vain. As well might I discharge an arrow at the stars.”
Even in the most trifling matters he introduces allusions to the bow, so as to make them highly picturesque. When addressing the roebuck which he despatches with a letter to his mistress, he warns the animal not to allow any obstacle to impede his course, nor to fear
The grinded arrow.
To a swaggering companion who demands hospitality in a lone valley which was his home, and who somewhat imperiously demands to know “where he can put up his horse,” the bard replies, “Turn him loose into the forest, where some night prowler will save you the trouble of catching him again, for he’ll take a spring upon his back, and give him such a heel-stab (sawel frath), as will send him to Sax-town, beyond Saxon-town.”
“Aye,” replies his guest, who, though a roysterer, is no craven; “but suppose I were in yonder wood opposite, and in my hand a bow of red yew ready bent, with a tough tight string, and a straight round shaft, with a well-rounded nock (notch), having long slender feathers of a green silk fastening, and a sharp-edged steel head, heavy and thick, and of an inch wide, of a green blue temper, that would draw blood out of a weathercock; and with my foot to a hillock and my back to an oak, and the sun at my side and the wind at my back, and the girl I love best hard by looking at me, and I conscious of her being there; I’d shoot him such a shot, so strong and far drawn, so low and sharp, that it would be no better there were between him and me a breastplate and a Milan hauberk, than a whisp of fern, a kiln-rug, or a herring net!“
THE BRIDE OF AN HOUR.[1]
From Gunnerfleet to Ivinscar,
Lie mosses deep, and swamp, and heather:
There’s little change or difference there
In summer or in winter weather.
At times you hear the lapwing’s note
Pipe sadly o’er the mosses yellow,
And troops of lazy plover float
And hover o’er the sandy fallow.
Though many a year has fled away,
With clouds and sunshine, joy or sadness,
It seems to me but yesterday
I heard those sounds of mirth and gladness.
Within the walls of yonder cot
Twine two young hearts that naught shall sever:
Alas! alas! I had forgot,
Those two young hearts now sleep for ever!
A simple watcher[2] he, but tall
And straight, and bold and open-hearted:
She like a tender heather-bell,
That lingers when the summer’s parted.
So bright her presence seemed, that light
And warmth around her footsteps flitted:
Anger, where’er she came, took flight,
And every brow from care unknitted.
A thoughtful love, a loving heart;
A smile that breathed in every feature:
She seemed on this dull earth below,
Of some bright heaven a chosen creature.
In words of song is passion told,
And blazoned loud in phrase poetic:
Give me the thoughts which buried lie
Reposing in hearts sympathetic.
No tale have I of love to tell,
No tale of obstacles surmounted:
The sad and solemn words of truth
By my poor mouth shall be recounted.
In nuptial bonds their hands were joined,
The ring put on, the blessing spoken:
In one brief hour the loving link
That chained those hearts was snapped and broken.
