Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym/The Spirit
THE SPIRIT.
On Sunday—sacred holiday!
As late at eve I stayed to pray
(By the bright lamps that light that shrine)
To God, and to his orders nine,
In yonder church, that to my eyes
Appears a second Paradise—
A sudden tremor shook the ground!
Towards the deep and awful sound,
Thus questioning, I turned me round:
“By Him who in the sacred host
Is present—and the Holy Ghost!
Thou that thus lurkest in the gloom—
Thus low upon the pavement here,
Beneath the corner of the tomb!
Whose rugged murmurings I hear,
Livest thou—thing of mournful song?
Or dost thou to the dead belong?
If, flick’ring shape! thou livest still,
Thou art in melancholy plight.”
With thoughtful face, and accents shrill,
Thus answered the departed sprite:
“Unholy man, with joyous air!
I cannot profit by thy care!
In this sad form I dwell in cold,
And quake with anguish!—though of old
Buoyant with youth, and proud and bold,
I roamed and carolled every where—
Found praise and honour at command,
Like thee—the darling of the land!
[1]I once had lovely auburn hair,
Like woodbine curled in tresses fair,
And eyes with lustre pure and bright,
Gifted with keen and searching sight—
A tongue with matchless stanzas gay,
And glory in the time of May;
The brilliant summer hours I spent
With maidens, mead, and merriment!
An end at last came to my pride,
With all my hopes and vaunts—I died!
And, like a stranger, from my head
In deaf dumb earth my hair I’ve shed:
My flesh is mingled with the mould,
And here, proud bard, thou dost behold
A sermon to the cot and hall—
I am a sermon now to all!
They who possess me well may preach!
For who my origin can teach?
And who can tell my name or race?
I have no longer nose or face!
Or voice—I am for ever dumb!
Or eyes—my eyes are holes become!
Or jaws—ah! skull so blank and damp,
Thou mouldy, foul, obstructive lamp[2]!
Remember when, amid the stones,
Thou see’st my bare and fleshless bones,
Thou too must the long journey take,
That all of mortal birth must make!
Thou too must blacken in the sod,
And in that hour—oh! may thy God
In mercy raise thy soul to heaven—
The God whose grace is freely given
Unto the dead on this blessed day[3]—
The dead—attired in pale array!”
- ↑ These lines are evidently a description of the bard himself; the ‘spirit’ is in fact nothing else than the poet’s melancholy picture of his own approaching fate.
- ↑ There is a singular resemblance between this line and the celebrated expression of Shakspeare: ‘To lie in cold obstruction and to rot.’
‘Thou mouldy, foul, obstructive lamp!’
- ↑ The bard, at the beginning of the poem, says that this incident occurred on Sunday.
‘On this blessed day.’