Classic Poem

Heart cold in the breast with terror, grieving
For a king, oak door, of Aberffraw.
Bright gold was bestowed by his hand,
A gold chaplet befitted him.
A gold king's gold cups come not to me, mirth
Of Llywelyn; not for me free raiment.
I grieve for a prince, hawk free of reproach,
I grieve for the ill that befell him,
I grieve for the loss, I grieve for the lot,
I grieve to hear how he was wounded.
Cadwaladr's stronghold, sharp-drilling safeguard,
Lord of the red lance, gold-handed lord,
He showered riches, arrayed each winter
Around me the raiment around him.
Lord rich in herds, he aids us no more,
Life everlasting is left for him.
Mine, rage at the Saxon who robbed me,
Mine, before death, the need to lament,
Mine, with good reason, to rave against God
Who has left me without him,
Mine to praise him, unstinting, unstilled,
Mine to be ever mindful of him,
Mine all my lifetime sorrowing for him,
Since mine is the woe, mine the weeping.
A lord I have lost, long will I fear,
A lord, high court's, was killed by a hand,
A lord constant and true, listen to me—
How loudly I keen, wretched keening!
A lord thriving till eighteen died,
A lord of gifts, low is he laid,
A lord like a lion leading his land,
A lord chafing for devastation.
A lord who prospered, till he left Emrais
No Saxon would venture to strike him,
A lord, stone is his roof, Welshmen's monarch,
Of the right line to rule Aberffraw.
Lord Christ, how I sorrow for him:
Lord who is faithful, redeem him.
From a heavy sword-stroke his downfall,
From long sword-blades came his suppression:
From my ruler's wound comes my distress,
From word of Bodfaeo's lord's collapse.
Perfect the lad killed by hostile men's hands,
Perfect his forebears' honour in him.
Candle of kings, strong lion of Gwynedd,
Throne of honour, there was need of him.
From Britain's death, Cynllaith's defender,
From Nancoel's lion slain, Nanco's mail,
Many a tear sliding swift down a cheek.
Many a side made red with slashes,
Many a foot in a pool of blood,
Many a widow wailing for him,
Many a heavy heart in pieces,
Many a son reft of his father,
Many a home black in the firebrand's track,
And many a place pillage lays waste,
Many a wretched cry as at Camlan,
Many a tear rolling down a cheek.
With my prop cut down, gold-handed prince,
With Llywelyn's death, gone is my mind.
Heart frozen in the breast with terror,
Desire decays like dried-up branches.
See you not the rush of wind and rain?
See you not the oaks lash each other?
See you not the ocean scourging the shore?
See you not the truth is portending?
See you not the sun hurtling the sky?
See you not that the stars have fallen?
Have you no belief in God, foolish men?
See you not that the world is ending?
Ah God, that the sea would cover the land!
What is left us that we should linger?
No place to flee from terror's prison,
No place to live; wretched is living!
No counsel, no clasp, no path left open
One way to be freed from fear's sad strife.
All retainers were true to his trust,
All warriors were his defenders,
All stern men would swear by his hand,
All leaders, all lands were his own.
All counties, all towns are now troubled,
All households, all clans are collapsing.
All the weak, all the strong he kept safe:
All children now cry in their cradles.
Little good it did me to dupe me,
Leaving me a head, with him headless.
Head that slain made fear unhateful,
Head that slain made surrender best,
Head of a soldier, head of praise,
Head of a duke, a dragon's head,
Head of fair Llywelyn, sharp the world's fear,
An iron spike through it,
Head of my lord, harsh pain is mine,
Head of my spirit left speechless,
Head that had honour in nine hundred lands,
Nine hundred feasts for him,
Head of a king, his hand hurled iron,
Head of a proud hawk, he forced a breach,
Head of a kingly wolf thrust foremost,
Head of kings, heaven be his haven!
Blest king, great deeds were his, blest company,
Who longed to reach Llydaw,
King right royal of Aberffraw,
May heaven's fair land be his home.