Classic Poem

Stand out, maids, and look on the land of Cynddylan; the court of Penngwern is ablaze; alas for the young who long for their brothers! . . . Cynddylan the bright buttress of the borderland, wearing a chain, stubborn in battle, he defended Trenn, his father's town. Cynddylan of the bright heart, the stately, wearing a chain, stubborn in the army, he defended Trenn while he lived . . . How sad it is to my heart to lay the white flesh in the black coffin, Cynddylan the leader of a hundred hosts. The hall of Cynddylan is dark tonight, without fire, without bed; I shall weep a while, I shall be silent after. The hall of Cynddylan is dark tonight, without fire, without candle; but for God, who will give me sanity? The hall of Cynddylan is dark tonight, without fire, without light; longing for you comes over me. The hall of Cynddylan, its vault is dark after the bright company; alas for him who does not do the good which falls to him! Hall of Cynddylan, you have become shapeless, your shield is in the grave; while he lived you were not mended with hurdles. The hall of Cynddylan is loveless tonight, after him who owned it; ah, Death, why does it spare me? . . . The hall of Cynddylan, it pierces me to see it, without roof, without fire; my lord dead, myself alive . . . The hall of Cynddylan is still tonight, after losing its chief; great merciful God, what shall I do? . . . The eagle of Eli, loud is his scream tonight; he swallowed gory drink, the heart's blood of Cynddylan the fair. The eagle of Eli was shrieking tonight, he wallowed in the blood of men; he in the wood, a heavy grief to me. The eagle of Eli I hear tonight; he is bloodstained, I dare not go near him; he in the wood, a heavy grief upon me . . . The eagle of Penngwern, grey-created, uplifted is his cry, greedy for the flesh of Cynddylan. The eagle of Penngwern, grey-crested, uplifted is his claw, greedy for the flesh I love . . . The chapels of Bassa are his resting-place tonight, his last welcome, the pillar of battle, the heart of the men of Argoed . . . The chapels of Bassa are a fallow field tonight, the clover has made it; they are red; my heart is full. The chapels of Bassa have lost their rank after the destruction by the English of Cynddylan and Elfan of Powys . . . The white town in the breast of the wood, this is its symbol ever — blood on the surface of its grass. The white town in the land, its symbol is green graves, and blood under the feet of its men. The white town in the valley, glad is the kite at the bloodshed of battle; its people have perished . . . After my brothers from the lands of the Severn round the banks of the Dwyryw, woe is me, God! that I am alive . . . I have looked out on a lovely land from the gravemound of Gorwynnion; long is the sun's course — longer are my memories . . . I had brothers who were not vicious, who grew up like hazel saplings; one by one they have all passed away. I had brothers whom God has taken from me, it was my ill-luck that caused it; they did not earn fame by fraud . . .