new-fallen snow on the brow of Aran. {16b} O thou
beautiful flower descended from Trefor. {16c} Hear my sorrowful
complaint. I am wounded, and the great love I bear thee will not suffer
me to sleep, unless thou givest me a kind answer. I, thy pensive Bard,
am in as woeful plight as Rhun {16d} by thy palace, beautiful maid. I
recite, without either flattery or guile, thy praise, O thou that shinest
like the meridian sun, with thy stately steps. Should'st thou, who art
the luminary of many countries, demand my two eyes, I would part with
them on thy account, such is the pain I suffer. They pain me while I
look on the glossy walls of thy fine habitation, and see thee beautiful
as the morning sun. I have meditated thy praise, and made all countries
resound with it, and every singer was pleased in chanting it. So
affecting are the subjects of my mournful tale, O Myfanwy, {16e} that
lookest like flakes of driven snow. My loving heart sinks with grief
without thy support, O thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves.
Heaven has decreed, that I should suffer tormenting pain, and wisdom and
reason were given in vain to guard against love. When I saw thy fine
shape in scarlet robes, thou daughter of a generous chief, I was so
affected, that life and death were equal to me. I sunk away, and scarce
had time to make my confession. Alas! my labour in celebrating thy
praises, O thou that shinest like the fine spider's webs on the grass in
a summer's day, is vain. It would be a hard task for any man to guess
how great my pain is. It is so afflicting, thou bright luminary of
maids, that my colour is gone. I know that this pain will avail me
nothing towards obtaining thy love, O thou whose countenance is as bright
as the flowers of the haw-thorn. O how well didst thou succeed in making
me to languish, and despair. For heaven's sake, pity my distressed
condition, and soften the penance of thy Bard. I am a Bard, who, though
wounded by thee, sing thy praises in well sounding verse, thou gentle
maid of slender shape, who hinderest me to sleep by thy charms. I bring
thy praises, bright maid, to thy neat palace at Dinbrain; {17} many are
the songs that I rehearse to celebrate thy beautiful form.

AN ODE

_Of David Benvras_, _to Llewelyn the Great_, _Prince of Wales_, _A.D._
1240.

He who created the glorious sun, and that cold pale luminary the moon,
grant that I attain the heights of poetry, and be inspired