d Ireland, to bring or
send over men to assist him in his design against the English; but
Bruce's terms being conceived too unreasonable, the treaty came to
nought; however being desperate, he gathered all the forces he could,
and, in an instant, like a candle that gives a sudden blaze before it
is out, overran all North Wales and the Marches, taking all the
castles and holds; but to little purpose, for soon after he was met
with, his party discomfited, and himself taken prisoner. This was in
the year of our Lord 1322."

I thought so much by way of introduction necessary to commemorate so
gallant a person; what became of him afterwards is not mentioned by our
historians. However the following poem remains not only as a monument of
the hero's bravery, but of the Bard's genius.

* * * * *

Before the beginning of May I lived in pomp and grandeur, but now, alas!
I am deprived of daily support, the time is as disastrous as when our
Saviour Christ was taken and betrayed. How naked and forlorn is our
condition! We are exposed to anxious toils and cares. O how heavy is
the Almighty's punishment, that the crimson sword cannot be drawn! I
remember how great its size was, and how wide its havoc; numerous are now
the oppressed captives who languish in gnashing indignation. Our native
Bards are excluded from their accustomed entertainments. How great a
stop is put to generosity since a munificent hero, like Nudd, {46a} is
confined in prison. The valorous hawk of Griffydd, {46b} so renowned for
ravaging and destroying his enemies, is deplored by the expert Bards, who
have lost their festivity and mirth in the place where mead was drunk. I
cannot bear to think of his injurious treatment. His hospitality has fed
thousands. He is, alas! in a forlorn prison, such is the unjust
oppression of the land of the Angles. {46c} Years of sorrow have
overwhelmed me. I reckon not what becomes of the affairs of this world.
The Bards of two hundred regions lament that they have now no protector.
This is a certain, but a sad truth. Though the unthinking vulgar do not
reflect as I do on the time when my eagle shone in his majesty. I am
pierced by the lance of despair. Hard is the fate of my protector,
Gwynedd {47a} is in a heavy melancholy mood, its inhabitants are
oppressed because of their transgressions. Long has the bright sword,
that shone like a torch, been laid