chwyn y Saeson.
Cymru a orfydd; cain fydd ei Dragon;
Caffant pawb ei deithi; llawen fi Brython!
Caintor cyrn elwch cathl heddwch a hinon.

What it means appears to be something of this sort:

Sweet and beautiful Tree of the trees!
The Wood-dogs guard the circle of its roots;
But I will foretell, a day shall be
When Modred and Authur shall rush to the conflict;
Again shall they come to the Battle at Camlan,
And but seven men shall escape from that meeting.

Sweet Apple-tree, sweetest its fruitage!
It grows in secret in the Woods of Celyddon;
In vain shall they seek it on the banks of its stream there,
Till Cadwaladr shall come to Rhyd Theon,
And Cynan, opposing the tumult of Saxons,
Wales shall arise then; bright shall be her Dragon;
All shall have their just reward; joy is me for the Brython!
The horns of joy shall sound then the song of peace and
calmness....

The sweet fruits of the Tree, he says, are the "prisoners of
words," (_carcharorion geirau_)--which is just what one would
say, under a stress of inspiration, about the truths of the
Secret Wisdom;--and they shall not be found, he says,--they shall
be sought in vain,--until the _Maban Huan,_ the 'Child of the
Sun,' shall come. The whole poem is exceedingly obscure; a
hundred years ago, the wise men of Wales took it as meaning much
what I think it means: the passing of the real wisdom of the
Mysteries,--of Neo-druidism,--away from the world and the
knowledge of men, to a secret place where the Woodmen, the
Black-robed, could not find to destroy it;--until, after ages,
a Leader of the Hosts of Light should come--you see it is
here Cadwaladr, but Cadwaladr simply means 'Battle-Leader,'
--and the age-old battle between light and darkness, Arthur
and Modred, should be fought again, and this time won, and
the Mysteries re-established.--If I have succeeded in conveying
to you anything of the atmosphere of this poem, I have given
you more or less that of most of the poetry attributed to
this period; there is a large mass of it: some of the poems,
like the long _Gododin_ of Aneurin, merely telling of battles;
others, like the splendid elegies of Llywarch Hen, being
laments,--but with a marvelous haughty uplift to them; and
others again, those attributed to Taliesin, strewn here and
there with passages that . . . move me strangely . . . and
remind me (to borrow a le