the best poem on the
subject ever written in any language. Finally, he was something more: he
was what not one of the great Latin poets was, a Christian; that is, in
his latter days, when he began to feel the vanity of all human pursuits,
when his nerves began to be unstrung, his hair to fall off, and his teeth
to drop out, and he then composed sacred pieces entitling him to rank
with--we were going to say Caedmon; had we done so we should have done
wrong; no uninspired poet ever handled sacred subjects like the grand
Saxon Skald--but which entitle him to be called a great religious poet,
inferior to none but the protege of Hilda.

Before ceasing to speak of Ab Gwilym, it will be necessary to state that
his amatory pieces, which constitute more than one-half of his
productions, must be divided into two classes: the purely amatory and
those only partly devoted to love. His poems to Dyddgu and the daughter
of Ifor Hael are productions very different from those addressed to
Morfudd. There can be no doubt that he had a sincere affection for the
two first; there is no levity in the cowydds which he addressed to them,
and he seldom introduces any other objects than those of his love. But
in his cowydds addressed to Morfudd is there no levity? Is Morfudd ever
prominent? His cowydds to that woman abound with humorous levity, and
for the most part have far less to do with her than with natural
objects--the snow, the mist, the trees of the forest, the birds of the
air, and the fishes of the stream. His first piece to Morfudd is full of
levity quite inconsistent with true love. It states how, after seeing
her for the first time at Rhosyr in Anglesey, and falling in love with
her, he sends her a present of wine by the hands of a servant, which
present she refuses, casting the wine contemptuously over the head of the
valet. This commencement promises little in the way of true passion, so
that we are not disappointed when we read a little farther on that the
bard is dead and buried, all on account of love, and that Morfudd makes a
pilgrimage to Mynyw to seek for pardon for killing him, nor when we find
him begging the popish image to convey a message to her. Then presently
we almost lose sight of Morfudd amidst birds, animals and trees, and we
are not sorry that we do; for though Ab Gwilym is mighty in humour, great
in describing the emotions of love and the beauties of the lovely, he is
greatest of all in describing objects