Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym/The Sword
THE SWORD.
Shapely burden of my hand!
Foul disgrace is never nigh,
When I clasp my long bright brand,
Girt by Heaven upon my thigh:
Proud protector in the fight,
Ranging fierce, and wild and bright.
One there is my heart detests,
Songs and songsters he infests
With a cunning enmity;
Fat and taciturn, and foul,
Oxlike in his heavy scowl,
And his rank obesity:
Now with silent frowns he tries,
Now with threats, the bard to scare.
Wrathful weapon, noble prize!
While my hand thy blade can rear,
All his terrors I defy!
Cold at midnight may I lie,
If on charger I retreat
From yon wretch, or on my feet!
Shall we not our vengeance claim
On that man of hate and shame—
Eithig—who so foxlike knows
How to skulk before his foes,
Scourge and spoiler of the maid?
Come with me, my trusty blade;
Brightest shingle of my roof,
As the rock thou art rust proof!
In the turmoil of the fight,
Beauteous omen of delight
To the ravens—from thy blade
Shrink Deira’s hosts dismayed;
Double-lip’d, and beaked with ire,
Like the lightning’s edge of fire!
In thy hollow sheath repose,
My defender from my foes.
Whereso’er thy master’s hand
Plunges with thee, brilliant brand,
Despot of the battle ground!
Thou a path for him hast found.
Should some foes in secret dwell
In the forest citadel,
Thou shalt flame, impetuous steel,
Wildly as the mimic wheel,
Which the nurse, from brand on blaze,
Whirls before her infant’s gaze.
Should the foeman cross my path,
E’en Cyhelyn’s shield would fail
To protect the foe from scath;
Should my sword his life assail,
Thou shalt save me, rapier good,
From the hornets of the wood.
Many a long, long holiday,
Through the woodlands I will stray;
In the forests will rejoice,
With the lady of my choice;
Though, whilst in the woods I stray,
All my riches melt away,
And my friends indignant say,
They my steps too oft behold
Near the bank that keeps my gold.
Gentle maid, a gen’rous mind,
To its love is ever kind!