Light within the Shade: Eight Hundred Years of Hungarian Poetry

The Bards of Wales

40 | Light within the Shade The Bards of Wales King Edward sits his palfrey grey, Looks on his conquests’ pales: Let’s see, says he, what worth to me Is this domain of Wales? What rivers flow, what harvests grow, What meads for grazing good? Is it well fed and waterèd With rebel patriot blood? Churls of this land, given by the hand Of God into my care, The folk, how do they love the yoke They make their cattle bear? No diamond fairer, gracious King, Stands in your crown than Wales: Land, river, grazing, all are there, Mountains and fertile vales. The folk indeed enjoy the yoke God set upon them, Sire! Their huts are dumb, as is the tomb Upon the graveyard’s mire. And Edward walks his horse so pale Amid his conquests bare: All that remains are dumb domains And silence everywhere. Montgomery’s that castle’s name Where the King lodged that night; Montgomery, the castle’s lord Feasts him with all delight. já nos a r a n y | 41 Fish, flesh, and fowl, and all things well Fit for the flesh’s gust, A hundred servants, what a rout To task the eyes’ small lust; And all that this fair isle might grow To feed the belly’s glee And all the wines of foreign vines Conveyed across the sea. Gentles, gentles! is there not one That clinks his glass to me? Gentles, gentles! . . . you dogs of Wales! May Edward’s health not be? Fish, flesh, and fowl, all under sky Pleasing and sweet I see; But yet methinks the devil slinks In these lords’ courtesy. Gentles, gentles! you wretched dogs! Who’ll sing King Edward’s tales? Where is the guest who’ll toast my geste— Bring forth the bard of Wales! Each in his neighbor’s face now looks, The many knights of Wales; There upon every Welsh guest’s face A fearlike anger pales. Words torn within, voice caught within, Breath breaks and is drawn hard; But now, above, a lone white dove, Rises an old grey bard. Here is, O King, one who will sing Your deeds, says the old man; 42 | Light within the Shade The clash of battle, the death-rattle Cry from the harp-string’s pain. ”With clash of battle, with death-rattle, Sun sets in its pool of blood, The carrion-beast smells out the feast Where you, King, spread the food! ”Our heaped-up dead, a cross of red, The thousands that you slew: The simplest churl that works the soil Weeps at the scathe you do!” The stake! Away! and no delay— Edward commands the guard— Ha! Here, a softer song we’ll hear; Up steps now a young bard. ”Ah! softly plays the evening breeze That blows on Milford haven; The maiden’s keen, the widow’s pain Sigh in that wind of heaven. Virgin, do not give birth to slaves! Mother, do not give suck! . . .” The King waves him away. He joins The other at the stake. A third, unbid and unafraid, Yet comes before the King; His harp speaks then as men speak men, This Spell begins to sing: ”The good men all in battle fell— Hear, Edward, what this tells: Seek one who’d blaze your name with praise: Lives not such bard of Wales.” já nos a r a n y | 43 His memory wrings the harp-strings still— “Hear, Edward, what this tells: Curse on your head is every song Sung by a bard of Wales.” “This let us see!” The King commands A deed at which hell pales: “Burn at the stake all those who take The proud name, bard of Wales!” His servants ride out far and wide, Gallop with his decree: Thus was proclaimed that day the famed Feast of Montgomery— And Edward, King, rides a pale horse, Gallops through hills and dales, About him burns the earth’s externes, The fair domain of Wales. Five hundred, truly, singing went Into the grave of flame: But no Welsh bard would sing this word: “Long live King Edward’s name!” Holla! what clamor? . . . what night song In London’s streets then rang? “If any voice disturb my rest, The Lord Mayor shall hang!” Silence stands dumb; no whisper heard, Not even a fly’s wing; He risks his head whose word be said That irks the sleepless King! “Holla! bring music...