y Llewelyn Goch ap Meirig Hen o
Nannau_, _and died when he was gone on a journey to South Wales_; _upon
his return_, _he composed this Elegy_; _which is a master-piece in its
kind_.

"_Llyma haf llwm i hoew-fardd_,
_A llyma fyd llwm i fardd_;" &c.

Lo, to the jocund Bard, here's a barren summer; to the Bard the world is
desolate.

How is Venedotia bereft of its bright luminary? How its heaven is
enveloped with darkness, ever since the full moon of beauty has been laid
in the silent tomb! Mournful deed! a lovely Fair, in the oaken chest; my
speech can find no utterance since thou art gone, O thou of shape divine!
Lamp of Venedotia; how long hast thou been confined in the gloomy grave!
Arise, thou that art dearer to me than life; open the dismal door of
thine earthly cell! Leave, O fair one, thy sandy bed; shine upon the
face of thy lover. Here by the tomb, generous maid of noble descent,
stands one whose mirthful days are past, whose countenance is pale with
the loss of thee; even Llewelyn Goch, the celebrater of thy praise,
pining for the love of thee, helpless and forlorn, unequal to the task of
song.

I heard, O thou that art confined in the deep and dismal grave, nought
out of thy lips but truth, my speechless Fair! Nought, O thou of stately
growth, fairest of virgins fair! But thou hadst promised, now unfeeling
to the pangs of love, to stay till I came from South Wales; lovely
silk-shrouded maid! The false Destinies snatched thee out of my sight;
it nought concerns me to be exposed to the stormy winds, since the
agreement between thee and pensive me is void! Thou! thou! lovely maid,
wert true; I, even I was false; and now fruitlessly bemoan! From
henceforth I will bid adieu to fair Venedotia. It concerns me not
whither I go. I must forego my native soil for a virtuous maid, where it
were my happiness to live, were she alive! O thou whose angelic face was
become a proverb; thy beauty is laid low in the lonesome tomb! The whole
world without thee is nothing, such anguish do I suffer! I, thy pensive
Bard, ramble in distress, bewailing the loss of thee, illustrious maid!
Where, O where shall I see thee, thou of form divine, bright as the full
moon! Is it on the Mount of Olives, loveliest of women? Ovid's love was
nothing in comparison of mine, lovely Lleucu; thy form was worthy of
heaven, and my voice hath failed in invoking thy name. Alas! woe is me,
fair maid of Pennal. It sounded as a d