tide of the Menai, and
the crimson of human gore stained the brine. There were glittering
cuirasses, and the agony of gashing wounds, and mangled warriors
prostrate before the chief, distinguished by his crimson lance. Lloegria
was put into confusion, the contest and confusion was great, and the
glory of our prince's wide-wasting sword shall be celebrated in an
hundred languages to give him his merited praise.

AN ELEGY

_To Nest_, {27a} _the daughter of Howel_, _by Einion_, _the son of
Gwalchmai_, _about the year_ 1240.

The spring returns, the trees are in their bloom, and the forest in its
beauty, the birds chaunt, the sea is smooth, the gently-rising tide
sounds hollow, the wind is still. The best armour against misfortune is
prayer. But I cannot hide nor conceal my grief, nor can I be still and
silent. I have heard the waves raging furiously towards the confines of
the land of the sons of Beli. {27b} The sea flowed with force, and
conveyed a hoarse complaining noise, on account of a gentle maiden. I
have passed the deep waters of the Teivi {27c} with slow steps. I sung
the praise of Nest ere she died. Thousands have resounded her name, like
that of Elivri. {27d} But now I must with a pensive and sorrowful heart
compose her elegy, a subject fraught with misery. The bright luminary of
Cadvan {27e} was arrayed in silk, how beautiful did she shine on the
banks of Dysynni, {27f} how great was her innocence and simplicity,
joined with consummate prudence: she was above the base arts of
dissimulation. Now the ruddy earth covers her in silence. How great was
our grief, when she was laid in her stony habitation. The burying of
Nest was an irreparable loss. Her eye was as sharp as the hawk, which
argued her descended from noble ancestors. She added to her native
beauty by her goodness and virtue. She was the ornament of Venedotia,
and her pride. She rewarded the Bard generously. Never was pain equal
to what I suffer for her loss. Oh death, I feel thy sting, thou hast
undone me. No man upon earth regreteth her loss like me; but hard fate
regardeth not the importunity of prayers, whenever mankind are destined
to undergo its power. O generous Nest, thou liest in thy safe retreat, I
am pensive and melancholy like Pryderi. {28a} I store my sorrow in my
breast, and cannot discharge the heavy burden. The dark, lonesome,
dreary veil, which covereth thy face, is ever before me, which covereth a
face t