relished in Wales; and you may see that the few little witticisms in Cywydd y Farf are rather forced than natural. Dafydd ap Gwilym was perhaps the best Welshman, that ever lived, for that kind of poetry, and is therefore very deservedly admired for it. And, though I admire, and even dote upon, the sweetness of his poetry, I have often wished he had raised his thoughts to something more grave and sublime. Our language, undoubtedly, affords plenty of words, expressive and suitable enough for the genius even of a Milton; and had he been born in our country, we, no doubt, should have been the happy nation that could have boasted of the grandest, sublimest piece of poetry in the world. Our language excels most others in Europe, and why does not our poetry? It is to me very unaccountable. Are we the only people in the world that know not how to value so excellent a language? or do we labour under a national incapacity and dulness? Heaven forbid it! Why, then, is our language not cultivated? Why do our learned men blame the indolence of their forefathers in former ages for transmitting so little of their learning to posterity, and yet, at the same time, wallow in the same security and indolence themselves?
[At Richard Morris, Awst 15.1752.]
SIR, Dyma 'ch llythyr wedi cyrhaeddyd hyd yma; a da iawn oedd gennyf ei weled, ac nid bychan ei groesaw er mwyn y llaw a'i hysgrifennodd. E fu frwnt anial gennyf lawer gwaith
