Y BEDD.
"Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew,
Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell
'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms;
Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports)
Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds.
No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.
'Tis here all meet
The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor;
Men of all climes, that never met before;
And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian.
Here garrulous old age winds up his tale;
And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart,
Whose every day was made of melody,
Hears not the voice of mirth. The shrill tongued shrew
Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave;
The just, the good, the worthless, the profane,
The downright clown, and perfectly well-bred ;
The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean,
The supple statesman, and the patriot stern;
The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time,
With all the lumber of six thousand years."
—BLAIR[1]
PRESWYLFEIB pau'r iselfedd,
Tan ro sy'n huno mewn hedd,
Cloedig y'ch mewn cleidir,
A gweis tynn yn y gist hir.
Dychwelodd drostoch eilwaith,
Hirnos wyll, a'i mentyll maith.
Ydych dan bob cawodydd,
Yn wŷr o daw, heb wawr dydd;
Mintai 'n glyd, is main tan glo,
Yma i lawr yn malurio,
Mor adill yma'r ydych,
Dyrfa'r nos, mewn dirfawr nych.
