Butiran
Muat Turun Docx
Baca Lebih Lanjut
Let us continue with “The Book of Taliesin,” an early Welsh manuscript dating to the first half of the 14th century. A significant portion of the text is much older and contains some of the oldest poems in Welsh. Today, we are pleased to present poems from this book that praise King Arthur (vegetarian). Poems referring to King Arthur. The Chair of the Sovereign. Book of Taliesin 15 “THE declaration of a clear song, Of unbounded Awen, About a warrior of two authors, Of the race of the steel. With his staff and his wisdom, And his swift irruptions, And his sovereign prince, And his scriptural number, And his red purple, And his assault over the wall, And his appropriate chair, Amongst the retinue of the wall. Did not (he) lead from Cawrnur […] The sovereign elder. The generous feeder. The third deep wise one, To bless Arthur, Arthur the blessed, In a compact song. On the face in battle, Upon him, a restless activity. Who are the three chief ministers That guarded the country? Who are the three skillful (ones) That kept the token? That will come with eagerness To meet their lord? High (is) the virtue of the course, High will be the gaiety of the old, High (is) the horn of travelling, […] High (is) truth when it shines, Higher when it speaks. […]Book of Taliesin 30 “I will praise the sovereign, supreme King of the land, Who has extended his dominion over the shore of the world. […] No one before him went into it. The heavy blue chain held the faithful youth, And before the spoils of Annwvn woefully he sings, And till doom shall continue a bard of prayer. Thrice enough to fill Prydwen, we went into it; Except seven, none returned from Caer Sidi. […]A ridge about its edge and jewels. It will not boil the food of a coward, that has not been sworn. A sword bright gleaming to him was raised, And in the hand of Lleminawg it was left. And before the door of the gate of Uffern, the lamp was burning. And when we went with Arthur, a splendid labor, Except seven, none returned from Caer Vedwyd. […]Monks congregate […], From contact with their superiors, they acquire knowledge. They know not when the deep night and dawn divide. Nor what is the course of the wind, or who agitates it, In what place it dies away, on what land it roars. The grave of the saint is vanishing from the altar-tomb. I will pray to the Lord, the Great Supreme, That I be not wretched. Christ be my portion.”
