🔵 The Bards of Wales by Arany János - Summary Analysis - The Bards of Wales by Arany János

Описание: The Bards of Wales by Arany János - Summary Analysis - The Bards of Wales by Arany János
1817 - 1882


King Edward sits his palfrey grey,
Looks on his conquests' pales:
Let's see, says he, what worth to me
Is this domain of Wales.


What rivers flow, what harvests grow,
What meads for grazing good?
Is it well fed and watered
With rebel patriot blood?


Churls of this land, given by the hand
Of God into my care,
The folk, how do they love the yoke
They make their cattle bear?


No diamond fairer, gracious King,
Stands in your crown than Wales:
Land, river, grazing, all are there,
Mountains and fertile vales.


The folk indeed enjoy the yoke
God set upon them, Sire!
Their huts are dumb, as is the tomb
Upon the graveyard's mire.


And Edward walks his horse so pale
Amid his conquests bare:
All that remains are dumb domains
And silence everywhere.


Montgomery's that castle's name
Where the King lodged that night;
Montgomery, the castle's lord
Feasts him with all delight.


Fish, flesh and fowl, and all things well
Fit for the flesh's gust,
A hundred servants, what a rout
To task the eyes' small lust;


And all that this fair isle might grow
To feed the belly's glee
And all the wines of foreign vines
Conveyed across the sea.


Gentles, gentles! is there not one
That clinks his glass to me?
Gentles, gentles!... you dogs of Wales!
May Edward's health not be?


Fish, flesh and fowl, all under sky
Pleasing and sweet I see;
But yet methinks the devil slinks
In these lords' courtesy.


Gentles, gentles! you wretched dogs!
Who'll sing King Edward's tales?
Where is the guest who'll toast my geste -
-Bring forth the bard of Wales!


Each in his neighbor's face now looks,
The many knights of Wales;
There upon every Welsh guest's face
A fearlike anger pales.


Words torn within, voice caught within,
Breath breaks and is drawn hard;
But now, above, a lone white dove,
Rises an old grey bard.


Here is, O king, one who will sing
Your deeds, says the old man;
The clash of battle, the death-rattle
Cry from the the harpstring's pain.


"With clash of battle, with death-rattle,
Sun sets in its pool of blood,
The carrion-beast smells out the feast
Where you, King, spread the food!


"Our heaped-up dead, a cross of red,
The thousands that you slew:
The simplest churl that works the soil
Weeps at the scathe you do!"


The stake! Away! and no delay -
Edward commands the guard -
Ha! Here, a softer song, we'll hear,
Up steps now a young bard.


"Ah! softly plays the evening breeze
That blows on Milford Haven;
The maiden's keen, the widow's pain
Sigh in that wind of heaven.


Virgin, do not give birth to slaves!
Mother, do not give suck!
The King waves him away. He joins
The other at the stake.


A third, unbid and unafraid
Yet comes before the King;
His harp speaks then as men speak men,
This Spell begins to sing:


"The good men all in battle fell -
Hear, Edward, what this tells:
Seek one who'd blaze your name with praise:
Lives not such bard of Wales.


His memory wrings the harpstrings still -
-Hear, Edward, what this tells:
Curse on your head is every song
Sung by a bard of Wales."


This let us see! The king commands
A deed at which hell pales:
Burn at the stake all those who take
The proud name, bard of Wales!


His servants ride out far and wide,
Gallop with his decree:
Thus, was proclaimed that day the famed
Feast of Montgomery -


And Edward, King, rides a pale horse,
Gallops through hills and dales,
About him burns the earth's externes,
The fair domain of Wales.


Five hundred, truly, singing went
Into the grave of flame:
But no Welsh bard would sing this word:
Long live King Edward's name!


Holla! what clamor? ... what night song
In London's streets then rang?
If any voice disturb my rest,
The Lord Mayor shall hang!


Silence stands dumb; no whisper heard,
Not even a fly's wing;
"He risks his head whose word be said
That irks the sleepless King!


Holla! bring music, pipe and drum,
Let trumpets blast their scales!
The curses sear within my ear
Of that damned feast of Wales ..."


But rising over scream of pipe,
The blare of bugle, drum,
Five hundred strong sing out their song
Of blood and martyrdom.


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