From the Book of Taliesin (1275 CE) &
the Myrvian Archaeology (1370 CE)
1 I was in many forms
before I became free...
I was a narrow, blood-stained sword;
I believe that when I was made
5 I was drops in the air
looking up at the stars,
a word in a letter.
I was a primeval book;
for a year and a half
10 I was lanterns of light.
I was a bridge spanning
sixty river mouths.
I was a hunter's course,
an eagle;
15 I was a coracle
in the waters.
I was fizz in a brew
laying men low;
a drop in a shower of rain.
20 A sword in hand I was,
shield in battle.
For many years
I was a string in a phantom harp.
Foam on water,
25 spark in a fire.
A log in a blaze.
I am not but that I sing,
I sang since I was a small lad.
At the Battle of the Trees
30 I sang in the van
before the King of Britain.
I goaded on horses,
fleet of foot.
I fermented fleets
35 laden with merchandise.
I pierced a scaly monster.
A hundred heads it had,
one mighty host
under the base of its tongue,
40 another lurking
in the ridges of its neck;
a black-groined toad
with a hundred claws.
Then a variegated, ridged serpent
45 a hundred souls are tortured
in the folds of its flesh.
I was at the Castle of Nefenhir
when trees and grass
were locked in combat.
50 Minstrels sang, armies collided.
Trees rose up
before the waver of a magic wand.
We called upon Neifion,
upon Christ from the first causes
55 so that the Lord would redeem
what he had made.
The Lord answered through people
and the earth:
"Conjure up majesic trees",
60 (through him)
“in great numbers
and resist the mob.”
When trees were conjured up,
there came a mighty, bounteous host:
65 hope itself approached.
Plucked out of four kinds of strings
in battle they fell
three battle weary whelps.
The battle-cry racked a woman's heart,
70 tortured by grief.
Like flaxen tips
the maiden's hair,
the spoils of the heifer of unrest.
They did not succeed
75 in dispersing us
what with the blood of men
up to our thighs.
The biggest of the Three Bloodbaths,
this, in the history of the world:
80 one was the outcome of the Flood,
the second was Christ was crucified
With the Day of Judgement at hand.
The alder at the front line foraged first.
Then, late for the fray,
85 came the willow and the rowan-tree.
Prickly blackthorn with bubbling zest,
the blackberry, its royal equal,
taking the position of heir-apparent
in the thick of the fray.
90 Rose bushes now ventured forth
with venom against a host.
The raspberry came forming a circle
for the defense of life.
Now privet and honeysuckle,
95 ivy in its prime,
then the surge of the giant gorse.
Cherry trees had sounded the alarm;
With great pomp was birch-tree there
donning armor, not from cowardice,
100 but decking herself for the occasion.
Almond arose, exotic trees
Pine took over the center of the hall:
in the chair of honor did the oak-tree
cut a dash before kings.
105 Then the lime-tree in all its splendor,
not flinching one foot,
cut them down left, right and center.
Hazel trees were now worthy.
Blessed be the privet, battle-bullock,
110 king of the world.
Beech excelled on sea and estuary.
The holly has put forth leaves anew,
now reveling in its battle-cry,
terror dealt from its hand.
115 A burst of bryony...
it has broken its ranks;
Bracken's swell, broom to battle
in the furrows of wounding.
Gorse the farmer's bane,
120 yet were they gathered together.
Heather was deft & victorious,
your warriors all bewitched.
The black-cherry in hot pursuit;
the oak rushing headlong...
125 before it heaven & earth did shake.
Borage, inveterate fighter,
its name is on the tablets.
The assembly of elms caused terror,
they rebuffed all onslaughts
130 when their defense were breached.
The pear-tree wreaked havoc
on the field of battle.
The thorn-apple was awesome,
its advance was constant.
135 The thrust of the chestnut
put pine-trees to shame.
Jet is wont to be black;
The mountain curved.
Trees are usually slim.
140 More powerful are high seas.
Since I sensed the time of year
the tips of birches have covered us,
have undone winter's dying.
The tops of oaks have ensnared us
145 through the Gwarchan of Maelderw.
Rock-face laughs
the lord is in full battle array.
I was not born of father or mother.
My blood, my creation
150 stems from the nine forms of essence
From fruition,
from the fruits of the earth,
from the first fructification of God.
From primroses,
155 flowers of the heights,
flowers of trees & shrubs,
from soil, from earth, was I made;
from nettle-flowers,
from the water of the ninth wave.
160 Math conjured me up
before I became the gifted one,
Gwydion witched me,
the great Brython king,
& so did Eurwys & Euron,
165 yes, Euron & Modron
& a hundred & fifty wizards.
Learned men fashioned me.
A chieftain created me
when he was half burnt.
170 Wizard's ways conjured me up
before the beginning of the world:
before its inhabitation was mine,
before its extent was made.
The gift of a fine poet made us all.
175 In song do I abide
by what the tongue utters.
I played in the hearthlight,
I slept in purple.
I was in battle array
180 with Dylan the scion of the wave;
in the encirclement
right in the center of things:
upon the knees of kings.
Like two inordinate spears
185 did they come from heaven
to the torrents of Annwn:
to battle do they come
eighty thousand strong.
And I pierced them through
190 for all their aggression.
They are no older or younger than I
in their attrition.
The vigor of a thousand men had I,
the cleaving of all around.
195 On my silvery sword,
blood of nobles flows towards me.
Through the instigation of a lord,
through a craven's will
in his haunt a boar was killed.
200 He made things, he unmade them.
He made languages.
Radiant is his name.
Llwch, he leads a host.
“When I come sparks fly high.”
205 I was a multi-colored serpent on a hill,
a viper in a lake.
I was the sword of a prince.
I was a spit.
These are my cloak and cauldron:
210 I am well-prepared.
They make eighty whiffs of smoke.
A hundred slave girls
are the value of my knife.
Six golden horses
215 are a thousand times better.
My light chestnut horse
is as fleet as a seagull.
I was not taken aback
on sea and shore.
220 I have caused carnage,
the blood of a hundred men
is on my hands.
My shield is studded with gems,
my shield-strap is gold.
225 In the gap was not born
a name so dear to me
but Gronw from
the meadows of Edrywy.
My fingers are long and white,
230 far from a shepherd was I reared;
I rolled on the ground
before I became a proficient.
I traversed, I went round them,
I slept on a thousand islands
235 I took a hundred forts.
Wise druids, prophesy to Arthur
what will be, what is,
what was once to be perceived:
the story of the flood,
240 Christ's crucifixion
With Judgement Day at hand.
We would extol in golden tones.
I would conjure up shrubs.
For I am wanton
245 with the prophesy of Virgil.
Robert Graves Modern Translation from The White Goddess (1948)
The tops of the beech tree have sprouted of late,
are changed and renewed from their withered state.
When the beech prospers, though spells and litanies
the oak tops entangle, there is hope for trees.
I have plundered the fern, through all secrets I spy,
Old Math ap Mathonwy knew no more than I.
For with nine sorts of faculty God has gifted me,
I am fruit of fruits gathered from nine sorts of tree —
Plum, quince, whortle, mulberry, raspberry, pear,
black cherry and white, with the sorb in me share.
From my seat at Fefynedd, a city that is strong,
I watched the trees and green things hastening along.
Retreating from happiness they would fein be set
in forms of the chief letters of the alphabet.
Wayfarers wandered, warriors were dismayed
at renewal of conflicts such as Gwydion made;
Under the tongue root a fight most dread,
and another raging, behind, in the head.
The alders in the front line began the affray.
Willow and rowan-tree were tardy in array.
The holly, dark green, made a resolute stand;
he is armed with many spear-points wounding the hand.
With foot-beat of the swift oak heaven and earth rung;
“Stout Guardian of the Door”, his name in every tongue.
Great was the gorse in battle, and the ivy at his prime;
the hazel was arbiter and this charmed time.
Uncouth and savage was the fir, cruel the ash tree —
turns not aside a foot-breadth, straight at the heart runs he.
The birch, though very noble, armed himself but late:
a sign not of cowardice but of high estate.
The heath gave consolation to the toil-spent folk,
the long-enduring poplars in battle much broke.
Some of them were cast away on the field of fight
because of holes torn in them by the enemy’s might.
Very wrathful was the vine whose henchmen are the elms;
I exalt him mightily to rulers of realms.
Strong chieftains were the blackthorn with his ill fruit,
the unbeloved whitethorn who wears the same suit.
The swift-pursuing reed, the broom with his brood,
and the furse but ill-behaved until he is subdued.
The dower-scattering yew stood glum at the fight’s fringe,
with the elder slow to burn amid fires that singe.
And the blessed wild apple laughing in pride
from the Gorchan of Maelderw, by the rock side.
In shelter linger privet and woodbine,
inexperienced in warfare, and the courtly pine.
But I, although slighted because I was not big,
Fought, trees, in your array on the field of Goddeu Brig.
Spirit of the Alleghenies 