He could, if he pleased, be a Tyrtaeus; he was no
fighter - where was there ever a poet that was?
- But he wrote an
ode on a sword, the only warlike piece that he ever wrote, the best
poem on the subject ever written in any language. Finally, he was
something more: he was what not one of the great Latin poets was,
a Christian; that is, in his latter days, when he began to feel the
vanity of all human pursuits, when his nerves began to be unstrung,
his hair to fall off, and his teeth to drop out, and he then
composed sacred pieces entitling him to rank with - we were going
to say Caedmon; had we done so we should have done wrong; no
uninspired poet ever handled sacred subjects like the grand Saxon
Skald - but which entitle him to be called a great religious poet,
inferior to none but the protege of Hilda.
Before ceasing to speak of Ab Gwilym, it will be necessary to state
that his amatory pieces, which constitute more than one-half of his
productions, must be divided into two classes: the purely amatory
and those only partly devoted to love. His poems to Dyddgu and the
daughter of Ifor Hael are productions very different from those
addressed to Morfudd. There can be no doubt that he had a sincere
affection for the two first; there is no levity in the cowydds
which he addressed to them, and he seldom introduces any other
objects than those of his love.
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