’Woodmen,’—­whom also he seems to identify with the ‘black-robed’ and the priests Myrddin Gwyllt, by the by, is one of the two figures in Welsh tradition who have combined to become the Merlin of European tradition; the other was Myrddin Emrys the magician.  I take great risks, gentlemen but wish to give you a taste, as I think the sound of some lines from the original may, and doubt any translation can, of the old and haughty sense of mystery and grandeur embodied in the poem; because it is this feeling, perhaps the last echo of the Western Mysteries, that is so characteristic of the literature that claims to come down to us from this age: 

     Afallen beren, bren ailwyddfa,
     Cwn coed cylch ei gwraidd dywasgodfa;
     A mi ddysgoganaf dyddiau etwa
     Medrawd ac Arthus modur tyrfa;
     Camlan darwerthin difiau yna;
     Namyn saith ni ddyraith o’r cymanfa.

     Afallen bere, beraf ei haeron,
     A dyf yn argel yn argoed Celyddon;
     Cyt ceiser ofer fydd herwydd ei hafon,
     Yn y ddel Cadwaladr at gynadl Rhyd Theon,
     A Chynan yn erbyn cychwyn y Saeson. 
     Cymru a orfydd; cain fydd ei Dragon;
     Caffant pawb ei deithi; llawen fi Brython! 
     Caintor cyrn elwch cathl heddwch a hinon.

What it means appears to be something of this sort: 

     Sweet and beautiful Tree of the trees! 
     The Wood-dogs guard the circle of its roots;
     But I will foretell, a day shall be
     When Modred and Authur shall rush to the conflict;
     Again shall they come to the Battle at Camlan,
     And but seven men shall escape from that meeting.

Sweet Apple-tree, sweetest its fruitage! 
It grows in secret in the Woods of Celyddon;
In vain shall they seek it on the banks of its stream there,
Till Cadwaladr shall come to Rhyd Theon,
And Cynan, opposing the tumult of Saxons,
Wales shall arise then; bright shall be her Dragon;
All shall have their just reward; joy is me for the Brython! 
The horns of joy shall sound then the song of peace and

        calmness....

The sweet fruits of the Tree, he says, are the “prisoners of words,” (carcharorion geirau)—­which is just what one would say, under a stress of inspiration, about the truths of the Secret Wisdom;—­and they shall not be found, he says,—­they shall be sought in vain,—­until the Maban Huan, the ’Child of the Sun,’ shall come.  The whole poem is exceedingly obscure; a hundred years ago, the wise men of Wales took it as meaning much what I think it means:  the passing of the real wisdom of the Mysteries,—­of Neo-druidism,—­away from the world and the knowledge of men, to a secret place where the Woodmen, the Black-robed, could not find to destroy it;—­until, after ages, a Leader of the Hosts of Light should come—­you see it is here Cadwaladr, but Cadwaladr simply means ‘Battle-Leader,’ —­and the age-old