A walesi bárdok · The Bards of Wales · The Welsh Bards · Уэльские барды · Bardi Cambrenses

Arany János
(1857. június)
A magyaron kívül három angol, egy orosz és egy latin nyelvű változatban
Arany János, Iohannis Arany, Bernard Adams, Gyulai József, Watson Kirkconnel, L. Ny. Martinov, Rihmer Zoltán
szóelválasztás

A walesi bárdok

Arany János

Edward király, angol király
Léptet fakó lován:
Hadd látom, úgymond, mennyit ér
A velszi tartomány.

Van-e ott folyó és földje jó?
Legelőin fű kövér?
Használt-e a megöntözés:
A pártos honfivér?

S a nép, az istenadta nép,
Ha oly boldog-e rajt’
Mint akarom, s mint a barom,
Melyet igába hajt?

Felség! valóban koronád
Legszebb gyémántja Velsz:
Földet, folyót, legelni jót,
Hegy-völgyet benne lelsz.

S a nép, az istenadta nép
Oly boldog rajta, Sire!
Kunyhói mind hallgatva, mint
Megannyi puszta sir.

Edward király, angol király
Léptet fakó lován:
Körötte csend amerre ment,
És néma tartomány.

Montgomery a vár neve,
Hol aznap este szállt;
Montgomery, a vár ura,
Vendégli a királyt.

Vadat és halat, s mi jó falat
Szem-szájnak ingere,
Sürgő csoport, száz szolga hord,
Hogy nézni is tereh;

S mind, amiket e szép sziget
Ételt-italt terem;
S mind, ami bor pezsegve forr
Túl messzi tengeren.

Ti urak, ti urak! hát senkisem
Koccint értem pohárt?
Ti urak, ti urak!… ti velsz ebek!
Ne éljen Eduárd?

Vadat és halat, s mi az ég alatt
Szem-szájnak kellemes,
Azt látok én: de ördög itt
Belül minden nemes.

Ti urak, ti urak, hitvány ebek!
Ne éljen Eduárd?
Hol van, ki zengje tetteim –
Elő egy velszi bárd!

Egymásra néz a sok vitéz,
A vendég velsz urak;
Orcáikon, mint félelem,
Sápadt el a harag.

Szó bennszakad, hang fennakad,
Lehellet megszegik. –
Ajtó megől fehér galamb,
Ősz bárd emelkedik.

Itt van, király, ki tetteidet
Elzengi, mond az agg;
S fegyver csörög, haló hörög
Amint húrjába csap.

„Fegyver csörög, haló hörög,
A nap vértóba száll,
Vérszagra gyűl az éji vad:
Te tetted ezt, király!

Levágva népünk ezrei,
Halomba, mint kereszt,
Hogy sírva tallóz aki él:
Király, te tetted ezt!”

Máglyára! el! igen kemény –
Parancsol Eduárd –
Ha! lágyabb ének kell nekünk;
S belép egy ifju bárd.

„Ah! lágyan kél az esti szél
Milford-öböl felé;
Szüzek siralma, özvegyek
Panasza nyög belé.

Ne szülj rabot, te szűz! anya
Ne szoptass csecsemőt!…”
S int a király. S elérte még
A máglyára menőt.

De vakmerőn s hivatlanúl
Előáll harmadik;
Kobzán a dal magára vall,
Ez íge hallatik:

„Elhullt csatában a derék –
No halld meg, Eduárd:
Neved ki diccsel ejtené,
Nem él oly velszi bárd.

Emléke sír a lanton még –
No halld meg Eduárd:
Átok fejedre minden dal,
Melyet zeng velszi bárd.”

Meglátom én! – S parancsot ád
Király rettenetest:
Máglyára, ki ellenszegűl,
Minden velsz énekest!

Szolgái szét száguldanak,
Ország-szerin, tova.
Montgomeryben így esett
A híres lakoma. –

S Edward király, angol király
Vágtat fakó lován;
Körötte ég földszint az ég:
A velszi tartomány.

Ötszáz, bizony, dalolva ment
Lángsírba velszi bárd:
De egy se birta mondani
Hogy: éljen Eduárd. –

Ha, ha! mi zúg?… mi éji dal
London utcáin ez?
Felköttetem a lord-majort,
Ha bosszant bármi nesz!

Áll néma csend; légy szárnya bent,
Se künn, nem hallatik:
„Fejére szól, ki szót emel!
Király nem alhatik.”

Ha, ha! elő síp, dob, zene!
Harsogjon harsona:
Fülembe zúgja átkait
A velszi lakoma…

De túl zenén, túl síp-dobon,
Riadó kürtön át:
Ötszáz énekli hangosan
A vértanúk dalát.

  • A történelem kétségbe vonja, de a mondában erősen tartja magát, hogy I. Eduard angol király, Wales tartomány meghódítása (1277) után, ötszáz walesi bárdot végeztetett ki, hogy nemzetök dicső múltját zöngve, a fiakat föl ne gerjeszthessék az angol járom lerázására. A. J.
  • Szövegforrás: Arany János összes költeményei. I–II. kötet. Budapest: Szépirodalmi Könyvkiadó, 1967. I. kötet. 312–316. p.
Arany János portréja
Barabás Miklós, 1848

The Bards of Wales

János Arany

Edward the king, the English king,
Forward spurred his grey.
Fain would I see the land of Wales,
Tell me its worth, I pray.

Has it rich pasture, rivers, woods,
Arable land besides?
All well watered with their blood
That ’gainst me dared to rise?

And what of the Welsh, that wretched breed?
Are they as content
As I would wish, and as the ox
That ’neath the yoke is pent?

Zounds, my liege, the finest jewel
In thy crown is Wales.
With plough and pasture, woods and streams,
Abound its hills and vales,

While the Welsh, that wretched breed,
Not a murmur raise.
Silent are their hovels all
As neglected graves.

Edward the king, the English king,
Onward spurred his grey.
Silence reigned where’er he went
And no man said him nay.

Montgomery the castle was,
Montgomery its lord,
Where one fateful evening
The king found bed and board.

Game and fish and every dish
That eye and tongue delight
Were served him by a hundred men;
It was a wondrous sight.

All manner of meat and drink there was
That this fine isle can bear;
Many a wine from overseas
Foamed and sparkled there.

My lords and gentles! Will none of you
Raise his cup to me?
My lords and gentles Dogs of Wales,
Own you no fealty?

Meat and fish and every dish
Delightful to the sense
I here perceive, but in yourselves
A devilish pretence.

My lords and gentles! Treacherous curs,
Will you not drink to me?
Where is a bard to praise my deeds
And sing my victory?

Pale of cheek the noble Welsh
Looked around; in dread
And in fury met their eyes;
Not a word was said,

Conversation ceased forthwith,
Not a breath was heard.
White of head, from near the door
Arose an ancient bard.

‘Here, O King, is one will sing
Thy deeds that so inspire.’
Weapons clashed, the dying gasped,
As he swept the lyre.

‘Weapons clash, the dying gasp,
The sun sinks in lakes of gore.
Before the beasts of night a feast
Hast thou spread, my lord.

Piled like sheaves at harvest-time
Lie thousands put to the sword,
And they that live weep as they glean.
This is thy work, my lord.’

Out! To the stake! The king’s command.
That was exceeding hard.
A softer song is what we need.
Arose a youthful bard.

‘O, softly blows the evening breeze
O’er Milford, off the sea.
In it moan the grief of widows,
Maidens’ misery.

Bear ye no children to be slaves,
Ye mothers, do not nurse’
Him to the stake the king dismissed
As brusquely as the first.

But recklessly, unbidden too,
A third rose in his stead.
The theme itself sang from the harp
And this is what it said:

‘Brave men have perished in the fight—
Mark thou my words, O King—
No bard of Wales will praise thy name,
None stoop to such a thing.

The harp preserves their memory—
Mark thou my words, O King—
A curse on thy head is every song
The bards of Wales shall sing.’

We shall see! The king commands,
And dreadful is his word,
That any bard who will not sing
His praise shall not be spared.

His henchmen left to course the land
At the king’s behest.
And so in high Montgomery
Took place the famous feast.

Edward the king, the English king,
Homeward spurred his grey.
All round the pyres lit up the sky
Of those that said him nay.

‘Tis said five hundred went to die,
Went singing to their doom;
None could bring themselves to sing
To English Edward’s tune.

What is that sound? In London’s streets
Who is it sings so late?
The Lord Mayor’s life is forfeit if
The king is kept awake.

Now silence deep: not one fly’s wing
Within or without is stirred.
The king lies waking—risks his head
Who utters but a word!

‘Let there be music! Fife and drum,
And let the trumpet bray!
The curses of that feast in Wales
Ring in my ears this day.’

But o’er the sound of fife and drum
And brazen trumpet’s clang
Five hundred voices raise the song
That the martyrs sang.

(Translated by Bernard Adams)

  • Written by the poet “The Bards of Wales” as an allegory, when the Hungarian revolution was defeated in 1849 and the so-called Haynau-era brought terror and silence to the country.
  • Source: Poems—Other Languages
János Arany’s portrait
by Miklós Barabás, 1848


János ARANY (1817–1882), was a Hungarian journalist, writer, poet, and translator. He is often said to be the “Shakespeare of ballads”—he wrote more than 40 ballads which have been translated into over 50 languages, as well as the Toldi trilogy, to mention his most famous works.

The Bards of Wales

János Arany

Paces King Edward of England
on his royal grey:
“Let us see”, says he, “the Wales Province,
how much it can pay.”

“Are there rivers and fertile soil?
grass thick on pasture heights?
Did the rebels’ blood any good?
Made it more fertile and right?”

“Is the folk content and glad,
that God-given good folk,
as I’d like him to be,
like their cattle in yoke?”

“Yes, Sire, Wales is really
precious diamond on your crown,
where good soil, rivers
hills and valleys are all around.

And the folk is content and glad,
that God-given good folk, Sire.
Their huts are dead silent,
as are the graves all here.”

Paces King Edward of England
on his royal grey:
Silent province, where he went
and muteness all the way.

It’s called Montgomery, the castle,
for the overnight,
It was count Montgomery himself,
entertaining king and knights.

Games and fish and delicacies
appealing to mouth and eye,
hundreds hustling servants around
to watch is just a try.

All, what this fertile land
can bring as foods,
and all the wine from overseas
are here with all the goods.

“Hey, Squires! I need someone,
to say a toast with my drink!
Hey, Squires, you Welsh hounds,
don’t you welcome the King?”

“I see here games, fish and delicacies
appealing to mouth and eyes,
But are all deep in their soul
devils all the knights?”

“You, Squires, disgraceful hounds!
Should not live long Edward?
Where’s a man, who recites my deeds,
where’s a Welshian bard?”

The guests, the nobles of Wales
look on each other and gaze,
the horror like rage turns pale
on their startled face.

No words, no sound,
no respiration heard,
when from behind, a grey Welsh bard
says a relieving word.

“Here is, King, a man”, says the aged,
“who’ll your deeds recite.”
Arms clatter, dying men rattle,
when he hits the harp.

“Arms clatter, dying men rattle,
sun sets in bloody seas,
beasts of the night gather to smell:
King, here are your deeds.

Slaughtered our folk lies
in pile, like shocks of wheat,
crying are those who search for lives:
King, here are your deeds!”

“Take him to stake! The song is rough!”
Cruelly orders Edward.
“We need a milder song today!”
And enters a younger bard.

“Soft evening breeze
raises from Milford Bay,
lament of virgins is mixed in it
and widows’ complaint.

Don’t give birth to slaves, virgin,
you, mother, don’t let them suck!”
And he arrived in time the stake
to catch up the first at the royal buck.

But here comes a brave
and uncalled a third,
new songs on his lute
and with hurting words.

“All the best died in battle
don’t you hear, Edward?
You shan’t find one, who prais’s
your name, not a one Welsh bard.

Their names still sound on the lute,
Listen, you Edward:
curse on your head are all the songs
sung by a Welsh bard.”

“That’s a lie!”, orders
the king, horribly to the guards:
to the stake, who’s against,
all the Welshian bards.

Servants rush over the land
with the order to carry.
So it happened the famous
repast of count Montgomery.

So, races King Edward of England
on his royal grey:
Stakes around him in Wales Province
and mourning all the day.

Five hundred Welsh bards went
singing into fire grave,
but none could shout, not at once,
“Long live Edward, the brave!”

“Hey, what’s this sound, this song
on London’s street tonight?
I’ll order the Lord Mayor hung,
if disturbed by any kind!”

“Silence, Sire, no rustle at all,
to rest went even the flies.”
“Who says a word”, the Lord Mayor says,
“immediately dies!”

“Hey, bring flute, lute and all
trumpets, loud instruments,
I still hear those cursing songs
from Montgomery’s nest!”

But over songs, flutes and drums
and alarming drums dingdong,
Five hundred sings aloud
the martyrs’ glory song.

(Translated by request of Dr. Eirug Davies from Hungarian by József Gyulai.)

The Welsh Bards

János Arany

Edward the king, the English king,
Bestride his tawny steed,
“For I will see if Wales,” said he,
“Accepts my rule indeed.

“Are stream and mountain fair to see?
Are meadow grasses good?
Do corn-lands bear a crop more rare
Since wash’d with rebel’s blood?

“And are the wretched people there,
Whose insolence I broke
As happy as the oxen are
Beneath the driver’s yoke?

“In truth this Wales, Sire, is a gem,
The fairest in your crown:
The stream and field rich harvest yield,
And fair and dale and down.

“And all the wretched people there
Are calm as man could crave;
Their hovels stand throughout the land
As silent as the grave.”

Edward the king, the English King
Bestrides his tawny steed;
A silence deep his subjects keep
And Wales is mute indeed.

The castle named Montgomery
Ends that day’s journeying;
The castle’s lord, Montgomery,
Must entertain the king.

Then game and fish and ev’ry dish
That lures the taste and sight
A hundred hurrying servants bear
To please the appetite.

With all of worth the isle brings forth
In dainty drink and food,
And all the wines of foreign vines
Beyond the distant flood.

“You lords, you lords, will none consent
His glass with mine to ring?
What? Each one fails, you dogs of Wales,
To toast the English king?

“Though game and fish and ev’ry dish
That lures the taste and sight
Your hand supplies, your mood defies
My person with a slight.

“You rascal lords, you dogs of Wales,
Will none for Edward cheer?
To serve my needs and chant my deeds
Then let a bard appear!”

The nobles gaze in fierce amaze,
Their cheeks grow deadly pale;
Not fear but rage their looks engage,
They blanch but do not quail.

All voices cease in soundless peace,
All breathe in silent pain;
Then at the door a harper hoar
Comes in with grave disdain:

“Lo, here I stand, at your command,
To chant your deeds, O king!”
And weapons clash and hauberks crash
Responsive to his string.

“Harsh weapons clash and hauberks crash,
And sunset sees us bleed,
The crow and wolf our dead engulf—
This, Edward, is your deed!

“A thousand lie beneath the sky,
They rot beneath the sun,
And we who live shall not forgive
This deed your hand hath done!”

“Now let him perish! I must have”
(The monarch’s voice is hard)
“Your softest songs, and not your wrongs!”
In steps a boyish bard:

“The breeze is soft at eve, that oft
From Milford Havens moans;
It whispers maidens’ stifled cries,
It breathes of widows’ groans.

“You maidens, bear no captive babes!
You mothers, rear them not!”
The fierce king nods. The lad is seiz’d
And hurried from the spot.

Unbidden then, among the men,
There comes a dauntless third
With speech of fire he tunes his lyre,
And bitter is his word:

“Our bravest died to slake your pride—
Proud Edward, hear my lays!
No Welsh bards live who e’er will give
Your name a song a praise.

“Our harps with dead men’s memories weep.
Welsh bards to you will sing
One changeless verse—our blackest curse
To blast your soul, O king!”

“No more! Enough!”—cries out the king.
In rage his orders break:
“Seek through these vales all bards of Wales
And burn them at the stake!”

His men ride forth to south and north,
They ride to west and east.
Thus ends in grim Montgomery
The celebrated feast.

Edward the king, the English king
Spurs on his tawny steed;
Across the skies red flames arise
As if Wales burned indeed.

In martyrship, with song on lip,
Five hundred Welsh bards died;
Not one was mov’d to say he lov’d
The tyrant in his pride.

“‘Ods blood! What songs this night resound
Upon our London streets?
The mayor shall feel my irate heel
If aught that sound repeats!

Each voice is hush’d; through silent lanes
To silent homes they creep.
“Now dies the hound that makes a sound;
The sick king cannot sleep.”

“Ha! Bring me fife and drum and horn,
And let the trumpet blare!
In ceaseless hum their curses come—
I see their dead eyes glare”

But high above all drum and fife
and trumpets’ shrill debate,
Five hundred martyr’d voices chant
Their hymn of deathless hate.

(Translated by Watson Kirkconnel)

  • Source: Kevin Moore’s Homepage
  • Published in Hungarian-Bouquet. Selected poems.—Editor-in chief: Leslie Konnyu. St. Louis, Miss. American Hungarian Review, 1984.

Уэльские барды

Янош Арань

Король английский Эдуард
Мчит на гнедом коне.
– Вот мой Уэльс! Он чем богат –
Узнать угодно мне!

Здесь много ль гор, лесов, озёр,
Богата ли земля?
И щедро ль кровь бунтовщиков
Удобрила поля?

И так ли счастлив нынче здесь
Мне богом данный люд,
Как этот вот рогатый скот,
Что пастухи пасут?

Не сомневайся, о король!
В короне не найдешь
Алмаза краше, чем Уэльс, –
Так этот край хорош!

А этот богом данный люд
Так счастлив, так он рад,
Что немы, как могилы, тут
Все хижины стоят.

И по владениям немым,
При мертвой тишине,
Король английский Эдуард
Мчит на гнедом коне.

Монтгомери звать замок тот …
Гостей созвать веля,
Его хозяин нынче ждет
На ужин короля.

Дичь, рыбу, много всяких блюд
На ужин подают,
Все, что прельстит глаза и рот,
Найдется нынче тут.

Все для гостей припасено,
Что Альбион родит,
И драгоценное вино,
Что за морем кипит.

Что ж, господа, за короля
Никто не поднял тост?
О, псы уэльские! Видать,
Вы не поджали хвост!

Я вижу рыбу, вижу дичь
И вас, о бунтари!
В любом из вас сидит сейчас
По дьяволу внутри!

Так не «да здравствует король»?
Не мил вам Эдуард?
Где тот, кто здравицу споет?
Сюда, уэльский бард!

И друг на друга не глядят
Все гости, побледнев,
Их лица исказил не страх,
Но величайший гнев.

Что отвечать? Кому начать?
Молчат… И наконец,
Как белый голубь, поднялся
Седой старик-певец.

«Спою я о тебе, король! –
Бард старый говорит. –
Струна гудит. Так сталь звенит,
Так раненый хрипит.

Так раненый хрипит… В крови
Здесь солнечный закат.
Летит на кровь ночная дичь,
Кто в этом виноват?

И много тысяч мертвых тел
Здесь как снопы лежат, –
И нищи те, кто уцелел, –
Ты в этом виноват!»

«Прочь! На костер иди, старик! –
Воскликнул Эдуард. –
Я песню нежную хочу!…»
… И входит новый бард.

«Вечерний нежный ветерок
С залива Мильфорд мчит,
Печальный голос дев и вдов
В том ветерке звучит …

Не хочет мать рабов рожать …»
Знак подал Эдуард –
И старца у костра догнать
Успел сей юный бард.

Но тут не прошен и не ждан,
Вдруг третий бард вошел.
По струнам ударяет он,
Такой звучит глагол:

«Товарищ честно пал в бою!
Послушай, Эдуард,
Споет вот так, как я пою,
Любой уэльский бард.

Погиб певец, но песнь живет!
Так знай же, Эдуард,
Проклятие тебе споет
Любой уэльский бард!»

«Посмотрим! – закричал король
И страшный дал приказ: –
Коль здесь таков певец любой,
Всех на костер тотчас!

Вас нужно, господа певцы,
Всех сжечь до одного!»
Такой в Монтгомери конец
Имело торжество.

Король английский Эдуард
Мчит на гнедом коне.
Вокруг него горит земля,
И небеса в огне.

Пятьсот певцов пошли в огонь,
Но ни единый бард
Того не спел, чего хотел
Услышать Эдуард.

«А что здесь, в Лондоне, поют?
Ха! Петь пришло на ум!
Лорд майор, я повешу вас,
Коль будет ночью шум!»

Немая тишь. Шум крыльев глух,
Кто зашумит – в петлю!
И вот все затаили дух:
«Не спится королю!»

«Нет! Музыки давайте мне,
Флейт, барабанов! Ах,
Певцов уэльских голоса
Звучат в моих ушах».

Но через рокот бубенцов,
Сквозь визг рожков и флейт
Пятьсот певцов, презревших смерть,
Гремели песню жертв!

1857

(Перевод Л. Мартынова)

Янош Арань
Портрет работы Миклоша Барабаша, 1848


Янош Арань (1817–1882) – выдающийся венгерский поэт.

Леонид Николаевич Мартынов
(1905–1980)
русский поэт
A költő mellszobra Szabó Tamás (*1952) szobrászművész alkotása

Bardi Cambrenses

Iohannis Arany

Eduardus, rex Britannicus,
eques vadit via.
«Quanti sit,» ait «hæc Cambriæ,
rogo, provincia.

Curritne, dic, et flumen hic?
Quæ pascua intuor?
Agrisque fusus profuit
rebellium cruor?

Gentemque simplicissimam
ita felicem putas,
ut postulo, vel ut iugo
boves subdunt iubas?»

«O domne mi, tu Cambriam
coronæ adamantem habes:
torrens, ager hic integer,
saltusque fertiles.

Gentemque simplicissimam
tam felicem puto!
Casas vides mutas – pares
sepulchro diruto.»

Eduardus, rex Britannicus,
eques vadit via;
nil percipit dum transiit,
silet provincia.

Montgomery vocatur arx:
pernoctat rex ibi.
Montgomery, comes loci,
parat cenam hospiti.

Pisces, feras quosque asseras
gustandos fructuum,
multæ domus portant manus,
visu ut sit arduum.

Quæ fercula hæc insula
complet potu, cibo;
quod trans fretum fervet merum,
dant more proprio.

«Comites, comites! nemo meæ
propinat gloriæ?
Comites, comites!… terræ canes!
Pereat rex Angliæ?

Pisces, feras et quam genas
gustanda sit caro,
hoc intuor; sed Belzebub
hic est omnis baro!

Comites, comites, nequam canes!
Pereat rex Angliæ?
Quæ gesserim nunc prædicent
poetæ Cambriæ!»

Conviva gens, bello potens
vir aspicit virum;
vultumque sic timor facit
ut ira pallidum.

Os desinit, vocem opprimit,
torpescit spiritus:
bardus senex ab ostio
surgit publicitus.

«Nunc, rex, adest, qui prædicet,»
inquit «quæ gesseris.»
Ferrum strepit, miles gemit
sonis ex asperis.

«Ferrum strepit, miles gemit,
cadit sol sanguini,
cruore confluunt feræ:
hæc gesta, rex, tibi!

In tot peremptis milibus
ut silva cædua
quod qærimus superstites,
hæc gesta, rex, tua!»

«Ferte ad rogum! Non flectitur.»
iubet rex Angliæ.
«Ha! lenius nobis canat
iuventus Cambriæ!»

«Ah! lenius flat Africus
Milfordis ad sinum,
viduarum luctu, lacrimis
repletur virginum.

Captivum ne, virgo, tibi
parias, nec nutrias!…»
Rex abnuit. Peregit is
flammis exsequias.

At non vocatus nec tremens
en prodit tertius;
quinam ipse sit, dum sic canit
fit certo certius:

«Audi necem fortis viri,
o rex Britanniæ:
te nemo tollet laudibus
bardorum Cambriæ.

Lyra hunc adhuc plorat memor,
o rex Britanniæ:
damnaris omni carmine
bardorum Cambriæ.»

«Videbimus!» Iubetque rex –
horrescit et cliens:
«Comburitor, qui non erit
fidicen obœdiens!»

Discurrit servorum cohors
per terram civium.
Hunt cepit in Montgomery
finem convivium.

Eduardus, rex Britannicus,
eques volat via;
passim ignibus flagrat polus,
ardet provincia.

Quingenti sunt usti magis
bardorum Cambriæ,
quam laudes ut semel canant
regis Britanniæ.

«Ha, ha! quid est?… quæ carmina
nocturna Londini?
Suspenditur, si quid strepit,
præfectus oppidi!»

Carent sonis intus, foris
muscæ; nihil fremit.
«Perdet caput qui non tacet!
Dormire rex velit.»

«Ha, ha! clamet vox fistulæ,
tubarum milium!
Detestatur me sæviens
illud convivium…»

Sed clarius cantu tubæ
cornuque quopiam
quingenti tristem martyrum
canunt symphoniam.

(Latine redditi Zoltano Rihmer interprete)

  • Historia quidem negante, fabulis tamen probantibus ducitur Eduardus I, rex Britanniæ subacta Cambria (1277) quingentos bardorum Cambrensium iussisse morte multari, ne priscam gentis gloriam carminibus celebrantes filios excitare possent ad excutiendum iugum Britannicum.