Gwaith Goronwy Owen Cyf II/The British Awen

← Twm Sion Twm

Gwaith Goronwy Owen Cyf II gan Goronwy Owen golygwyd gan Owen Morgan Edwards

Patriotism →

ATODIAD II.

(Wele rai sylwadau wedi eu pigo o lythyrau Goronwy Owen ar lenyddiaeth ei oes,—oes yr ymdrech rheng ysgol sur feirniadol goeg—ddysgedig Pope ac ysgol addfwyn naturiolach Addison, oes dechreu darganfod mawredd Milton, oes gwawr gyntaf y Cyfnod Rhamantaidd a'r Deffroad Cymreig.)

THE BRITISH AWEN.
[At Richard Morris, Chwef. 21, 1753]

WELSH has its own proper idioms as others have; and, consequently, when it is tied down to keep pace with another, it is strained and fettered, like David in Saul's armour; and like him, would prefer its own sling and stone— the meanest of weapons to being armed cap-à-pie in such armour as it has not proved and knows nothing of. Thus, with regard to translalations, it fares with all languages; but more especially where there is such a very great, I had almost said irreconcilable, difference between the proprieties and idioms of two languages, as confessedly there is between ours and the English. The difficulty, great as it is, is again doubly augmented, when our translation is required to be in verse. There, besides the usual difficulty of making what is a beautiful thought in the one appear like common sense in the other, we are tied to find out and range in order letters and syllables. What an exquisite nicety is required in this "literal" muster, if I may so call it, you very well know; so that it is sufficient for me only to mention it. Perhaps it were to be wished that the rules of poetry in our language were less nice and accurate; we should then undoubtedly have more writers, but perhaps fewer good ones. I would never wish to see our poetry reduced to the English standard; for I can see nothing in that to entitle it to the name of poetry, save the number of syllables which yet is never scrupulously observed, and a choice of uncommon, or, if you please, poetic words, and a wretched rhyme sometimes at the end, and in blank verse, which is the best kind of poetry in English, and no rhyme at all. Milton's "Paradise Lost" is a book I read with pleasure, nay, with admiration and rapture. Call it a great, sublime, nervous, or, if you please, a divine work, you will find me ready to subscribe to anything that can be said in praise of it, provided you do not call it poetry. Or if you do so, that you would likewise allow our "Bardd Cwsg" to take his seat amongst the poets. As English poetry is too loose, so ours is certainly too much confined and limited, not by the Cynghaneddau—for without them it would not be poetry—but by the length of verses, and poems too. Our longest lines do not exceed ten syllables, and have too scanty a space to contain anything great within the compass of six or seven stanzas, the usual length of the Gwawdodyn Byr; and our longest poems are not above sixty or seventy lines the standard measure of Dafydd ap Gwilym's Cywyddau, which is far from being a length adequate to a heroic poem. These, however, are difficulties that will never, I apprehend, be remedied. These models our wise forefathers left us; and these, I presume, they judged most agreeable to the genius of our nation and lan— guage. Some freedom and ease of composition. is, and always was, observed to be productive of happier effects than an over rigid and starched nicety. Thus the Greeks are much less confined as to quantities than the Romans. And not to detract from Virgil's deserved praise, I think Homer may justly be allowed a preference to him, almost in such a measure and proportion as an original writer is to a translator. The Romans had several words, even in their own language, that by reason of their quantities, could not possibly be put into verse. Thus Horace was at a loss to name the town Equotuticum, and was fain to describe it by a round about sort of a paraphrase. And Martial was hard put to it to name the favourite boy, Earinus, Domitian's valet. But, on the contrary, every harsh word sounded smooth in a Greek's mouth. They might sound,

"Ares, Ares,"

with an air, though they made the same syllable in the same word to be first long, and then, with the same breath, short. This Martial wittily observes of them, and at the same time as wittily laments the over—rigid severity of his own country's Muses:—

"Nobis non licet esse tam disertis
Musas qui colimus severiores."

But with all their severity, if Martial had been acquainted with the obstinate, coy, and in-compliant temper of our British Awen, he would certainly have taken the Roman Muses for a bevy of city courtezans. Besides, our Muse, by long disuse, has almost forgot to converse with princes—at least in the manner and language of the present times.