The Sleeping Bard | Page 2

idea of the torments to which the guilty
are subjected in a future state.
Whether Elis Wyn had ever read the Visions of Quevedo in their
original language, it is impossible to say; the probability however is,
that he was acquainted with them through the medium of an English
translation, which was published in London about the beginning of the
eighteenth century; of the merits of that translation the present writer
can say nothing, as it has never come to his hand: he cannot however
help observing, that a person who would translate the Visions of
Quevedo, and certain other writings of his, should be something more
than a fair Spanish scholar, and a good master of the language into
which he would render them, as they abound not only with idiomatic
phrases, but terms of cant or Germania, which are as unintelligible as
Greek or Arabic to the greater part of the Spaniards themselves.

The following translation of the Sleeping Bard has long existed in
manuscript. It was made by the writer of these lines in the year 1830, at
the request of a little Welsh bookseller of his acquaintance, who resided
in the rather unfashionable neighbourhood of Smithfield, and who
entertained an opinion that a translation of the work of Elis Wyn,
would enjoy a great sale both in England and Wales. On the eve of
committing it to the press however, the Cambrian Briton felt his small
heart give way within him: "Were I to print it," said he, "I should be
ruined; the terrible descriptions of vice and torment, would frighten the
genteel part of the English public out of its wits, and I should to a
certainty be prosecuted by Sir James Scarlett. I am much obliged to you,
for the trouble you have given yourself on my account--but Myn Diawl!
I had no idea till I had read him in English, that Elis Wyn had been
such a terrible fellow."
Yet there is no harm in the book. It is true that the Author is any thing
but mincing in his expressions and descriptions, but there is nothing in
the Sleeping Bard which can give offence to any but the over fastidious.
There is a great deal of squeamish nonsense in the world; let us hope
however that there is not so much as there was. Indeed can we doubt
that such folly is on the decline, when we find Albemarle Street in '60,
willing to publish a harmless but plain speaking book which Smithfield
shrank from in '30?
The Vision of the Course of the World.
One fine evening of warm sunny summer, I took a stroll to the top of
one of the mountains of Wales, carrying with me a telescope to assist
my feeble sight by bringing distant objects near, and magnifying small
ones. Through the thin, clear air, and the calm and luminous heat, I saw
many delightful prospects afar across the Irish sea. At length, after
feasting my eyes on all the pleasant objects around me, until the sun
had reached his goal in the west, I lay down upon the green grass,
reflecting, how fair and enchanting, from my own country, the
countries appeared whose plains my eyes had glanced over, how
delightful it would be to obtain a full view of them, and how happy
those were who saw the course of the world in comparison with me:

weariness was the result of all this toiling with my eyes and my
imagination, and in the shadow of Weariness, _Mr. Sleep_ came
stealthily to enthrall me, who with his keys of lead, locked the windows
of my eyes, and all my other senses securely. But it was in vain for him
to endeavour to lock up the soul, which can live and toil independently
of the body, for my spirit escaped out of the locked body upon the
wings of Fancy, and the first thing which I saw by the side of me was a
dancing ring, and a kind of rabble in green petticoats and red caps
dancing away with the most furious eagerness. I stood for a time in
perplexity whether I should go to them or not, because in my flurry I
feared they were a gang of hungry gipsies, and that they would do
nothing less than slaughter me for their supper, and swallow me
without salt: but after gazing upon them for some time, I could see that
they were better and handsomer than the swarthy, lying Egyptian race.
So I ventured to approach them, but very softly, like a hen treading
upon hot embers, that I might learn who they were; and at length I took
the liberty of addressing them in this guise, with my head and back
lowered horizontally: "Fair assembly, as