Welsh literature -- 18th century; Welsh literature -- Translations into English; Wynne, Ellis, 1671-1734
At that instant the huge bolt was whirled, and Lucifer and his chief
counsellors were swept away into the vortex of Uttermost Perdition; woe’s
me, how terrible it was to behold the jaws of Hell yawning wide to
receive them! “Come now,” said the Angel, “we will return, but what thou
hast seen is as nothing compared with all that is within the bounds of
Hell; and if thou didst see everything therein that again would be as
nought when compared with the unutterable woe of the Bottomless Pit; for
it is impossible to have any conception of the life in the Uttermost
Hell.” Then suddenly the heavenly Eagle caught me up into the vault of
the accursed gloom by a way I knew not, where, from the court, across the
entire firmament of dark-burning Perdition, and all the land of oblivion
up to the ramparts of the City of Destruction, I obtained full view of
the hideous monster of a giantess whose feet I had previously observed.
“Words fail me to describe her ways and means; but of herself I can tell
thee, that she was a three-faced ogress: one villainous face turned
towards Heaven, yelping and snarling and belching forth cursèd
abomination against the heavenly King; another face (and this was fair to
look upon) towards earth, to allure men beneath her baneful shadow; and
the other direful face towards the infernal abyss, to torture all therein
for ages without end. She is greater than the earth in its entirety, and
still continuously increases; she is a hundredfold more hideous than all
Hell which she herself created and which she peoples. If Hell were rid
of her, the vasty deep would be a Paradise; if she were driven from the
earth, the little world would become a heaven; and if she ascended into
Heaven, she would make an uttermost hell of that blissful realm. There
is nought in all the worlds which God has not created, save her alone.
She is the mother of the four deadly enchantresses; she is the mother of
Death and of all evil and misery, and her terrible grasp is upon every
living being. Her name is Sin. Blessed, ever blessed be he who escapes
from her clutches,” said the Angel. Thereupon he departed, and I could
hear the distant echo of his voice saying; “Write down what thou hast
seen; and whosoever readeth it thoughtfully will never repent.”
WITH HEAVY HEART.
With heavy heart I sought th’ infernal coast
And saw the vale of everlasting woes,
The awful home of fiends and of the lost
Where torments rage and never grant repose—
A lake of fire whence horrid flames arose
And whither tended every wayward path
Its prey to lead ’midst cruel dragon-foes;
Yet, though I wandered through withouten scath,
A world I’d spurn, to view again that scene of wrath.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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