The Poetical Works of Robert Southey

Last of the aspirants, as of greener years,
Young Caradoc advanced; his lip as yet
Scarce darken'd with its down, his flaxen locks
Wreathed in contracting ringlets waving low;
Bright were his large blue eyes, and kindled now
With that same passion that inflamed his cheek;
Yet in his cheek there was the sickliness
Which thought and feeling leave, wearing away
The hue of youth. Inclining on his harp,
He, while his comrades in probation song
Approved their claim, stood hearkening, as it
And yet like unintelligible sounds [seem'd,

He heard the symphony and voice attuned;
Even in such feelings as, all undefined,
Come with the flow of waters to the soul,
Or with the motions of the moonlight sky.
But when his bidding came, he, at the call
Arising from that dreamy mood, advanced,
Threw back his mantle, and began the lay.

Where are the sons of Gavran? where his tribe The faithful? Following their beloved Chief, They the Green Islands of the Ocean sought; Nor human tongue hath told, nor human ear, Since from the silver shores they went their way, Hath heard their fortunes. In his crystal Ark, Whither sail'd Merlin with his band of Bards, Old Merlin, master of the mystic lore? Belike his crystal Ark, instinct with life, Obedient to the mighty Master, reach'd The land of the Departed; there, belike, They in the clime of immortality, Themselves immortal, drink the gales of bliss, Which o'er Flathinnis breathe eternal spring, Blending whatever odors make the gale Of evening sweet, whatever melody [halls, Charms the wood-traveller. In their high-roof'd There, with the Chiefs of other days, feel they The mingled joy pervade them? - Or beneath The mid-sea waters, did that crystal Ark Down to the secret depths of Ocean plunge Its fated crew? Dwell they in coral bowers With Mermaid loves, teaching their paramours The songs that stir the sea, or make the winds Hush, and the waves be still? In fields of joy Have they their home, where central fires maintain Perpetual summer, and an emerald light Pervades the green translucent element?

Twice have the sons of Britain left her shores, As the fledged eaglets quit their native nest; Twice over ocean have her fearless sons

Forever sail'd away. Again they launch

Their vessels to the deep. Who mounts the bark? Was with Cadwallon, and in early spring

The son of Owen, the beloved Prince,
Who never for injustice rear'd his arm.
Respect his enterprise, ye Ocean Waves!

Ye Winds of Heaven, waft Madoc on his way!
The Waves of Ocean, and the Winds of Heaven,
Became his ministers, and Madoc found
The World he sought.

Who seeks the better land?
Who mounts the vessel for a world of peace?
He who hath felt the throb of pride, to hear
Our old illustrious annals; who was taught

Must he set forth to join him over-sea,
Took his constrain'd farewell. To Dinevawr
He bent his way, whence many a time with Rhys
Had he gone forth to smite the Saxon foe.
The Son of Owen greets his father's friend
With reverential joy; nor did the Lord
Of Dinevawr with cold or deaden'd heart
Welcome the Prince he loved; though not with joy
Unmingled now, nor the proud consciousness
Which in the man of tried and approved worth
Could bid an equal hail. Henry had seen

The Lord of Dinevawr between his knees
Vow homage; yea, the Lord of Dinevawr
Had knelt in homage to that Saxon king,
Who set a price upon his father's head,
That Saxon, on whose soul his mother's blood
Cried out for vengeance. Madoc saw the shame
Which Rhys would fain have hidden, and, in grief
For the degenerate land, rejoiced at heart
That now another country was his home.

I may not, like a hunted beast, rouse up,
If the leaves rustle over me.

The Lord

Of Ocean struggled with his swelling heart.
Let me go with thee? - but thou didst not doubt
Thy brother? - Let thee go? - with what a joy,
Ririd, would I collect the remnant left,
The wretched remnant now of Owen's house,
And mount the bark of willing banishment,
And leave the tyrant to his Saxon friends,

Musing on thoughts like these, did Madoc roam And to his Saxon yoke !— I urged him thus,
Alone along the Towy's winding shore.
The beavers in its bank had hollow'd out

Their social place of dwelling, and had damm'd
The summer-current, with their perfect art
Of instinct, erring not in means nor end.
But as the floods of spring had broken down
Their barrier, so its breaches unrepair'd

Curb'd down my angry spirit, and besought
Only that I might bid our brethren come,
And share my exile; - and he spurn'd my prayer!
Thou hast a gentle pleader at his court;
She may prevail; till then abide thou here; -
But not in this, the garb of fear and guilt.
Come thou to Dinevawr, - assume thyself;-

Were left; and round the piles, which, deeper The good old Rhys will bid thee welcome there, driven,

Still held their place, the eddying waters whirl'd.
Now in those habitations desolate
One sole survivor dwelt: him Madoc saw,
Laboring alone, beside his hermit house;
And in that mood of melancholy thought, —
For in his boyhood he had loved to watch
Their social work, and for he knew that man
In bloody sport had well-nigh rooted out
The poor community, — the ominous sight
Became a grief and burden. Eve came on;
The dry leaves rustled to the wind, and fell
And floated on the stream; there was no voice
Save of the mournful rooks, who overhead
Wing'd their long line; for fragrance of sweet
flowers,

Only the odor of the autumnal leaves; ·

And the great Palace, like a sanctuary,

Is safe. If then Queen Emma's plea should fail,
My timely bidding hence shall summon thee,
When I shall spread the sail. - Nay, hast thou
learnt

Suspicion?-Rhys is noble, and no deed
Of treachery ever sullied his fair fame!

Madoc then led his brother to the hall
Of Rhys. I bring to thee a supplicant,
O King, he cried; thou wert my father's friend!
And till our barks be ready in the spring,

I know that here the persecuted son
Of Owen will be safe.

A welcome guest!

The old warrior cried; by his good father's soul,
He is a welcome guest at Dinevawr!

All sights and sounds of sadness- And the place And rising as he spake, he pledged his hand

To that despondent mood was ministrant;
Among the hills of Gwyneth, and its wilds,
And mountain glens, perforce he cherish'd still
The hope of mountain liberty; they braced
And knit the heart and arm of hardihood ; ·
But here, in these green meads, by these low slopes
And hanging groves, attemper'd to the scene,
His spirit yielded. As he loiter'd on,
There came toward him one in peasant garb,
And call'd his name; - he started at the sound,
For he had heeded not the man's approach;
And now that sudden and familiar voice
Came on him, like a vision. So he stood
Gazing, and knew him not in the dim light,
Till he again cried, Madoc ! — then he woke,
And knew the voice of Ririd, and sprang on,
And fell upon his neck, and wept for joy
And sorrow.

In hospitality. How now! quoth he;
This raiment ill beseems the princely son
Of Owen-Ririd at his words was led
Apart; they wash'd his feet; they gave to him
Fine linen, as beseem'd his royal race,
The tunic of soft texture woven well,
The broider'd girdle, the broad mantle edged
With fur and flowing low, the bonnet last,
Form'd of some forest martin's costly spoils.
The Lord of Dinevawr sat at the dice
With Madoc, when he saw him, thus array'd,
Returning to the hall. Ay! this is well!
The noble Chief exclaim'd; 'tis as of yore,
When in Aberfraw, at his father's board,
We sat together, after we had won
Peace and rejoicing with our own right hands,
By Corwen, where, commix'd with Saxon blood,
Along its rocky channel the dark Dee
Roll'd darker waters. Would that all his house
Had, in their day of trouble, thought of me,
And honor'd me like this! David respects
Deheubarth's strength, nor would respect it less,
When such protection leagued its cause with
Heaven.

I had forgot his messenger! quoth he,
Arising from the dice. Go, bid him here!
He came this morning at an ill-starr'd hour,

To Madoc he pursued; my lazy grooms

Had let the hounds play havock in my flock,
And my old blood was chafed. I' faith, the King
Hath chosen well his messenger: - he saw
That, in such mood, I might have render'd him
A hot and hasty answer, and hath waited,
Perhaps to David's service and to mine,
My better leisure.

Now the Messenger
Enter'd the hall; Goagan of Powys-land,
He of Caer-Einion was it, who was charged
From Gwyneth to Deheubarth- -a brave man,
Of copious speech. He told the royal son
Of Gryffidd, the descendant of the line
Of Rhys-ab-Tudyr mawr, that he came there
From David, son of Owen, of the stock
Of kingly Cynan. I am sent, said he,
With friendly greeting; and as I receive
Welcome and honor, so, in David's name,
Am I to thank the Lord of Dinevawr.

XIII.

LLEWELYN.

FAREWELL, my brother, cried the Ocean Chief;
A little while farewell! as through the gate
Of Dinevawr he pass'd, to pass again
That hospitable threshold never more.

And thou too, O thou good old man, true friend
Of Owen, and of Owen's house, farewell!
"Twill not be told me, Rhys, when thy gray hairs
Are to the grave gone down; but oftentimes
In the distant world I shall remember thee,
And think that, come thy summons when it may,
Thou wilt not leave a braver man behind.
Now God be with thee, Rhys!

The old Chief paused

A moment ere he answer'd, as for pain;
Then shaking his hoar head, I never yet
Gave thee this hand unwillingly before!

Tell on! quoth Rhys, the purport and the cause When for a guest I spread the board, my heart Of this appeal.

Of late, some fugitives

Came from the South to Mona, whom the King
Received with generous welcome. Some there

were

Who blamed his royal goodness; for they said,
These were the subjects of a rival Prince,
Who, peradventure, would with no such bounty
Cherish a northern suppliant. This they urged,
I know not if from memory of old feuds,
Better forgotten, or in envy. Moved
Hereby, King David swore he would not rest
Till he had put the question to the proof,
Whether with liberal honor the lord Rhys
Would greet his messenger; but none was found
Of all who had instill'd that evil doubt,
Ready to bear the embassy: I heard it,
And did my person tender, for I knew
The nature of Lord Rhys of Dinevawr.

Will think on him, whom ever with most joy
It leap'd to welcome: should I lift again
The spear against the Saxon,- for old Rhys
Hath that within him yet, that could uplift
The Cimbric spear, I then shall wish his aid,
Who oft has conquer'd with me: when I kneel
In prayer to Heaven, an old man's prayer shall beg
A blessing on thee!
Madoc answer'd not,
But press'd his hand in silence, then sprang up
And spurr'd his courser on. A weary way,
Through forest and o'er fell, Prince Madoc rode;
And now he skirts the bay whose reckless waves
Roll o'er the plain of Gwaelod : fair fields,
And busy towns, and happy villages,
They overwhelm'd in one disastrous day;
For they by their eternal siege had sapp'd
The bulwark of the land, while Seithenyn
Took of his charge no thought, till, in his sloth
And riotous cups surprised, he saw the waves

Well! quoth the Chief, Goagan of Powys- Roll like an army o'er the levell'd mound.

A supplicant in other courts, he mourn'd
His crime and ruin; in another's court
The kingly harp of Garanhir was heard,

Wailing his kingdom wreck'd; and many a Prince,
Warn'd by the visitation, sought and gain'd
A saintly crown-Tyneio, Merini,
Boda, and Brenda, and Aëlgyvarch,
Gwynon, and Celynin, and Gwynodyl.

To Bardsey was the Lord of Ocean bound-
Bardsey, the holy Islet, in whose soil
Did many a Chief and many a Saint repose,
His great progenitors. He mounts the skiff;
Her canvass swells before the breeze; the sea
Sings round her sparkling keel; and soon the Lord
Of Ocean treads the venerable shore.

There was not, on that day, a speck to stain
The azure heaven; the blessed Sun alone,
In unapproachable divinity,

Career'd, rejoicing in his fields of light.
How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky,

The billows heave! one glowing green expanse,
Save where along the bending line of shore
Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck
Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst,
Embathed in emerald glory. All the flocks
Of Ocean are abroad; like floating foam,
The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves;
With long, protruded neck, the cormorants
Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round
The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy.
It was a day that sent into the heart

A summer feeling: even the insect swarms
From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth,
To sport through one day of existence more;
The solitary primrose on the bank

Seem'd now as though it had no cause to mourn
Its bleak autumnal birth; the Rocks, and Shores,
The Forest, and the everlasting Hills,
Smiled in that joyful sunshine,—they partook
The universal blessing.
To this Isle,

Where his forefathers were to dust consign'd,
Did Madoc come for natural piety,
Ordering a solemn service for their souls.
Therefore for this the Church that day was dress'd:
For this the Abbot, in his alb arrayed,
At the high altar stood; for this infused,
Sweet incense from the waving thuribule
Rose like a mist, and the gray brotherhood
Chanted the solemn mass. And now on high
The mighty Mystery had been elevate,
And now around the graves the brethren
In long array proceed: each in his hand,
Tall as the staff of some wayfaring man,
Bears the brown taper, with their daylight flames
Dimming the cheerful day. Before the train
The Cross is borne, where, fashion'd to the life
In shape, and size, and ghastly coloring,
The awful Image hangs. Next, in its shrine
Of gold and crystal, by the Abbot held,
The mighty Mystery came; on either hand
Three Monks uphold above, on silver wands,
The purple pall. With holy water next
A father went, there with from hyssop branch
Sprinkling the graves; the while, with one accord,
The solemn psalm of mercy all entoned.

Pure was the faith of Madoc, though his mind To all this pomp and solemn circumstance Yielded a willing homage. But the place Was holy;-the dead air, which underneath Those arches never felt the healthy sun, Nor the free motion of the elements, Chilly and damp, infused associate awe: The sacred odors of the incense still Floated; the daylight and the taper-flames Commingled, dimming each, and each bedimm'd; And as the slow procession paced along, Still to their hymn, as if in symphony, The regular foot-fall sounded: swelling now, Their voices, in one chorus, loud and deep, Rung through the echoing aisles; and when ceased,

The silence of that huge and sacred pile

Came on the heart. What wonder if the Prince

Yielded his homage there? The influences
Of that sweet autumn day made every sense
Alive to every impulse, and beneath
The stones whereon he stood, his ancestors
Were mouldering, dust to dust. Father! quoth he,
When now the rites were ended,
- far away
It hath been Madoc's lot to pitch his tent
On other shores; there, in a foreign land,
Far from my father's burial-place, must 1
Be laid to rest; yet would I have my name
Be held with theirs in memory. I beseech you,
Have this a yearly rite for evermore,

As I will leave endowment for the same,
And let me be remember'd in the prayer.
The day shall be a holy day with me,
While I do live; they who come after me,
Will hold it holy; it will be a bond
Of love and brotherhood, when all beside
Hath been dissolved; and though wide ocean rolls
Between my people and their mother Isle,
This shall be their communion; They shall send,
Link'd in one sacred feeling at one hour,
In the same language, the same prayer to Heaven,
And, each remembering each in piety,
Pray for the other's welfare.

The old man

Partook that feeling, and some pious tears
Fell down his aged cheek. Kinsman and son,
It shall be so! said he; and thou shalt be
Remember'd in the prayer: nor then alone;
But till my sinking sands be quite run out,
This feeble voice shall, from its solitude,
Go up for thee to Heaven!

And now the bell
Rung out its cheerful summons; to the hall,
In seemly order, pass the brotherhood:
The serving-men wait with the ready ewer;
The place of honor to the Prince is given,
The Abbot's right-hand guest; the viands smoke,
The horn of ale goes round: and now, the cates
Removed, for days of festival reserved
Comes choicer beverage, clary, hippocras,
And mead mature, that to the goblet's brim
Sparkles, and sings, and smiles. It was a day
Of that allowable and temperate mirth
Which leaves a joy for memory. Madoc told
His tale; and thus, with question and reply,
And cheerful intercourse, from noon till nones
The brethren sat; and when the quire was done,
Renew'd their converse till the vesper bell.

But then the Porter called Prince Madoc out,
To speak with one, he said, who from the land
Had sought him and required his private ear.
Madoc in the moonlight met him: in his hand
The stripling held an oar, and on his back,
Like a broad shield, the coracle was hung.
Uncle he cried, and with a gush of tears,
Sprung to the glad embrace.

O my brave boy! Llewelyn! my dear boy! with stifled voice, it And interrupted utterance, Madoc cried;

And many times he clasp'd him to his breast,
And many times drew back and gazed upon him,
Wiping the tears away which dimm'd the sight,

And told him how his heart had yearn'd for him, As with a father's love, and bade him now Forsake his lonely haunts, and come with him, And sail beyond the seas, and share his fate.

No! by my God! the high-hearted youth replied, It never shall be said Llewelyn left

His father's murderer on his father's throne!
I am the rightful king of this poor land.
Go thou, and wisely go; but I must stay,
That I may save my people. Tell me, Uncle,
The story of thy fortunes; I can hear it
Here in this lonely Isle, and at this hour,
Securely.

Nay, quoth Madoc, tell me first
Where are thy haunts and coverts, and what hope
Thou hast to bear thee up? Why goest thou not
To thy dear father's friend in Powys-land?
There at Mathraval would Cyveilioc give
A kinsman's welcome; or at Dinevawr,
The guest of honor shouldst thou be with Rhys;
And he belike from David might obtain
Some recompense, though poor.

What recompense? Exclaim'd Llewelyn; what hath he to give, But life for life? and what have I to claim But vengeance, and my father Yorwerth's throne? If with aught short of this my soul could rest, Would I not through the wide world follow thee, Dear Uncle! and fare with thee, well or ill, And show to thine old age the tenderness

Now hath Prince Madoc left the holy Isle,
And homeward to Aberfraw, through the wilds
Of Arvon, bent his course.
A little way
He turn'd aside, by natural impulses
Moved, to behold Cadwallon's lonely hut.
That lonely dwelling stood among the hills,

My childhood found from thee! - What hopes I By a gray mountain-stream; just elevate

have

Let time display. Have thou no fear for me!
My bed is made within the ocean caves,
Of sea-weeds, bleach'd by many a sun and shower;
I know the mountain dens, and every hold
And fastness of the forest; and I know,—
What troubles him by day and in his dreams, -
There's many an honest heart in Gwyneth yet!
But tell me thine adventure; that will be
A joy to think of in long winter nights,
When stormy billows make my lullaby.

So as they walk'd along the moonlight shore, Did Madoc tell him all; and still he strove, By dwelling on that noble end and aim, That of his actions was the heart and life, To win him to his wish. It touch'd the youth; And when the Prince had ceased, he heaved a sigh, Long-drawn and deep, as if regret were there. No, no! he cried, it must not be! lo, yonder My native mountains, and how beautiful They rest in the moonlight! I was nurs'd among them;

They saw my sports in childhood, they have seen My sorrows, they have saved me in the hour

Above the winter torrents did it stand,
Upon a craggy bank; an orchard slope
Arose behind, and joyous was the scene
In early summer, when those antic trees
Shone with their blushing blossoms, and the flax
Twinkled beneath the breeze its liveliest green.
But save the flax-field and that orchard slope,
All else was desolate; and now it wore
One sober hue; the narrow vale, which wound
Among the hills, was gray with rocks, that peer'd
Above its shallow soil; the mountain side
Was loose with stones bestrown, which oftentimes
Clattered adown the steep, beneath the foot
Of straggling goat dislodged; or tower'd with crags,
One day when winter's work hath loosen'd them,
To thunder down. All things assorted well
With that gray mountain hue; the low stone lines,
| Which scarcely seem'd to be the work of man,
The dwelling rudely rear'd with stones unhewn,
The stubble flax, the crooked apple-trees
Gray with their fleecy moss and mistletoe,
The white-bark'd birch, now leafless, and the ash,
Whose knotted roots were like the rifted rock,
Through which they forced their way. Adown the
vale,

Broken by stones, and o'er a stony bed,
Roll'd the loud mountain-stream.

When Madoc came,

A little child was sporting by the brook,
Floating the fallen leaves, that he might see them
Whirl in the eddy now, and now be driven
Down the descent, now on the smoother stream
Sail onward far away. But when he heard

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