Our old illustrious annals; who was taught
To lisp the fame of Arthur, to revere
Great Caratach's unconquer'd soul, and call
That gallant chief his countryman, who led
The wrath of Britain from her chalky shores
To drive the Roman robber. He who loves
His country, and who feels his country's shame;
Whose bones amid a land of servitude
Could never rest in peace; who if he saw
His children slaves, would feel a pang in Heaven,..
He mounts the bark, to seek for liberty.
Who seeks the better land? The wretched one Whose joys are blasted all, whose heart is sick, Who hath no hope, to whom all change is gain, To whom remember'd pleasures strike a pang That only guilt should know,..he mounts the bark, The Bard will mount the bark of banishment; The harp of Cambria shall in other lands Remind the Cambrian of his father's fame;.. The Bard will seek the land of liberty,
The world of peace... O Prince, receive the Bard!
He ceased the song. His cheek, now fever-flush'd
Was turn'd to Madoc, and his asking eye
Linger'd on him in hope: nor linger'd long
The look expectant; forward sprung the Prince,
And gave to Caradoc the right-hand pledge,
And for the comrade of his enterprize,
With joyful welcome, hail'd the joyful Bard.
Nor needed now the Searcher of the Sea
Announce his enterprize, by Caradoc
In song announced so well; from man to man
The busy murmur spread, while from the Stone
Of Covenant the sword was taken up,
And from the Circle of the Ceremony
The Bards went forth, their meeting now fulfill'd.
The multitude, unheeding all beside,
Of Madoc and his noble enterprize
Held stirring converse on their homeward way,
And spread abroad the tidings of a Land,
Where Plenty dwelt with Liberty and Peace.
So in the court of Powys pleasantly,
With hawk and hound afield, and harp in hall,
1 Rhys was one of the bravest, wisest, most liberal, and most celebrated of the princes of South Wales. He is thus praised in the Pentarchia :
"Quis queat heroem calamo describere tantum,
Quantus ut ipse fuit, modo civibus Hectoris instar,
Fortis in hostiles modo turmas instar Achillis.
Ultus avos patriæ fere sexaginta per annos,
Quot fusas acies, quot castra recepta, quot urbes,
Spes patriæ, columen pacis, lux urbis et orbis,
Gentis honos, decus armorum, fulmenque duelli,
Quo neque pace prior, neque fortior alter in armis."
In Hearne's Collection of Curious Discourses, are these
funeral verses upon Lord Rhys, as preserved by Camden :-
"Nobile Cambrensis cecidit diadema decoris,
Hoc est Rhesus obiit, Cambria tota gemit.
Subtrahitur, sed non moritur, quia semper habetur
Ipsius egregium nomen in orbe novum.
The days went by; till Madoc, for his heart
Was with Cadwallon, and in early spring
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
Who set a price upon his father's head,
Had knelt in homage to that Saxon king,
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.
Musing on thoughts like these did Madoc roam
Alone along the Towy's winding shore.
The beavers 2 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
Were left; and round the piles, which, deeper driven,
Still held their place, the eddying waters whirl'd.
Now in those habitations desolate
One sole survivor dwelt: him Madoc saw,
Labouring 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 burthen. 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 odour of the autumnal leaves; . .
All sights and sounds of sadness. . . And the place
To that despondent mood was ministrant;..
Hic tegitur, sed detegitur, quia fama perennis Non sinit illustrem voce latere ducem. Excessit probitate modum, sensu probitatem, Eloquio sensum, moribus eloquium."
Rhys ap Griffith, say the Chronicles, was no less remarkable in courage, than in the stature and lineaments of his body, wherein he exceeded most men.-Royal Tribes.
2 When Giraldus Cambrensis wrote, that is, at the time whereof the poem treats, the only Beavers remaining in Wales or England were in the Towy. "Inter universos Cambriæ, seu etiam Loegriæ fluvios, solus hic (Teivi) castores habet."
The Beaver is mentioned also in the laws of Hoel Dha, and one of those dark deep resting-places or pits of the river Conway, which the Spaniards call the remansos del rio, is called the Beavers' pool.
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.
O my brother! Ririd cried,
Long, very long it is since I have heard
The voice of kindness!.. Let me go with thee!
I am a wanderer in my father's land,..
Hoel he kill'd, and Yorwerth hath he slain;
Llewelyn hath not where to hide his head
In his own kingdom; Rodri is in chains;..
Let me go with thee, Madoc, to some land
Where I may look upon the sun, nor dread
The light that may betray me; where at night
I may not, like a hunted beast, rouse up,
If the leaves rustle over me.
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,
And to his Saxon yoke!.. I urged him thus,
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; ..
The good old Rhys will bid thee welcome there,
And the great Palace, like a sanctuary,
Is safe. 1 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,
1 Dinas Vawr, the Great Palace. It was regarded as an asylum.
2 Properly Gwgan; but I have adapted the orthography to an English eye. This very characteristic story is to be found as narrated in the poem, in Mr. Yorke's curious work upon the Royal Tribes of Wales. Gwgan's demand was for five pounds, instead of ten marks; this is the only liberty I have taken with the fact, except that of fitting it to the business of
I know that here the persecuted son Of Owen will be safe.
The old warrior cried; by his good father's soul,
He is a welcome guest at Dinevawr!
And rising as he spake, he pledged his hand
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, commixt 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 honour'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 havoc 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, 2
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 honour, so, in David's name,
Am I to thank the Lord of Dinevawr.
Tell on quoth Rhys, the purport and the cause Of this appeal? Of late, some fugitives
the poem, by the last part of Rhys's reply. The ill humour in which the Lord of Dinvawr confesses the messenger had surprised him, is mentioned more bluntly by the historian. "Gwgan found him in a furious temper, beating his servants and hanging his dogs." I have not lost the character of the anecdote, by relating the cause of his anger, instead of the effects.
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.
Hereby, King David swore he would not rest
Till he had put the question to the proof,
Whether with liberal honour 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.
Well! quoth the Chief, Goagan of Powys-land, This honourable welcome that thou seekest Wherein may it consist?
Goagan of Powys-land replied, a horse
Better than mine, to bear me home; a suit
Of seemly raiment, and ten marks in coin,
With raiment and two marks for him who leads
My horse's bridle.
Who sent thee, thou shalt have the noblest steed
In all my studs, . . I double thee the marks,
And give the raiment threefold. More than this,..
Say thou to David, that the guests who sit
At board with me, and drink of my own cup,
Are Madoc and Lord Ririd. Tell the King,
That thus it is Lord Rhys of Dinevawr
Delighteth to do honour to the sons
Of Owen, of his old and honour'd friend.
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 grey hairs
Are to the grave gone down; but oftentimes
1 "A large tract of fenny country, called Cantrev y Gwaelod, the Lowland Canton, was, about the year 500, inundated by the sea; for Seithenyn, in a fit of drunkenness, let the sea through the dams which secured it. He is therefore distinguished with Geraint and Gwrtheyrn, under the appellation of the Three arrant Drunkards. This district, which forms the present Cardigan Bay, contained sixteen principal towns of the Cymry, the inhabitants of which, who survived the inundation, fled into the mountainous parts of Meirion and Arvon, which were till then nearly uncultivated. Gwyddno Garanhir, one of the petty Princes, whose territories were thas destroyed, was a poet. There were lately (and I believe, says Edmund Williams, are still) to be seen in the sands of this bay large stones with inscriptions on them, the characters Roman, but the language unknown."— E. Williams's Poems. - Cambrian Biography.
"The two other arrant Drunkards were both Princes; the
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 !
A moment ere he answer'd, as for pain;
Then shaking his hoar head, I never yet
Gave thee this hand unwillingly before!
When for a guest I spread the board, my heart
Will think on him, whom ever with most joy
It leapt 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!
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
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
one set fire to the standing corn in his country, and so occasioned a famine; Gwrtheyrn, the other, is the Vortigern of Saxon history, thus distinguished for ceding the Isle of Thanet in his drunkenness, as the price of Rowena. This worthless King is also recorded as one of the Three disgraceful men of the Island, and one of the Three treacherous conspirators, whose families were for ever divested of privilege." - Cambrian Biography.
2"This little island," says Giraldus, "is inhabited by certain monks of exceeding piety, whom they call Culdees (Calibes vel Colideos). This wonderful property it hath, either from the salubrity of its air, which it partakes with the shores of Ireland, or rather from some miracle by reason of the merits of the Saints, that diseases are rarely known there, and seldom or never does any one die till worn out by old age. Infinite numbers of Saints are buried there."
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 drest:
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 grey brotherhood
Chaunted 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 colouring,
The aweful 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, therewith 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 odours 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,
"The coracles are generally five feet and a half long and four broad, their bottom is a little rounded, and their shape
Their voices in one chorus, loud and deep,
Rung through the echoing aisles; and when it 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 I
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.
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 honour 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 sate; and when the quire was done,
Renew'd their converse till the vesper bell.
Sprung to the glad embrace.
O my brave boy! Llewelyn my dear boy! with stifled voice, And interrupted utterance, Madoc cried; And many times he claspt 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 Cyveiloc give
A kinsman's welcome; or at Dinevawr,
The guest of honour shouldst thou be with Rhys;
And he belike from David might obtain
Some recompence, though poor.
What recompence ?
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
My childhood found from thee!.. What hopes I 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.
raw hide or strong canvass, pitched in such a mode as to prevent their leaking; a seat crosses just above the centre, towards the broader end; they seldom weigh more than between 20 and 30 pounds. The men paddle them with one hand while they fish with the other, and when their work is completed, they throw the coracles over their shoulders, and without difficulty return with them home.
"Riding through Abergwilly we saw several of these phanomena resting with their bottoms upwards against the houses, and resembling the shells of so many enormous turtles; and indeed a traveller, at the first view of a coracle on the shoulders of a fisherman, might fancy he saw a tortoise walking on his hinder legs.”— Windham.
Andrew Marvell, in his poem called "Appleton House," describes the coracle as then used in Yorkshire:
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 nurst among them; They saw my sports in childhood, they have seen My sorrows, they have saved me in the hour Of danger; . . I have vow'd, that as they were My cradle, they shall be my monument!.. But we shall meet again, and thou wilt find me, When next thou visitest thy native Isle, King in Aberfraw!
Madoc replied, shall I behold the shores
Of Britain, nor will ever tale of me
Reach the Green Isle again. With fearful care
I chuse my little company, and leave
No traces of our path, where Violence,
And bloody Zeal, and bloodier Avarice
Might find their blasting way.
And wise is thy resolve, the youth replied,
Thou wilt not know my fate; .. but this be sure,
It shall not be inglorious. I have in me
A hope from Heaven... Give me thy blessing, Uncle!
Llewelyn, kneeling on the sand, embraced His knees, with lifted head and streaming eyes Listening. He rose, and fell on Madoc's neck, And clasp'd him, with a silent agony,.. Then launch'd his coracle, and took his way, A lonely traveller on the moonlight sea.
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,
By a grey mountain-stream; just elevate
"And now the salmon-fishers moist
Their leathern boats begin to hoist;
And, like Antipodes in shoes,
Have shod their heads in their canoes.
How Tortoise-like, but not so slow
These rational amphibii go!
Let's in; for the dark hemisphere
Does now like one of them appear."
The Saxon pirates ventured to sea in vessels of basketwork covered with skins: they were used also by the ancient Spaniards; perhaps the coracle succeeded the canoe, implying more skill than is necessary to scoop out a tree, or hollow it with fire, and less than is required to build a boat. The boats of bark which the savages of Canada use are equally ingenious, and possess the same advantages.
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