Often I grieved,

To think the son of Hoel should grow up
In this unworthy state of poverty;

Till Time, who softens all regrets, had worn
That vain regret away, and I became
Humbly resign'd to God's unerring will.
To him I look'd for healing, and he pour'd
His balm into my wounds. I never form'd
Ꭺ prayer for more, and lo! the happiness
Which he hath, of his mercy, sent me now!

XV.

THE EXCOMMUNICATION.

ON Madoc's docile courser Llaian sits,
Holding her joyful boy; the Prince beside
Paces afoot, and like a gentle Squire

Leads her loose bridle; from the saddle-bow
His shield and helmet hang, and with the lance,
Staff-like, he stay'd his steps.
Before the sun
Had climb'd his southern eminence, they left
The mountain-feet; and hard by Bangor now,
Travelling the plain before them they espy
A lordly cavalcade, for so it seem'd,

Of knights, with hawk in hand and hounds in leash,
Squires, pages, serving-men, and armed grooms,
And many a sumpter-beast and laden wain,
Far following in their rear. The bravery

Of glittering bauldricks and of high-plumed crests,
Embroider'd surcoats and emblazon'd shields,
And lances whose long streamers play'd aloft,
Made a rare pageant, as with sound of trump,
Tambour and cittern, proudly they went on;
And ever, at the foot-fall of their steeds,
The tinkling horse-bells, in rude symphony,
Accorded with the joy.

VOL. V.

What have we here?

Quoth Madoc then to one who stood beside
The threshold of his osier-woven hut.

'Tis the great Saxon Prelate, he return'd,
Come hither for some end, I wis not what,

Only be sure no good!.. How stands the tide ?
Said Madoc ; can we pass?.. 'T is even at flood,
The man made answer, and the Monastery
Will have no hospitality to spare

For one of Wales to-day. Be ye content
To guest with us.

He took the Prince's sword:

The daughter of the house brought water then,
And wash'd the stranger's feet; the board was spread,
And o'er the bowl they commun'd of the days
Ere ever Saxon set his hateful foot

Upon the beautiful Isle.

As so they sate,

The bells of the Cathedral rung abroad

Unusual summons. What is this? exclaim'd Prince Madoc; let us see!.. Forthwith they went, He and his host, their way. They found the rites Begun; the mitred Baldwin, in his hand

Holding a taper, at the altar stood.

Let him be cursed! . . were the words which first

Assail'd their ears, living and dead, in limb

And life, in soul and body, be he curst

Here and hereafter! Let him feel the curse
At every moment, and in every act,

By night and day, in waking and in sleep!
We cut him off from Christian fellowship;
Of Christian sacraments we deprive his soul;
Of Christian burial we deprive his corpse;

And when that carrion to the Fiends is left
In unprotected earth, thus let his soul

Be quench'd in hell!

He dash'd upon the floor

His taper down, and all the ministring Priests
Extinguish'd each his light, to consummate

The imprecation.

Whom is it ye curse

Cried Madoc, with these horrors? They replied, The contumacious Prince of Powys-land, Cyveilioc.

What! quoth Madoc, and his eye Grew terrible, . . . Who is he that sets his foot In Gwyneth, and with hellish forms like these Dare outrage here Mathraval's noble Lord? We wage no war with women nor with Priests; But if there be a knight amid your train, Who will stand forth, and speak before my face Dishonour of the Prince of Powys-land,

Lo! here stand I, Prince Madoc, who will make That slanderous wretch cry craven in the dust, And eat his lying words!

Be temperate!

Quoth one of Baldwin's Priests, who, Briton born, Had known Prince Madoc in his father's court;

It is our charge, throughout this Christian land,

To call upon all Christian men to join
The armies of the Lord, and take the cross;
That so, in battle with the Infidels,

The palm of victory or of martyrdom,
Glorious alike, may be their recompense.
This holy badge, whether in godless scorn,

Or for the natural blindness of his heart,
Cyveilioc hath refused; thereby incurring
The pain, which, not of our own impulse, we
Inflict upon his soul, but at the will

Of our most holy Father, from whose word
Lies no appeal on earth.

'Tis well for thee,

Intemperate Prince! said Baldwin, that our blood
Flows with a calmer action than thine own!
Thy brother David hath put on the cross,
To our most pious warfare piously

Pledging his kingly sword. Do thou the like,
And for this better object lay aside
Thine other enterprize, which, lest it rob
Judea of one single Christian arm,

We do condemn as sinful. Follow thou
The banner of the church to Palestine;
So shalt thou expiate this rash offence,
Against the which we else should fulminate
Our ire, did we not see in charity,
And therefore rather pity than resent,
The rudeness of this barbarous land.

At that,

Scorn tempering wrath, yet anger sharpening scorn,

Madoc replied, Barbarians as we are,

Lord Prelate, we received the law of Christ

Many a long age before your pirate sires

Had left their forest dens: nor are we now

To learn that law from Norman or from Dane,
Saxon, Jute, Angle, or whatever name

Suit best your mongrel race! Ye think, perchance,
That like your own poor woman-hearted King,