Or hast thou known the consummated crime,
And heard Cynetha's fate?

A painful glow

Inflamed my cheek, and for my father's crime

I felt the shame of guilt. The dark-brow'd man Beheld the burning flush, the uneasy eye,

That knew not where to rest. Come! we will search The slain; arising from his seat, he said.

I follow'd; to the field of fight we went,

And over steeds and arms and men we held
Our
way
in silence. Here it was, quoth he,
The fiercest war was waged; lo! in what heaps
Man upon man fell slaughter'd! Then my heart
Smote me, and my knees shook; for I beheld
Where, on his conquer'd foemen, Hoel lay.

He paused, his heart was full, and on his tongue The imperfect utterance died; a general gloom Sadden'd the hall, and David's cheek grew palę. Commanding first his feelings, Madoc broke The oppressive silence.

Then Cadwallon took

My hand, and, pointing to his dwelling, cried,

Prince, go and rest thee there, for thou hast need
Of rest; . . the care of sepulture be mine.
Nor did I then comply, refusing rest,

Till I had seen in holy ground inearth'd

My poor lost brother. Wherefore, he exclaim'd, (And I was awed by his severer eye)

Wouldst thou be pampering thy distempered mind? Affliction is not sent in vain, young man,

From that good God, who chastens whom he loves,

Oh! there is healing in the bitter cup!
Go yonder, and before the unerring will
Bow, and have comfort! To the hut I went,
And there beside the lonely mountain-stream,
I veil'd my head, and brooded on the past.

He tarried long; I felt the hours pass by,
As in a dream of morning, when the mind,
Half to reality awaken'd, blends

With airy visions and vague phantasies
Her dim perception; till at length his step
Aroused me, and he came. I question'd him
Where is the body? hast thou bade the priests
Perform due masses for his soul's repose?

He answer'd me, The rain and dew of heaven
Will fall upon the turf that covers him,
And greener grass will flourish on his grave.
But rouse thee, Prince! there will be hours enough
For mournful memory; . . it befits thee now

Take counsel for thyself:.. the son of Owen
Lives not in safety here.

I bow'd my head
Opprest by heavy thoughts: all wretchedness
The present; darkness on the future lay;
Fearful and gloomy both. I answer'd not.

Hath power seduced thy wishes? he pursued, And wouldst thou seize upon thy father's throne? Now God forbid! quoth I, Now God forbid!

Quoth he;..but thou art dangerous, Prince! and what Shall shield thee from the jealous arm of power?

Think of Cynetha!.. the unsleeping eye
Of justice hath not closed upon his wrongs;
At length the avenging arm is gone abroad,
One woe is past, . . woe after woe comes on,..
There is no safety here, . . here thou must be
The victim or the murderer! Does thy heart
Shrink from the alternative?.. look round!..behold
What shelter,.. whither wouldst thou fly for peace ?
What if the asylum of the Church were safe, . .
Were there no better purposes ordain'd

For that young arm, that heart of noble hopes?
Son of our kings, . . of old Cassibelan,

Great Caratach, immortal Arthur's line,
Oh, shall the blood of that heroic race

Stagnate in cloister-sloth ?.. Or wouldst thou leave
Thy native isle, and beg in awkward phrase
Some foreign sovereign's charitable grace, . .
The Saxon or the Frank, . . and earn his gold,

The hireling in a war whose cause thou know'st not,
Whose end concerns not thee?

I sate and gazed, Following his eye with wonder, as he paced Before me to and fro, and listening still, Though now he paced in silence. But anon, The old man's voice and step, awakened us, Each from his thought; I will come out, said he, That I may sit beside the brook, and feel The comfortable sun. As forth he came, I could not choose but look upon his face: Gently on him had gentle nature laid The weight of years; all passions that disturb Were past away; the stronger lines of grief

Softened and settled, till they told of grief
By patient hope and piety subdued:

His eyes, which had their hue and brightness left,
Fix'd lifelessly, or objectless they roll'd,

Nor moved by sense, nor animate with thought.
On a smooth stone beside the stream he took
His wonted seat in the sunshine. Thou hast lost

A brother, Prince, he said. . or the dull ear
Of age deceived me. Peace be with his soul!
And may the curse that lies upon the house
Of Owen turn away! Wilt thou come hither,
And let me feel thy face? .. I wondered at him:
Yet while his hand perused my lineaments
Deep awe and reverence fill'd me. O my God,
Bless this young man! he cried; a perilous state
Is his; . . but let not thou his father's sins
Be visited on him!

I raised my eyes

Enquiring, to Cadwallon; Nay, young Prince, Despise not thou the blind man's prayer! he cried ; It might have given thy father's dying hour

A hope, that sure he needed . . . for, know thou, It is the victim of thy father's crime,

Who asks a blessing on thee!

At his feet

I fell, and clasp'd his knees: he raised me up ; .. Blind as I was, a mutilated wretch,

A thing that nature owns not, I survived,

Loathing existence, and with impious voice

Accused the will of heaven, and groan'd for death. Years pass'd away; this universal blank

Became familiar, and my soul reposed

On God, and I had comfort in my prayers.

But there were blessings for me yet in store
Thy father knew not, when his bloody fear
All hope of an avenger had cut off,
How there existed then an unborn babe,
Child of my lawless love. Year after year
I lived a lonely and forgotten wretch,
Before Cadwallon knew his father's fate,

Long years and years before I knew my son;
For never, till his mother's dying hour,

Learnt he his dangerous birth. He sought me then ; He woke my soul once more to human ties; . .

I hope he hath not wean'd my heart from heaven, Life is so precious now!...

Dear good old man! And lives he still? Goervyl ask'd, in tears; Madoc replied, I scarce can hope to find A father's welcome at my distant home. I left him full of days, and ripe for death; And the last prayer Cynetha breathed upon me Went like a death-bed blessing to my heart!

When evening came, toward the echoing shore
I and Cadwallon walk'd together forth :
Bright with dilated glory shone the west;
But brighter lay the ocean-flood below,

The burnish'd silver sea, that heaved and flash'd
Its restless rays, intolerably bright.

Prince, quoth Cadwallon, thou hast rode the waves
In triumph, when the invaders felt thine arm.
Oh what a nobler conquest might be won,

There,... upon that wide field!..What meanest thou?