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, 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.
Exclaim'd Llewelyn; what hath he to give,
But life for life? and what have I to claim
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.
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
I have vowed, 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,
Never more, Llewelyn,
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
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 grey with rocks, that peer'd
Above its shallow soil; the mountain side
Was loose with stones bestrewn, 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 grey 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
Grey with their fleecy moss and misseltoe,
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 stoney bed,
Roll'd the loud mountain-stream.
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
The horse's tramp, he raised his head and watch'd
The Prince, who now dismounted and drew nigh.
The little boy still fix'd his eyes on him,
His bright blue eyes; the wind just moved the curls
That cluster'd round his brow; and so he stood,
His rosy cheeks still lifted up to gaze
In innocent wonder. Madoc took his hand,
And now had ask'd his name, and if he dwelt
There in the hut, when from that cottage-door
A woman came, who seeing Madoc stopt
With such a fear,.. for she had cause for fear,..
As when a bird returning to her nest,
Turns to a tree beside, if she behold
Some prying boy too near the dear retreat.
Howbeit advancing soon she now approach'd
The approaching Prince, and timidly enquired,
If on his wayfare he had lost the track,
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