Classic Poem

PRELUDE .

A T The T OWER OF L ONDON .

First Citizen.

" What dabbled death's-head there looks down
From the Tower wall upon the town?
'Tis crowned, I think, with a silver crown:
The smoke lies low this wintry day,
But the throng is great on London way."

Second Citizen.

" Their Last Prince, crown'd and made a king,
With ivy leaves on a silver string,
[Archbishop John calls him Leolin]
Made royal with a rusty spear,
Tastes London smoke for Christmas fare."

His fallen head thaThe held so high,
Looks vainly now for the banks of Wye,
Between the smoke and the sulky sky:
But his heart is left in a greener grave,
Than you, O London, ever gave!

His heart is left to a sounder sleep,
In the pleasant land he sought to keep;
On Irvon side may his grave be deep!
But his voice shall yet, like the voice of Brân,
End the mystic message it began!

I. — The G REEN P ARLIAMENT .

'Twas in twelve hundred and seventy-five,
Our last Prince felt his heart alive,
And his star more fiercely for him strive:
Ay, its starry fire was in his blood,
As he rode by night thro' Cemaes wood.

The mountains rose, — his castle wall;
The birch-trees bowed, his warriors tall:
He heard in the hidden waterfall
The thunder of a thousand spears:
The rivers ran, his messengers.

So on he rode to Aber glen,
Alone, by night, and came again,
Ere yet the white morning waked his men,
To the castle under the mountain wall;
The hounds bay loud at his horn's clear call.

Oh, Aber glen is a secret place,
Where the hills know never a Norman face:
Beyond the castle a steep league's space,
They reared the Red Dragon and pitched the tent,
For Llewelyn the Last's Green Parliament.

The Dragon Red rode proudly there,
Like a painted cloud on the summer air,
And many a shaft and many a spear
Grew out of the green, and many a horn
Hung in the leaves of the mountain thorn.

" Now Edward Longshanks o'er the sea
Comes striding out from Normandy,"
Said Grono, " and the Irishry
Have joined his host. On, on they ride,
Whose hostage, Prince, is your pale bride!"

And who is this, in a Blackfriar's dress,
Has found the Prince amid the press
At nightfall by the castle wall?
He brings the news from Cornwall shore,
" Lost, lost is the Lady Eleanor!"

II. — The L ADY E LIN .

At dawn, the Prince knelt down and prayed,
When he heard within the waking glade
The whistling throstle pipe o'erhead:
He pipes to his love so sweet a song,
The Prince for his stolen bride prays long.

Sing, Speckle-breast, the spell of love!
The mountain Eagle woos the Dove:
" Your truce be made!" Llewelyn said:
" To the marriage feast at Worcester ride
My mountain spears to meet my bride!"

" Enough of war, enough of death,
The new-come spring with its wooing breath,
Stoops o'er the earth, and the birds bring mirth,
And the touch of a tender woman's hand
Shall heal the trouble of the land."

The squirrels in the birchwood play,
Where the trefoil bled but yesterday:
The rain has washed the red away:
And for the chiding bugle now,
The harps are achime at Aber-Fraw.

In love, to the lady of Snowdon knelt
The hearts of all that around her dwelt,
From Druid Mon down to Caerleon:
By love she led our mountain men,
Like lost sheep to green fields again.

A passing while: when Eleanor
Her little daughter, Gwenllian, bore, —
Oh, bitter was her travailing hour!
The sweet babe cried, but she was gone:
Her babe she never looked upon.

Her grave lay green at Aber-Fraw,
But the sands have filled the grave-yard now:
And there they laid with the sleeping dead,
The peace she brought. Now weeps her lord,
Whose every tear shall edge a sword.

III. — The W ISEWOMAN .

" Why, sands of Fraw, does he cross so late?"
" He seeks the Wisewoman at Croesor Gate:"
She knows the stars that rule his wars;
She knows their footsteps as they pass,
And the green people in the grass.

Llewelyn rides by night alone,
To Croesor Gate by ways unknown;
'Tis a keen March night, with a wild starlight,
And the night-wind sighs at the forest-side,
Where once he rode with his joyous bride.

" Who comes?" said the Woman to the Wood,
" A stricken heart, or a Prince of the blood?
For the Tree of Evil or of Good?
My dream-maid sings, but a shroud she weaves,
And I see a crown but of ivy-leaves!"

Llewelyn alights: he stands aTher side:
Is it sleep that makes her so heavy-eyed?
Was that an owl in the ivy cried?
Her eyes drooped low as his stars she read, —
The ivy crown, the piteous head.

" Few moons," she said, " ere Christmas ring,
Then they shall make my Prince a king,
[With ivy, alack, on a silver string,]
Ay, crown'd and royal he shall ride
To London Tower, down fair Cheapside!"

No more she said: the first cock crew,
And the stars grew pale with all they knew:
But the Prince grew fey as he fared on his way:
He could not see, when she told his stars,
How one by one, fell her fatal tears!

IV. — The D EATH T RYST .

Now, fill the branch, ye Arvon yews
Shall make the bow! The metal fuse,
Ye iron-pits of old Caersws,
Shall shape the sword and weld the shield!
Once more Llewelyn takes the field.

The winter rust is on the fern,
And the Prince is gone, while the marches burn,
The way he never may return:
The Ystwyth grumbles to the Wye, —
" What bale-fire is it burns the sky?"

Oh, the men of Builth have much to pay
For the Friday before St. Lucie's day:
The Prince comes late to their castle gate,
But the cowards are full of cold alarms,
And he brings but a handful of men-at-arms.

A bitter night! The black sleet falls,
As they turn him away from their blacker walls.
" Lest they should know our track in the snow,
There's Red Madoc," said Grono, " whose shoeing forge
Shall reverse our hoofs, and baffle St. George!"

Llewelyn laughed at the sodden floor,
And the sullen mouth Red Madoc wore:
His mantle drapes the crumbling door,
To hide the fire. With a tale and a song
They keep the long night from seeming long.

At dawn it cleared with a breath of frost,
And the Wye's rough music was lightly crossed
By a far-off drum; " Ay, the rascals come!"
Llewelyn cried; " If we keep the bridge,
The place is ours from river to ridge."

" Twelve Snowdon spears!" Sir Grono cried,
" And I hold the bridge! To thy trysting ride,
With Towy's Lord, and keep thy word!"
He held the bridge, but the fight was stayed:
Elias and Madoc the ford betrayed.

Elias — oh dog! leads them safe across:
Three Spanish lances are all their loss:
They gallop apace to the trysting place:
There's a roofless barn above the tide,
A swordless knight that waits beside!

Alone, unarm'd! One murderous stroke,
And the back that never bent is broke:
The dreadful purple stains his cloak:
The sky grows dark. They little knew
What star they quenched, what light they slew!

All day he lingers, but cannot die:
He thinks the barn is the chapelry,
Where sweet sing the choir-boys — " Ave Marie!"
O'er the snow at dusk, by Mary sent,
A poor Whitefriar brings the sacrament.

V. — M OUNTAIN L IBERTY .

The dying man to the Whitefriar gave
A script to drop in the seaward wave:
But when I went by the water of Wye,
Where the Irvon mingles its mountain strain, —
Llewelyn's dirge, — his script grew plain!

The Bard of the Shining Brow, of old,
Wrote our testament in triple gold: —
" Their ancient speech they still shall hold!
Of their ancient Land still keep a part!
Their Lord still praise with a fervenTheart!"

This one word more, our Last Prince wrote,
With his heart-blood, — a trumpet note!
To fire our song as we press on,
Led forth by what starry Destiny;
One last word — M OUNTAIN L IBERTY !