Classic Poem

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 gray 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 gray with rocks, that peer'd
Above its shallow soil; the mountain side
Was loose with stones bestrown, 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 gray 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
Gray with their fleecy moss and mistletoe,
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 stony bed,
Roll'd the loud mountain-stream.
When Madoc came,
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, stopp'd
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 inquired,
If on his wayfare he had lost the track,
That thither he had strayed. Not so, replied
The gentle Prince; but having known this place,
And its old habitants, I came once more
To see the lonely hut among the hills.
Hath it been long your dwelling?
Some few years,
Here we have dwelt, quoth she, my child and I.
Will it please you enter, and partake such fare
As we can give? Still timidly she spake,
But gathering courage from the gentle mien
Of him with whom she conversed. Madoc thank'd
Her friendly proffer, and toward the hut
They went, and in his arms he took the boy.
Who is his father? said the Prince, but wish'd
The word unutter'd; for thereat her cheek
Was flush'd with sudden heat and manifest pain;
And she replied, He perish'd in the war.

They enter'd now her home; she spread the board,
And set before her guest soft curds, and cheese
Of curd-like whiteness, with no foreign dye
Adulterate, and what fruits the orchard gave,
And that old British beverage which the bees
Had toil'd to purvey all the summer long.
Three years, said Madoc, have gone by, since here years!
I found a timely welcome, overworn
With toil, and sorrow, and sickness — three long
'Twas when the battle had been waged hard by,
Upon the plain of Arvon.
She grew pale,
Suddenly pale; and seeing that he mark'd
The change, she told him, with a feeble voice,
That was the fatal fight which widow'd her.

O Christ, cried Madoc, 'tis a grief to think
How many a gallant Briton died that day,
In that accursed strife! I trod the field
When all was over, — I beheld them heap'd —
Ay, like ripe corn within the reaper's reach,
Strown round the bloody spot where Hoel lay;
Brave as he was, himself cut down at last,
Oppress'd by numbers, gash'd with wounds, yet still
Clinching in his dead hand the broken sword! —
But you are moved, — you weep at what I tell.
Forgive me, that, renewing my own grief,
I should have waken'd yours! Did you then know
Prince Hoel?
She replied, Oh, no! my lot
Was humble, and my loss a humble one;
Yet was it all to me! They say, quoth she,
And, as she spake, she struggled to bring forth
With painful voice the interrupted words, —
They say, Prince Hoel's body was not found
But you, who saw him dead, perchance can tell,
Where he was laid, and by what friendly hand.

Even where he fell, said Madoc, is his grave,
For he who buried him was one whose faith
Reck'd not of boughten prayers, nor passing bell
There is a hawthorn grows beside the place,
A solitary tree, nipp'd by the winds,
That it doth seem a fitting monument
For one untimely slain. — But wherefore dwell's
On this ungrateful theme?
He took a harp
Which stood beside, and passing o'er its chords,
Made music. At the touch the child drew nigh,
Pleased by the sound, and lean'd on Madoc knee,
And bade him play again. So Madoc play'd,
For he had skill in minstrelsy, and raised
His voice, and sung Prince Hoel's lay of love.

I have harness'd thee, my Steed of shining gray
And thou shalt bear me to the dear white walls
I love the white walls by the verdant bank,
That glitter in the sun, where Bashfulness
Watches the silver sea-mew sail along.
I love that glittering dwelling, where we hear
The ever-sounding billows; for there dwells
The shapely Maiden, fair as the sea-spray,
Her cheek as lovely as the apple flower,
Or summer evening's glow. I pine for her;
In crowded halls my spirit is with her;
Through the long, sleepless night I think on her
And happiness is gone, and health is lost,
And fled the flush of youth, and I am pale
As the pale ocean on a sunless morn.
I pine away for her, yet pity her,
That she should spurn so true a love as mine.

He ceased, and laid his hand upon the child,
And didst thou like the song? The child replied,
Oh, yes! it is a song my mother loves,
And so I love it too. He stoop'd and kiss'd
The boy, who still was leaning on his knee,
Already grown familiar. I should like
To take thee with me, quoth the Ocean Lord,
Over the seas.
Thou art Prince Madoc, then
The mother cried, thou art indeed the Prince
That song — that look — and at his feet she fell,
Crying — Oh take him, Madoc! save the child
Thy brother Hoel's orphan!
Long it was
Ere that in either agitated heart
The tumult could subside. One while the Prince
Gazed on the child, tracing intently there
His brother's lines; and now he caught him
And kiss'd his cheek, and gazed again till all
Was dim and dizzy, — then blest God, and vow
That he should never need a father's love.

At length, when copious tears had now relieved
Her burden'd heart, and many a broken speech
In tears had died away, O Prince, she cried,
Long hath it been my dearest prayer to Heaven,
That I might see thee once, and to thy love
Commit this friendless boy! For many a time,
In phrase so fond did Hoel tell thy worth,
That it hath waken'd misery in me
To think I could not as a sister claim
Thy love! and therefore was it that till now
Thou knew'st me not; for I entreated him
That he would never let thy virtuous eye
Look on my guilt, and make me feel my shame.
Madoc, I did not dare to see thee then,
Thou wilt not scorn me now, — for I have now
Forgiven myself; and, while I here perform'd
A mother's duty in this solitude,
Have felt myself forgiven.
With that she clasp'd
His hand, and bent her face on it, and wept.
Anon collecting, she pursued, — My name
Is Llaian: by the chance of war I fell
Into his power, when all my family
Had been cut off, all in one hour of blood.
He saved me from the ruffian's hand, he sooth'd,
With tenderest care, my sorrow. — You can tell
How gentle he could be, and how his eyes,
So full of life and kindliness, could win
All hearts to love him. Madoc, I was young;
I had no living friend; — and when I gave
This infant to his arms, when with such joy
He view'd it o'er and o'er again, and press'd
A father's kiss upon its cheek, and turn'd
To me, and made me feel more deeply yet
A mother's deep delight, — oh! I was proud
To think my child in after years should say,
Prince Hoel was his father!
Thus I dwelt
In the white dwelling by the verdant bank, —
Though not without my melancholy hours, —
Happy. The joy it was when I beheld
His steed of shining gray come hastening on,
Across the yellow sand! — Alas! ere long,
King Owen died. I need not tell thee, Madoc,
With what a deadly and forefeeling fear
I heard how Hoel seized his father's throne,
Nor with what ominous woe I welcomed him,
In that last, little, miserable hour
Ambition gave to love. I think his heart,
Brave as it was, misgave him. When I spake
Of David and my fears, he smiled upon me;
But 'twas a smile that came not from the heart, —
A most ill-boding smile! — O Madoc! Madoc!
You know not with what misery I saw
His parting steps, — with what a dreadful hope
I watch'd for tidings! — And at length it came, —
Came like a thunderbolt! — I sought the field!
O Madoc, there were many widows there,
But none with grief like mine! I look'd around;
I dragg'd aside the bodies of the dead,
To search for him, in vain; — and then a hope
Seized me, which it was agony to lose!

Night came. I did not heed the storm of night;
But for the sake of this dear babe, I sought
Shelter in this lone hut: 'twas desolate;
And when my reason had return'd, I thought
That here the child of Hoel might be safe,
Till we could claim thy care. But thou, meantime,
Didst go to roam the Ocean; so I learn'd
To bound my wishes here. The carkanet,
The embroider'd girdle, and what other gauds
Were once my vain adornments, soon were changed
For things of profit, goats and bees, and this,
The tuneful solace of my solitude.
Madoc, the harp is as a friend to me;
I sing to it the songs which Hoel loved,
And Hoel's own sweet lays; it comforts me,
And gives me joy in grief.
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
A prayer for more, — and lo! the happiness
Which he hath, of his mercy, sent me now!