Classic Poem

Maid of the golden locks, far other lot
May gentle Heaven assign thy happier love,
Blue-eyed Senena! — She, though not as yet
Had she put off her boy-habiliments,
Had told Goervyl' all the history
Of her sad flight, and easy pardon gain'd
From that sweet heart, for guile which men no ill,
And secrecy, in shame too long maintain'd
With her dear Lady now, at this still hour
Of evening is the seeming page gone forth,
Beside Caermadoc mere. They loitered on,
Along the windings of its grassy shore,
In such free interchange of inward thought,
As the calm hour invited; or at times,
Willingly silent, listening to the bird
Whose one repeated melancholy note,
By oft repeating melancholy made,
Solicited the ear; or gladlier now
Hearkening that cheerful one, who knoweth
The songs of all the winged choristers,
And in one sequence of melodious sounds
Pours all their music. But a wilder strain
At fits came o'er the water; rising now,
Now with a dying fall, in sink and swell
More exquisitely sweet than ever art
Of man evoked from instrument of touch,
Or beat, or breath. It was the evening gale,
Which, passing o'er the harp of Caradoc,
Swept all its chords at once, and blended all,
Their music into one continuous flow.
The solitary Bard, beside his harp,
Lean'd underneath a tree, whose spreading bough
With broken shade that shifted to the breeze,
Play'd on the waving waters. Overhead
There was the leafy murmur, at his foot
The lake's perpetual ripple; and from far,
Borne on the modulating gale, was heard
The roaring of the mountain cataract —
A blind man would have loved the lovely spot

Here was Senena by her Lady led,
Trembling, but not reluctant. They drew
Their steps unheard upon the elastic moss,
Till playfully Goervyl, with quick touch,
Ran o'er the harp-strings. At the sudden sound
He rose. — Hath, then, thy hand, quoth she Bard,
Forgot its cunning, that the wind should be
Thine harper? — Come! one strain for Britain's sake;
And let the theme be Woman! — He replied,
But if the strain offend, O Lady fair,
Blame thou the theme, not me! — Then to the harp
He sung, — Three things a wise man will not trust,
The Wind, the Sunshine of an April day,
And Woman's plighted faith. I have beheld
The Weathercock upon the steeple-point
Steady from morn till eve; and I have seen
The bees go forth upon an April morn,
Secure the sunshine will not end in showers;
But when was Woman true?
False Bard! thereat,
With smile of playful anger, she exclaim'd,
False Bard! and slanderous song! Were such thy thoughts
Of woman, when thy youthful lays were heard
In Heilyn's hall? — But at that name his heart
Leap'd, and his cheek with sudden flush was fired;
In Heilyn's hall, quoth he, I learn'd the song.
There was a Maid, who dwelt among the hills
Of Arvon, and to one of humbler birth
Had pledged her troth — nor rashly, nor beguiled; —
They had been playmates in their infancy,
And she in all his thoughts had borne a part,
And all his joys. The Moon and all the Stars
Witness'd their mutual vows; and for her sake
The song was framed; for, in the face of day,
She broke them. — But her name? Goervyl ask'd;
Quoth he, The poet loved her still too well,
To couple it with shame.
O fate unjust
Of womankind! she cried; our virtues bloom,
Like violets, in shade and solitude,
While evil eyes hunt all our failings out
For evil tongues to bruit abroad in jest,
And song of obloquy! — I knew a Maid,
And she, too, dwelt in Arvon, and she too,
Loved one of lowly birth, who ill repaid
Her spotless faith; for he to ill reports,
And tales of falsehood cunningly devised,
Lent a light ear, and to his rival left
The loathing Maid. The wedding-day arrived;
The harpers and the gleemen, far and near,
Came to the wedding-feast; the wedding-guests
Were come, the altar dress'd, the bridemaids met,
The father, and the bridegroom, and the priest,
Wait for the bride. But she the while did off
Her bridal robes, and clipp'd her golden locks,
And put on boy's attire, through wood and wild
To seek her own true love; and over sea,
Forsaking all for him, she followed him, —
Nor hoping nor deserving fate so fair;
And at his side she stood, and heard him wrong
Her faith with slanderous tales; and his dull eye,
As it had learn'd his heart's forgetfulness,
Knows not the trembling one, who even now
Yearns to forgive him all!
He turn'd; he knew
The blue-eyed Maid, who fell upon his breast.