Classic Poem

Madoc, meantime, in bonds and solitude,
Lay listening to the tumult. How his heart
Panted! how then, with fruitless strength, he strove
And struggled for enlargement, as the sound
Of battle from without the city came;
While all things near were still, nor foot of man,
Nor voice, in that deserted part, were heard.
At length one light and solitary step
Approach'd the place; a woman cross'd the door;
From Madoc's busy mind her image pass'd
Quick as the form that caused it; but not so
Did the remembrance fly from Coatel,
That Madoc lay in bonds. That thought possess'd
Her soul, and made her, as she garlanded
The fane of Coatlantona with flowers,
Tremble in strong emotion.
It was now
The hour of dusk; the Pabas all were gone,
Gone to the battle; — none could see her steps;
The gate was nigh. A momentary thought
Shot through her; she delay'd not to reflect,
But hastened to the Prince, and took the knife
Of sacrifice, which by the altar hung,
And cut his bonds, and with an eager eye,
Motioning haste and silence, to the gate
She led him. Fast along the forest way,
And fearfully, he followed to the chasm.
She beckon'd, and descended, and drew out
From underneath her vest, a cage, or net
It rather might be called, so fine the twigs
Which knit it, where, confined, two fire-flies gave
Their lustre. By that light did Madoc first
Behold the features of his lovely guide;
And through the entrance of the cavern gloom,
He followed in full trust.
Now have they reach'd
The abrupt descent; there Coatel held forth
Her living lamp, and turning, with a smile
Sweet as good Angels wear when they present
Their mortal charge before the throne of Heaven,
She show'd where little Hoel slept below.
Poor child! he lay upon that very spot,
The last whereto his feet had follow'd her;
And, as he slept, his hand was on the bones
Of one who years agone had perish'd there,
There, on the place where last his wretched eyes
Could catch the gleam of day. But when the voice,
The well-known voice of Madoc wakened him, —
His Uncle's voice, — he started, with a scream
Which echoed thro' the cavern's winding length,
And stretch'd his arms to reach him hush'd
The dangerous transport, raised him up the airward
And followed Coatel again, whose face,
Though tears of pleasure still were coursing
Betokened fear and haste. Adown the wood
They went; and, coasting now the lake, he
First what they sought beheld, a light canoe
Moor'd to the bank. Then in her arms she,
The child, and kiss'd him with maternal love
And placed him in the boat; but when the Priest
With looks, and gestures, and imperfect words
Such as the look, the gesture, well explain'd
Urged her to follow, doubtfully she stood
A dread of danger, for the thing she had done
Came on her, and Lincoya rose to mind.
Almost she had resolved; but then she thought
Of her dear father, whom that flight would
Alone in age; how he would weep for her
As one among the dead, and to the grave
Go sorrowing; or, if ever it were known,
What she had dared, that on his head the weight
Of punishment would fall. That dreadful thought
Resolved her, and she waved her head, and
Her hand, to bid the Prince depart in haste,
With looks whose painful seriousness forbade
All further effort. Yet unwillingly,
And boding evil, Madoc from the shore
Push'd off his little boat. She on its way
Stood gazing for a moment, lost in thought
Then struck into the woods.
Swift through the
Madoc's strong arm impell'd the light canoe
Fainter and fainter to his distant ear
The sound of battle came; and now the Moon
Arose in heaven, and poured o'er lake and land
A soft and mellowing ray. Along the shore
Llaian was wandering with distracted steps,
And groaning for her child. She saw the boat
Approach; and as on Madoc's naked limbs,
And on his countenance, the moonbeam fell.
And as she saw the boy in that dim light,
It seemed as though the Spirits of the dead
Were moving on the waters; and she stood
With open lips that breathed not, and fix'd eyes
Watching the unreal shapes: but when the
Drew nigh, and Madoc landed, and she saw
His step substantial, and the child came near
Unable then to move, or speak, or breathe,
Down on the sand she sank.
But who can
Who comprehend, her agony of joy,
When, by the Prince's care restored to sense
She recognized her child, she heard the name
Of mother from that voice, which, sure thought
Had pour'd upon some Priest's remorseless tear
Its last vain prayer for life? No tear relieved
The insupportable feeling that convulsed
Her swelling breast. She look'd, and look'd felt
The child, lest some delusion should have moved
Her soul to madness; then the gushing joy
Burst forth, and with caresses and with tears
She mingled broken prayers of thanks to Her

And now the Prince, when joy had had its course,
Said to her, Knowest thou the mountain path?
For I would to the battle. But at that,
A sudden damp of dread came over her.
O leave us not! she cried; lest haply ill
Should have befallen; for I remember, now,
How in the woods I spied a savage band
Making towards Caermadoc. God forefend
The evil that I fear! — What! Madoc cried,
Were ye then left defenceless? — She replied,
All ran to arms: there was no time for thought,
Nor counsel, in that sudden ill; nor one
Of all thy people, who could, in that hour,
Have brook'd home-duty, when thy life or death
Hung on the chance.
Now God be merciful!
Said he; for of Goervyl then he thought,
And the cold sweat started at every pore.
Give me the boy! — he travels all too slow.
Then in his arms he took him, and sped on,
Suffering more painful terrors than of late
His own near death provoked. They held their way
In silence up the heights; and, when at length
They reached the entrance of the vale, the Prince
Bade her remain, while he went on, to spy
The footsteps of the spoiler. Soon he saw
Men, in the moonlight, stretch'd upon the ground;
And quickening then his pace, in worst alarm,
Along the shade, with cautious step, he moved
Toward one, to seize his weapons: 'twas a corpse;
Nor whether, at the sight, to hope or fear
Yet knew he. But anon, a steady light,
As of a taper, seen in his own home,
Comforted him; and, drawing nearer now,
He saw his sister on her knees, beside
The rushes, ministering to a wounded man.
Safe that the dear one lived, then back he sped
With joyful haste, and summon'd Llaian on,
And in loud talk advanced. Erillyab first
Came forward at the sound; for she had faith
To trust the voice. — They live! they live! she cried;
God hath redeem'd them! — Nor the Maiden yet
Believed the actual joy; like one astound,
Or as if struggling with a dream, she stood,
Till he came close, and spread his arms, and call'd,
Goervyl! — and she fell in his embrace.

But Madoc lingered not; his eager soul
Was in the war: in haste he donn'd his arms;
And as he felt his own good sword again,
Exulting played his heart. — Boy, he exclaim'd
To Mervyn, arm thyself, and follow me!
For in this battle we shall break the power
Of our blood-thirsty foe: and, in thine age,
Wouldst thou not wish, when young men crowd around,
To hear thee chronicle their fathers' deeds,
Wouldst thou not wish to add, — And I, too, fought
In that day's conflict?
Mervyn's cheek turn'd pale
A moment, then, with terror all suffused,
Grew fever-red. Nay, nay, Goervyl cried,
He is too young for battles! — But the Prince,
With erring judgment, in that fear-flush'd cheek
Beheld the glow of enterprising hope,
And youthful courage. I was such a boy,
Sister! he cried, at Counsyllt; and that day,
In my first field, with stripling arm, smote down
Many a tall Saxon. Saidst thou not but now,
How bravely, in the fight of yesterday,
He flesh'd his sword, — and wouldst thou keep him here,
And rob him of his glory? See his cheek!
How it hath crimson'd at the unworthy thought!
Arm! arm! and to the battle!
How her heart
Then panted! how, with late regret, and vain,
Senena wished Goervyl then had heard
The secret, trembling on her lips so oft,
So oft by shame withheld. She thought that now
She could have fallen upon her Lady's neck,
And told her all; but when she saw the Prince,
Imperious shame forbade her, and she felt
It were an easier thing to die than speak.
Avail'd not now regret or female fear!
She mail'd her delicate limbs; beneath the plate
Compress'd her bosom; on her golden locks
The helmet's overheavy load she placed;
Hung from her neck the shield; and, though the sword,
Which swung beside her, lightest she had chosen,
Though in her hand she held the slenderest spear,
Alike unwieldy for the maiden's grasp,
The sword and ashen lance. But as she touch'd
The murderous point, an icy shudder ran
Through every fibre of her trembling frame;
And, overcome by womanly terror, then,
The damsel to Goervyl turn'd, and let
The breastplate fall, and on her bosom placed
The Lady's hand, and hid her face, and cried,
Save me! The warrior, who beheld the act,
And heard not the low voice, with angry eye
Glow'd on the seemly boy of feeble heart.
But, in Goervyl, joy had overpower'd
The wonder; joy, to find the boy she loved
Was one to whom her heart with closer love
Might cling; and to her brother she exclaim'd,
She must not go! We women in the war
Have done our parts.
A moment Madoc dwelt
On the false Mervyn, with an eye from whence
Displeasure did not wholly pass away.
Nor loitering to resolve Love's riddle now,
To Malinal he turn'd, where on his couch
The wounded youth was laid — True friend, said he,
And brother mine, — for truly by that name
I trust to greet thee, — if in this near fight,
My hour should overtake me, — as who knows
The lot of war? — Goervyl hath my charge
To quite thee for thy service with herself;
That so thou mayest raise up seed to me
Of mine own blood, who may inherit here
The obedience of thy people and of mine —
Malinal took his hand, and to his lips
Feebly he press'd it, saying, One boon more,
Father and friend, I ask! — if thou shouldst meet
Yuhidthiton in battle, think of me.