Classic Poem

On Madoc's docile courser Llaian sits,
Holding her joyful boy; the Prince beside
Paces afoot, and, like a gentle Squire,
Leads her loose bridle; from the saddle-bow
His shield and helmet hang, and with the lance,
Staff-like, he stay'd his steps. Before the sun
Had climb'd his southern eminence, they left
The mountain-feet; and hard by Bangor now,
Travelling the plain before them they espy
A lordly cavalcade, for so it seem'd,
Of knights, with hawk in hand, and hounds in leash,
Squires, pages, serving-men, and armed grooms,
And many a sumpter-beast and laden wain,
Far following in their rear. The bravery
Of glittering bauldricks and of high-plumed crests,
Embroider'd surcoats and emblazon'd shields,
And lances whose long streamers play'd aloft,
Made a rare pageant, as with sound of trump,
Tambour and cittern, proudly they went on;
And ever, at the foot-fall of their steeds,
The tinkling horse-bells, in rude symphony,
Accorded with the joy.
What have we here?
Quoth Madoc then to one who stood beside
The threshold of his osier-woven hut.
'Tis the great Saxon Prelate, he return'd,
Come hither for some end, I wis not what,
Only be sure no good! — How stands the tide?
Said Madoc; can we pass? — 'Tis even at flood,
The man made answer, and the Monastery
Will have no hospitality to spare
For one of Wales to-day. Be ye content
To guest with us.
He took the Prince's sword:
The daughter of the house brought water then,
And wash'd the stranger's feet; the board was spread,
And o'er the bowl they commun'd of the days
Ere ever Saxon set his hateful foot
Upon the beautiful Isle.
As so they sat,
The bells of the Cathedral rung abroad
Unusual summons. What is this? exclaim'd
Prince Madoc; let us see! — Forthwith they went,
He and his host, their way. They found the rites
Begun; the mitred Baldwin, in his hand
Holding a taper, at the altar stood.
Let him be cursed! — were the words which first
Assail'd their ears, — living and dead, in limb
And life, in soul and body, be he curs'd
Here and hereafter! Let him feel the curse
At every moment, and in every act,
By night and day, in waking and in sleep!
We cut him off from Christian fellowship;
Of Christian sacraments we deprive his soul;
Of Christian burial we deprive his corpse;
And when that carrion to the Fiends is left
In unprotected earth, thus let his soul
Be quench'd in hell!
He dash'd upon the floor
His taper down, and all the ministering Priests
Extinguish'd each his light, to consummate
The imprecation.
Whom is it ye curse,
Cried Madoc, with these horrors? They replied,
The contumacious Prince of Powys-land,
Cyveilioc.
What! quoth Madoc, — and his eye
Grew terrible, — who is he that sets his foot
In Gwyneth, and with hellish forms like these
Dare outrage here Mathraval's noble Lord?
We wage no war with women nor with Priests;
But if there be a knight amid your train,
Who will stand forth, and speak before my face
Dishonor of the Prince of Powys-land,
Lo! here stand I, Prince Madoc, who will make
That slanderous wretch cry craven in the dust,
And eat his lying words!
Be temperate!
Quoth one of Baldwin's Priests, who, Briton born,
Had known Prince Madoc in his father's court;
It is our charge, throughout this Christian land,
To call upon all Christian men to join
The armies of the Lord, and take the cross;
That so, in battle with the Infidels,
The palm of victory or of martyrdom,
Glorious alike, may be their recompense.
This holy badge, whether in godless scorn,
Or for the natural blindness of his heart,
Cyveilioc hath refused; thereby incurring
The pain, which, not of our own impulse, we
Inflict upon his soul, but at the will
Of our most holy Father, from whose word
Lies no appeal on earth.
'Tis well for thee,
Intemperate Prince! said Baldwin, that our blood
Flows with a calmer action than thine own!
Thy brother David hath put on the cross,
To our most pious warfare piously
Pledging his kingly sword. Do thou the like,
And for this better object lay aside
Thine other enterprise, which, lest it rob
Judea of one single Christian arm,
We do condemn as sinful. Follow thou
The banner of the church to Palestine,
So shalt thou expiate this rash offence,
Against the which we else should fulminate
Our ire, did we not see in charity,
And therefore rather pity than resent,
The rudeness of this barbarous land.
At that,
Scorn tempering wrath, yet anger sharpess scorn,
Madoc replied — Barbarians as we are,
Lord Prelate, we received the law of Christ
Many a long age before your pirate sires
Had left their forest dens: nor are we now
To learn that law from Norman or from Danc,
Saxon, Jute, Angle, or whatever name
Suit best your mongrel race! Ye think, perchance
That like your own poor, woman-hearted King,
We, too, in Gwyneth are to take the yoke
Of Rome upon our necks; — but you may tell
Your Pope, that when I sail upon the seas,
I shall not strike a topsail for the breath
Of all his maledictions!
Saying thus,
He turn'd away, lest further speech might call
Further reply, and kindle further wrath,
More easy to avoid than to allay.
Therefore he left the church; and soon his man
To gentler mood was won, by social talk
And the sweet prattle of that blue-eyed boy,
Whom in his arms he fondled.
But when now
Evening had settled, to the door there came
One of the brethren of the Monastery,
Who called Prince Madoc forth. Apart they well
And in the low, suspicious voice of fear,
Though none was nigh, the Monk began. Because
Prince Madoc, while I speak, and patiently
Hear to the end! Thou know'st that, in his
Becket did excommunicate thy sire
For his unlawful marriage; but the King,
Feeling no sin in conscience, heeded not
The inefficient censure. Now, when Baldwin
Beheld his monument to-day, impell'd,
As we do think, by anger against thee,
He swore that, even as Owen in his deeds
Disown'd the Church when living, even so
The Church disown'd him dead, and that his life
No longer should be suffer'd to pollute
The Sanctuary. — Be patient, I beseech,
And hear me out. Gerald, at this, who felt
A natural horror, sought — as best he knew
The haughty Primate's temper — to dissuade
By politic argument, and chiefly urged
The quick and fiery nature of our nation,
How, at the sight of such indignity,
They would arise in arms, and limb from limb
Tear piecemeal him and all his company.
So far did this prevail, that he will now
Commit the deed in secret; and, this night,
Thy father's body from its resting-place,
O Madoc! shall be torn, and cast aside
In some unhallow'd pit, with foul disgrace
And contumelious wrong.
Sayest thou to-night?
Quoth Madoc. Ay, at midnight, he replied,
Shall this impiety be perpetrated.
Therefore hath Gerald, for the reverence
He bears to Owen's royal memory,
Sent thee the tidings. Now, be temperate
In thy just anger, Prince! and shed no blood.
Thou know'st how dearly the Plantagenet
Atones for Becket's death; and be thou sure,
Though thou thyself shouldst sail beyond the storm,
That it would fall on Britain.
While he spake,
Madoc was still; the feeling work'd too deep
For speech or visible sign. At length he said,
What if amid their midnight sacrilege
I should appear among them?
It were well;
The Monk replied, if, at a sight like that,
Thou canst withhold thy hand.
Oh, fear me not!
Good and true friend, said Madoc. I am calm,
And calm as thou beholdest me will prove
In word and action. Quick I am to feel
Light ills, — perhaps o'er-hasty: summer gnats,
Finding my cheek unguarded, may infix
Their skin-deep stings, to vex and irritate;
But if the wolf or forest boar be nigh,
I am awake to danger. Even so
Bear I a mind of steel and adamant
Against all greater wrongs. My heart hath now
Received its impulse; and thou shalt behold
How in this strange and hideous circumstance
I shall find profit — Only, my true friend,
Let me have entrance.
At the western porch,
Between the complines and the matin-bell, —
The Monk made answer: thou shalt find the door
Ready. Thy single person will suffice;
For Baldwin knows his danger, and the hour
Of guilt or fear convicts him, both alike
Opprobrious. Now, farewell!
Then Madoc took
His host aside, and in his private ear
Told him the purport, and wherein his help
Was needed. Night came on; the hearth was heap'd;
The women went to rest. They twain, the while,
Sat at the board, and while the untasted bowl
Stood by them, watch'd the glass whose falling sands
Told out the weary hours. The hour is come;
Prince Madoc helm'd his head, and from his neck
He slung the bugle-horn; they took their shields,
And lance in hand went forth. And now arrived,
The bolts give back before them, and the door
Rolls on its heavy hinge.
Beside the grave
Stood Baldwin and the Prior, who, albeit
Cambrian himself, in fear and awe obey'd
The lordly Primate's will. They stood and watch'd
Their ministers perform the irreverent work.
And now with spade and mattock have they broken
Into the house of death, and now have they
From the stone coffin wrench'd the iron cramps,
When sudden interruption startled them,
And clad in complete mail from head to foot,
They saw the Prince come in. Their tapers gleam'd
Upon his visage, as he wore his helm
Open; and when in that pale countenance, —
For the strong feeling blanch'd his cheek, — they saw
His father's living lineaments, a fear
Like ague shook them. But anon that fit
Of scared imagination to the sense
Of other peril yielded, when they heard
Prince Madoc's dreadful voice. Stay! he exclaim'd,
As now they would have fled; — stir not a man, —
Or if I once put breath into this horn,
All Wales will hear, as if dead Owen call'd
For vengeance from that grave. Stir not a man,
Or not a man shall live! The doors are watch'd,
And ye are at my mercy!
But at that,
Baldwin from the altar seized the crucifix,
And held it forth to Madoc, and cried out,
He who strikes me, strikes Him; forbear, on pain
Of endless — —
Peace! quoth Madoc, and profane not
The holy Cross, with those polluted hands
Of midnight sacrilege! — Peace! I harm thee not, —
Be wise, and thou art safe. — For thee, thou know'st,
Prior, that if thy treason were divulged,
David would hang thee on thy steeple top,
To feed the steeple daws. Obey and live!
Go, bring fine linen and a coffer meet
To bear these relics; and do ye, meanwhile,
Proceed upon your work.
They at his word
Raised the stone cover, and display'd the dead,
In royal grave-clothes habited, his arms
Cross'd on the breast, with precious gums and spice
Fragrant, and incorruptibly preserved.
At Madoc's bidding, round the corpse they wrap
The linen web, fold within fold involved;
They laid it in the coffer, and with cloth
At head and foot filled every interval,
And press'd it down compact; they closed the lid,
And Madoc with his signet seal'd it thrice.
Then said he to his host, Bear thou at dawn
This treasure to the ships. My father's bones
Shall have their resting-place, where mine one day
May moulder by their side. He shall be free
In death, who living did so well maintain
His and his country's freedom. As for ye,
For your own safety, ye, I ween, will keep
My secret safe. So saying, he went his way.