Classic Poem

The place of meeting was a high hill-top,
Nor bower'd with trees nor broken by the plough,
Remote from human dwellings and the stir
Of human life, and open to the breath
And to the eye of Heaven. In days of old,
There had the circling stones been planted; there,
From earliest ages, the primeval lore,
Through Bard to Bard with reverence handed down.
They whom to wonder, or the love of song,
Or reverence of their fathers' ancient rites,
Drew thither, stood without the ring of stones.
Cyveilioc entered to the initiate Bards,
Himself, albeit his hands were stained with war,
Initiate; for the Order, in the lapse
Of years and in their nation's long decline
From the first rigor of their purity
Somewhat had fallen. The Masters of the Song
Were clad in azure robes, for in that hue
Deduced from Heaven, which o'er a sinful world
Spread its eternal canopy serene,
Meet emblem did the ancient Sages see
Of unity, and peace, and spotless truth.

Within the stones of Federation there,
On the green turf, and under the blue sky,
A noble band, the Bards of Britain stood,
Their heads in reverence bare, and bare of foot
A deathless brotherhood! Cyveilioc there,
Lord of the Hirlas; Llyware there was seen,
And old Cynddelow, to whose lofty song,
So many a time amid his father's court
Resigning up his soul, had Madoc given
The flow of feeling loose. But Madoc's heart
Was full; old feelings and remembrances,
And thoughts from which was no escape, arose
He was not there to whose sweet lay, so oft,
With all a brother's fond delight, he loved
To listen, — Hoel was not there! — the hand
That once so well, amid the triple chords,
Moved in the rapid maze of harmony,
It had no motion now; the lips were dumb
Which knew all tones of passion; and that hear
That warm, ebullient heart, was cold and still,
Upon its bed of clay. He look'd around,
And there was no familiar countenance,
None but Cynddelow's face, which he had learn
In childhood; and old age hath set its mark,
Making unsightly alteration there.
Another generation had sprung up,
And made him feel how fast the days of man
Flow by, how soon their number is told out.
He knew not then, that Llyware's lay should
His future fame; his spirit, on the past
Brooding, beheld with no forefeeling joy
The rising sons of song, who there essay'd
Their eaglet flight. But there, among the youth
In the green vesture of their earliest rank,
Or with the aspirants clad in motley garb,
Young Benvras stood; and, one whose favored race
Heaven with the hereditary power had blest,
The old Gowalchmai's not degenerate child;
And there another Einion; gifted youths,
And heirs of immortality on earth,
Whose after-strains, through many a distant age,
Cambria shall boast, and love the songs that tell
The fame of Owen's house.
There, in the eye
Of light, and in the face of day, the rites
Began. Upon the Stone of Covenant
First, the sheathed sword was laid; the Master then
Upraised his voice, and cried, Let them who see
The high degree and sacred privilege
Of Bardic science, and of Cimbric lore,
Here to the Bards of Britain make their claim
Thus having said, the Master bade the youths
Approach the place of peace, and merit there
The Bard's most honorable name. With that
Heirs and transmittors of the ancient light,
The youths advanced; they heard the Cimbric loud
From earliest days preserved; they struck the harps,
And each in due succession raised the song.

Last of the aspirants, as of greener years,
Young Caradoc advanced; his lip as yet
Scarce darken'd with its down, his flaxen locks
Wreathed in contracting ringlets waving low;
Bright were his large blue eyes, and kindled now
With that same passion that inflamed his cheek;
Yet in his cheek there was the sickliness
Which thought and feeling leave, wearing away
The hue of youth. Inclining on his harp,
He while his comrades in probation song
Approved their claim, stood hearkening, as it seem'd,
And yet like unintelligible sounds
He heard the symphony and voice attuned;
Even in such feelings as, all undefined,
Come with the flow of waters to the soul,
Or with the motions of the moonlight sky.
But when his bidding came, he, at the call
Arising from that dreamy mood, advanced,
Threw back his mantle, and began the lay.

Where are the sons of Gavran? where his tribe
The faithful? Following their beloved Chief,
They the Green Islands of the Ocean sought;
Nor human tongue hath told, nor human ear,
Since from the silver shores they went their way,
Hath heard their fortunes. In his crystal Ark,
Whither sail'd Merlin with his band of Bards,
Old Merlin, master of the mystic lore?
Belike his crystal Ark, instinct with life,
Obedient to the mighty Master, reach'd
The land of the Departed; there, belike,
They in the clime of immortality,
Themselves immortal, drink the gales of bliss,
Which o'er Flathinnis breathe eternal spring,
Blending whatever odors make the gale
Of evening sweet, whatever melody
Charms the wood-traveller. In their high-roof'd halls,
There, with the Chiefs of other days, feel they
The mingled joy pervade them? — Or beneath
The mid-sea waters, did that crystal Ark
Down to the secret depths of Ocean plunge
Its fated crew? Dwell they in coral bowers
With Mermaid loves, teaching their paramours
The songs that stir the sea, or make the winds
Hush, and the waves be still? In fields of joy
Have they their home, where central fires maintain
Perpetual summer, and an emerald light
Pervades the green translucent element?

Twice have the sons of Britain left her shores,
As the fledged eaglets quit their native nest;
Twice over ocean have her fearless sons
Forever sail'd away. Again they launch
Their vessels to the deep. — Who mounts the bark?
The son of Owen, the beloved Prince,
Who never for injustice rear'd his arm.
Respect his enterprise, ye Ocean Waves!
Ye Winds of Heaven, waft Madoc on his way!
The Waves of Ocean, and the Winds of Heaven,
Became his ministers, and Madoc found
The World he sought.
Who seeks the better land?
Who mounts the vessel for a world of peace?
He who hath felt the throb of pride, to hear
Our old illustrious annals; who was taught
To lisp the fame of Arthur, to revere
Great Caratach's unconquer'd soul, and call
That gallant chief his countryman, who led
The wrath of Britain from her chalky shores
To drive the Roman robber. He who loves
His country, and who feels his country's shame;
Whose bones amid a land of servitude
Could never rest in peace; who, if he saw
His children slaves, would feel a pang in heaven, —
He mounts the bark, to seek for liberty.

Who seeks the better land? The wretched one,
Whose joys are blasted all, whose heart is sick,
Who hath no hope, to whom all change is gain,
To whom remember'd pleasures strike a pang
That only guilt should know, — he mounts the bark
The Bard will mount the bark of banishment;
The harp of Cambria shall in other lands
Remind the Cambrian of his fathers' fame: —
The Bard will seek the land of liberty,
The World of peace — O Prince, receive the Bard!

He ceased the song. His cheek, now fever flush'd,
Was turn'd to Madoc, and his asking eye
Linger'd on him in hope; nor linger'd long
The look expectant; forward sprung the Prince,
And gave to Caradoc the right-hand pledge,
And for the comrade of his enterprise,
With joyful welcome, hail'd the joyful Bard.

Nor needed now the Searcher of the Sea
Announce his enterprise, by Caradoc
In song announced so well; from man to man
The busy murmur spread, while from the Stone
Of Covenant the sword was taken up,
And from the Circle of the Ceremony
The bards went forth, their meeting now fulfill'd.
The multitude, unheeding all beside,
Of Madoc and his noble enterprise
Held stirring converse on their homeward way,
And spread abroad the tidings of a Land,
Where Plenty dwelt with Liberty and Peace.