Classic Poem

Farewell , my brother, cried the Ocean Chief;
A little while farewell! as through the gate
Of Dinevawr he pass'd, to pass again
That hospitable threshold never more.
And thou too, O thou good old man, true friend
Of Owen, and of Owen's house, farewell!
'Twill not be told me, Rhys, when thy gray hairs
Are to the grave gone down; but oftentimes
In the distant world I shall remember thee,
And think that, come thy summons when it may,
Thou wilt not leave a braver man behind.
Now God be with thee, Rhys!
The old Chief paused
A moment ere he answer'd, as for pain;
Then shaking his hoar head, I never yet
Gave thee this hand unwillingly before!
When for a guest I spread the board, my heart
Will think on him, whom ever with most joy
It leap'd to welcome: should I lift again
The spear against the Saxon, — for old Rhys
Hath that within him yet, that could uplift
The Cimbric spear, — I then shall wish his aid,
Who oft has conquer'd with me: when I kneel
In prayer to Heaven, an old man's prayer shall beg
A blessing on thee!
Madoc answer'd not,
But press'd his hand in silence, then sprang up
And spurr'd his courser on. A weary way,
Through forest and o'er fell, Prince Madoc rode;
And now he skirts the bay whose reckless waves
Roll o'er the plain of Gwaelod: fair fields,
And busy towns, and happy villages,
They overwhelm'd in one disastrous day;
For they by their eternal siege had sapp'd
The bulwark of the land, while Seithenyn
Took of his charge no thought, till, in his sloth
And riotous cups surprised, he saw the waves
Roll like an army o'er the levell'd mound.
A supplicant in other courts, he mourn'd
His crime and ruin; in another's court
The kingly harp of Garanhir was heard,
Wailing his kingdom wreck'd; and many a Prince,
Warn'd by the visitation, sought and gain'd
A saintly crown — Tyneio, Merini,
Boda, and Brenda, and Ailgyvarch,
Gwynon, and Celynin, and Gwynodyl.

To Bardsey was the Lord of Ocean bound —
Bardsey, the holy Islet, in whose soil
Did many a Chief and many a Saint repose,
His great progenitors. He mounts the skiff;
Her canvass swells before the breeze; the sea
Sings round her sparkling keel; and soon the Lord
Of Ocean treads the venerable shore.

There was not, on that day, a speck to stain
The azure heaven; the blessed Sun alone,
In unapproachable divinity,
Career'd, rejoicing in his fields of light.
How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky,
The billows heave! one glowing green expanse,
Save where along the bending line of shore
Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck
Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst,
Embathed in emerald glory. All the flocks
Of Ocean are abroad; like floating foam,
The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves;
With long, protruded neck, the cormorants
Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round
The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy.
It was a day that sent into the heart
A summer feeling: even the insect swarms
From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth,
To sport through one day of existence more;
The solitary primrose on the bank
Seem'd now as though it had no cause to mourn
Its bleak autumnal birth; the Rocks, and Shores,
The Forest, and the everlasting Hills,
Smiled in that joyful sunshine, — they partook
The universal blessing.
To this Isle,
Where his forefathers were to dust consign'd,
Did Madoc come for natural piety,
Ordering a solemn service for their souls.
Therefore for this the Church that day was dress'd:
For this the Abbot, in his alb arrayed,
At the high altar stood; for this infused,
Sweet incense from the waving thuribule
Rose like a mist, and the gray brotherhood
Chanted the solemn mass. And now on high
The mighty Mystery had been elevate,
And now around the graves the brethren
In long array proceed: each in his hand,
Tall as the staff of some wayfaring man,
Bears the brown taper, with their daylight flames
Dimming the cheerful day. Before the train
The Cross is borne, where, fashion'd to the life
In shape, and size, and ghastly coloring,
The awful Image hangs. Next, in its shrine
Of gold and crystal, by the Abbot held,
The mighty Mystery came; on either hand
Three Monks uphold above, on silver wands,
The purple pall. With holy water next
A father went, therewith from hyssop branch
Sprinkling the graves; the while, with one accord,
The solemn psalm of mercy all entoned.

Pure was the faith of Madoc, though his mind
To all this pomp and solemn circumstance
Yielded a willing homage. But the place
Was holy; — the dead air, which underneath
Those arches never felt the healthy sun,
Nor the free motion of the elements,
Chilly and damp, infused associate awe:
The sacred odors of the incense still
Floated; the daylight and the taper-flames
Commingled, dimming each, and each bedimm'd;
And as the slow procession paced along,
Still to their hymn, as if in symphony,
The regular foot-fall sounded: swelling now,
Their voices, in one chorus, loud and deep,
Rung through the echoing aisles; and when it ceased,
The silence of that huge and sacred pile
Came on the heart. What wonder if the Prince
Yielded his homage there? The influences
Of that sweet autumn day made every sense
Alive to every impulse, — and beneath
The stones whereon he stood, his ancestors
Were mouldering, dust to dust. Father! quoth
When now the rites were ended, — far away
It hath been Madoc's lot to pitch his tent
On other shores; there, in a foreign land,
Far from my father's burial-place, must I
Be laid to rest; yet would I have my name
Be held with theirs in memory. I beseech you,
Have this a yearly rite for evermore,
As I will leave endowment for the same,
And let me be remember'd in the prayer.
The day shall be a holy day with me,
While I do live; they who come after me,
Will hold it holy; it will be a bond
Of love and brotherhood, when all beside
Hath been dissolved; and though wide oceans
Between my people and their mother Isle,
This shall be their communion; They shall send,
Link'd in one sacred feeling at one hour,
In the same language, the same prayer to Heaven
And, each remembering each in piety,
Pray for the other's welfare.
The old man
Partook that feeling, and some pious tears
Fell down his aged cheek. Kinsman and son,
It shall be so! said he; and thou shalt be
Remember'd in the prayer: nor then alone;
But till my sinking sands be quite run out,
This feeble voice shall, from its solitude,
Go up for thee to Heaven!
And now the bell
Rung out its cheerful summons; to the hall,
In seemly order, pass the brotherhood:
The serving-men wait with the ready ewer;
The place of honor to the Prince is given,
The Abbot's right-hand guest; the viands smoke,
The horn of ale goes round: and now, the gates
Removed, for days of festival reserved
Comes choicer beverage, clary, hippocras,
And mead mature, that to the goblet's brim
Sparkles, and sings, and smiles. It was a day
Of that allowable and temperate mirth
Which leaves a joy for memory. Madoc told,
His tale; and thus, with question and reply,
And cheerful intercourse, from noon till none,
The brethren sat; and when the quire was done
Renew'd their converse till the vesper bell.

But then the Porter called Prince Madoc out
To speak with one, he said, who from the land
Had sought him and required his private ear.
Madoc in the moonlight met him: in his hand
The stripling held an oar, and on his back,
Like a broad shield, the coracle was hung
Uncle! he cried, and with a gush of tears,
Sprung to the glad embrace.
O my brave boy
Llewelyn! my dear boy! with stifled voice,
And interrupted utterance, Madoc cried;
And many times he clasp'd him to his breast
And many times drew back and gazed upon him
Wiping the tears away which dimm'd the sign;
And told him how his heart had yearn'd for him,
As with a father's love, and bade him now
Forsake his lonely haunts, and come with him,
And sail beyond the seas, and share his fate.

No! by my God! the high-hearted youth replied,
It never shall be said Llewelyn left
His father's murderer on his father's throne!
I am the rightful king of this poor land.
Go thou, and wisely go; but I must stay,
That I may save my people. Tell me, Uncle,
The story of thy fortunes; I can hear it
Here in this lonely Isle, and at this hour,
Securely.
Nay, quoth Madoc, tell me first
Where are thy haunts and coverts, and what hope
Thou hast to bear thee up? Why goest thou not
To thy dear father's friend in Powys-land?
There at Mathraval would Cyveilioc give
A kinsman's welcome; or at Dinevawr,
The guest of honor shouldst thou be with Rhys;
And he belike from David might obtain
Some recompense, though poor.
What recompense?
Exclaim'd Llewelyn; what hath he to give,
But life for life? and what have I to claim
But vengeance, and my father Yorwerth's throne?
If with aught short of this my soul could rest,
Would I not through the wide world follow thee,
Dear Uncle! and fare with thee, well or ill,
And show to thine old age the tenderness
My childhood found from thee! — What hopes I have
Let time display. Have thou no fear for me!
My bed is made within the ocean caves,
Of sea-weeds, bleach'd by many a sun and shower;
I know the mountain dens, and every hold
And fastness of the forest; and I know, —
What troubles him by day and in his dreams, —
There's many an honest heart in Gwyneth yet!
But tell me thine adventure; that will be
A joy to think of in long winter nights,
When stormy billows make my lullaby.

So as they walk'd along the moonlight shore,
Did Madoc tell him all; and still he strove,
By dwelling on that noble end and aim,
That of his actions was the heart and life,
To win him to his wish. It touch'd the youth;
And when the Prince had ceased, he heaved a sigh,
Long-drawn and deep, as if regret were there.
No, no! he cried, it must not be! lo, yonder
My native mountains, and how beautiful
They rest in the moonlight! I was nurs'd among them;
They saw my sports in childhood, they have seen
My sorrows, they have saved me in the hour
Of danger; — I have vowed, that as they were
My cradle, they shall be my monument! —
But we shall meet again, and thou wilt find me,
When next thou visitest thy native Isle,
King in Aberfraw!
Never more, Llewelyn,
Madoc replied, shall I behold the shores
Of Britain, nor will ever tale of me
Reach the Green Isle again. With fearful care
I choose my little company, and leave
No traces of our path, where Violence,
And bloody Zeal, and bloodier Avarice,
Might find their blasting way.
If it be so, —
And wise is thy resolve — the youth replied,
Thou wilt not know my fate; — but this be sure,
It shall not be inglorious. I have in me
A hope from Heaven. Give me thy blessing, Uncle!

Llewelyn, kneeling on the sand, embraced
His knees, with lifted head and streaming eyes
Listening. He rose, and fell on Madoc's neck,
And clasp'd him, with a silent agony, —
Then launch'd his coracle, and took his way
A lonely traveller on the moonlight sea.