Classic Poem

Now for Mathraval went Prince Madoc forth;
O'er Menai's ebbing tide, up mountain-paths,
Beside gray mountain-stream, and lonely lake,
And through old Snowdon's forest-solitude,
He held right on his solitary way.
Nor paused he in that rocky vale, where oft
Up the familiar path, with gladder pace,
His steed had hastened to the well-known door, —
That valley, o'er whose crags, and sprinkled trees
And winding stream, so oft his eye had loved
To linger, gazing, as the eve grew dim,
From Dolwyddelan's Tower; — alas! from thence,
As from his brother's monument, he turn'd
A loathing eye, and through the rocky vale
Sped on. From morn till noon, from noon till eve,
He travelled on his way; and when at morn
Again the Ocean Chief bestrode his steed,
The heights of Snowdon on his backward glance
Hung like a cloud in heaven. O'er heath, and hill
And barren height he rode; and darker now,
In loftier majesty, thy mountain-seat,
Star-loving Idris, rose. Nor turn'd he now
Beside Kregennan, where his infant feet
Had trod Ednywain's hall; nor loitered he
In the green vales of Powys, till he came
Where Warnway rolls its waters underneath
Ancient Mathraval's venerable walls,
Cyveilioc's princely and paternal seat.

But Madoc sprung not forward now to gree
The chief he loved, for from Cyveilioc's hall
The voice of harp and song commingled came;
It was that day the feast of victory there;
Around the Chieftain's board the warriors sat;
The sword, and shield, and helmet, on the wall
And round the pillars, were in peace hung up;
And, as the flashes of the central fire
At fits arose, a dance of wavy light
Play'd o'er the reddening steel. The Chiefs, who late
So well had wielded in the work of war
Those weapons, sat around the board, to quaff
The beverage of the brave, and hear their fame
Mathraval's Lord, the Poet and the Prince,
Cyveilioc, stood before them, — in his pride;
His hands were on the harp, his eyes were close
His head, as if in reverence to receive
The inspiration, bent; anon, he raised
His glowing countenance and brighter eye,
And swept with passionate hand the ringing harp.

Fill high the Hirlas Horn! to Grufydd bear
Its frothy beverage, — from his crimson lance
The invader fled; — fill high the gold-tipp'd Horn!
Heard ye in Maelor the step of war —
The hastening shout — the onset? — Did ye hear
The clash and clang of arms — the battle-din,
Loud as the roar of Ocean, when the winds
At midnight are abroad? — the yell of wounds —
The rage — the agony? — Give to him the Horn
Whose spear was broken, and whose buckler pierced
With many a shaft, yet not the less he fought
And conquered; — therefore let Ednyved share
The generous draught; give him the long, blue Horn!
Pour out again, and fill again the spoil
Of the wild bull, with silver wrought of yore;
And bear the golden lip to Tudyr's hand,
Eagle of battle! For Moreiddig fill
The honorable Hirlas! — Where are They?
Where are the noble Brethren? Wolves of war,
They kept their border well, they did their part,
Their fame is full, their lot is praise and song —
A mournful song to me, a song of woe! —
Brave Brethren! for their honor brim the cup,
Which they shall quaff no more.
We drove away
The strangers from our land; profuse of life,
Our warriors rush'd to battle, and the Sun
Saw from his noontide fields their manly strife.
Pour thou the flowing mead! Cup-bearer, fill
The Hirlas! for hadst thou beheld the day
Of Llidom, thou hadst known how well the Chiefs
Deserve this honor now. Cyveilioc's shield
Were they in danger, when the Invader came;
Be praise and liberty their lot on earth,
And joy be theirs in heaven!
Here ceased the song;
Then from the threshold on the rush-strown floor
Madoc advanced. Cyveilioc's eye was now
To present forms awake, but even as still
He felt his harp-chords throb with dying sounds;
The heat, and stir, and passion had not yet
Subsided in his soul. Again he struck
The loud-toned harp — Pour from the silver vase,
And brim the honorable Horn, and bear
The draught of joy to Madoc, — he who first
Explored the desert ways of Ocean, first
Through the wide waste of sea and sky held on
Undaunted, till upon another World
The Lord and Conqueror of the Elements,
He set his foot triumphant! Fill for him
The Hirlas! fill the honorable Horn!
This for Mathraval is a happy hour,
When Madoc, her hereditary guest,
Appears within her honor'd walls again,
Madoc, the British Prince, the Ocean Lord,
Who never for injustice rear'd his arm;
Whose presence fills the heart of every foe
With fear, the heart of every friend with joy;
Give him the Hirlas Horn; fill, till the draught
Of joy shall quiver o'er the golden brim!
In happy hour the hero hath return'd!
In happy hour the friend, the brother treads
Cyveilioc's floor!
He sprung to greet his guest;
The cordial grasp of fellowship was given;
So in Mathraval there was double joy
On that illustrious day; they gave their guest
The seat of honor, and they fill'd for him
The Hirlas Horn. Cyveilioc and his Chiefs,
All eagerly, with wonder-waiting eyes,
Look to the Wanderer of the Water's tale.
Nor mean the joy which kindled Madoc's brow,
When as he told of daring enterprise
Crown'd with deserved success. Intent they heard
Of all the blessings of that happier clime;
And when the adventurer spake of soon return,
Each on the other gazed, as if to say,
Methinks it were a goodly lot to dwell
In that fair land in peace.
Then said the Prince
Of Powys, Madoc, at a happy time
Thou hast toward Mathraval bent thy way;
For on the morrow, in the eye of light,
Our bards will hold their congress. Seekest thou
Comrades to share success? proclaim abroad
Thine invitation there, and it will spread
Far as our fathers' ancient tongue is known.

Thus at Mathraval went the Hirlas round;
A happy day was that! Of other years
They talk'd, of common toils, and fields of war,
Where they fought side by side; of Corwen's scene
Of glory, and of comrades now no more —
Themes of delight, and grief which brought its joy.
Thus they beguiled the pleasant hours, while night
Waned fast away; then late they laid them down,
Each on his bed of rushes, stretch'd around
The central fire.
The Sun was newly risen
When Madoc join'd his host, no longer now
Clad, as the conquering chief of Maelor,
In princely arms, but in his nobler robe,
The sky-blue mantle of the Bard, arrayed.
So for the place of meeting they set forth;
And now they reached Melangell's lonely church
Amid a grove of evergreens it stood,
A garden and a grove, where every grave
Was deck'd with flowers, or with unfading plants
O'ergrown, sad rue, and funeral rosemary.
Here Madoc paused. The morn is young, quoth he;
A little while to old remembrance given
Will not belate us. — Many a year hath fled,
Cyveilioc, since you led me here, and told
The legend of the Saint. Come! — be not loath
We will not loiter long. — So soon to mount
The bark, which will forever bear me hence,
I would not willingly pass by one spot
Which thus recalls the thought of other times,
Without a pilgrim's visit.
Thus he spake,
And drew Cyveilioc through the church-yard porch,
To the rude image of Saint Monacel.
Dost thou remember, Owen, said the Prince,
When first I was thy guest in early youth,
That once, as we had wandered here at eve,
You told, how here a poor and hunted hare
Ran to the Virgin's feet, and look'd to her
For life? — I thought, when listening to the tale,
She had a merciful heart, and that her face
Must with a saintly gentleness have beam'd,
When beasts could read its virtue. Here we sat
Upon the jutting root of this old yeugh —
Dear friend! so pleasant didst thou make those days,
That in my heart, long as my heart shall beat,
Minutest recollections still will live,
Still be the source of joy.
As Madoc spake,
His glancing eye fell on a monument,
Around whose base the rosemary droop'd down,
As yet not rooted well. Sculptured above,
A warrior lay; the shield was on his arm;
Madoc approach'd, and saw the blazonry, —
A sudden chill ran through him, as he read,
Here Yorwerth lies — it was his brother's grave.

Cyveilioc took him by the hand: For this,
Madoc, was I so loath to enter here!
He sought the sanctuary, but close upon him
The murderers follow'd, and by yonder copse
The stroke of death was given. All I could
Was done; — I saw him here consign'd to rest;
Daily due masses for his soul are sung,
And duly hath his grave been deck'd with flowers.

So saying, from the place of death he led
The silent Prince. But lately, he pursued,
Llewelyn was my guest, thy favorite boy.
For thy sake and his own, it was my hope
That at Mathraval he would make his home;
He had not needed then a father's love.
But he, I know not on what enterprise,
Was brooding ever; and those secret thoughts
Drew him away. God prosper the brave boy!
It were a happy day for this poor land
If e'er Llewelyn mount his rightful throne.