Classic Poem

I.—T HE Mead B REWING .

Oh, Ievan had a strong hand,
 And a long arm, on my life!
But a better still than Ievan—
Ievan's wife!

‘He topp'd our six-foot settle
 Like a tree when he sat in it,’
Said Hob, ‘But she was little—
Like a linnet!’

‘When he came from watching Howel,
 With the white wine and the water,
I washed his eyes, and wondered!’
Said Hob's daughter.

By Gallt he had his strong-house—
 Walls without; wife within!
Little love was lost 'twixt Ievan
And her kin!

But most of all, hot Howel
 Hated Ievan; and he could,
He had sworn to draw his stronghold,
Have his blood!

Stand fast, oh house! and firm,
 Upon the shaken earth;
Guests come by night, red-handed,
To thy hearth!

But my lady still kept order;
 As the harp within the hall,
Her silver tongue drew silence
O'er them all.

Now to harry Gallt comes Howel,
 But Ievan hunts the Dee,
And his wife is left to warden
His roof-tree!

To make the mead, that morning,
 Her maids were seething wort,
When the whoop of Howel's horsemen
Cut them short.

Robin Inco, as he heard them,
 Spied the rascals from the roof;
‘Oh, my lady, they're upon us,
Tail and hoof!’

‘Poor maids, we're lost,’ cries Megan;
 But my lady,—‘Maidens, fly
For your milkpails! hot metheglin
They shall try!’

And every man that came there
 Had a pailful for his pain;
And liked it not, but steaming,
Fled again.

All day in vain did Howel
 Every door and vantage try;
The men before the maidens
Were grown shy!

He called them off at midnight:
 ‘When next she brews,’ said he,
‘The mead for Ievan's funeral
It shall be!’

My lady laughed: ‘To spite him,
 We'll live to end his strife!’
And they did, too, till the Plague slew
Man and wife!

II.—I EVAN'S F UNERAL .

‘To Gallt, to Gallt,’ said Howel,
 ‘To-morrow ere night fall,
We drink the mead at Ievan's
Funeral!

‘An ambush to waylay him,
 And a dagger from behind him
May by the green grave stay him,
We shall find him!’

Now Ievan to the tourney
 Held in Chirkland by Sir John,
They knew, upon the morrow
Must be gone.

At early morn: ‘Dear Lowry,’
 Said Ievan, ‘this sweet day,
‘A mile or so, come set us
On our way!’

So far as Maes Penmorva,
 Her white hand on his rein,
She went: and then turned singing,
Home again:—

‘Oh, the life of those white mornings,
 When the hoar-frost feels the sun,
And the leaves of grass grow fragrant,
Every one!

‘When the leveret:’—there the music
 Left her lips; for hark a noise—
Horse and hoof, and restless Howel's
Hungry voice!

Like a birch, she leant to listen;
 Like a linnet, found her way
Through the hazel, crying, ‘Howel,
Howel, stay!’

Her white hand caught his bridle,
 But the flat of his tall brand
Like a flail, beat down in fury
Her white hand!

On they ride,—his men behind him,
 To the bridge; but while the gate
Stays him, she finds the footpath,
Steep and straight!

A broken bridge-rail armed her;
 And quick as Howel came,
Her long-stroke left his sword-arm
Hanging lame.

‘Have women wings?’ said Ievan,
 ‘Hark! 'tis Lowry, as you will,
That calls; her white hand beckons
From you hill!

‘Robin halt!’ They look and listen;
 And lo! like buried drums,
With his hundred hoofs behind him,
Howel comes!

Howel came! but Robin Inco
 Was a rock 'mid Ievan's men,
When Howel and his horsemen
Charged again.

And Twm-bach, Howel's dagger—
 When he the blue steel drew there,
At Ievan's back, bold Robin
Ran him through there.

With many a curse then Howel
 Cried off, his hounds at heel—
Save Twm-bach, who had tasted
Robin's steel!

But many a night, the maidens
 At Gallt, told in the hall,
The merry tale of Ievan's
Funeral:

Ay, of Ievan, and my lady:
 How she said, ‘Go, Robin, ride
With my lord to-day, and leave not
Ievan's side!’

And if we ride, my masters,
 Or if we hark the harp,
May our wives have hearts as mighty,
Wit as sharp!

And Ievan's fame forever
 Fill this Tudor time of strife;
But a better still than Ievan,—
Ievan's wife!