LLEWELYN.
 
CANTO I.

---

THE Sun's last ray is gleaming
O'er Scilly's rocky isle;
Yon sea-born cliff is beaming
As with a parting smile;
Its highest point is gilded now
By day's last lingering light;
One moment more, and its lofty brow
Will tell of the coming night.

Bright and smooth is the dark blue wave,
Tranquil and still as the silent grave;
It seems a mirror for the sky,
Mocking each cloud that passes by;
While Evening breathless stands to gaze,
And in a dusky veil arrays
Her shadowy form: — then, one by one,
She takes the stars that proudly blaze,
And gathers all their dazzling rays
To form her glorious ornament;
And when the gradual task is done,
And every trace of day is gone,
She views her glittering coronet,
(Like sparks of gold in sapphire set)
Reflected in that crystal tide:
Then lifts her brow with look of pride
High on the startled firmament.
But now, while yet day's farewell light
Plays o'er the distant sea,
While, tipt with gold, it mocks the sight
In mimic revelry: —
When Evening's task is scarce begun,
And in the west the lingering Sun
Still looks upon the glowing scene,
So calm, so peaceful, so serene:
Lo! sudden from yon craggy height
The screaming sea-bird wings her flight;
What boding sound has waked her fear? —
What threatening ill is lurking near? —
Hark! heard ye not the splashing
Of oars in the deepening wave?
'Tis a bark, the sea-spray dashing;
She has left her ocean-cave;
And 'neath a jutting rock's deep shade
Has for the foe her ambush laid.
Another sail is passing now
Across that azure main:
A gallant vessel, moving slow
Fair Cambria's shore to gain.
It bears above the gentle water
Llewelyn's bride, stern Leicester's daughter.

Ellen de Montfort, she whose charms
Had waked to glorious deeds of arms
The soul of many a knight;
When in the tilt or tournament
The praises of her beauty went
In whispered rapture round the crowd
Of Cavaliers and Nobles proud
Who flocked to see that sight.

Fair Ellen oft had been the theme
Of troubadour's romantic dream
And minstrel's glowing lay;
Now Cambria's bards shall feel the spell
And strike their harps her praise to tell,
While from the mountain-echoes round
Her name, her charms shall oft rebound, —
Plynlymmon rocks give back the sound
And Snowdon's caverns gray!

'Twere vain to tell of each bold knight
In courts accomplished, brave in fight,
Who sought her hand to gain;
Full many a noble baron tried
To win fair Ellen for his bride,
But still had tried in vain;
For at that age when Love awakes
And the young heart his temple makes:
When childhood opens into youth,
And all is fond, confiding truth:
Ere yet the world's cold maxims creep
Round the chilled feelings, till they sleep
In utter disregard of all
Save Mammon's base, degrading thrall:
When bright-eyed Hope, and Love new-born
Threw roseate tints o'er life's gay morn:
The heir to Cambria's wide domain,
Ap Griffith sought, nor sought in vain,
The maiden's gentle heart to gain.

His was the brow whose lofty grace
Bespeaks a long-descended race;
His was the manly beauty fraught
With characters of noble thought:
And his the soft black eye, where soul
Looked forth to animate the whole.
Oft in those happy, artless days
Impassioned words were on his tongue,
And when speech failed, his ardent gaze
Pierced through the long, dark fringe that hung,
Shading those radiant orbs, and helped to tell
What uttered language never spoke so well.
Mute eloquence! that more than words can move,
For every look reveals the soul of Love!

Too soon those hours had fleeted past!
How could such blissful hours endure?
Were happiness like this to last,
So unalloyed, so warm and pure,
Man might be tempted to forget
That there's a heaven more perfect yet.
Now called to guide the helm of state,
On Cambria's prince what cares await!
Fell Discord meets his view;
Rebellion stirs throughout the land,
And Civil War's terrific band,
And Faction's snarling crew.
E'en those who should have soothed each care,
Whom nature meant his griefs to share
And lighten every woe:
His brothers, envious of his power,
Forsake him in the trying hour
And join the common foe.

Edward, who ruled the wide extent
Of England's realm, had proudly sent
To seek a homage, not his right,
From the brave prince of Snowdon's height.
Meet answer to such boast was given:
"Tell him, none but the King of Heaven
"Can to allegiance have a claim
"From ancient Britain's royal name."
Now deadly hate inspired the breast
Of England's king. He took no rest
From schemes of vengeance: — had recourse
Alike to stratagem or force,
To work the woe his malice sought
By deeds of arms or cunning thought.
And well he hopes that though in vain
He sought allegiance to obtain
From a free spirit, true and brave;
Yet Love might forge the heavy chain,
And, Ellen's liberty to gain,
The Cambrian still might be his slave.
Thus toiled he, like the spider, for his prey,
No rest from thought by night, from arms by day.
Too well his baneful arts prevailed:
Too well his plans succeed;
He hears Llewelyn's bride has sailed,
And knows his heart will bleed
Most surely through her wrongs:— for wounded Love
More than aught else Llewelyn's soul can move.

Fearless of danger o'er that tranquil sea
The bark advances joyously;
Nor deems that aught of harm can be
Where Edward's slaves lie treacherously;
Till from their lurking-place they spy
The stately ship come sweeping by;
Then each unsheaths his gleaming sword,
And, swift as lightning, leaps on board.
"In the king's name" is echoed round:
"In the king's name" the shores resound:
The little band their lady guard,
Surprized, but fired with rage,
Each manly heart is quick prepared
The unequal war to wage.
But what avails a manly heart
'Gainst treachery so base?
While right and left the broad — swords dart,
The Cambrians strew the place.
As half unarmed, they fight and fall,
Fair Ellen's voice is heard to call,
And for a while suspends
The shock of arms: — while thus she cried,
"If here ye seek Llewelyn's bride,
"Oh! spare her faithful friends!
"But deem not, though the timid tears
"Fall o'er her woman's cheeks, —
"Though, palsied by her woman's fears,
"Thus tremblingly she speaks, —
"Deem not that Leicester's child can own
"A soul unworthy of her Sire,
"Can quail before a tyrant's frown
"Or crouch beneath his ire.
"No! let yon proud Oppressor know
"She ne'er will stoop to sue the foe
"Of him to whom her faith is given
"In plighted troth before high Heaven."
"Nay, sister, cease"! — Amaury cried
In soothing accents by her side,
"Believe not Edward can have lost
"His martial pride, his knighthood's boast,
"Our kinsman he, — and far too brave
"To war on woman, or behave
"Unworthily of his high name
"For kingly faith or knightly fame."
"Brother! I marvel much to find
"Your judgment thus: so calm, so kind:
"Your feelings, used to highcontroul,
"Subdued and tranquil rest; —
"For me, I feel my father's soul
"Usurp my woman's breast:
"And were not mine a female hand,
"Could I but wield my father's brand,
"I soon would let the tyrant know
"De Montfort's race is still his foe."
"Marked ye her words?" — one miscreant cried,
"I'll bear them to the king! —
"Such treason in Llewelyn's bride
"A rich reward will bring."
In haste they seized her tender form
With rude, unhallowed touch:
How would Llewelyn's fury storm
Could he have deemed that such
Base villain hands should dare to grasp
The beauteous form he longed to clasp.
Heard ye that cry which breathed despair?
Heard ye yon shriek that rent the air?
Could Leicester see his darling child,
Could Leicester hear her accents wild
As from her faithful followers torn,
The high-born maid is rudely borne,
Full heavily that ruffian-crew
Their dastard insolence would rue.

But Leicester's star, so proudly bright,
Hath set in darkness. — Evesham's fight
Hath quenched its restless orb of light,
De Montfort sleeps in peace.
Ambition's guilty dream is past,
The Grave a friendly veil hath cast
O'er all his faults: — he rests at last: —
His crimes, — his triumphs cease.
He who so oft, in rebel pride,
His king subdued, must now be tried
Before the King of Heaven;
He only knows, who hearts can read,
Who weighs the motive of each deed,
If he may be forgiven.

How vain, alas! aspiring Man,
Is all thy glory: — all thy toil!
How vain to waste life's little span,
Forming each day some mighty plan
Which Death shall surely foil.
Yet shall Ambition's dreams be crowned
With bright success, if haply found
O'erleaping Time's dull, narrow bound,
Passing Earth's dark abode:
Hope may look up and smile secure,
When, firmly fixed, her rock is sure,
Her anchor is her God! —

"Now haste to leave this rocky shore;
"Our ships await:— our chace is o'er;
"The prize is gained:— we soon shall bring
"Llewelyn's bride to England's King."
"Now, by the Mass," Caswallon cried,
"Fair Ellen parts not so.
"Though ten to one were on their side,
"We fear not Saxon foe.
"Come on, my friends, whate'er betide,
"We'll strike another blow."
"Nay, peace!" Amaury cried, "in vain
"You seek our freedom to obtain:
"The will of Heaven be done!
"Fear not that aught of ill can be
"Permitted by the wise decree
"Of Him, th' eternal One
"Who guides our destinies aright
"Through ways unseen by mortal sight.
"Nor deem me coward when I pray
"There may be no more strife:
"How can I see without dismay
"This useless waste of life?" —
"No more," the Saxon leader cried,
"For know that on the eastern side
"Of yonder rock, still bright with day,
"Four gallant ships at anchor ride
"And wait but till the morning tide
"Shall this fair prize far hence convey.
"We do our monarch's high behest:
"The lady to his court we bear,
"There to remain an honoured guest: —

"But trust me, it shall be my care
"All courteous deference to pay,
"And sooth her sorrows as I may."
He silenced thus the ruffian-crew:
Then for a space their chief withdrew
Nor lingered where Caswallon tried
With words of friendship, warm and true,
To cheer Llewelyn's hapless bride.
Caswallon, he who, faithful still
Through every change for good or ill,
(Though war's insatiate, gory hand
Had greatly thinned his little band,
And of his only son bereft:)
His Gwendolen, his blooming child,
His home amid the mountains wild,
And all that sweetens home had left,
In honour to his chieftain's bride,
To Cambria's shore her course to guide.
How shall he now to his loved Prince declare
The death of hope, — the message of despair? —

Their leader's presence now restrained
No more a Saxon who remained;
These scoffing words the conference broke,
As to the Cambrian Lord he spoke:
"Haste to the Welshman," thus he said,
"And tell him that the lovely maid
"Is safe in royal Edward's court:
"I trow, full many a gallant there
"Can well replace him with the fair;
"And better 'tis her charms should grace
"Our noble monarch's dwelling-place,
"(Of high-born beauty fit resort,)
"Than lost amid thedesarts rude
"Of yonder savage solitude:
"No knightly tongue those charms to tell,

"No knightly breast with rapture swell,
"As in the lists his valiant deed
"Wins from her hand the victor's meed;
"But on some mountain's rugged side
"To live, the rebel Welshman's bride."

"No rebel he, false Saxon knave!
"No prince was e'er more true, more brave:
"And were it not beneath my sword
"To drink the blood of one so base,
"Full dearly should'st thou rue that word
"In mortal strife and fitter place;
"But from such peril thou art free,
"Thanks to thy safe obscurity."
In altered tone and milder mood,
He turned where Ellen weeping stood,
While that base loon shrunk back ashamed,
His scoffing humour meetly tamed.

"Lady, farewell! — I little thought
"To leave thee thus: yet do not fear!
"Our foes will find their triumph short,
"Each wrong to thee shall cost them dear!"
"Think not, my friend, that selfish fears
"Could check my pulse and blanche my cheek,
"But when the Prince, Llewelyn, hears,
"How will he bear — The thought will break
"This heart where Hope so lately beamed
"In warmest tints of joy and love,
"When Happiness, delusive, seemed
"To rear her wings, all ills above,
"Now sudden sunk in depths of grief,
"E'en tears can give me no relief." —
The maiden paused:— then from her fair
And graceful brow the clustering hair
In ample folds disheveld flung:
Its shadowy beauty round her fell
Like light mists o'er some mountain-dell,
Heightening the charms o'er which it hung;
So stood she, wrapt in loveliness,
Then gave the Chief one glossy tress.
"Thanks, generous friend, for all thy care,
"And would'st thou add one kindness yet,
"This to my Lord, Ap Griffith, bear:
"Tell him each slender thread of hair
"Forbids him ever to forget
"The days of happiness now past:
"Of happiness that, parting, cast
"O'er all to come its shade, Regret." —
Oh! ever, when Love's Sun is set,
And Hope withdraws her cheering light,
(Like dark clouds on the brow of night)
That shadow deepens into gloom,
And still pursues us to the tomb.

Lowly the Chieftain knelt to hear
His lady's last command;
Then bent to hide a starting tear,
And kissed fair Ellen's hand.
"Yes! gladly to my Prince I'll bear
"The sacred pledge you send;
"For well I know each silken hair
"A double vengeance will prepare
"For wrongs so foul to one so fair!
"And thoughts of thee shall vigour lend
"To each true Briton's valiant arm,
"When sounds the trumpet's loud alarm.
"Then shall our Bards thy praises sing,
"And teach their harps to mourn thy woes,
"Which, trembling yet upon the string,
"Shall echo to the hearer's heart,
"And one deep, burning wish impart,
"To pour his vengeance on thy foes."
"Forbid it, gracious Queen of Heaven!
"Oh! let no blood for me be spilt!
"But be the impious wish forgiven!
"Sooner than bear such load of guilt,
"Oh! let me in thy mercy die,
"Blest Son of Mary! now on high
"Encircled by the glories bright
"Of Saints and Martyrs robed in light."

The Cambrians all, in mute distress
Around their much-loved lady press:
To each a few kind words she gives,
From each the heart's best wish receives.
Then turns she where her women duteous stand:
Eager they seize and kiss her proffered hand.
Slowly to each she breathes a sad adieu,
And lingers still, embracing them anew;
And while they, trembling, bring, with whispered fears,
The homage of their sympathizing tears,
Speaks peace to them, as if her own poor heart,
Hopeless itself, could still a hope impart:
Checks each fond sigh, and smiles a ray that seems,
Like Dawn, to chase the gloom with sunny beams.
Oh! who would deem in sorrows such as this,
Thus rudely waking from each dream of bliss,
When crushed at once each hope the heart had known,
Poor human Reason could retain her throne?
But that the Soul, thus plunged in sudden night,
When quenched each ray that formed her earthly light,
Recoils with horror from the darkened way
To light her lamp at the true Source of Day: —

One spark divine can all her path illume;
Her Father's love dispels the thickest gloom.
So shone that heavenly beam which sudden fell
O'er the deep darkness of the prison-cell,
When at the dead of night, an Angel voice
Bade Peter rise and follow, and rejoice.

One damsel of the weeping train
With her loved mistress may remain.
Poor Bertha! they have heard thy prayer
And granted thee free leave to share
Thy lady's load of woe.
Companions from their earliest years,

Whose smiles together beamed: whose tears
Responsive learnt to flow: —
In this sad partnership of grief
Each gives to each a sweet relief;
And comfort's words, so oft in vain
Spoken to soothe another's pain,
By frequent repetition find
An echo in the speaker's mind:
And, with a half-convincing sound,
Back on the gentle heart rebound;
Rewarding thus the friendly zeal
Which preached a hope it could not feel.

Much shorter time it took, I ween,
Such fond adieux to say,
Than to relate so sad a scene:
"Now haste! we must away!
"Lady, we linger here too long,"
The Saxon leader cried,
"Our Captain waits: — No more! 'twere wrong.
"We may not here abide."

Descending slow, with heavy heart,
Poor Ellen passed ( still loth to part,)
Down that steep vessel's side;
Fond Bertha on her path attends,
And Amaury assistance lends
Her faltering steps to guide.
Her thoughts are in Montargis' shades,
Where, with the holy, cloister'd maids,
Bound by the solemn vow:
In peace her mother dwells, and dreams
Of Ellen's bliss: —and fondly deems
Her child is happy now.
Dream on a little while! — Alas!
Too soon the flattering visions pass,
Too soon the fatal truth
Shall burst upon thee like the knell
Of all thy hopes. Oh! who shall tell
Thine anguish then? What mighty spell
A mother's heart can soothe,
When, parted from a child so loved,
She thinks that child is but removed
To make her bliss secure, —
Till the sad tale, in evil hour,
O'erwhelms her soul with stunning power,
Crushing hope's freshly budding flower,
That hope which seemed so sure
When Ellen left the holy place,
And clasped her in a mute embrace.
"And shall these arms once more enfold
"That lovely form? — These eyes behold
"That brow of snow, those locks of gold?"
Thus with a mother's pride
Her heart with fond remembrance dwells
On all her Ellen's charms, and swells
With rapture, — till the tear-drop tells
Of feelings there beside.
The pang that bids those tears o'erflow,
The soul's unutterable woe
That will not be repressed,
What language ever can portray?
The depth of grief what words can say
That rends a mother's breast,
When, all her cherished dreams at once o'erthrown,
Her children's earthly bliss she deems for ever flown.

Amaury too, that gentle one,
The good, the holy, pious son,
In whose kind, tender care
Ellen might find protection still,
And counsel sweet in every ill;
Now must he learn to bear
A prison in a foreign land,
Doomed by the tyrant Edward's hand
To waste life's fleeting spring
Where Corfe's proud castle rears its tower
In frowning grandeur, like the power
Of that despotic king.

High on the deck Caswallon stood to mark
The progress of that slow-receding bark,
Till, lost behind a rock, it mocks the sight,
While gradual Darkness thickens into Night.
The Morn a different prospect shall survey:
That ship will reach fair Cambria's coast ere day;
But when the people flock to see the bride
Of their loved Prince, — what shall the chieftain say?
How tell Llewelyn that the morning tide
Hath swept his all of happiness away?
Now when his heart with dreams of bliss o'erflows,
Who shall to him the fatal truth disclose? —
What words can paint the anguish of his soul?
What mighty power that burst of rage controul? —
When the strong passions (like the headlong course
Of rushing mountain-floods ) with desperate force,
Break their weak bounds, and spurn the feeble stay
Of all that would impede their furious way;
So, when he hears his much-loved Ellen's woe,
(His Ellen taken by the Saxon foe)
How will the Cambrian Prince's anger storm
To think that gentle lady's beauteous form
Should thus by treacherous arts be borne away
Where the stern despot holds his iron sway.

 
END OF CANTO I.

 
 

L L E W E L Y N.
 
CANTO II.

O'ER fair Dolgelly's wooded vale
The early Moon is rising pale,
Bathing in soft unearthly light
The solemn grove, — the craggy height: —
Hanging midway 'twixt earth and heaven,
Like angel help to mortals given: —
Breathing a calmness all divine,
Like virgin pure on hallowed shrine.
Yet still unquenched, the orb of day
Lingers o'er yonder turret gray
Torn from the battlemented rock
By some forgotten earthquake's shock.
The hour seems made for poet's dreams,
Inspiring wild and changeful themes;
Enough of daylight left to show
The narrow pass, the gulf below:
Enough the Moonbeam's doubtful glance
To view the glade where fairies dance.
It is the mild, the pensive hour
When Summer boasts her magic power
Extremes in harmony to blend:
And Moonlight reigns ere Day can end.
The lamp of Night, with glimmer pale,
Illumes the sun-abandoned vale,
While, from his lengthened course to rest,
The weary giant seeks the West, —
Leans on yon towering cliff awhile,
And gazes on his sister's smile;
Nor lets dull, envious Darkness skreen
With russet mantle that fair scene;
While modest Twilight seeks the shade
By venerable fir-trees made:
There peaceful rests, conceding soon
Earth's empire to the stately Moon
Who longs to rule, in skies so bright,
Acknowledged Sovereign of the night.

And never might a lovelier scene
Be looked upon by that fair queen.
Here, winding, many a tangled maze,
The silver Wynion gently strays,
Where the lone Willow stoops to lave
Her sad brow in his friendly wave;
There, where the rocks obstruct his course,
Impetuous bursts in headlong force,
Dashing with wild and angry leap,
Roused like a Lion from his sleep,
Now rolls along his rapid flood:
Now lost amid the mazy wood,
In 'wildered darkness slowly creeping,
Or through some fairy loophole peeping,
He wanders on his playful way,
And dances in the Moonbeam's ray.
Here, sheltered by the verdant brake,
Soft carpets varied mosses make
For that small race with tiny feet
Who love to sport in cool retreat,
And list to Wynion's whispers sweet.
There, beetling rocks o'erhang the deep
And silent stream, now lulled asleep,
While from their rugged sides impending,
Long graceful tendrils downwards sending,
Like maiden's tresses unconfined,
Waving in every passing wind,
Green weeds in rich luxuriance float;
And on that jutting crag you note
Those hardy plants which boast their birth
In barren soils and scant of earth.
White Lichen here would fondly seek
To clothe her parent rock so bleak:
Tall Foxglove flaunts in purple pride
On that rude cliff's projecting side:
While beauteous Fern's light, feathery grace
(The fairies spun her robe of lace,)
Softens the horrors of the place.
But, following still that river's tide,
A bolder prospect opens wide;
Peaks upon peaks together tossed,
Mountains by higher mountains crossed:
The billows of a troubled sea
Chasing each other furiously,
By magic charmed to sudden rest,
Such scene sublime would picture best.
Here Cader Idris, bleak and bare,
Seems raised too high for mortal care;
No earthly change affects his lot:
Impending storms alarm him not:
The World's vain empires fall or rise,
While, ever aiming at the skies,
His head that lofty mountain rears,
Unmoved alike to smiles or tears.
In these bleak wilds, so legends tell,
A mighty Giant used to dwell;
From cliff to cliff he loved to roam,
Then wearied, seek his hermit home,
There, throw him on his rugged chair,
And gaze upon that prospect rare.
Yon barren point, so bald and steep,
O'erlooks a hollow ravine deep,
In whose dark bosom lies a Lake; —
Its waters, pure as crystal, make
The sea to many a bounding rill
That dashes sparkling from the hill. —
Breaking the surface smooth and clear,
Three island rocks their huge heads rear:
And still tradition loves to say
How Giant Idris paused one day
To rest him on the summit gray
Of yonder cliff, — then wearied drew
From his swollen foot the sandal'd shoe,
And from its mighty compass threw
Those rocks — to him but grains of sand.
Fit tale for such wild mountain — land!

But turning from that prospect bleak,
The eye far different scenes would seek:
Here contrast fair is given;
Across the vale, so still and sweet,
Lies, hushed and calm, the blest retreat
Of maidens vowed to Heaven.
St. Winifreda's pious care
Had reared the holy fabric where
Yon hills are gently swelling;
And well the sainted Abbess chose
That site: —for heavenly, calm repose
Seems shed around the dwelling.
A thickly wooded bank behind
Shelters the convent from the wind,
And breaks the tempest's force;
While in the front and all around,
Rich, fertile, undulating ground
Slopes downwards where the course
Of Wynion's softly flowing tide
Becomes a barrier to divide
That peaceful nook from all beside:
From earthly grief and care; —
From jarring passions that intrude,
And haunt the world's vain multitude,
But shun the tranquil solitude
Sacred to praise and prayer.

Oh! Cambria, in thine ancient land
What vestiges we trace
Of ages past! — Mute records stand
Of each succeeding race.
The Abbey fair, — the Fortress bold
Rear high their heads sublime;
But Gothic Aisle and Donjon hold
Are found in many a clime.
Here may we see the Cromlech pale
Wrapped in the impenetrable veil
That Fable wove in song and tale,
And legendary rhyme.
Frail Man! where'er the mind may range
Throughout the storied page,
All speaks, alas! thy ceaseless change,
Which marks each passing age.
Sacred no more, the Druid's Oak
Now waits the ruthless Woodman's stroke,
Though holy Misletoe may crown
With mystic wreath his temples brown.
Where yon dark grove of fir-trees stands,
A monument of giant hands,
Of ponderous weight, colossal size,
The modern race of Man defies
To bear it to its native plain,
Or cast the load to earth again.
Two fragments of primeval rock
Torn from the solid, living block,
Here planted deep, are fixed upright
In scorn of puny mortals' might.
Supported on this structure rude,
A mass of equal magnitude,
High raised in air, is transverse laid:
Altar where cruel rites were paid
If here the fierce Arch-druid's knife
Gave to his Gods his brother's life.
Some think in this sepulchral gloom
A mighty monarch finds his tomb:
While others deem at random hurled
The ruins of an older world.
I cannot tell which guesses right,
But well I know that such strange sight
Mid Cambria's wilds is oft beheld: —
Vast remnant of forgotten Eld! —

Mark yon steep rock which overhangs the wave
That winds in many a curve its foot to lave;
There rampart-wall and battlemented tower
Announce the dwelling of some Chief of power.
A moat defends the Castle on each side
Save where yon cliff frowns over that deep tide: —
Barrier more sure than Art could e'er provide.
A drawbridge spans its dull and sluggish stream
That lies asleep beneath the Moon's pale beam;
High raised, it seems in that delusive light
Like Spectre tall, fast bound by magic might
To guard the castle of some wizard wight.
A massive gateway next attracts the eye,
O'er which two lofty watch-towers pierce the sky:
Here Warders stand to give a quick alarm
Should aught around appear to menace harm.
The huge portcullis lowered, bars entrance there,
And all bespeaks keen vigilance and care.
While on the battlements, in measured pace
The wary Sentries' feet their oft-trod path retrace.

Five hundred vassals, ever prompt in arms,
Here guard Caswallon's child from War's alarms.
The Chief himself to Cambria's Prince has borne
The fatal news how from his guidance torn,
Llewelyn's loved and long-affianced maid
Was by the Saxon's crafty wiles betrayed
To Edward's hands. — He could not trust the tale
To other tongues. — His own must well-nigh fail
In the sad task such sorrows to declare,
For truly does his faithful bosom share
His Prince's grief: — whose overwhelming woes
Now sink so deep that life appears to close
Now burst in vows of vengeance on his foes.

The Linnet has carolled his farewell to Day,
And the Thrush is mute on the accustom'd spray;
Hushed is the cooing of the Dove,
And Slumber reigns o'er the darkened grove:
Save where the Nightingale's sad note
Is heard on the silence of Nature to float:
Or the plash of the distant waterfall
From its home in the mountain's rocky hall.
But a sweeter sound is on the gale
Than the plaint of the mournful Nightingale; —
'Tis a voice of soft, melodious tone,
As of a Spirit wandering alone: —
And a music is heard of a wilder mood
Than the fall of the rushing mountain-flood: —
'Tis the sweep of a harp, like a breeze o'er the water,
From the lonely tower of Caswallon's daughter.
It seemed as if enchantment hung
O'er all around as the maiden sung:

(GWENDOLEN'S SONG.)

Harp of my country! swell high thy full chord!
Call on her sons with a soul — stirring spell!
Bid the mighty in battle now gird on the sword
To avenge all the wrongs which thy music shall tell!
Hark! while our Bards now indignant rehearse
In strains of proud Freedom, in loftiest verse,
How our long-cherished hopes are all quenched in despair,
For the Saxon has robbed us of Ellen the Fair!

Harp of my country! prolong the sad theme;
Recal her brave sons by the soft power of Love!
Let those who forsook her for Pride's guilty dream,
Now rallying round, her deliverers prove!
Oh! may our Prince's woes melt each true heart!
To all who have loved may his sorrows impart
The wish in his deeds and his glories to share,
And to crush the Oppressor of Ellen the Fair!

---

She paused: and now a voice is heard
Of well-remembered tone;
It breathed her name: 'twas but one word:
Enough: — that voice is known.
"And is he here?" — her looks declare
Her agony of fear,
As down that turret's winding-stair
She flies, where, lingering near,
^* Meredith stands, and takes no note
Of perils lurking round;
Unseen he swam that castle's moat,
Yet now, if haply found,
Full many a deadly shaft were aimed
At his devoted heart,
For he his country's cause had shamed
And joined the rebels' part.
Caswallon's favour once his hopes beguiled,
And Gwendolen had blushed a mute consent,
Now by her father's dread command exiled,
He lingered still where that proud Castle lent
Its deepest shade, and sometimes pausing near
Her well-known tower, the maiden's voice could hear.
Alas! for Gwendolen! who sate the while
And thought upon her father's stern behest: —
"Forget the traitor." — By a name so vile
Caswallon called the youth so lately blest, —
Whose heart is pledged to her's for weal or woe:
False to his Prince, he is the Chieftain's foe.

* The Welsh accent this name on the second syllable.

But Gwendolen, poor hapless maid!
She could not so forget;
Her wandering thoughts for ever strayed,
With him they lingered yet.
She mused on hidden dangers dire
That haunt his erring path,
And much she dreads Llewelyn's ire,
Still more Caswallon's wrath.
And now the postern-door she gained,
And through the wicket past,
And while from tears she scarce refrained,
She heard the Warder's blast.
"Oh! fly," she cried, "Meredith, fly!
"My father must be near —
"Ah! why such desperate peril try?
"You'll find no safety here!"

The maiden turned quickly her bower to gain,
But went not now alone:
He whispered "One moment I must remain;
"Oh! hear me, dearest one!" —
"Nay, go! I have warned you of danger near,
"Then fly while yet you may." —
"My Gwendolen, stay! — there is nought to fear,
"For passing that dark way
"Where oft at night I have stood to mark
"Thy form as it flitted by,
"Nor heeded the watch-dog's angry bark,
"Nor the hoarse Sentry's cry: —
"There as I passed, the feast was spread
"And Mirth and Song were there,
"When an ancient Bard appeared and said
"How the Saxon had captured the fair.

"Then they gathered around him with visages pale
"With breathless attention to hear the sad tale,
"While I passed unheeded by;
"Till, led by the sound of that angel-voice
"Which so often had made my heart rejoice,
"I paused to listen nigh."
"And heard that song?" she cried, "then prove
"The truth of all your vows of love!
"Now mark my earnest prayer:
"No longer traitor to the cause
"Of Cambria's liberty and laws,
"Hence to the Prince repair;
"A homage long withdrawn, renew,
"Be to yourself, your country, true:
"Be loyal as you're brave!" —
"Dearest," he cried, "my faith is sworn
"To England's King." — "What! Cambrian born,
"You live the Saxon's slave!"

"Nay, hear me, Gwendolen, nor lend
"To prejudice that mind so pure;
"Prince David came, my earliest friend,
"Whose love for me was ever sure:
"From him I learnt how lawless art
"Had raised Llewelyn to the throne;
"Bartering for lands his brother's part
"In sovereign power, he ruled alone."
She meekly said — "Were that charge true,
"Still Cambria is a sacred name
"To each born Briton: — nor could you
"Without deep guilt reject her claim.
"But oh! if Friendship so could move
"That youthful heart in days long since,
"Now let the strong appeal of Love
"Restore a Cambrian to his Prince!" —
He sighed: — "My oath to England's king." —
"Llewelyn had your homage first!" —
"What! change again, and be a thing
"By all despised, — by warriors curst!"

"Then hear, Meredith, how your Lord,
"The Saxon king, with fire and sword,
"Lays waste fair Cambria's lands:
"While to the North his course he bends,
"An army to the West he sends,
"Chaworth this host commands:
"Red Murder tracks with blood his way,
"And Plunder seizes, as her prey,
"The noble and the true:
"Castle and cot alike he burns,
"Alike the Chief and vassal spurns
"Unless they basely sue
"For pardon that they once were free,
"That, like their Sires, they dared to be
"True Britons, good and brave: —
"I fear, too many a Cambrian Lord
"Laid down his freedom with his sword,
"And now is England's slave.
"But never could my Father's soul
"Stoop to the tyrant's base controul,
"Or sue for lengthened days.
"No! rather when this lonely tower
"No longer might withstand his power,
"Himself would light its blaze!
"And thou could'st stand to view the flame,
"And shout, and praise King Edward's name
"For such a glorious deed!" —
"Ah! cease," he cried, "thy words have rent
"My inmost soul." — "Oh! — then relent
"In Cambria's hour of need.
"My Gwendolen! — I feel whate'er
"May be my fate, I ne'er could bear
"To work thy woe. — I pledge my word
"Thy happiness to save." —
Oh Man! — misnamed creation's Lord,
How oft but Woman's slave.
He said: and from her presence rushed
Nor stayed to say farewell;
Oh! what a tide of feelings gushed
To fill that proud heart's swell!
Scarce could he breathe until the pure, fresh air
Played o'er his brow and cooled the fever there.

The maiden paused as half afraid,
Then fell she on her knees and prayed,
And many an Ave Mary said;
And thanks to Heaven devoutly poured
For strengthening her simple word
To give it weight with that proud Lord.

While yet the prayer is scarcely done,
A heavy step is heard:
'Tis like the armed tread of one
For battle-field prepared.
Quickly the maiden rose to clasp
The form that entered now,
Freed from the helmets iron grasp
And wiped his burning brow.
"Bless thee, my child!" — the chieftain cried,
"Alas! that War should e'er divide
"Thy Father's heart from thee!
"But I have now no son to send,
"Caswallon must himself attend
"The strife for liberty.
"My noble son! — when late I saw
"His stately form, went forth to draw
"His sword at Freedom's call; —
"His polished armour, glittering bright,
"The chain of gold, his princely right,
"With dreams of glory mocked my sight,
"But spoke not of his fall! —
"My boy! — my boy! — oh! had thy sire
"Been proof against his son's desire
"To mingle in the strife!
"But how could I resist thy prayer,
"When proud to see thy martial air,
"Thine eyes of fire that flashed delight,
"Thy soul that longed to join the fight,
"Nor paused to think of life!
"Oh! had I died for thee, my son!
"My brave, my loved, my only one!"

Tears, sad companions of a plaint so wild,
Now chased each other down that old man's cheek,
And sobs, as from the bosom of a child,
Burst from his steel-clad breast, as if to break
Their iron bound: — so when the gale has sighed
Its hollow moan to the low murmuring tide,
Old Ocean sobs and heaves the foaming wave
As if to drown the rock it should but lave.
While thus the Chief, without restraint,
A flood of sorrows poured,
His daughter marked the sad complaint,
Nor checked it with a word.

Yet deem not Apathy's cold hand
Could chill that young heart's genial glow,
Or (frozen at his stern command)
Forbid the answering tear to flow:
So have I seen some wintry Lake,
In sullen, ice-bound stillness rest,
Nor one of those soft changes take
Which Summer pictured on its breast,
But coldly dark, reflecting nought: —
Was this the image of her thought? —
Oh no! 'twas feeling more refined,
The instinct of a generous mind
That prompted her to let his soul
Exhaust its woe without controul,
While each fond tear and rising sigh
Lightened the load of misery.
And well she knew that such deep grief
From tears alone might find relief;
For oft at Evening's weary hour
Caswallon sought her lonely bower,
Safe refuge from a world too cold
To heed the tale Affliction told.
In that calm undisturbed retreat,
Where heart with heart in union beat,
'Twas almost joy thus to express
His soul's whole weight of wretchedness.
So, like the plant which shuns the grasp
That would its opening beauties clasp,
The woe-worn bosom, ever shy,
Shrinks from the unmoved stranger's eye,
But as the fondly clinging Vine
Its graceful tendrils will entwine
Round some kind, friendly succour nigh,
Grief claims the meed of Sympathy,
Nor vainly from the heart most dear
Conceals the long-restrained tear.
In accents soft as lover's whispered vow,
As sweetly clear, — as certain to be heard, —
The maiden breathes the spell most powerful now,
"Father!" — her lips can frame no second word.
That voice the charmed silence broke:
Who could have borne it long?
"My child! — my child! — See'st thou yon Oak,
"Unyielding, proudly strong,
"With sturdy arms that scorn to bend,
"Though tempests howl on high,
"And head upreared, as if to send
"Defiance to the sky?
"Till the red lightning's angry flash
"Burst o'er its scathed brow,
"Rending with one o'erwhelming crash
"Its noblest, stateliest bough:
"Thus I, in pride of wealth and conscious power
"Exulted, till the stern, unpitying hour
"That turned my heart's fond joy to pain and tears,
"And gave to grief my few remaining years." —
He paused: then clasped his daughter's beauteous form,
Kissed her meek brow and lulled his bosom's storm.

"But thou, my child, sweet sunbeam in the gloom,
"Thy smile can still my cheerless path illume: —
"Still can thy love its holy radiance cast
"O'er present hours, — though not efface the past.
"Wert thou not by to lure me into life
"I soon had sunk a prey to woe's sad strife.
"Bless thee, sweet solace of my soul's distress!
"May Heaven bless thy gentle tenderness!
"Now short repose I seek, for break of day
"Must see thy sire in arms far on his way
"To where the Saxon host, o'er all the plain,
"Stretch their long lines from Ruthlan to the Main.
"We there shall meet Ap Griffith at the head
"Of all the loyalty in Britain left.
"Would the base Saxons' gold were molten lead
"For those whose purchased treason hath bereft
"Their country of her born defenders! — Thou,
"My child, conceal not from thy father now
"If aught thou know'st of that misguided youth
"Whom once we deemed the soul of knightly truth."

"Father! believe not brave Meredith's hand
"Shall e'er be won to wield a traitor's brand
"Against the freedom of his native land.
"Nay more! a secret hope to my fond heart
"Whispers he yet will act a noble part,
"Nor longer at the shrine of Friendship blind
"Devote the virtues of a generous mind,
"But soon his late bewildered steps retrace,
"His errors by his gallant deeds efface,
"And in the rolls of Fame regain his place."
"And whence this hope?" — Nay, father, ask not whence,
"But trust my woman's instinct, that quick sense
" Which seems an inspiration to reveal
"Things yet unseen, which we can only feel."
She said: and blushed to think she might not dare
Ev'n to her father all the truth declare,
For oh! she trembled lest Caswallon's wrath
Pursue her lover on his secret path.

The Chief replied: "My child, thy youthful heart
"Would fain deceive thee with Hope's flattering dream,
"But think not one who acts a traitor's part
"Such base disloyalty may e'er redeem,
"Or e'er deserve thy too confiding love.
"Nor can my time-tried and experienced soul
"Trust to such omens. — Well! few hours will prove
"Whether again he venture to enroll
"Among his country's champions a name
"Long used to honour, now low sunk in shame."
"Trust me, its purity shall be restored,
"And Cambria yet be grateful to his sword!" —
Caswallon smiled: — "'Tis strange a hope so wild
"Should thus possess thy bosom, my sweet child.
"Almost I could believe to thee 'tis given
"To read the future purposes of Heaven.
"But if indeed thy lover would regain
"His place in Britain's lists of martial fame,
"The morrow's sun may yet wipe off his stain,
"And patriot deeds efface his transient shame.
"Few hours remain before the matin-bell
"From yonder convent startles all the dell;
"When its loud tongue the silent night alarms
"My faithful vassals meet their Chief in arms."
"So soon, my father? — Short repose indeed
"The toils of war allow you. — Heaven bless
"Your arms and Cambria's cause! — St. David speed
"His own true Britons! — May such bright success
"Ap Griffith's banners gild, that ev'n his foes
"Must see that Heaven fights for him, and oppose
"No longer the decrees of Fate: — but own
"Llewelyn's right to British Arthur's throne.
"Now slumbers calm refresh you, while I pray
"That Heaven may grant us such a glorious day;
"And safely bring you back to this fond heart! —
"Once more, my father, bless me ere we part."

With that, before her sire the maiden kneels
In lowly attitude, her graceful arms
On her meek bosom crossed: her eye reveals
High patriot thoughts, blended with gentlest charms
Of Woman's soft submissiveness and now
The Chieftain's hand is laid upon her brow,
While with fond looks and half prophetic air,
He breathes in tone devout a fervent prayer,
That she, sole solace of his grief-worn heart,
Sole object of that heart's concentrate love,
His Gwendolen, might never know the smart
Of keen Affliction's stroke, which to remove
From his sad soul she was so skilful. — Then
He prayed that He who reads the thoughts of men
Would call back Cambria's wandering sons at last,
With twofold zeal bent to redeem the past
By glorious deeds. — "Thus may the noble youth,
"My child's betrothed, to loyalty and truth
"Restored, ere long in battle-field evince
"Renewed allegiance to his native Prince.
"So may these aged arms once more enfold
"Him whom thou lov'st, the chosen of thy heart,
"These aged eyes, ere yet they close, behold
"Thy happiness, no longer doomed to part
"From the fond youth who, kneeling at thy side
"Receives with thee my blessing and embrace; —
"With thee, sole relic of my sainted bride,
"Sole remnant of a long-illustrious race. —
"From thee be born brave sons, their country's pride,
"And daughters fair, her ornament and grace.
"On earth long years of love and joy be given,
"Then rise to find still purer bliss in Heaven!"
Hushed was the old man's voice, then bending low,
He raised her kneeling form, kissed her fair brow,
And pressed her to his heart, whose beatings tell
The agony of that long, mute farewell;
Then turned to hide the heavings of his breast,
And sought his couch to snatch a hasty rest.
She to the Chapel's holy gloom repairs
To spend an hour in solitude and prayers.
Her ardent thoughts, with glad forebodings blest,
More freely on her lover's promise rest,
While to her heart her father's blessing seems
Sure prophecy and source of happiest dreams.

O'er the hushed vale the convent-bell
Is swinging mournfully to tell
The passing of another day.
The hours so lately called our own,
Like treacherous friends, are swiftly flown
And to Heaven's courts have winged their way:
There witnessing of good or ill,
They ne'er return, but take their fill
Of retribution in the hour
When Man must bow to Death's stern power.
The holy sisters' feet are bare
As sweetly they chant their matin-prayer:
"Peace on earth, good will to men!" —
Secluded from all human ken,
Little they deem that their convent-bell
Is the signal for mounting, the token to tell
Of War in the stirrup, seeking his prey,
And of Carnage, fell monster! — attending his way,
Prepared for dire labour, — impatient of stay.

Ready armed in the Castle-yard
Caswallon's followers stand,
While under the care of an ancient Bard,
The Chieftain's daughter and fortress to guard,
They leave a chosen band.
And ever and anon,
On the road where they are gone,
Cambria's sons, from far and near,
Flocking round, her standard rear.
Thus, like Winter's gathering snow,
Their increasing numbers flow,
Till by morning's light, a goodly sight,
Hundreds, aye, thousands now, I ween,
Pressing on to the fight, for their country's right,
Around her Dragon-Crest are seen.
Still on they speed, nor linger on the way,
Hoping to join their Prince ere close of day.

 
END OF CANTO II.

 
 

L L E W E L Y N.
 
CANTO III.

---

'TIS Night: repose and silence now are spread
O'er Ruthlan's plain, save where with heavy tread,
The cautious sentinels, in ceaseless round,
Guard from surprize the thickly tented ground.
The peaceful Moon looks on that tranquil scene,
So hushed, so calm: — few hours must intervene
Ere, from their slumber roused, by dawn's first light
Thousands of warriors arm for deadly fight.
Then shall the silent camp resound with sudden life,
And every quiet tent proclaim the coming strife.

But one pavilion beams
With purple and with gold,
While England's banner streams
Above, in ample fold.
Within, a lonely watcher sits,
Close rapt in anxious thought,
Tracing, by momentary fits,
Plans with destruction fraught.
Oh! Edward, while the thousands there
By welcome sleep are blest,
Why from thy brow does sullen care
Still chase the timid guest?
Go, monarch! view the mighty host
That covers Ruthlan's plain:
Count thy brave warriors! — make thy boast!
Ere long it may be vain.
Perchance before thy secret soul,
Pondering the morrow's strife,
Brief shadows of remorse may roll;
Thou, prodigal of life!
But, transient as the lightning, gleams
Such thought o'er thy proud mind,
Lost in Ambition's selfish schemes,
Whose victim is Mankind.
Now starting, Edward leaves the tent,
Nor rouses page nor squire,
Then views the glorious firmament
Lighted by orbs of fire.
Distinct beneath the Moon's pale ray,
His form, erect and tall,
Pursues its solitary way
Till the loud Sentry's call
Arrests his ear.— The word is past,
Through yon hushed camp he goes,
And gazes on the cliffs at last
Where couch his mountain foes.
Vainly the Monarch's anxious eye
The Cambrians' movements would descry,
Their forms still unrevealed:
He shifts his ground in vain to spy
The hardy tribes that sleeping lie,
By those high rocks concealed.
Thus Edward waked and watched: then to his tent,
(But not to rest) dissatisfied he went.
Meantime Llewelyn strained his eager sight
To pierce the half transparent veil of Night,
Hoping to welcome soon the valiant train
Led by Caswallon: — long he gazed in vain.
At length, seen dimly in the pale moonlight,
(Like Spectre-host) arrayed in mantles white,
The Cymry now advance: — on, on they press,
Their gradual numbers growing numberless!
Such weapons as the warlike Britons bear,
The veteran Chief's brave troops, with martial air,
Know well to use. — The sharp, two-edged brand
Rome left their sires, is fatal in their hand.
Some poise the deadly javelin: — some wing
Pebbles as deadly from the simple sling.
(So stripling David quelled his giant foe.)
The men of Gwentland from the ponderous bow
Speed the light shaft: — the halbert and the knife
Gleam darkly, menacing each Saxon life.
The Danish axe, the strong, steel-headed spear
Beam where the Dragon fierce her horrid crest doth rear.
Thousands whom Cambria's call hath gather'd round
(Unknown to martial discipline) have found
Arms peaceful once, now with destruction rife, —
The Scythe shall find dread harvest in that strife!
And scatter'd fragments on the rocky height
Supply new weapons for the mortal fight.
No armour their's save such as works offence:
Courage, not steel, the Briton's sole defence.
Refreshed with needful food, they sink to rest,
Pillowed on that hard mountain's rocky breast:
Rude couch wide — spread to hail each coming guest.

Gladly the Prince the loyal Chieftain met:
"Welcome, my ever faithful friend, while yet
"Wales boasts so many hearts in battle brave,
"With counsels such as thine to guard and save,
"And Heaven to judge our cause, — we need not fear
"Our vaunting foe. — Within my tent such cheer
"As warlike scenes afford, is rudely spread;
"And then, till daylight dawn, a soldier's bed.
"Far from the crowd, the leaders hence repair,
Discuss the strife and deadly plans prepare.
This done, they wearied seek a brief repose
Ere Morn's first ruddy streak on the horizon glows.

The clouds now doff their sober gray
And borrow tints from gold-eyed Day
To hail their Lord, the glorious Sun:
His mighty race is scarce begun
When courtier-like, they cringing run
To catch a beam from his bright smile
And boast it their's a little while.
Intent on his Creator's praise,
His bounteous course brooks no delays,
But passing by, he leaves them there,
Their false hues faded: — as they were.
But long before that rising Sun
Half his diurnal task hath done,
Fair Ellen must be lost or won.
The Dragon-crest is waving now
On wings of the morning breeze,
While from yon rock's majestic brow
Are heard strange symphonies.
Red Griffith's harp that music flings:
Unbennaeth Prydain now he sings:
That lay awakes not Love, but Hat?,
Recalling wrongs of oldest date;
Speaks not of Mercy, but fierce strife,
And Freedom purchased with Man's life.
Now proudly it swells, sweeping higher and higher,
To breathe the dark spirit of ne'er-ceasing Ire,
Or rouse it if sunk to repose:
Now sadly it falls, wailing low to inspire
Remembrance of grief and a burning desire
Of vengeance on Cambria's foes.

The potent magic works, for all around
Impatient warriors long to join the fray:
Their hearts courageous echo to the sound,
And hardly for the leader's signal stay.
But while that mournful cadence dies in air
A sign is made: — the foremost Britons there
Now gather round the Prince: -- their keen eyes bent
To mark each gesture, — on each look intent.
High on a rising ground, erect and tall,
His manly form arrests the gaze of all;
While the white-mantled Cymry nearer press,
With aspect fierce and wildly graceful dress,
In varied groupes. — Llewelyn waves his hand,
And, mute as marble, his brave warriors stand;
While thus, in tone devout and accents meek,
The heir to Arthur's throne is heard to speak.
"Thus far, my friends, the Lord of Hosts hath been
"Our safety and our guide. — His eye hath seen
"Our deep affliction, for we may not doubt
"That trusting to our own weak strength, without
"The help of God, to whom 'tis still alike
"To save by many or by few: — to strike
"The blow ordained to conquer by a hand
"Weak as a child's, or by the great command
"Of some vast potentate: — our crafty foe
"Had worked his will on Cambria long ago.
"Our all is now at stake; — for should we fall
"Alive into King Edward's hands, full small
"Were that proud despot's mercy to the race
"He fain would blot from under Heaven's face.
"Is it not better then at once to die
"And go to God, than to live on and sigh
"A thralled existence forth from day to day
"While taunts and tortures wear the soul away,
"Then at a tyrants will resign our breath
"And glut his hate with our ignoble death?
"But no, my friends! be our's a better fate;
"Firm to each other stand, and calm await
"The issue: 'tis our union must ensure
"Success: — our righteous cause will still secure
"Heaven's patronage. In this sure hope confide:
"Our God is just! — Our God is on our side!"
One universal shout the Britons raise
In answer to their Prince; who but delays
While his rude auditors resume such show
Of discipline as their wild habits know.
Each hastes the banner of his Chief to gain,
For every Cambrian Lord leads forth a separate train.

Shrill o'er the plain the trumpet-blasts resound:
The Cambrian, Echo, wakes to mock the sound;
"Charge, Englishmen!" — the fiery Edward cries:
"Charge, Englishmen!" — each cave and rock replies,
Till to the Lowlander's unpractised ear
The peopled air seems fraught with sounds of fear.
The Soldier stops to cross himself: — again
The impatient monarch shouts "Charge, English men!"
Again the taunting spirits voice is heard
In clearest accents to give back the word,
While a mute sense of something undefined
Subdues and awes the stoutest warrior's mind.
Yet, fiercely eager their swift foe to meet
And bent that moment's weakness to disown,
The slippery path their inexperienced feet
Essay to climb, where the soft herb alone
With dewy gems bespangled, doth beguile
Their steps to many a fall. How like the bait
Ambition lays for fools! — Her luring smile
Leads the poor victims on, till all too late
Experience detects the crafty wile:
They giddy turn, and fall: — then rail at Fate!

Thus the mountain-spirits guard
The bulwarks of their native land;
Unseen, they render doubly hard
The invaders' task: — the foremost band
Now pause for breath, and find, in gazing round,
Their weary toil has gained them little ground.
Still, its rapid course descending
Nearer rolls the Cambrian tide,
While from each gray cliff impending,
On the shaggy mountain's side,
They seem to hear a thousand tongues that vaunt
That barrier's strength, and their vain efforts taunt.

Again the tedious task renewing,
Again their weary way pursuing,
Breathless, hopeless of succeeding,
Their heavy armour but impeding
Each movement feeble, slow:
Yet for them is no receding,
That scoff they cannot hear unheeding,
"Come on proud Saxon foe?" —
And still o'er all a sound is heard
More wild than song of startled bird;
It is Red Griffith's practised hand
That can the hearer's soul command:
It is his full, majestic voice whose tone
O'er all the din of War is heard alone.

BATTLE-SONG OF THE BARD.

Hark! the trump of War is sounding!
From Plynlymmon's height rebounding,
Echo's voice, the note resounding,
Calls for Liberty! See! arrayed in dazzling lustre,
Steel-clad foemen proudly muster;
Cambria's Sons! — around her cluster,
Guard her path to Victory!
Set the tide of Freedom flowing,
By your deeds in battle showing
In your hearts 'tis warmly glowing:
Crush the foe: — or die!

Through our steep ascents now toiling,
How the Saxon's rage is boiling!
Rugged cliffs each moment foiling
All his efforts slow.
Heard ye not the broadswords clashing? —
Saw ye not their lightnings flashing? —
Like your own free torrents dashing
Headlong from the mountain's brow:
Quell the invaders at your feet,
And shout till all the rocks repeat
"Such welcome may all tyrants meet
"As Britons give ye now!" —

---

Long ere that song has died away
The foes have met: — the deadly fray
Begins: alas! in that fell strife
How lavishly is human life
Poured out! — for what? — a breath, a name!
For this world's idol, — Glory! — Fame! —
Rushing down their headlong course
With the avalanche's force,
Or like torrent from the height,
Dashing fierce to join the fight,
Cambria's sons, with footing sure,
On that rough mountain's side secure
As in a lady's bower, advance
Like youthful gallants to the dance;
But 'tis not Beauty's kindling glance
That beams around: — 'tis Saxon lance!

Boots not to tell how chafes King Edward's pride;
He sees his warriors strew the mountain's side
They fight — they fall! — Borne down by that rude shock,
The living torrent pouring from the rock,
They press the sod. — Their panting bodies make
Steps for their comrades' feet, who do but take
That station soon again to yield the place
To such as follow in the fatal race.
Useless are England's well-trained chargers here;
The archers miss their mark: — for far or near,
The distances deceive the unpractised eye:
The shaft but mocks their aim, and idly whizzes by.

Nor was alone that mountain's side
The scene of mortal fight:
On the low plain, extending wide,
Is seen a stirring sight;
For there Llewelyn, with a band
Of mounted followers, brave though few,
With eye accustom'd to command,
Yet gentle bearing, meets the true
And loyal nobles who still love his cause,
Their native land, her liberty and laws.
And each has led an armed train
Of horsemen there: — yet how sustain
The shock of England's chivalry? —
That mighty body, o'er the plain
In trumpet — notes that breathe disdain
Of Cambria's feeble rivalry,
Now sounds the charge. Each war-horse spurns the ground
And rolls his fiery eye with an impatient bound.

Next to his Prince, as second in command,
The veteran, Caswallon, takes his stand,
And if his arm now strike a feebler blow
Than when at Dynevor he met the foe,
His long-tried wisdom more may serve his Lord
In council now, than did his youthful sword
In battle-field. And near the Chief is seen
A stranger knight (at least of knightly mien,)
A glittering chain of gold is on his neck
Like that with which their country used to deck
Her noblest sons: — but to the prying eye
His vizor closed, forbids all scrutiny.
His shield, without device, bears nought to tell
His name who fights so gallantly and well:
For, whatsoe'er such mystery may mean,
Still in the thickest strife the Cavalier is seen.
To meet the shock of that tremendous foe,
The Cambrians prepare a double row
Of bristling spears firm held, in closest line;
Thus on their guard, like menaced porcupine,
They wait the enemy: — then make each quill
Defensive or offensive at their will.
Thus small advantage could the English gain
From their first mighty effort; but 'twere vain
For Cambria to hope her little band
On that wide field may long such trial stand.
Caswallon's counsel is to feign a flight,
And lure the Saxons where on yonder height
From the low plain the rocks begin to rise
Till the proud mountain mingles with the skies.

But ere they turn in that dissembled flight
A Saxon bowman marks the Chieftain's heart;
The shaft is sped! — when lo! the stranger knight
Rushes between! — His arm receives the dart
Designed to quench the old man's feeble ray
Of lingering life. They bear the youth away
To where some aged firs afford a shade;
There, bleeding fast, the wounded knight is laid.
Caswallon's grateful hand relieves his brow
From the concealing helmet's iron weight:
But who shall paint the Chieftain's wonder now?
He sees Meredith! — Him to whom of late
His heart, his home, his child, were all denied,
Though once that child had been his promised bride.
They find the arrow's keen and barbed point
Had pierced just where the treach'rous armour's joint
Betrays its charge: — and leaves unsheathed and bare
Sufficient space for Death to enter there.
But for Meredith's life there is no fear:
Soon staunched, the crimson tide forgets to flow;
The dart has found no part that's vital here:
His breast once more with Love's fond hopes shall glow.
Caswallon's care has soon this comfort found;
Then, to his vassals turned, he bids them bear
The Cavalier with caution from the ground
To his proud Castle's ancient shelter. — There
His daughter's skill the youth may now require
To heal the wound by which he saved her sire.
How at that thought Meredith's bosom glows!
But must he quit the field ere yet the strife
Hath reached its noon? — now when his soul o'erflows
With Glory's hopes! when he would deem his life
Well spent to purchase back his ancient fame
Once lost: — and by his patriot deeds convince
His foes, his country and his injured Prince,
That with the bravest Cymry he may claim
Again the rank long due to his illustrious name.
"Not yet," he cried, "may he such rapture prove
"Whose recreant soul could learn so far to stray
"From honour's paths: — no noble lady's love
"May false knight claim: — but to my vows this day
"Propitious Heaven and all good Saints give heed!
"And thou, my sword, redeem by loyal deed
"Thy forfeit fame! — Cambria shall still award
"Rank 'mid her sons to my once sullied name:
"Oh!then bestow the dearest, best reward!
"My Gwendolen's sweet love I yet again will claim!"
Meantime the Squires with nicest care had bound
Meredith's wound; and rising from the ground,
His manly form resumes its shining case,
And pants to win the prize in Glory's race.

The Chieftain hears a shout: "The Welshmen fly!"
He turns: — a strange scene meets his anxious eye.
The Cambrian horse have gained the nearest height;
Swiftly the English troops pursue their flight:
If flight it be; — but well Caswallon knows
'Tis but a feint to lure their powerful foes.
For Cambrian steeds, sure-footed, well may bear
Their riders o'er their native wilds: but there
The English charger, though of higher breed,
Finds his strength useless, vain his boasted speed.
When on the plain drawn up, with martial mien,
Column succeeding column, line on line,
Move at the leader's wish, a vast machine,
Prompt to obey the Chief's unknown design:
A force full thrice the number Wales can boast
Might well have quailed before such mighty host.
But once entangled in the mazy wild,
Where the low brushwood chokes the thorny way,
Or 'mid primeval rocks at random piled,
Each horseman must a separate path essay
Till, one by one, they fall an easy prey.
Lured by the Cambrians to that fatal race,
The eager Saxons urge the desperate chace,
Till by high rocks enclosed, whose threatening pile
Frowns o'er a deep and perilous defile,
(Dark chasm by some winter-torrent made
That seems the jaws of Death) its gloomy shade,
Winding an upward way by slow access,
Climbs fearfully that rugged barrenness.
Loose shingly pebbles mark its summer bed,
And roll with rattling sound beneath the invader's tread.
In vain the noble charger's mighty strength
May bear him up the dreadful pass at length:
His steel-encumbered limbs pursue in vain
The light-clad Britons, who securely gain
The mountain-top; then bursting on the foe,
How few escape their overwhelming blow!
There too in wild pursuit, where trees impede
All farther progress to the panting steed,
Where overarched, luxuriant branches meet
To shade the steep ascent from noontide heat,
Deluded Saxons to their fall are led.
The lightly-mounted Cymry bow the head
And pass unscathed beneath each tangled bough
Which still arrests the helmed and plumed brow
Of the perplexed invader: — freely bound
Their native steeds, acquainted with the ground,
And unaccustomed to the discipline
Of close-ranked squadrons, moving line by line;
Then, turning 'mid the trees, dark as their shade,
They force the embarrassed foe to combat, blade to blade.

The angry Edward soon perceives the wile
The Cambrian Chiefs have practised to beguile
His broken troops: — in vain he rallies back
His dwindled forces to a fresh attack.
The mighty engine now can work no more;
Its parts disjointed, all its power is o'er:
For, trained in solid mass to move or stand,
They fail in single contest, hand to hand.
Nor this alone excites the Monarch's wrath:
His keen eyes, gazing on the mountain-path,
He sees Ap Rees, with his rebellious band,
(Late bribed to treason 'gainst their native land:)
Now led in arms to combat on the field
Against her rights, their stubborn natures yield.
They seek the aged Chieftain, and give vent
To bitter self-reproach — then penitent,
They pray 'mid Cambria's ranks to be restored
With leave once more to serve their rightful Lord.
Soon this example spreads; for now are seen
Howel Ap Tudor and Ap Grono Gwynne,
With all their followers, a numerous train: —
They urge the same petition; — o'er the plain
Caswallon sends a Squire to where the fight
Seems deadliest, to seek the Nameless Knight.
No other title will Meredith claim: —
This day his sword must win a noble name,
And Wales restore his late diminished fame.

Ere long the Squire that youthful warrior found,
By closely mingling throngs encircled round.
Britons and Saxons there in eager strife
Are met: — each fiercely seeks his foeman's life.
Soon as the youth the Chieftain's message hears,
Forcing his way through groves of bristling spears,
He hastens where the venerable sage,
With the mild dignity of virtuous Age,
Surrounded by the late rebellious Lords,
Waits his approach: — "Sir Knight," he said "these swords,
"Led by false Error's 'wildering light, forsook
"Their country's cause: — but oh! if Heaven can look
"With tender mercy on a contrite heart,
"Disloyal once, that played the rebel's part
"Against the Sovereign Ruler, — let not man
"His fellow-sinners' failings dare to scan
"With a severe or scrutinizing eye:
"But call the wanderers back, and gently try,
"(Copying on earth the Love that reigns on high,)
"To grant all fair occasion to reclaim
"Their lost renown, and clear their sullied fame.
"Sir Nameless Knight, since on this field you bear
"No other title, — be these bands your care.
"Lead them where Honour may be nobly gained,
"And Glory brightly gild names once by treason stained." —
The English Monarch's breast with fury burned:
He sees the Cambrian Chieftains all returned
To their allegiance. — Could he but defy
The Prince to mortal combat; could he try
By single valour to decide the fray,
His sword might turn the fortune of the day.
And now he seeks Ap Griffith o'er the plain,
Through hosts of combatants and heaps of slain.
The mettled charger proudly seems to bear
His royal master, and almost to share
The feelings that within his bosom glow,
Spurning the ground, impatient for the foe.
At length the Prince is seen in closest fight;
(His sword that moment felled an English Knight),
Urged to the utmost, Edward's noble steed
Strains every nerve and mocks the lightning's speed,
One minute more, and nought shall intervene!
Bound, gallant Barb! and clear the space between!
Why, sudden plunging, rears the fiery steed?
What obstacle shall that last spring impede?
A Cavalier, in plainest armour drest:
His shield without device, his lance in rest,
Bids Edward guard: — "Sir Knight," he said, "my hand
"Seeks nobler game, — but if your thirsty brand
"Would drink our English blood, full many a sword
"Would fain taste that of Wales. — I seek your Lord." —
"Gladly, proud King, will brave Llewelyn greet
"Your haughty challenge, but ere yet you meet
"Our valiant Prince, to earn such glorious strife,
"Your sword must work its passage through my life." —

This said, his sable charger, tightly reined,
Stands facing Edward, who has quickly gained
Like hostile posture: — then with sudden speed
That mocks the hungry tiger's spring, each steed
Now rushes on the foe with desperate force. —
Of slighter mould, Meredith's gallant horse,
Thrown on its haunches by the heavy shock
Of Edward's barb, reels backwards: like a rock
The rider firmly sits, — recovers quite
His first position, and renews the fight.
Again the Nameless Knight, with lance in rest,
Presses the swift attack the monarch's breast
Had well nigh sheathed his weapon's deadly point,
But dashed aside, it finds a treacherous joint
In his war-steed's defence: a wound profound
Has borne the noble charger to the ground.
Groaning, he sinks o'erwhelmed with sudden pain,
And can no more his royal load sustain.
The faithful Squires essay to extricate
The monarch's limbs, encumbered by the weight
Of his long famous barb; the Nameless Knight
Dismounts in order to resume the fight
On equal terms: — then waiting, sword in hand,
Gazes till disengaged the foe can stand.
Caswallon, not far off, observes the fray,
Noting his deeds, and smiles to think one day
His Gwendolen will be the bride beloved
Of one whose generous valour thus is proved.

Now both on foot with dreadful ardour close;
On helm and cuirass ring the heavy blows:
Like rattling hail that storm descends: but still
Each thrust proves vain, parried with equal skill.
Impatient of delay, how fiercely burned
The monarch's rage, thus from his purpose turned.
Had he but met Llewelyn ere this knight
Had crossed his path, his arm in single fight
Might soon, he thinks, have closed the bloody strife,
And won the day, or forfeited his life.
While thoughts like these rush o'er his troubled mind,
He aims a furious blow, and well designed
To end the conflict, but the step alert
Of the undaunted youth, in war expert,
Defeats his hope, as with a sudden spring,
Meredith's sword has wounded England's King.
His right arm powerless, can no longer wield
His falling sword: — the Knight now bids him yield.
"Never while life remains!" — he proudly cried,
Promptly his left hand seized the brand supplied
By his good Squire: — then deals a vengeful blow
That almost cleaves the helmet of his foe.
But with uplifted shield the Cavalier
Repels the threatening blade: while watching near
Stout Algernon observes the fatal strife;
At the dire moment when the monarch's life
Seems destined by Meredith's hand to close,
This self-devoted Squire his body throws
Before his master: — sheathing thus the sword
That dared to menace England's royal Lord.
While from his faithful heart the crimson tide
Of life is ebbing fast, on every side
The Saxons, rushing to the fatal ground,
Breathe vengeance on the Knight; but gathering round
Their valiant Chief, the late revolted band
Quickly arrayed in bold defiance stand.
Both parties now in general strife engage,
And dreadful discord reigns and universal rage.

Meantime, from Edward's arm a purple flood
Unheeded pours, till weak with loss of blood,
The English warriors their brave monarch find
Disabled for the fight; with care they bind
The wounded part: — then from the scene they bear
Their gallant Lord to his pavilion: — there
His practised eye may well the field survey,
And soon discern the fortunes of the day.
He views the English Foot, who combat still
With firm though desperate valour on the hill.
Aye! desperate indeed, — for scarce are seen
Hundreds unharmed where thousands late have been.
Flashing with anger, Edward's fiery eye
Reads at a glance that all his hopes are lost;
Then, turning where his nobles stand close by,
"Too much," he cries, "this fatal day hath cost!
"Shame 'tis that England's warriors should be felled
"Like forest-trees by yonder mountain-host, —
"That England's veteran troops should thus be quelled
"By stratagem. — Well may the Welshmen boast,
"For Edward's forces met them in the field,
"And Edward's forces now must own they yield.
"With that he sends a Herald o'er the plain,
With flag of truce a parley to obtain: —
The Cambrian Prince with courtesy to greet,
And in the English monarch's name to treat
Of terms. — The trumpet pours its mellow note,
And England's banner soon is seen to float
Before the Herald, — messenger of Peace!
War stays his bloody hand: — red Slaughter's labours cease.
Brief was the conference: — on Princes' breath
How hangs the fate of nations! — Life or death
To hundreds now must on their wills depend.
Oh! may they bid the waste of being end!
But hark! the trumpet's brazen throat
Proclaims the battle o'er!
Cannot that peace-announcing note
A single life restore?
Ah no! — the Eagle's fiery eye
Hath looked upon the slain:
His ravening maw, his piercing cry
Have marked them his. — In vain
The living haste in earth to skreen the dead;
Ere half their task is done, his hunger must be fed.

The Peace is made; the terms defined;
It boots not here to tell
How many articles are signed,
Or on each part to dwell.
Suffice it Edward must withdraw
His forces from the land
That bows to Cambria's ancient law:
Chaworth he must command
By speedy marches to retire
To Severn's Eastern side:
While Plunder, Havock, Sword and Fire,
The ministers of his fell ire
On all who had defied
The menaces of that fierce Lord,
And still for freedom drawn the sword,
The work of vengeance cease:
Pale Famine, with her haggard eye,
And Pestilence who stands close by,
Shall yield to smiling Peace.
The brave and true who still evince
Attachment to their lawful Prince,
Shall see their rights restored; —
The lands laid waste, the castles burned,
In equal value be returned
By that destroying Lord.
Llewelyn binds himself to give
Free pardon to each Cambrian Knight
Whose sword, misguided in the fight,
Forgot to seek his country's right; —
Freely he will forgive
Those Chiefs who, mourning their lost fame,
Now sigh to see that fame retrieved,
And eager to wipe off their shame,
Confess that they had been deceived
By tales too easily believed; —
Tales which the crafty Saxons frame
To stain Ap Griffith's royal name.
How basely false such calumnies he proves
Whose noble clemency at once removes
The secret fears that Conscience will impart: —
Sin's venomed sting to pierce the guilty heart.
Now meek eyed Mercy smiles o'er all the land,
And bids stern Justice stay the avenging hand.

His people's welfare thus ensured,
The Prince's bliss is next secured.
The Church's benison shall now
Hallow his Ellen's plighted vow.
The King an escort must provide
Fit to attend a royal bride,
With due observance of her state
Obsequious on her will to wait,
And from the Court's dull pomp to guide
Her willing steps to Severn's side,
Where rise famed Worcester's spires: for there
The impatient lover meets the fair,
And Absence shall no more divide
The bridegroom from his much-loved bride;
While Peace and Plenty hand in hand,
Shower blessings over all the land.

 
END OF CANTO III.

 
 

L L E W E L Y N.
 
CANTO IV.

---

FROM Worcester's tow'ring fane loud pealing,
Joy's tongue the silver speaking bell,
O'er Severn's rippling wave comes stealing
In softer, sweeter tones to tell
A tale of gay delight,
When sacred ties unite
Two hearts that Absence ne'er could move
To break the silken cords of Love.
To some how fragile and how vain
Each link that forms that slender chain!
But faithful hearts, of nobler mould,
Feel that their vows are heard in Heaven,
As true Knights need not bonds to hold
Them captive when their word is given.
For iron cannot bind
The gallant warrior's mind;
His limbs the heavy chain
May fetter and restrain,
But while his soul is free
To work his liberty,
His hopes may yet succeed,
He may again be freed: —
Then forge your fetters for his mind,
And let the Soldier's promise bind:
Since Honour can alone constrain
The soul that spurns at Slav'ry's chain.
For by a high decree
Was Truth ordain'd to be
The test by which to try
Man's right nobility.
And Love, in noble hearts,
Is true as light to day;
Unpitying Absence parts,
But cannot rend away
The links that bind two lovers' souls,
Though the wide sea between them rolls.

When exiled by the just decree of Heaven,
Our fallen Sire from Paradise was driven,
Ere yet from his great Father's presence hurled
To bear the curse he brought on this fair world,
He fondly ling'ring each loved scene surveyed,
Then plucked one flower amid the garden's shade.
That flow'ret fair shall mitigate his doom
And shed its fragrance o'er his sentenced tomb.
That one sweet bud in Man's lost Eden culled,
By which on earth his secret woes are lulled,
Is wedded Love, by God ordain'd and blest,
To hush his struggling sorrows into rest.

Oh earthly bliss! what art thou if not Love?
That flame so pure its fire seems caught from Heaven;
Love hallowed by a sanction from above: —
To sweeten human woes, one drop to mortals given.
What though the drop soon quaffed,
The bitter dregs remain: —
Though Life's gay morning laughed,
Its evening turns to pain: —
Though Death's fell power may part
Two souls together grown,
And tear away the heart
That beats but with our own: —
What though the widow'd breast
May long and deeply mourn,
It sinks at length to rest
In joyous hope that borne
To realms of clearer, purer light,
'Twill view once more that Sun
Whose setting caused its cheerless night;
That loved, lamented One.
No Pain nor Care shall dare intrude,
Nor Death, nor Absence sever,
But Love's complete beatitude
Make rapture their's for ever!
The banquet in Worcester's proud halls is spread;
Come! fill the deep flagon and wine-cup red,
And quaff a long health to the matchless fair,
The spouse of Llewelyn, great Arthur's heir!
For all are invited to share the feast: —
Then shame to the backward, reluctant guest!
So goodly a sight he never shall see
As that joyous and all-pervading glee,
That universal jubilee! —
Where all ranks in order are duly set;
Where Briton and Saxon as friends are met,
To quench in the deep draught their yet deeper hate,
Or cool it at least till its season to wait: —
For in each stern bosom unseen, the dark Ire
Glows still, as in flint-stones the spark of wild fire,
There it lurks as exhaustless: — like that, closely hidden,
And as prompt to break forth when by War's loud voice bidden.
And now the busy Seneschal has set
Each class well ordered at its sep'rate board;
Here groups of mirthful citizens are met,
There lofty dames with many a courteous lord.
While even they who hold the lowest place
Of all that share the widely social cheer,
Awed by the presence of the guests who grace
The upper end, divided by the dais,
Breathe nought that might offend the nicest ear.
Yet deem ye not such mild restraint could throw
O'er their light hearts' gay mirth a shade of sadness,
Could chill warm Pleasure's spirit-stirring glow,
Or hush the blessed voice of thrilling Gladness: —
No! — the light converse at that humbler board
Still freely flows around in merry tone,
So far from high-born dame and courtly lord,
Its very theme to them remains unknown.
Such stately presence in that noble hall
Serves but to check rude jokes or vulgar brawl.
A royal canopy, extending wide,
With England's arms and Cambria's Dragon-Crest,
In friendly contact, blazoned side by side,
Bespeaks each hostile feeling sunk to rest.
Beneath it, seats of kingly state are placed,
Whose curious carvings bear the same design,
With flags of either nation interlaced,
O'er Britain's harp her Sister's roses twine.
High in the centre of the regal board,
Two lofty forms, like brother-kings, are seen;
England's stern monarch and fair Cambria's Lord,
Of gallant bearing both and princely mien.
And who is she whose calm, majestic brow
Bespeaks her born ʼmid Pomp's unmeaning glare,
Yet deeming such vain pageant empty show,
Since there the heart can claim no real share.
'Tis Eleanor, fit wife for that stern King,
Temp'ring with gentlest virtues his fierce pride,
Her prayers persuasive often sheltering
The weak, oppress'd by Tyranny's full tide.
In her de Montfort's daughter ever found
Protection mild and sympathizing tears,
When sad and lonely, shunning all around,
The kind Castilian soothed her grief, her fears.
Her place is at her royal Consort's side, —
Her maids stand round: — and facing England's Queen,
Fair Ellen sits, — Llewelyn's lovely bride; —
The faithful Bertha close at hand is seen.
Here might I tell how oft this constant friend
In sorrow's bitterest moments found the art
To wield Hope's magic wand and bid her lend
Some spell to cheer the much-loved captive's heart,
Who fled the Court's gay scenes and fancied still
Some danger lurking in Llewelyn's path; —
Longing for tidings, — yet expecting ill,
Dreading Ap Griffith's fall and Edward's wrath.
Thus exile's anxious hours moved slowly past,
Though Hope still whispered through the maiden's voice,
That Saints would bless their righteous cause at last,
Bid Cambria triumph and their hearts rejoice.
But who can paint the joy that sparkles now
In Bertha's eyes, when freed from such long woes,
She sees that lovely lady's gentle brow
Wreathed with the bridal chaplet's spotless rose? —
And vainer still the attempt by words to speak
The ever-varying language of that face
Whose softly-beaming eyes and changing cheek
Betray th' o'erflowing soul in each new grace.
From Ellen's head a veil, descending low,
Looped back on either side with Orient pearl,
Hangs o'er her beauty (like the drifted snow
O'er Nature's charms) and plays with evry curl.
Its ample folds hide not the silken vest
That skreens her form from each admiring gaze;
Her graceful limbs light flowing robes invest,
The slender waist clasped by the diamond's blaze.
Nor may words shew Llewelyn's looks of love,
Who sits in speechless rapture by her side,
His dark eye's eloquence alone may prove
How dear the long-sought prize, his beauteous bride.
And next below the royal seats, a Chief
Of venerable aspect finds his place;
His noble mien tells Age's tale of Grief,
Softened by native dignity and grace.
Caswallon this: — his daughter, blushing now
At thoughts of her own bliss, comes next: her ear
Receives Meredith's softly whispered vow,
After her love's long trial doubly dear.
For to his country, to his Prince restored,
Caswallon, grateful for the life he saved,
Welcomes with heartfelt joy the youthful Lord,
By misplaced Friendship's power no more enslaved.

And other Cambrian Chiefs and ladies fair,
Brave warriors, blooming maids, are gathered there.
And facing these see England's Chivalry,
Gay partners in that festal revelry,
Where wit is bright,
And spirits light,
And Music's voice is gently swelling,
Though Beauty's ear
Is bent to hear
The low-breathed tale young Love is telling;
Ah! did she know how oft such tales deceive,
Her guileless heart would not so soon believe.

On many a stately matron's lofty brow
The diamond or the ruby's blaze reposes: —
On many a high-born damsel's neck of snow
Hang glossy ringlets wreathed with clustering roses.
While those whose humbler place
Speaks their plebeian race,
Yet boast their daughters fair,
With laughing eyes, bright hair,
And melting voice whose tone the heart beguiles.
Nor gold, nor jewels rare,
Nor costly arts are there,
But Love's own native witchery of smiles.
In garb of simple neatness
Are these fair forms array'd;
Thus flowers that breathe most sweetness
Are those which seek the shade.

The Western Sun low stoops his glorious brow,
Curious to gaze upon such goodly scene,
And through the richly painted windows now
Sheds gorgeous tints blended with rays serene.
But long before his genial light
Must yield the skies to murky Night,
Ended the feast, see Youth advance
To mingle in the graceful dance,
Where Music, Mirth and Love around,
Make that soft verdure fairy-ground.
While Age, in cheerful tone,
Recals its pleasures flown,
Or tastes them o'er again,
(Now first unmix'd with pain)
As Mem'ry's flattering hand portrays
The happiness of other days,
Recording all that speaks of joy,
Effacing all that brought alloy: —
Thus sires and dames, in social groups,
Reclining, view those bounding troops,
Watching with proud delight,
Their ever-varying flight,
While each fond bosom warms
With rapture as the forms
That most can charm a parents eye
In measured grace come flitting by:
Till in their children's bliss they find their own,
More bright than in the years for ever flown.

The dance, the song, the laugh went round,
And ever at each rest,
Was heard the harp's melodious sound,
By minstrel fingers prest.
And still each bard, in ready verse,
Would great Llewelyn's praise rehearse,
His lovely Ellen's charms declare,
Her matchless grace, her queen-like air: —
The mighty Arthur's lineage trace,
Invoke new blessings on his race,
Nor deem that like yon parting Sun,
Its glorious course is well-nigh run.

Thus sped the summer-hours away
Till, in the burnished West,
The clouds, erst clothed in sober gray,
Now weary of such dull array,
In gold and purple drest, —
Pranked out in Splendor's richest hues,
An ever-varying light diffuse;
With roseate blush now glowing bright,
And every change that mocks the sight,
From ruddiest crimson to the purest white.
Till, by degrees, all melt away,
And envious Night supplants the Day.
But hark! ere yet yon fickle sky
Can every rainbow colour try,
Then throw aside each brilliant dye,
To don the sable garb of woe,
And mourn her glorious Lord laid low:
Ere yet the Sun quite disappears
And leaves the widowed Earth in tears: —
While silent Eve, with stealthy pace
Creeps on, her shadowy path to trace: —
What startles now the tranquil air,
Arrests the troops of dancers fair,
And silences each song? —
The bugle's summons strikes the ear,
Its silver accents loud and clear,
Collect once more, from far or near,
That gaily varied throng.
Again within those lordly walls
Are decked the stately banquet-halls,
Again the feast is spread.
Here might I note the goodly cheer,
How many a head of royal deer,
How many a stag lies slaughtered here,
In kingly forest bred: —
The courtly peacock, proud as fair,
The soaring heron, see humbled there,
The stall-fed ox is slain.
In vain the savage boar might whet
His foaming tusks, and chafe and fret,
His angry snort is vain: —
By mighty hunters long pursued,
Fiercely he turned, in gore embrued
His thirsty fangs, — then fell subdued,
By countless wounds opprest;
The victor's shout of triumph rose,
Nought heeded they his dying throes,
With one deep stab his struggles close,
Their victim lies at rest.
The vanquished monarch of the chace
Must now the royal banquet grace.

Come! fill up the jovial Hirlas-horn
To its sculptured brim with speed!
Bring the foamy juice of the barley-corn,
Or the sweet and flowing mead.
And let each true Briton at one draught drain,
And empty it to the last!
Then brightly shall glitter its silver chain
As he winds a joyous blast.
He drinks to the health of his native Prince
And the newly-wedded dame,
And the deep, deep draught must his truth evince
The blast must the toast proclaim.
Then fill it again with the frothing Ale,
Or Metheglin's luscious sweet;
And each Cambrian the Hirlas-horn shall hail,
And pledge him with honour meet.

Now swiftly bid the red tide flow
That swelled erewhile the grape's full veins;
Its copious streams a genial glow
Impart as each the goblet drains.
The cup just pressed to Beauty's lip,
Its crimson flood now blushes brightly,
And Cavaliers with rapture sip
The envied wine she touched so lightly.
Nor e'er is wanting reason good
The emptied bowl to fill the higher
With Muscadine's inviting flood,
Or Sack that could gay mirth inspire.
The healths of bridegroom and of bride,
Of England's Monarch and his Queen,
With many a noble name beside,
Excuse the amply flowing tide,
And spread a rapt'rous glow o'er all the festive scene.

Thus dance the laughing Hours along,
While Mirth and Music, Love and Song
Spur on the rapid Night,
Till by degrees, each guest retires,
Ere yet Heav'n's modest lamp expires
Beneath the ardent gaze that fires
Day's too refulgent light.
They snatch in haste a scant repose,
Recalled to Splendor's dazzling shows
By Pleasure's luring wile;
Gay sports Care's with'ring steps arrest,
And charm the pain-worn sufferer's breast,
Till, gladly with oblivion blest,
He learns once more to smile.
Here Archery or some mock-fight,
There Leaping, Wrestling, give delight,
Or well-poised Jav'lin's rapid flight
Which practised marksmen throw.
What shouts of laughter rend the skies,
As many a luckless wight defies
The Quintain's speed, — then prostrate lies,
Unhorsed by one rude blow.
Time speeds along his joyous way
Till past the middle hour of day,
The banquet o'er, for nobler play
The lists are duly set.
A goodly sight they now behold,
Pavilions decked with cloth of gold
And rich brocades in ample fold,
Where beauties bright are met.
High in the midst and side by side,
Two gorgeous tents the Court divide
From the rude throng's high-swelling tide;
These lavish wealth declare.
In each a royal pair is seen,
Here gallant Edward and his Queen,
There Arthur's heir of princely mien,
With bride so loved and fair.

Now hark! a herald's voice invites
In the King's name all valiant knights
By deeds of arms their skill to prove,
And break a lance for ladies' love.
Loud cries of "Largesse" echo round,
While showers of gold bedew the ground:
Then shouts of triumph fill the air; —
The lists are quickly cleared; save where
The armed Marshals keep the field,
Forcing the intrusive crowd to yield.
The trumpet sounds! and now are seen
Six Cavaliers of warlike mien.
In pairs they ride, with tight-drawn rein,
Their fiery chargers to restrain.
Their polished helmets brightly gleam;
From the spear's point their pennons stream;
Some quaint device each Champion bears,
And each his lady's favour wears:
Plumes graceful wave on ev'ry crest;
Their spurs are gold: — with lance in rest,
And vizors closed, in stately pace
They onward move, till reached the place
Assigned the challengers, they halt,
And wait the signal for assault.
A second trumpet's answering note
On the hushed air is heard to float,
While at the other end appear
Six mounted Knights, with shield and spear.
Each rules with grace his barbed steed,
Curbs his high mettle, checks his speed,
Until, the barrier gained, they stand,
Prepared to combat, hand to hand.
The six who challenge to the fight
Are bold Sir Guy of Malvern's height;
With Reginald de Beauregard,
A Norman Knight expert in war.
The Saxon, Adelbert, is one,
Meredith next, brave Rod'rick's son.
Sir Lancelot of Borrowdale,
With Hugh de Beaumont, close the tale.
These to the summons give reply;
Sir Redmond of the Eagle Eye,
Stout Hildebrand, in arms well-known,
And Hypolite de Montfaucon.
Alfred of Thauenberg is there,
A Saxon he, bold Conrad's heir.
Sir Ralph Fitz-James of haughty mood,
With Réné d'Arles, the list conclude.

The laws of the Tournay the Heralds now read,
A chain of pure gold is the conqueror's meed,
From which hangs a cross, of rich jewels composed,
But more precious the gift in its setting enclosed;
An amulet blessed with a mysterious power
To warn the frail soul in temptation's dark hour.
It seems but a morsel of mouldering wood,
Yet it once formed a part of high Calvary's Rood.
This relic so sacred a pilgrim had brought
From that holy spot where Redemption was wrought: —
He dying, King Edward the amulet bought.
This treasure the monarch now vows to bestow
On the Knight whose brave bearing most gallant shall show.
The Queen of the Day, lovely Ellen, will place
The chain on his neck who deserves such high grace.
These rivals in honour no weapon may wield
Save the spear of tough ash and the well-blazoned shield,
For, chivalrous fame the sole end of their strife,
In such noble pastime they aim not at life.
Should a Knight be unhorsed by the charge of his foe
He must yield: — nor on foot may redeem his o'erthrow.
For each strong lance broken two more they provide,
By watchful Squires held on each opposite side.
Thus ev'ry brave champion three spears may essay,
But should two be shivered he loses the day. —

Now hark! the shrill clarions the onset proclaim,
While each Cavalier breathes his fair lady's name.
They are gone from the barrier! the eye cannot trace
Their vanishing speed in that foe-seeking race.
They have met! — In the clashing of that mighty shock,
Still each Knight in his saddle sits fix'd as a rock.
Thick volumes of dust now the combatants skreen
From the thousands that bend their vain gaze on the scene.
But their voices are heard from the midst of the cloud,
As each calls on his Saint and his Lady aloud.
The dust rolls and settles: — again we behold
The tall waving plumes and the morions of gold.
In the furious onset of that first career
Bright splinters are dashed from young Hypolite's spear.
Sir Adelbert waits while the vigilant Squire
Supplies a new lance: — then both champions retire.
From the barrier once more the fierce charge they renew,
But this time the rude shock of the Saxon o'erthrew
The youthful Montfaucon. — His figure too light
Has caused the mischance of the gallant young Knight.
Sir Reginald's spear-head lies snapped at one blow
By th' o'erwhelming attack of his ponderous foe: —
Another he takes from his ready Squire's hand,
Again to encounter the stout Hildebrand.
They slowly recede: — like the wind they now rush,
When Beauregard suddenly aims a strong push
At the casque of the giant who, stagg'ring, must yield,
For, his balance once lost, he lies prone on the field.
The brave Lord of Malvern his fortune must try
With fiery young Redmond, surnamed Eagle-Eye.
So long is the struggle, so equal the fight,
That Conquest seems hov'ring in uncertain flight
As doubtful on which champion's crest to alight.
At length, by some fortunate stroke, bold Sir Guy
Had broken the lance of the fierce Eagle-Eye;
But, the contest renewed, in the second career
Sir Redmond has shivered his enemy's spear.
The shout "Love of Ladies" rings over the plain,
While both combatants rush from the barrier again.
Blows fall thick as hail and like lightning arms glance,
But that storm is soon over: — for Redmond's bright lance,
Snapp'd asunder, like glowworm's pale light on the field,
Beams darkly, to tell the brave Knight he must yield.
Meantime Lancelot and the gallant Fitz-James
Play nobly their part in these chivalrous games.
So equal their prowess 'twere vain to foretell
Which Knight will prove victor where both fight so well.
At last some rude chance splinterid Borrowdale's spear,
A loss soon replaced by his Squire, waiting near.
Once more with the speed of the meteor's bright flash
Both urge their fleet chargers, till one mighty crash
Proclaims the full force of the shock which could dash
The famed Cavalier, Ralph Fitz — James, to the ground.
Like a lion ensnared, he lies glaring around: —
But vain is his chafing: — the Herald's loud call
Tells Lancelot's triumph and that proud Knights fall.

Thus far bright success had the challengers crowned,
But Fortune, inconstant, on Beaumont has frowned.
Réné d'Arles, his opponent, a Provençal Knight,
Renowned as a Troubadour, famous in fight,
Loud shouting his war-cry, with pennon unfurled,
In the first furious strife shining fragments had hurled
From the spear of Sir Hugh, who but claims a fresh lance,
Then once more to the conflict both champions advance.
Now close is the struggle; but vainly each tries
By aims unexpected the foe to surprize;
So skilfully parried is each sudden thrust,
That the bright flashing beam and the thick clouds of dust,
Now dazzling the vision, now veiling the sight,
Withhold from the crowd's eager gaze that long fight;
But the loud clash that rings from the well-tempered steel
As it falls on the proud blazoned shield, may reveal
The chivalrous ardour that wings ev'ry blow,
Though still rendered vain by the dexterous foe.
When lo! — the Provençal deals one rapid stroke,
Like the lightning that shivers the ivy-robed Oak.
Full long had that proud Forest-Sovereign repelld
The attacks of Earth's conqueror, Time, and still held
High state in the wild wood, though Winter's rude blast
The bright sculptured gems that adorned him, might cast
To the ground, and the coronet tear from his brow,
Still unvanquish'd through ages he rallied: — yet now
He responds but one groan to high Heav'n's fiery flash,
And the forests, convulsed, can but echo the crash.
Thus suddenly gleaming through that dusky skreen
Which hides from the anxious spectators the scene,
His quick lance young Réné now darts with a force
That throws on its haunches de Beaumont's strong horse,
And pierces his corslet, inflicting a wound
Unintended, which casts the brave Knight to the ground.
His hurt is not grave, though the deep crimson tide
Fresh flowing, his well-polished armour has dyed.
His helmet and cuirass unclasping with care,
The Squires and attendants their fainting Lord bear
From the lists to a tent where the leech's kind art
Will soon give relief to his bodily smart;
Though none to the mental pain, harder to bear,
Now no longer he hopes in the honours to share,
Which his gallant companions have won on that field
Where he to Sir Réné the conquest must yield.

Meredith and Alfred, in their fierce career,
Have each snapped the point of the enemy's spear.
Both seize a fresh lance: — then again they advance,
How rapidly dazzling the bright weapons glance!
Now see! the brave Cambrian has pierced through the shield
Of the bold Saxon Knight, whose proud charger has reel'd.
Ere his balance the steed may regain, the quick foe
By a vigorous thrust Thauenberg has laid low.
The Heralds proclaim a fair victory won,
And that duly each Champion his devoir has done.
Of the six who had challenged all comers to prove
Their prowess in arms, for their fair ladies' love,
Five Victors, now join in the mingled affray
Where hundreds engage in such chivalrous play;
While veteran Cavaliers named to preside
And to judge all that passes, alone may decide
By knighthood's strict laws, who shall win the rich meed
Where so many are brave, to the bravest decreed.
Now through the smoke that gathers white
O'er all that shrouded field,
The eye may scarcely trace the fight,
Or mark the crest and shield
With blazon'd coat borne by each Knight;
By these might be revealed
His name and style to such as knew
The Heralds' curious art;
Who, quaintly dight, have nearer view
As, from the crowd apart,
They, with the Pursuivants-at-arms
And Minstrels, take their stand,
Direct the trumpet's loud alarms
And all nice points command.
More of these noble Knights to say,
Their gallant exploits to display
And honours won in this mixed fray,
'Twere tedious to recite.
Suffice it that they fought all day,
Till in the West the sloping ray
Fell dazzling o'er their bright array,
And warned of failing light.

His truncheon then the King let fall,
And loud was heard the Herald's call: —
"Good Knights and true! the Jousts are done!
"Now judge we who the prize has won!" —
The Marshals of the field award
The guerdon to a Cambrian Lord
Who wears, to loop his plume of snow,
A lady's bracelet: — rubies now
Lie sparkling on his crested brow.
Well in the lists they tracked his way
By traces of his warlike play;
His foemen's lances shiver'd, strew
The ground where'er Meredith flew,
Who, shouting still "For love and fame
"And Gwendolen," — like lightning came.
Love nerved his arm, inspired each blow;
Five Cavaliers his hand laid low.
But stern was haughty Edward's look
When such decree he heard;
His fiery spirit ill could brook
Such gift to see conferred
On one of that brave mountain-race
His crafty soul would fain abase.
For, while his bearing bland reveals
Nought of the secret grudge he feels, —
While courteous Policy's sly mask
He wears, to aid his practised task, —
While studied efforts would evince
His friendship fair for Cambria's Prince, —
Deep in his treach'rous bosom glows
Hatred he must not now disclose
For these oft-tried, unvanquished foes.

With shew of Justice, true and pure
That would strict equity ensure,
He questioned of Meredith's right; —
"Sir Herald, I am belted Knight,
"And well, I trow, might judge the fight.
"Oft marked I, in the throng'd mêlée
"The gallant deeds of young Réné.
"Of Provence he; — a Cavalier
"Few could surpass with sword or spear.
"Hugh de Beaumont his stroke had felled
"In single strife: — and still he quelled
"Those Knights who, rushing on his way,
"Sought to win honour in the fray.
"I deemed him Victor of the day." —

The Herald lowly reverence made,
Then with firm voice, though humbly, said: —
"My liege, right well I know the youth;
" A skilful lance he bears, in truth;
"Many this day have nobly done,
"But d'Arles surpassed them all, — save one.
"Three Knights fell prostrate at his blow, —
"But five Meredith's charge laid low."

The Monarch paused, lest more to say
His secret feelings might betray:
Then in light tone this answer made:
"Nay then, some spell was on me laid,
"For as I gazed upon the fray,
"Mine eye still followed young Réné,
"Nor saw I half of what befel
"Yon Cavalier who fought so well.
"But since you judge his valiant deed
"From Beauty's hand may claim the meed,
"Haste! lead him to Llewelyn's tent
"As Victor in the Tournament,
"Fair Ellen there will gladly deck
"With chain of gold the Hero's neck." —

Now hark! a Herald's voice proclaims
Meredith first in knightly games:
While silken banners wave on high,
And still exulting thousands cry
"Praise to the Brave! His lady's love
"His noblest, dearest guerdon prove!" —
The Marshals of the Tournay now
Across the lists Meredith guide: —
The casque that hid his manly brow,
His lance and shield, are laid aside.
Lowly he kneels at Ellen's feet: —
Beams on his breast the sacred prize; —
But who is she with smile so sweet,
With glowing cheek and radiant eyes?
'Tis Gwendolen! — He scarcely hears
The few kind words that Ellen speaks, —
His lips just touch her hand, — the cheers
Of raptured crowds unheard, — he seeks
The one fond heart true Love has made his own;
Though multitudes are round, he sees but her alone.

Now the pale West's extinguished fire
Counsels all classes to retire.
What living streams on all sides pour!
The tents are cleared, — the pageant o'er.
Thus Splendor's bubbles melt in air,
And earth-born joys, however fair.
Too soon those festive days are past,
For scenes so bright aye fade too fast.
The morning's glowing ray
Shall see the royal guests depart, —
King Edward with an anxious heart: —
Llewelyn with his lovely bride,
To silver Wye's meandering tide,
Each on his separate way.
Here would I rest, awhile to dwell
On raptured themes that fondly swell
Hearts Love had joined so long.
Oh! ask me not what more befel
Cambria's brave prince, lest truth to tell
Might break too soon the charmed spell: —
Here linger then, my song!

 
END OF CANTO I.