The Poetry of Wales Part 10

To many a chief in mem'ry stored, Of Cambria's ancient day!

Sons of the mountain and the flood, Who shed for her their dearest blood, Nor own'd a conqueror's sway!

Be they extolled in music's strain, Remembered, when the cup we drain, And let their deeds revive again In ev'ry minstrel's lay!

'Tis now the feast of soul and song!

As roll the festive hours along, Here wealth and pow'r combine With beauty's smiles, (a rich reward,) To cheer the rugged mountain bard, And honour Cambria's line!

Then, minstrels! wake your harps aloud, Behold her n.o.bles. .h.i.ther crowd, Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud, Like gems around they s.h.i.+ne!

LLYWARCH HEN'S LAMENT ON CYNDDYLAN.

[Llywarch Hen, warrior and poet, was the contemporary of Aneurin and Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the battle of Cattraeth, where he witnessed the fall of three of his sons, and in the endless wars of that period. He had twenty four sons, all of whom were slain in battle in the bard's lifetime. He retired for refuge to the Court of Cynddylan, then Prince of Powys, at Pengwern, now Shrewsbury.

The Saxons at length drove Cynddylan from Pengwern, and the bard retired to Llanfor, near Bala, in Merioneths.h.i.+re, where he died at the long age of 150 years. Hence the appellation _hen_, or the aged. Twelve poems of this bard remain, but all are imbued with the melancholy of the poet's life.]

Cynddylan's hearth is dark to-night, Cynddylan's halls are lone; War's fire has revell'd o'er their might, And still'd their minstrel's tone; And I am left to chant apart One murmur of a broken heart!

Pengwern's blue spears are gleamless now, Her revelry is still; The sword has blanched his chieftain's brow, Her fearless sons are chill: And pagan feet to dust have trod The blue-robed messengers of G.o.d. {92}

Cynddylan's s.h.i.+eld, Cynddylan's pride, The wandering snows are shading, One palace pillar stands to guide The woodbine's verdant braiding; And I am left, from all apart, The minstrel of the broken heart!

THE LAMENT OP LLYWARCH HEN.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom; But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing, The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb!

Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding, Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave?

Why smile the waste flow'rs, my sad footsteps surrounding?

My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!

Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing, As on to the fields of your glory you trod!

Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing, Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod!

I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, Which rouses ye not, oh, my lovely, my brave!

When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding, I turn from heav'n's light, for it smiles on your grave!

THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for the grave has extinguished its light; The beam of its lamp from the summit is o'er, The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more!

The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still, The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill!

Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene, Nor let e'en an echo recall what hath been!

The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare, No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there!

Oh! where are the warriors who circled its board?-- The gra.s.s will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour'd.

The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night, Since he is departed whose smile made it bright: I mourn, but the sigh of my soul shall be brief, The pathway is short to the grave of my chief!

THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR. {94a}

I called on the sun, in his noonday height, By the power and spell a wizard gave: Hast thou not found, with thy searching light, The island monarch's grave?

"I smile on many a lordly tomb, Where Death is mock'd by trophies fair; I pierce the dim aisle's hallow'd gloom; King Arthur sleeps not there."

I watched for the night's most lovely star, And, by that spell, I bade her say, If she had been, in her wand'rings far, Where the slain of Gamlan lay. {94b}

"Well do I love to s.h.i.+ne upon The lonely cairn on the dark hill's side, And I weep at night o'er the brave ones gone, But not o'er Britain's pride."

I bent o'er the river, winding slow Through tangled brake and rocky bed: Say, do thy waters mourning flow Beside the mighty dead?

The river spake through the stilly hour, In a voice like the deep wood's evening sigh: "I am wand'ring on, 'mid s.h.i.+ne and shower, But that grave I pa.s.s not by."

I bade the winds their swift course hold, As they swept in their strength the mountain's bre'st: Ye have waved the dragon banner's fold, Where does its chieftain rest?

There came from the winds a murmured note, "Not ours that mystery of the world; But the dragon banner yet shall float On the mountain breeze unfurl'd."

Answer me then, thou ocean deep, Insatiate gulf of things gone by, In thy green halls does the hero sleep?

And the wild waves made reply:

"He sleeps not in our sounding cells, Our coral beds with jewels pearl'd; Not in our treasure depths it dwells, That mystery of the world.

"Long must the island monarch roam, The n.o.ble heart and the mighty hand; But we shall bear him proudly home To his father's mountain land."

THE VENGEANCE OF OWAIN. {96}

[Owain Gwynedd, the subject of the following poem was the eldest son of Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and he succeeded his father on his death in 1137. Father and son were ill.u.s.trious warriors and patriotic rulers. They were also celebrated for their munificent protection of the Welsh Bards. The Saxons had established themselves at the castle of Wyddgrug, now Mold, and thence committed great ravages on the Welsh in that vicinity. Owain collected his forces, and by a sudden and fierce attack he conquered the Saxons in their stronghold, and afterwards razed it with the ground in 1144. This celebrated Prince died in 1162, and was buried at Bangor, where a monument to his memory still remains.]

"It may be bowed With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom, Heaven gives its favourites--early death."

CHILDE HAROLD.

"Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, Thy name is gone, thy rights invaded, And hopelessly the strong oak pineth, Where the tall sapling faded; The mountain eagle idly cowers Beside his slaughtered young, Our sons must bow to other powers, Must learn a stranger tongue.

Pride, valour, freedom, treasures that have been, Do they all slumber in the grave of Rhun?"