Classic Poem

Winter hath pass'd away; the vernal storms
Have spent their rage, the ships are stored, and
To-morrow they depart. That day a Boy,
Weary and foot-sore, to Aberfraw came,
Who to Goervyl's chamber made his way,
And caught the hem of her garment, and claim'd,
A boon, — a boon, — dear Lady! Nor did he
Wait more reply than that encouragement,
Which her sweet eye and lovely smile bestow'd
I am a poor, unhappy, orphan boy,
Born to fair promises and better hopes,
But now forlorn. Take me to be your page
For blessed Mary's sake, refuse me not!
I have no friend on earth nor hope but this:

The boy was fair; and though his eyes swollen,
And cheek defiled with tears, and though his voice
Came chok'd by grief, yet to that earnest eye
And supplicating voice so musical,
It had not sure been easy to refuse
The boon he begg'd. I cannot grant thy suit,
Goervyl cried, but I can aid it, boy! —
Go ask of Madoc! — And herself arose,
And led him where her brother on the shore
That day the last embarkment oversaw.
Mervyn then took his mantle by the skirt,
And knelt and made his suit; she too began
To sue; but Madoc smiling on the Maid,
Won by the virtue of the countenance
Which look'd for favor, lightly gave the yes.

Where wert thou, Caradoc, when that fair boy
Told his false tale? for hadst thou heard the voice,
The gentle voice, so musically sweet,
And seen that earnest eye, it would have heal'd
Thy wounded heart, and thou hadst voyaged on,
The happiest man that ever yet forsook
His native country! He, on board the bark,
Lean'd o'er the vessel-side, and there he stood
And gazed, almost unconscious that he gazed,
Toward yon distant mountains where she dwelt,
Senena, his beloved. Caradoc,
Senena, thy beloved, is at hand!
Her golden locks are clipp'd, and her blue eye
Is wandering through the throng in search of thee,
For whose dear sake she hath forsaken all.
You deem her false, that her frail constancy
Shrunk from her father's anger, that she lives
Another's victim bride; but she hath fled
From that unnatural anger; hath escaped
The unnatural union; she is on the shore,
Senena, blue-eyed Maid, a seemly boy,
To share thy fortunes, to reward thy love,
And to the land of peace to follow thee,
Over the ocean waves.
Now all is done.
Stores, beeves, and flocks, and water all aboard;
The dry East blows, and not a sign of change
Stains the clear firmament. The Sea Lord sat
At the last banquet in his brother's court,
And heard the song. It told of Owen's fame,
When, with his Normen and assembled force
Of Guienne and Gascony, and Anjou's strength,
The Fleming's aid, and England's chosen troops,
Along the ascent of Berwyn, many a day
The Saxon vainly on his mountain foes
Denounced his wrath; for Mona's dragon sons,
By wary patience baffled long his force,
Winning slow Famine to their aid, and help'd
By the angry Elements, and Sickness sent
From Heaven, and Fear that of its vigor robb'd
The healthy arm; — then in quick enterprise
Fell on his weary and dishearten'd host,
Till, with defeat, and loss, and obloquy,
He fled with all his nations. Madoc gave
His spirit to the song; he felt the theme
In every pulse; the recollection came
Revived and heighten'd to intenser pain,
That in Aberfraw, in his father's hall,
He never more should share the feast, nor hear
The echoing harp again! His heart was full;
And, yielding to its yearning, in that mood
Of awful feeling, he call'd forth the King,
And led him from the palace-porch, and stretch'd
His hand toward the ocean, and exclaim'd,
To-morrow over yon wide waves I go;
To-morrow, never to return, I leave
My native land! O David, O my brother,
Turn not impatiently a reckless ear
To that affectionate and natural voice
Which thou wilt hear no more! Release our brethren;
Recall the wanderers home; and link them to thee
By cordial confidence, by benefits
Which bless the benefactor. Be not thou
As is the black and melancholy yew
That strikes into the grave its baleful roots,
And prospers on the dead! — The Saxon King, —
Think not I wrong him now; — an hour like this
Hath soften'd all my harsher feelings down;
Nor will I hate him for his sister's sake,
Thy gentle Queen, — whom, that great God may bless,
And, blessing her, bless thee and our dear country,
Shall never be forgotten in my prayers;
But he is far away; and should there come
The evil hour upon thee, — if thy kin,
Wearied by suffering, and driven desperate,
Should lift the sword, or young Llewelyn raise
His banner, and demand his father's throne, —
Were it not trusting to a broken reed,
To lean on England's aid? — I urge thee not
For answer now; but sometimes, O my brother!
Sometimes recall to mind my parting words,
As 'twere the death-bed counsel of the friend
Who loved thee best!
The affection of his voice,
So mild and solemn, soften'd David's heart;
He saw his brother's eyes, suffused with tears,
Shine in the moonbeam as he spake; the King
Remembered his departure, and he felt
Feelings which long from his disnatured breast
Ambition had expell'd: he could almost
Have follow'd their strong impulse. From the shore,
Madoc with quick and agitated step
Had sought his home; the monarch went his way,
Serious and slow, and laid him down that night
With painful recollections, and such thoughts,
As might, if Heaven had will'd it, have matured
To penitence and peace.
The day is come;
The adventurers in Saint Cybi's holy fane
Hear the last mass, and, all assoil'd of sin,
Partake the bread of Christian fellowship.
Then, as the Priest his benediction gave,
They knelt, in such an awful stillness hush'd,
As with yet more oppression seem'd to load
The burden'd heart. At times, and half suppress'd,
Womanly sobs were heard, and manly cheeks
Were wet with silent tears. Now forth they go,
And at the portal of the Church unfurl
Prince Madoc's banner; at that sight, a sl out
Burst from his followers, and the hills and rocks
Thrice echoed their acclaim.
There lie the ships,
Their sails all loose, their streamers rolling out
With sinuous flow and swell, like water-snakes,
Curling aloft; the waves are gay with boats,
Pinnace, and barge, and coracle, — the sea
Swarms like the shore with life. Oh, what a sight
Of beauty for the spirit unconcern'd,
If heart there be which unconcern'd could view
A sight like this! — how yet more beautiful
For him whose soul can feel and understand
The solemn import! Yonder they embark —
Youth, beauty, valor, virtue, reverend age;
Some led by love of noble enterprise,
Others, who, desperate of their country's weal,
Fly from the impending yoke; all warm alike
With confidence and high heroic hope,
And all in one fraternal bond conjoin'd
By reverence to their Chief, the best beloved
That ever yet on hopeful enterprise
Led gallant army forth. He, even now
Lord of himself, by faith in God and love
To man, subdues the feeling of this hour,
The bitterest of his being.
At this time,
Pale, and with feverish eye, the King came up,
And led him somewhat from the throng apart,
Saying, I sent at day-break to release
Rodri from prison, meaning that with thee
He should depart in peace; but he was gone,
This very night he had escaped! — Perchance —
As I do hope — it was thy doing, Madoc?
Is he aboard the fleet?
I would he were!
Madoc replied; with what a lighten'd heart
Then should I sail away! Ririd is there
Alone — alas! that this was done so late!

Reproach me not! half sullenly the King,
Answering, exclaim'd; Madoc, reproach me not!
Thou know'st how hardly I attain'd the throne;
And is it strange that I should guard with fear
The precious prize? — Now — when I would have taken
Thy counsel — be the evil on his head!
Blame me not now, my brother, lest sometimes
I call again to mind thy parting words
In sorrow!
God be with thee! Madoc cried;
And if at times the harshness of a heart,
Too prone to wrath, have wrong'd thee, let these tears
Efface all faults. I leave thee, O my brother,
With all a brother's feelings!
So he said,
And grasp'd, with trembling tenderness, his hand,
Then calm'd himself, and moved toward the boat.
Emma, though tears would have their way and sighs
Would swell, suppressing still all words of woe,
Follow'd Goervyl to the extremest shore.
But then as on the plank the maid set foot,
Did Emma, staying her by the hand, pluck out
The crucifix, which next her heart she wore
In reverence to its relic, and she cried,
Yet, ere we part, change with me, dear Goervyl, —
Dear sister, loved too well, or lost too soon! —
I shall betake me often to my prayers,
Never in them, Goervyl, of thy name
Unmindful; — thou too wilt remember me
Still in thine orisons; — but God forefend
That ever misery should make thee find
This Cross thy only comforter!
She said,
And kiss'd the holy pledge, as each to each
Transferr'd the mutual gift. Nor could the Man
Answer, for agony, to that farewell;
She held Queen Emma to her breast, and close
She clasp'd her with a strong, convulsive sob
Silently. Madoc too in silence went,
But press'd a kiss on Fanma's lips, and left
His tears upon her cheek. With dizzy eyes
Gazing she stood, nor saw the boat push off, —
The dashing of the oars awaken'd her;
She wipes her tears away, to view once more
Those dear, familiar faces; — they are dim
In the distance: never shall her waking eye
Behold them, till the hour of happiness,
When death hath made her pure for perfect bliss

Two hearts alone of all that company,
Of all the thousands who beheld the scene,
Partook unmingled joy. Dumb with delight,
Young Hoel views the ships, and feels the boat
Rock on the heaving waves; and Llaian felt
Comfort, — though sad, yet comfort, — that for
No eye was left to weep, nor heart to mourn.

Hark! 'tis the mariners, with voice attuned,
Timing their toil! and now, with gentle gates
Slow from the holy haven they depart.