Classic Poem

"THE IRON KING."


PRIZE POEM:

ABERGAVENNY EISTEDDFOD, 1874.

The programme opened with a competition for the best English Elegy on
the late Crawshay Bailey, Esq., for which a prize of 10 pounds was
given, and a bardic chair, value 5 pounds, by Mr. William Lewis.
There were twelve competitors, and each composition was confined to a
limit of 200 lines.


Sadly the sea, by Mynwy's rugged shore,
Moans for the dead in many a mournful strain.
A voice from hearts bereft cries "Come again;"
But wavelets whisper softly, "Never more!"

The restless winds take up the solemn cry,
As though--an age of sorrow in each breath--
The words, "O, come again," could call back Death
From the far-off, unseen Eternity.

"Our dwellings darkened when his life went out:
"We stand in cold eclipse, for gone the light
"Which made our cottage-homes so warm and bright;
"And shadows deepen o'er the world without.

"Come back--come back!" Upon the mournful wind
These words fall weirdly as they float along,
Melting the soul to tears: for lo! the song
Rises from hearts that seek but ne'er will find:

Save one more billow on the sea of graves;
One joyaunt voice the fewer in life's throng;
One hand the less to help the world along;
One Hero more 'mongst earth's departed Braves.

For who that in life's battle-field could fight
As he has fought, whose painless victories
Transcended war's heroic chivalries,
Could in his country's heart claim nobler height?

None may the niche of glory haplier grace,
None may the crown of greatness proudlier wear,
Than he upon whose tomb the silent tear
Falls slowly down from many a drooping face.

Faces whose hard and rugged outlines show
Life's daily struggle--O, how bravely fought!
Faces to which the only gladness brought
Came from the Friend who yonder lieth low.

Let us in mournful retrospect commune
O'er what that still cold heart and brain have won:
A hymn of life in lispings first begun,
Ending in harmony's most perfect tune.

As comes the sun from out the darkling-night,
And strikes, as did the patriarch of old,
Life's barren rocks, which flush with green and gold,
And pour out waters glad with living light,

So, crowned with blessings, in the far-off days,
Like Midas, Mynwy's monarch touched the earth,
Wrought golden plenty where once reigned a dearth,
And raised an empire he alone could raise.

No service his, of slavery, to bind
With tyrant fancy vassals to his will:
All hearts beat quick with sympathetic thrill
For one who loved the humblest of their kind.

His kingdom rang with fealty from the free--
Such blessed faith as faith itself ensures.
His reign alone that sway which e'er secures
A subject's true and trustful sympathy.

So love men's love begat in bounteous flow;
It blossomed round his path as flowers bloom,
Filling his life with such a rare perfume
Of heart's devotion kings can seldom know.

His master-mind, with almost boundless reach,
Planned work so vast that mankind, wondering still,
Could scarcely compass his gigantic will
Which grasped great things as ocean clasps the beach.

His home of homes was where the Cyclops forged
Their bolts, as though for Jove to hold his own:
His fondest study where, through ages grown,
The silent ores old Cambria's mountains gorged.

Mammoth machines that, with incessant whirl,
Rolled onward ever on their ponderous way:
Gigantic marvels, deafening in their play,
And swift, industrious, never-ending swirl.

All these he loved, as men alone can love
The things that win their love: to him they shone
Instinct with living beauty all their own,
Touched with a light divine as from above.

For them, and with them, toiled he day by day
In true companionship: they were his Friends,
Bound by the tie whose influence never ends,
By faithful bonds which never pass away.

And as the sunflower looks towards the light
All through the livelong day, so did his heart
Ne'er from this bond of love play recreant part,
But every moment beat that heart aright;

A heart so large and true--true to the core;
So spacious that the great might enter in;
Yet none too poor its sympathy to win,
And every throb a pleasure at their door.

And so, through all the toilful hours of thought,
He reared a world-wide pinnacle of fame,
Whose summit reached, his heart was still the same,
Undazed by splendours which his hand had wrought.

Long stood he on the topmost peak of praise
From tongues of men, as mountains tipped with snow
Stand with their lofty foreheads all a-glow,
Lit up with beauty by the sun's bright rays.

His life was climaxed by a kinglier dower
Than even kings themselves can hope to reach;
No grander, prouder lesson can we teach,
Than win great things by self-inherent power.

Brighter examples manhood cannot show,
Than with true hand, brave heart, and sleepless mind,
To build up name and fortune 'midst their kind,
From grains and drops--as worlds and oceans grow.

So, in the rare meridian of his time,
In pride of conscious strength, he stood alone,
A king of kings upon his Iron Throne,
Wrought out from humble step to height sublime,

As shadows lengthen in the setting sun,
So spread the stature of his later life,
Which, like Colossus, o'er earth's busy strife,
Towered grandly till that life's last sand was run.

And so he passed away, as meteors die;
Leaving a trail of splendour here on earth
To mark the road he took in virtuous worth,
In sterling truth, and rare integrity.

These are the living landmarks he has left:
Bright jewels in his earthly sojourn set,
Whose brilliance seen, those looking ne'er forgot:
A glorious heritage for friends bereft.

Such gems as those who mourn may still adore,
Whose glistening rays men's footsteps lead aright
Through life's dark way, like glow-worms in the night,
Or angel-glintings from the eternal shore.

As round decaying flowers perfume clings
In silent tribute to the blossoms dead,
So memory, brooding o'er his spirit fled,
Nought but the sweetest recollection brings.