The Poems of Felicia Hemans
And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound.
The free winds of Maelor[166] shall swell with their name,
And Owain’s rich hirlas be fill’d to their fame.
[163] “Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose gloss is like
the waves of the sea; whose green handles show the skill of the artist,
and are tipped with gold.”--From the _Hirlas Horn_ of Owain Cyfeiliog.
[164] “Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din of arms,
their furious onset, loud as in the battle of Bangor, where fire
flashed out of their spears?”--From the same.
[165] “Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn--badge of honour and
mirth.”--From the same.
[166] Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, according to
the modern division.
THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night;[167]
I weep, for the grave has extinguish’d its light;
The beam of the lamp from its 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 grass 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!
[167]
“The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without bed--
I must weep awhile, and then be silent.
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without being lighted--
Be thou encircled with spreading silence!
* * * * *
The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night,
Since he that own’d it is no more--
Ah Death! it will be but a short time he will leave me.
The Hall of Cynddylan it is not easy this night,
On the top of the rock of Hydwyth,
Without its lord, without company, without the circling feasts!”
Owen’s _Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen_.
THE LAMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN.
[Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard and chief of
the times of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, supposed to be a part of
the present Cumberland. Having sustained the loss of his patrimony,
and witnessed the fall of most of his sons, in the unequal contest
maintained by the North Britons against the growing power of the
Saxons, Llywarch was compelled to fly from his country, and seek
refuge in Wales. He there found an asylum for some time in the
residence of Cynddylan, Prince of Powys, whose fall he pathetically
laments in one of his poems. These are still extant; and his elegy on
old age and the loss of his sons, is remarkable for its simplicity
and beauty.--See _Cambrian Biography_, and Owen’s _Heroic Elegies and
other poems of Llywarch Hen_.]
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 flowers, my sad footsteps surrounding?
--My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!
Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger,
My spirit all wrapt in the past as a dream!
Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer,[168]
Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight’s glad beam;
Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping!
--O grave! why refuse to the aged thy bed,
When valour’s high heart on thy bosom is sleeping,
When youth’s glorious flower is gone down to the dead!
Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing,
As on to the fields of your glory ye trode!
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing,
Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod![169]
I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding,
Which rouses ye not, O my lovely! my brave!
When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding,
I turn from heaven’s light, for it smiles on your grave![170]
[168] “What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me now.”
[169]
“Four and twenty sons to me have been
Wearing the golden chain, and leading princes.”
_Elegies of Llywarch Hen._
The golden chain, as a badge of honour, worn by heroes, is frequently
alluded to in the works of the ancient British bards.
[170]
“Hardly has the snow covered the vale,
When the warriors are hastening to the battle;
I do not go, I am hinder’d by infirmity.”
_Elegies of Llywarch Hen._
GRUFYDD’S FEAST.
[“Grufydd ab Rhys ab Tewdwr, having resisted the English successfully
in the time of Stephen, and at last obtained from them an honourable
peace, made a great feast at his palace in _Ystrad Tywi_ to celebrate
this event. To this feast, which was continued for forty days, he
invited all who would come in peace from _Gwynedd_, _Powys_, the
_Deheubarth_, Glamorgan, and the marches. Against the appointed time
he prepared all kinds of delicious viands and liquors; with every
entertainment of vocal and instrumental song; thus patronising the
poets and musicians. He encouraged, too, all sorts of representations
and manly games, and afterwards sent away all those who had excelled
in them with honourable gifts.”--_Cambrian Biography._]
Let the yellow mead shine for the sons of the brave,
By the bright festal torches around us that wave!
Set open the gates of the prince’s wide hall,
And hang up the chief’s ruddy spear on the wall!
There is peace in the land we have battled to save:
Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine-cup foam high,[171]
That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die!
Let the horn whose loud blast gave the signal for fight,
With the bees sunny nectar now sparkle in light;[172]
Let the rich draught it offers with gladness be crown’d,
For the strong hearts in combat that leap’d at its sound!
Like the billows’ dark swell was the path of their might,
Red, red as their blood, fill the wine-cup on high,
That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die!
And wake ye the children of song from their dreams,
On Maelor’s wild hills and by Dyfed’s fair streams![173]
Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty and free,
Which shall flow down the waves of long ages to be.
Sheath the sword which hath given them unperishing themes,
And pour the bright mead: let the wine-cup foam high,
That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die!
[171] Wine, as well as mead, is frequently mentioned in the poems of
the ancient British bards.
[172] The horn was used for two purposes--to sound the alarm in war,
and to drink the mead at feasts.
[173] Dyfed, (said to signify a land abounding with streams of water,)
the modern Pembrokeshire.
THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA.
When the last flush of eve is dying
On boundless lakes afar that shine;
When winds amidst the palms are sighing,
And fragrance breathes from every pine:[174]
When stars through cypress-boughs are gleaming,
And fire-flies wander bright and free,
Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming,
My thoughts, wild Cambria! dwell with thee!
Alone o’er green savannas roving,
Where some broad stream in silence flows,
Or through th’ eternal forests moving,
One only home my spirit knows!
Sweet land, whence memory ne’er hath parted!
To thee on sleep’s light wing I fly;
But happier could the weary-hearted
Look on his own blue hills and die!
TALIESIN’S PROPHECY.
[A prophecy of Taliesin relating to the ancient Britons is still
extant, and has been strikingly verified. It is to the following
effect:--
“Their God they shall worship,
Their language they shall retain,
Their land they shall lose,
Except wild Wales.”]
A voice from time departed yet floats thy hills among,
O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung:
“The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soul,
The clouds which mantle things unseen away before me roll,
A light the depths revealing hath o’er my spirit pass’d,
A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful in the blast,
And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue
To which the harp of Mona’s woods by freedom’s hand was strung.
“Green island of the mighty![175] see thine ancient race
Driven from their fathers’ realm to make the rocks their
dwelling-place!
I see from Uthyr’s[176] kingdom the sceptre pass away,
And many a fine of bards and chiefs and princely men decay.
But long as Arvon’s mountains shall lift their sovereign forms,
And wear the crown to which is given dominion o’er the storms,
So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue
To which the harp of Mona’s woods by freedom’s hand was strung!”
[174] The aromatic odour of the pine has frequently been mentioned by
travellers.
[175] _Ynys y Cedeirn_, or Isle of the Mighty--an ancient name given to
Britain.
[176] Uthyr Pendragon, king of Britain, supposed to have been the
father of Arthur.
OWEN GLYNDWR’S WAR-SONG.
Saw ye the blazing star?[177]
The heavens look’d down on freedom’s war,
And lit her torch on high!
Bright on the dragon crest[178]
It tells that glory’s wing shall rest,
When warriors meet to die!
Let earth’s pale tyrants read despair
And vengeance in its flame;
Hail ye, my bards! the omen fair
Of conquest and of fame,
And swell the rushing mountain air
With songs to Glendwr’s name.
At the dead hour of night,
Mark’d ye how each majestic height
Burn’d in its awful beams?
Red shone th’ eternal snows,
And all the land, as bright it rose,
Was full of glorious dreams!
O eagles of the battle,[179] rise!
The hope of Gwynedd wakes![180]
It is your banner in the skies
Through each dark cloud which breaks,
And mantles with triumphal dyes
Your thousand hills and lakes!
A sound is on the breeze,
A murmur as of swelling seas!
The Saxon on his way!
Lo! spear and shield and lance,
From Deva’s waves, with lightning glance,
Reflected to the day!
But who the torrent-wave compels
A conqueror’s chain to bear?
Let those who wake the soul that dwells
On our free winds, beware!
The greenest and the loveliest dells
May be the lion’s lair!
Of us _they_ told, the seers,
And monarch bards of elder years,
Who walk’d on earth as powers!
And in their burning strains,
A spell of might and mystery reigns,
To guard our mountain-towers!
--In Snowdon’s caves a prophet lay:[181]
Before his gifted sight,
The march of ages pass’d away
With hero-footsteps bright;
But proudest in that long array,
Was Glendwr’s path of light!
[177] The year 1402 was ushered in with a comet or blazing star, which
the bards interpreted as an omen favourable to the cause of Glendwr. It
served to infuse spirit into the minds of a superstitious people, the
first success of their chieftain confirmed this belief, and gave new