English

SECOND PART .

Thus Owen daily kept his flock,
On Marian's summits seated,
And distant saw the passing sails,
By every breeze inflated.

Now saw on Llangoed's fertile shores,
The placid waters waving,
And now beheld, on rocky steeps,
The billowy rollers raving.

A novel wish, in Owen's thoughts,
Intruded now, was growing;

Where is the Muse that loves the good,
The plaintive strain to offer;
But to the bright benignant breast
That feels for all that suffer.

'Tis this that prompts her now to bring,
To thee, a noiseless story;
For Fame confines her brazen trump
To deeds of martial glory.

She flies on every breeze that blows,
To spread her loud narration;
Nor seas resist, nor Alps repel,

1. THE FEAR OF LOVE

O could my love devise
A shield for you from envious lips and eyes
That desecrate the sweetness of your days
With tumults of their praise!

O could my love design
A secret, sealed, invulnerable shrine
To hide you, happy and inviolate,
From covetous Time and Fate.

Love, I am drenched with fear
Lest the uncounted avarice of the year
Add to the triumph of all garnered grace
The rapture of your face!

I tremble with despair

1. THE SORROW OF LOVE

Why did you turn your face away?
Was it for grief or fear
Your strength would fail or your pride grow weak,
If you touched my hand, if you heard me speak,
After a life-long year?

Why did you turn your face away?
Was it for love or hate?
Or the spell of that wild miraculous hour
That hurled our souls with relentless power
In the eddying fires of fate?

1. THE OFFERING

Were beauty mine, beloved, I would bring it
Like a rare blossom to Love's glowing shrine;
Were dear youth mine, beloved, I would fling it
Like a rich pearl into Love's lustrous wine:

Were greatness mine, Beloved, I would offer
Such radiant gifts of glory and of fame,
Like camphor and like curds to pour and proffer
Before Love's bright and sacrificial flame.

But I have naught save my heart's deathless passion
That craves no recompense divinely sweet,

21.

" He hath escap'd, " the King-Priest said.
Then, turn'd he to the lifeless maid.
Nor armlet she, nor anklet wore,
But on her veiny wrist
A clasp of amethyst,
And on her right third finger fair
A relic, which he valu'd more;
A ring of gold-and-silver twist,
And Homer's auburn-silver'd hair.
He took the ring, and from her wrist
The nun its clasp of amethyst,
The mighty spell, by which, men knew,
She could o'ercome, far off, the foe
Who but in thought might work her woe;

19.

" With her? This impious wretch! So foul,
And yet so fair? " the King-Priest said;
And, not unmov'd, contemplated
The beauteous corpse. " Her wretched soul
Is now a crow's. Her carrion soon
Shall feed the wolf, beneath the moon
And winking stars. " Scornful, he spoke,
Though pity in his heart awoke;
Then, self-reproach'd, threw back his head,
While blacken'd on his lip of bile
The fiend of his unwilling smile —
And kick'd, with cruel foot, the dead.

20.

18.

" Bend not thy cruel brow on me,
Priest! " Adwick answer'd mournfully;
" I know thy power, and pity thee.
The feet that on long-suffering trod
Cannot crush out my trust in God;
Nor canst thou waste, or use in vain,
His fund of dreadful mercy, pain.
Me thou can'st rack, my blood canst spill;
But there's a power thou canst not kill,
The will and power To Think and Know.
Sure is its march, however slow;
And it shall put to shame and flight
That darkness which to thee is light:

16.

Then, Adwick saw, approaching nigh,
A form of haughtiest dignity.
Never was grander presence seen,
Or loftier stature.
The demon in his nature
Wore a sublimely mournful mien;
And as he trod
The shrinking sod,
He seem'd not less than demigod.
Crisp, curl'd his locks of auburn hue
O'er features beautiful,
High brow, thin lips, arch'd nose;
A face of marble-like repose,
Whose coldness sham'd young June's white rose.

15.

Sad, from the dell of Ravensly,
A wail of chaunting echo'd wide;
Harsh, in oak-waving Denaby,
A trumpet's brazen laugh replied;
And far o'er Watchly came the cry
That ever told when doom was nigh,
When cruel gods claim'd bloody rites,
And men prepar'd for ghastly sights.
But Adwick heard no trumpet blow,
No chaunt, no death-dirge, wailing low;
Mute as a stone, and tranc'd in woe,
He stood! and mov'd
Nor hand, nor foot, nor lock of hair;
But, like a statue of despair,