Classic Poem

Fair blows the wind, — the vessel drives along
Her streamers fluttering at their length, her sails
All full, — she drives along, and round her prow
Scatters the ocean spray. What feelings then
Fill'd every bosom, when the mariners,
After the peril of that weary way,
Beheld their own dear country! Here stands one
Stretching his sight toward the distant shore;
And as to well-known forms his busy joy
Shapes the dim outline, eagerly he points
The fancied headland, and the cape and bay,
Till his eyes ache o'erstraining. This man shakes
His comrade's hand, and bids him welcome home,
And blesses God, and then he weeps aloud:
Here stands another, who, in secret prayer,
Calls on the Virgin, and his patron Saint,
Renewing his old vows of gifts, and alms,
And pilgrimage, so he may find all well.
Silent and thoughtful, and apart from all,
Stood Madoc; now his noble enterprise
Proudly remembering, now in dreams of hope,
Anon of bodings full, and doubt, and fear.
Fair smiled the evening, and the favoring gale
Sung in the shrouds, and swift the steady bark
Rush'd roaring through the waves.
The sun goes down:
Far off his light is on the naked crags
Of Penmanmawr, and Arvon's ancient hills;
And the last glory lingers yet awhile,
Crowning old Snowdon's venerable head,
That rose amid his mountains. Now the ship
Drew nigh where Mona, the dark island, stretch'd
Her shore along the ocean's lighter line.
There, through the mist and twilight, many a fire,
Up-flaming, stream'd upon the level sea
Red lines of lengthening light, which, far away,
Rising and falling, flash'd athwart the waves.
Thereat, full many a thought of ill disturb'd
Prince Madoc's mind; — did some new conqueror seize
The throne of David? had the tyrant's guilt
Awaken'd vengeance to the deed of death?
Or blazed they for a brother's obsequies,
The sport and mirth of murder? — Like the lights
Which there upon Aberfraw's royal walls
Are waving with the wind, the painful doubt
Fluctuates within him. — Onward drives the gale, —
On flies the bark; — and she hath reach'd at length
Her haven, safe from her unequall'd way!
And now, in louder and yet louder joy
Clamorous, the happy mariners all-hail
Their native shore, and now they leap to land.

There stood an old man on the beach, to wait
The comers from the ocean; and he ask'd,
Is it the Prince? And Madoc knew his voice,
And turn'd to him, and fell upon his neck;
For it was Urien, who had foster'd him,
Had loved him like a child; and Madoc loved,
Even as a father, loved he that old man.
My sister? quoth the Prince. — Oh, she and I
Have wept together, Madoc, for thy loss, —
That long and cruel absence! — she and I,
Hour after hour, and day by day, have look'd
Toward the waters, and with aching eyes,
And aching heart, sat watching every sail.

And David and our brethren? cried the Prince,
As they moved on. — But then old Urien's lips
Were slow at answer; and he spake, and paused
In the first breath of utterance, as to choose
Fit words for uttering some unhappy tale.
More blood, quoth Madoc, yet? Hath David's fear
Forced him to still more cruelty? Alas —
Woe for the house of Owen!
Evil stars,
Replied the old man, ruled o'er thy brethren's birth,
From Dolwyddelan driven, his peaceful home,
Poor Yorwerth sought the church's sanctuary;
The murderer follow'd; — Madoc, need I say
Who sent the sword? — Llewelyn, his brave boy,
Where wanders he? in this his rightful realm,
Houseless and hunted; richly would the king
Gift the red hand that rid him of that fear!
Ririd, an outlaw'd fugitive, as yet
Eludes his deadly purpose; Rodri lives,
A prisoner he, — I know not in what fit:
Of natural mercy from the slaughter spared.
Oh, if my dear old master saw the wreck
And scattering of his house! — that princely
The beautiful band of brethren that they were

Madoc made no reply, — he closed his eye
Groaning. But Urien, for his heart was full
Loving to linger on the woe, pursued:
I did not think to live to such an hour
Of joy as this! and often, when my sight
Turn'd dizzy from the ocean, overcome
With heavy anguish, Madoc, I have prayed.
That God would please to take me to his rest

So as he ceased his speech, a sudden shout
Of popular joy awakened Madoc's ear;
And calling then to mind the festal fires,
He ask'd their import. The old man replied,
It is the giddy people merry-making,
To welcome their new Queen; unheeding they
The shame and the reproach to the long line
Of our old royalty! — Thy brother weds
The Saxon's sister.
What! — in loud reply
Madoc exclaim'd, hath he forgotten all?
David! King Owen's son, — my father's son.
He wed the Saxon, — the Plantagenet!

Quoth Urien, He so dotes, as she had dropp'd
Some philtre in his cup, to lethargize
The British blood that came from Owen's veins
Three days his halls have echoed to the song
Of joyance.
Shame! foul shame! that they should hear
Songs of such joyance! cried the indignant Prince
Oh, that my Father's hall, where I have heard
The songs of Corwen, and of Keiriog's day,
Should echo this pollution! Will the chiefs
Brook this alliance, this unnatural tie?

There is no face but wears a courtly smile,
Urien replied: Aberfraw's ancient towers
Beheld no pride of festival like this,
No like solemnities, when Owen came
In conquest, and Gowalchmai struck the harn.
Only Goervyl, careless of the pomp,
Sits in her solitude, lamenting thee.

Saw ye not then my banner? quoth the Lord
Of Ocean; on the topmast-head it stood
To tell the tale of triumph; — or did night
Hide the glad signal, and the joy hath yet,
To reach her?
Now had they almost attain'd
The palace portal. Urien stopp'd, and said,
The child should know your coming; it is long
Since she hath heard a voice that to her heart
Spake gladness; — none but I must tell her this
So Urien sought Goervyl, whom he found
Alone, and gazing on the moonlight sea.

Oh, you are welcome, Urien! cried the main
There was a ship came sailing hitherward —
I could not see his banner, for the night
Closed in so fast around her; but my heart
Indulged a foolish hope!
The old man replied,
With difficult effort keeping his heart down,
God, in his goodness, may reserve for us
That blessing yet! I have yet life enow
To trust that I shall live to see the day,
Albeit the number of my years well nigh
Be full.
Ill-judging kindness! said the maid.
Have I not nursed, for two long, wretched years,
That miserable hope, which every day
Grew weaker, like a baby sick to death,
Yet dearer for its weakness day by day?
No, never shall we see his daring bark!
I knew and felt it in the evil hour
When forth she fared! I felt it then! that kiss
Was our death-parting! — And she paused to curb
The agony: anon, — But thou hast been
To learn their tidings, Urien? — He replied,
In half-articulate words, — They said, my child,
That Madoc lived, — that soon he would be here.

She had received the shock of happiness:
Urien! she cried — thou art not mocking me!
Nothing the old man spake, but spread his arms,
Sobbing aloud. Goervyl from their hold
Started, and sunk upon her brother's breast.

Recovering first, the aged Urien said —
" Enough of this, — there will be time for this,
My children! better it behoves ye now
To seek the King. And, Madoc, I beseech thee,
Bear with thy brother! gently bear with him,
My gentle Prince! he is the headstrong slave
Of passions unsubdued; he feels no tie
Of kindly love or blood; — provoke him not,
Madoc! — It is his nature's malady.

Thou good old man replied the Prince, be sure
I shall remember what to him is due,
What to myself; for I was in my youth
Wisely and well train'd up; nor yet hath time
Effaced the lore my foster-father taught.

Haste, haste! exclaim'd Goervyl; — for her heart
Smote her in sudden terror at the thought
Of Yorwerth, and of Owen's broken house; —
I dread his dark suspicions!
Not for me
Suffer that fear, my sister! quoth the Prince;
Safe is the straight and open way I tread;
Nor hath God made the human heart so bad
That thou or I should have a danger there.
So saying, they toward the palace gate
Went on, ere yet Aberfraw had received
The tidings of her wanderer's glad return.