Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN ODE RECITED AT THE NATIONAL EISTEDDFOD, JULY 11, 1894, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN ODE RECITED AT THE NATIONAL EISTEDDFOD, JULY 11, 1894, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Six centuries ago llywelyn fell
Last Line: And, doing this, shall stand and shall not fall!
Subject(s): Wales; Welshmen; Welshwomen


SIX centuries ago Llywelyn fell,
And with him Wales, and the strong Norman power --
Stern Fortune, was it well? --
Prevailed at last, and for the dauntless dead,
And that beloved dishonoured head,
New-born within a neighbouring tower,
There came a little child, sprung from another race --
A kingly child, foredoomed by cruel Fate,
Came to replace the unforgotten Great,
And was our Prince in name.

Then the fierce flood of patriot song,
Which from each heaven-kist hill
And deep-set vale rolled downward loud and strong,
Crept longtime low and still;
The vanquished land kept silence, and no more
The bard's keen voice might soar,
Nor the old harp of Wales be swept again;
Of warfare would they sing, and rude alarms,
The clash of swords, the clang of arms,
Their souls were tuned to no serener strain.

Slow centuries crept by,
And left our Wales asleep.
A peace which was not peace
Bound her in slumbers deep.
Our Britain's triumphs over foreign foes,
Our Britain's civil strifes and frequent woes,
Scarce stirred her torpid life.
Asleep she lay long time, remote, forlorn,
Till the New Day was born.

But deep within her loyal soul
The steadfast brooding Cymric nature yet,
Too faithful to forget,
Felt the old hidden currents roll:
The treasure of her native tongue;
The secret of her old harmonious rhyme;
The measures by her dim forefathers sung;
The fealty to the Past, stronger with time; --
These filled the nation's heart,
And nerved her for her part.
Nor wholly silent was the voice of Song,
Thro' those mute ages long,
Till the dark secular night-clouds passed away,
And on our Wales, still living, broke the Day.
Ay, now indeed 'tis Day!
Not full Noon yet, but Dawn!
And from her scarce awakened gaze, away
The curtains of the nation's soul are drawn;
Above the hill-tops mounts the rising sun,
The Night of Ignorance is done;
This very year, reared by devoted hands,
Than visible fanes more bright,
A home of Knowledge and of Light
Our immaterial new-built Temple stands.
Forget not, thou, dear land, those cold or failing hands!

And still as of old time
The bardic Congress meets for rhyme and song.
But who comes here, a long-expected guest,
After those silent centuries long?
A Prince of Wales once more,
As in those unforgotten days of yore,
Comes where Canarvon sits on Menai's sounding shore;
And by him, with sweet smile and gaze serene,
The fairest mother Cymric eyes have seen;
And young lives, too, in whom we joy to trace
Their mother's Royal grace.
Great Empire of our Britain, that hast been
Longer than Greece, and wider art than Rome,
After six hundred years the Prince of Wales comes home!

Where could our Prince more fitly see
Our new recovered Unity
Than in this ancient Session of our Race,
Which always, through the wintry centuries,
When else our Cymric genius slept,
Some sacred spark has kept
To light the smouldering fires to life again?
Here, where all dissonant sounds are hushed and dumb,
And a deep peace embraces all,
'Tis well that he should come,
And mark the quaint penillion rise and fall;
The tuneful thunder of the emulous quires;
And hear the ancient tongue which still inspires
Quick-kindling bardic fires;
And see a myriad peasant faces stirred
By soaring note or eloquent word;
The white-robed girlish singers fair;
The sheathed swords crossed above the Bardic Chair;
And that grave innocent Druidic rite
Done "in the eye of Light."

Here, musing deep, our minds shall pause to trace
The age-long story which has flowered to-day,
The record of the undying Cymric Race;
Our Britain grown so great
By long decrees of Fate;
The unchanged poetic flame,
In form and tongue the same
With that which lit of old unnumbered lives;
And pondering well the Past, rejoicing say,
"What the first Edward quenched, the Seventh revives;"
And from that primal history
Those fateful words recall,
The prophecy fulfilled from ancient days:
"Though they shall lose their old ancestral land
Save wild Wales only; in the ancient tongue
Their Maker they shall praise,"
And, doing this, shall stand and shall not fall!





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