Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WILD WALES: 2. THE PHYSICIANS OF MYDDFAI, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WILD WALES: 2. THE PHYSICIANS OF MYDDFAI, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Far, far away in wild wales, by the shore of the boundless atlantic
Last Line: I am fired by the fair old tale, till almost I take it for true.
Subject(s): Wales; Welshmen; Welshwomen


FAR, far away in wild Wales, by the shore of the boundless Atlantic,
Where the cloud-capt peaks of the North are dwarfed to the hills of the South,
And through the long vale to the sea, the full-fed, devious Towy
Turns and returns on itself, like the coils of a silvery snake,
A grey town sits up aloft on the bank of the clear, flowing river,
As it has sat since the days when the Roman was first in the land.
A town, with a high ruined castle and walls mantled over with ivy,
With church towers square and strong and narrow irregular streets,
And, frequent in street and lane, many-windowed high-shouldered chapels,
Whence all the still Sabbath ascend loud preaching and passionate prayer,
Such violent wrestling with sin, that the dogs on the pavement deserted
Wake with a growl from their dreams at the sound of the querulous voice,
And the gay youths, released from the counter and bound for the seaside or hillside,
Start as they wake on their way echoes of undevout feet,
And here and there a rude square, with statues of popular heroes,
A long quay with scarcely a ship, and a hoary bridge spanning the stream,
The stream which struggles in June by the shallows where children are swimming,
The furious flood which at Yule roars seaward, resistless along,
Though the white steam ribbons float by it, forlorn it seems, almost forsaken,
All the day long in the week the dumb streets are hushed in repose,
But on market or fair days there comes a throng of Welsh-speaking peasants
From many a lonely farm in the folds of the rain-beaten hills,
And the long streets are filled with the high-pitched speech of the chaffering Cymry,
With a steeple-crowned hat, here and there, and the red cloaks which daunted the French.
Scarce in Keltic Brittany's self, or in homely Teutonic Silesia,
So foreign a crowd may you see as in this far corner of Wales.

Above the grey old town, at the mouth of the exquisite valley,
Rises a quaint village church deep in o'ershadowing yews;
On a round-topped hill it stands, looking down on the silvery river
And the smooth meadows fenced by tall elms, and the black kine, like flies on the green.
Below, 'midst its smooth-pleached lawns, stands the many-roofed Anglican palace,
And aloft from its straight-ridged pines, the enchanter's summit ascends.
Thence along the upward vale, by fold upon fold of the river,
By park and by tower, at last the far-off mountain chains soar,
Flecked with shadow and sunshine which float on the side of the desolate moorland,
And the whole still landscape lies bathed in a haze of ineffable peace.

There, where the mountains ascend by the white little town of Llandovery,
Steep as a crater the side of the circular summit dips down.
A blue lake lies beneath, deep set in the desolate hollow,
Where scarcely a breath of air ruffles in summer its face.
The Van Lake 'tis called of old time, like the Van Lake of distant Armenia.
Hardly a wayfarer's foot comes near, or a wayfarer's eye.
But far, far below are seen the white homesteads, dotting the valley,
And to-day, as of old, still silence and solitude everywhere reign.

There, as in crowded towns, life is real and full of striving;
There, too, is life fulfilled of small hopes and of trivial fears.
There, too, the finger of fate, unavoidable, pitiless, awful,
Points with unfaltering aim, to the road which our footsteps shall tread.
Love is among them, and hate, low desires and high aspirations,
Fortune is blind there as here, the good mourn, and the wicked rejoice.
Only there the sense of the Past, the romantic, the mystical lingers,
Touched with a glamour and charm, denied to the turmoil of towns.
The light which never has been, still shines on those hillsides secluded,
Illuming with rays, not of earth, those homely and labouring lives.
Here is a tale which is cherished to-day through that far-withdrawn valley,
Half believed by the aged folk still, but year by year fading away.

Long, long ago, when our Princes were falling in fight with the Norman,
And all our wild Wales lay o'erwhelmed by a torrent of rapine and blood,
A brave peasant woman strove here with hard fate, though her husband had fallen,
Strove for her only boy, who was rising to manhood apace.
So close was the bond which bound widowed mother and dutiful stripling,
None of Myddfai's daughters touched the young man's self-contained heart.
A kindly fortune smiled on the toil of the desolate woman,
Their flocks and their herds increased on the meads of the bountiful vale,
So quickly their numbers grew, that from the shorn valley he drove them
To fresh fields and pastures new on the side of the mystical hills.

Morning and evening he watched on the lonely side of the hollow,
While the grey kine wandered at will on the hill's half-precipitous steep.
Oft on the lake's still surface, no breath came to ruffle the mirror,
Nor sound, save the boulders rolled downward, that stirred for a moment its calm.
All the day long he mused, wrapt in thought on the desolate hillside,
All day the sure-footed kine cropt the sweet grass of the hills.
Thoughts came to him, innocent thoughts of a chaste youth guileless of error,
Thoughts of a maiden as fair as a young man's passionate dream.

Fair were the maidens of Myddfai, but fairer his far-off ideal,
Which touched with a glamour of gold the day-dreams of innocent youth.
All the day long he dreamt on, gazing down on the blue of the waters,
Till the plash of the trout, as they rose, seemed the oar of some mystical bark;
All the day long he mused, and with evening, by moonlight or starlight,
Dreaming he wound his slow way with his kine to the valley below,
Dreaming through fair summer days and the long dark evenings of winter
The sweet shy dreams of a youth fulfilled of a virginal shame.
In secret his mother noted the dreams which her son was dreaming,
Marking the far-off look in the absent eyes of the boy.
Fain would she rouse him with jests and bantering words, but the stripling
Smiled a soft smile in reply, then turned to his musings again.

When he had spent many days in happy and undisturbed dreaming,
One day, as the setting sun threw beams of bright gold on the lake,
Lo! a great marvel and wonder, a herd of phantom-like oxen
Seemed to his dazzled eyes to emerge from the mystical depths.
White they were, brindled and white, heavy dewlapped, lords of the meadows,
Driven as it seemed by a swan from the lake's far centre along.
Nearer and nearer they drew, till the swan to his yearning vision
Grew to a maiden as fair as the fanciful Fair of his dreams.
Gold were her locks and blue her eyes as the clear sky of autumn,
White was her bosom and red the half-opened rose of her mouth.
Nearer and nearer she came, till the youth, with ineffable longing,
Stretched forth his passionate arms to fold to his bosom the Fair,
Stretched forth, and offered her bread in humble token of friendship;
But the Fair smiled a sweet smile, smiled and eluded his grasp.
Then, as he stood on the brink, in mute and motionless yearning,
Lo! with a silvery laugh, the fair vision faded away.

Oftentimes thus on the brink he stood afterwards waiting the maiden,
Often she came not at all, or a strong wind ruffled the deep.
Twice again did she come, and he held forth bread for her taking,
Still, with a silvery laugh, refusing, she faded away.

Careworn the young man grew, and spent with unsatisfied yearnings,
Nor recked though the kine unheeded strayed on the perilous steeps.
Never again the lake maiden came by sunlight or moonlight,
Till his fond hope too long deferred, wasted him body and soul.
All his sleepless nights were filled with the pitiless vision;
All the musing days, a slow fire burned in his breast;
Half ashamed, he told his mother his pain, and the pitying woman
Sighed that her son should thus pine, but knew not to succour his grief.
Marking his cheeks' red flush, she feared lest her son might be taken,
Till she found no heart for her toil, and her substance wasted away.

There, when Midsummer Eve was come, the magical season,
The young man wandered in vain on the brink of the mystical lake;
There, when All-Hallow-tide came, he wandered, if only the maiden
Might rise on his longing eyes; but never at all did she come.
At last, on the year's last night, he, stealthily rising at midnight,
To the cold lake side went, hopeless, with faltering feet.
The full moon bathed in silver steep hillside and slumbering waters.
By the cold lake side he paused, with something of half-renewed hope,
When, borne on the face of the waters, behold by the reeds of the lake side
Floating a magical disc of milk-white mystical bread.
Swift, yet with reverence too, as one taking the Host at the altar,
Kneeling, the youth partook of the strange ineffable food,
Till ere the weird rite was ended again a marvellous portent
Greeted his longing eyes, and stayed the quick throb of his heart,
For lo! on the silvery path of the mcon on the undisturbed waters,
The herd that he saw once before came slowly gliding to land,
And beyond them -- oh, vision of bliss! -- the maid of his dreams, approaching,
Plying a light golden oar, in a swift-moving shallop of gold.
Nearer she came and more near, while his heart stood still with emotion,
Fearing the glorious dream should once again vanish away;
Nearer and nearer she came, and leaped from the skiff to the lake side,
And lay, in unearthly beauty, willingly clasped in his arms.

When he found tongue to speak, "Oh, my love, at last have I found thee!
Though not of earth is thy race, oh, stoop to my virginal love.
Oh, it is long I have loved thee, and though I know thee immortal,
Tarry awhile, fair vision, leave me not loveless again!
Come from thy mountain heights, come from thy dwelling deep down in the waters.
Pity me ere I die who can only live in thy love."
Then the maid, "Rhiwallon, I love thee; long time have I tried thy devotion,
Long have I pitied thy vigils spent in these desolate hills;
Always have I been near thee, unseen have I witnessed thy yearnings,
Only the mystical bread was wanting to join us in one.
Now we are one heart and soul, I will live with thee always, and love thee."
And together the mystical bread they ate, and their lives were made one.

Then said the maiden, "Oh, mortal! this warning I needs must give thee.
Thy wife will I be all thy days -- thy dear wife, faithful and true,
Nourish thy children, obey thee in all things, be dutiful always,
Fill all thy fields with the dowry thou seest of full-uddered kine,
Love thee and cherish thee always, and plenish thy barn with good harvests,
Long as the will of high Heaven gives thee to live upon earth.
Only, this ordinance holds if a maid of the race of immortals
Wed with a mortal on earth, leaving her higher estate,
If he should strike her three times, she and hers, her bonds being loosened,
Whether she will it or not, return to her kindred again."
Careless the fond youth heard, and smothered her warning with kisses,
And down through the joyous New Year he went with his bride to their home.

Long in great welfare they lived, knit together in happy wedlock;
Never a cloud arose on the tranquil sky of their home,
The great herds throve and increased more than all the herds of the valley,
The robbers who harried the vale left them untouched and in peace,
Never was husband more fond of the wife of his boyish affection,
Never was wife more sweet, or fuller of dutiful love.
The good mother died full of years, and calling her daughter blessed.
Children were born of their love, more than others prudent and fair.
Their strong sons were good and discreet, laborious, eager for knowledge,
Scarcely the Abbot himself equalled their learning, 'twas said;
Fair were the daughters and good, sweet, dutiful maidens, and prudent;
Nowhere in all our wild Wales was a race so gracious and fair.

And yet, when their wedlock was new, that had happened which now was forgotten.
The youth and his bride were bidden one day to a christening feast.
The young husband hastened to go; but the wife, with half-hid reluctance,
Loitered till almost too late to traverse the difficult hills.
Many a pretext she urged, not loving the rites of religion,
Holding some primitive faith, old as the hills and the seas,
Till, when the hour was grown late, Rhiwallon in playful impatience,
Seeking his wife up and down, found her reluctant at last.
"Come," said he, "wife, it is time," and smilingly on her fair shoulder
Tapped with his empty glove, and she rose and obeyed with a sigh.
"Dearest, remember," she said, "my warning when first we were wedded;
Once that has been which should not. Remember, be careful, my heart!"
Then to the christening she went, nor shrank from the priest nor the water,
Only a vague disquietude long time troubled their souls.

Also long years after this, when the past was wellnigh forgotten,
They were bidden together again to a gay marriage feast in the vale;
Not now was the wife unwilling, but ready to go and eager.
In deep contentment the pair went forth to the innocent feast.
Duly the marriage sped, the priest said his mystical office,
No word the goodwife spake, as she knelt in her place by her lord;
But when the marriage was done, and they sate at the jovial bride-feast,
Sudden the goodman perceived his wife in a passion of tears;
Sobbing, she sate by his side inconsolable loudly lamenting,
Till all the gay company rose with dismay from the midst of their mirth.
Always her prescient soul saw the future hidden from mortals,
The grief that should come of that day, the dreadful problems of life,
The lives that from that day's mirth should arise -- to what fate predestined?
The long generations of men foredoomed to sorrow alone.
Knowing the fever of life and its ending, the mystical woman
Held not her peace, but burst forth in a passion of weeping and pain;
But Rhiwallon, knowing not all, but filled with distress for the bridefolk,
Turned to her, and bidding her cease, touched lightly her arm in reproof.
In one moment she ceased from her wailing, and scarcely regarding her goodman,
"Love," she said, "that was the second time; only one other remains."

All these things had they almost forgot, living happy in wedlock,
Watching their children grow to strong manhood and womanhood fair;
Smoothly their lives flowed along in unbroken weal and affection,
As their devious Towy, which wound through cornland and mead to the sea.
Not a thought had the goodman of death, or of parting, than death more bitter;
But the goodwife, loving her lord, watched with solicitous thought.
Scarce from her prescient mind had faded the danger which pressed them,
The bliss which a careless touch might turn in a moment to pain;
Here on the kindly earth she had made her choice and her dwelling,
Here she would willingly live with her husband, and with him would die.
Far off her birthland appeared, cold and lifeless the mystical waters;
Better to sleep in the meads than to pass that cold portal again.
Love's light beaming warm on her life, in her veins the warm human life-blood
Filled with new longings a heart which was only half human before.
"What would life profit her now to those ice-cold abysses returning?
Better to die upon earth by the fate which awaiteth us all."
Thus the goodwife, half human in heart, mused in silence, her children around her,
Filled with a deep boding sense of the terrible nearness of fate.

Last it befell once again that the pair were bidden together
(Christening for youth, for full age bride-feasts, for old age the grave),
To a solemn burial they went; 'twas a friend of their youth who was taken.
All the desolate house was hushed in mourning and tears,
But before the dead was borne forth, the strange heart of the mystical woman,
Long keeping silence with pain, broke out at last into mirth.
Was it because she knew that the burden of living is heavy,
From what load of misery here the dead are delivered by death?
Or was it because she knew of her old primaeval religion
How much higher than human life is the lot of the just who are dead?
Or was it her soul had beheld the restitution of all things,
And felt a great hope and joy which lightened the shadow of death?
Who shall tell? but her elfin nature broke forth in immoderate laughter,
Piercing the mourners' hearts, as they stood round the bier of the dead.
Long time the goodman was mute, till at last keen shame overcame him,
No more could he suffer unmoved that meaningless laughter and joy.
"Hush, hush! wife," he said, "you forget," and touched her again on the shoulder.
"For the ending of troubles I laughed," she replied, and grew grave and was still.

Then with a sob and a sigh the goodwife, looking behind her,
Rose from her place by her lord and swiftly passed forth by the door.
"Farewell," she said, "oh my love; thou hast struck me the third and the last time.
Fate 'tis that parteth us -- Fate! Farewell! I shall see thee no more."
So strange she showed and so weird that the goodman dared not detain her.
Seeing his goodwife no more, and knowing the finger of Fate;
Seeing his goodwife no more, no longer the well-beloved features,
The hair that was silvered by time, the dim eyes with their motherly care;
But the radiant figure once more, golden-haired, azure-eyed, and immortal,
That at midnight arose, long ago, from the depths of the mystical lake.
None offered to stay her course, but she glided alone, unattended,
Splendid in radiant youth, up the lonely, precipitous hills.
Not to her home or her children returned, nor tarried a moment;
Straight to the hillside she went, weeping and blinded with tears,
And as she passed by the fields where her magical cattle were grazing,
Always she carolled aloud a strange and mystical song.
"Come hither, Brindle!" she sang; "come, White Spot! bring your calves with you!
Come thou, White Lord of the Herd, who wert born in the House of the King!
Come, we must go to our home! and ye, yoked patient-eyed oxen,
Come with me, come with the rest; it is time, come all of ye home!"

The great herds heard the call, and streamed in an endless procession;
The gray oxen burst from the furrow, leaving the ploughshare behind.
Up the rough hillside they climbed behind her, obeying her mandate,
Till they showed to the gazers below like a white cloud mounting the steep.
Up the steep hillside they sped to the lake, and the wondering peasants
Heard a clear voice from the hill, "Deuwch adre! Deuwch adre! Come home!"

Never again upon earth had Rhiwallon sight of his helpmeet,
Never again did he seek his love on the lake and the hills;
Wayworn and weary he grew, nor might dreams of beauty allure him.
The face that he loved and lost was aged, with silvery hair;
But the beautiful being who went from her seat at the fateful banquet --
What was her youth to his age, or his age to her radiant youth?
What if his eyes once again should perceive the bright vision of old time.
Old as he was, and changed from the hopeful dreams of the boy?
Nay, it would kill him to see the black deep which had taken his life's love.
Never again did he gaze on its hateful magical face.

But the strong sons, when they knew their mother was gone from among them --
Gone without even a word, to strange death or to mystical life --
Evening by evening would climb the lonely, precipitous hillside,
Yearning if haply their eyes might see the loved features again.
Long, long vigils they spent in vain, nor ever the vision
Came, any more than it comes to all children orphaned on earth,
Till one night, when all hope was dead, they burst into passionate weeping.
"Mother, thy children," they said, "call thee, and call thee in vain.
Break through the fetters of Fate, take again thy womanly nature;
Come to us, mother, once more, let us see thee and hear thee again."
And lo! as they looked, in the moonlight a shining, beautiful figure
Came in a shallop of gold, on the silvery path of the moon.
Nearer and nearer it came; but lo! as they gazed in fond yearning,
Not as their mother it seemed, but a youthful, fairy-like form.
Gold were her locks and blue her eyes, as the clear sky of autumn.
Bitterly weeping, they turned from the lake side with sinking young hearts --
Turned from the lake side, and went, side by side, down the hill paths in silence,
Silent, with never a word, till they came within sight of their home.
Then close behind them they heard a sweet voice, which called to them softly
And, turning round quickly, they saw the mother they loved and had lost.

"Listen, dear sons," she said. "With what spells you have drawn me ye know not.
No power but motherly love can bring an immortal to earth,
No other love can avail to reknit the bonds that are broken;
Only her child's strong cry calls back a mother again.
Give me your hands and kiss me; for see, I am old as you knew me,
The youth of those cold depths changed for the kindlier ripeness of earth.
Lo, I am now as I was, when an earthly love kept me among you,
Only I view all things with a clearer and perfecter sight.
Yours, dear sons, it must be to succour your suffering brothers.
Bound to a body which age and disease waste quickly away,
Healers your race shall be, knowing many a secret of Nature,
And all the virtues of herbs, which are sent for the comfort of man.
When ye come to these lonely heights, I will meet you and speak with you always,
Teaching the secrets of life, which are hid from the great ones of earth.
Come to me often, dear sons; I shall see you afar, and will meet you,
Walk with you always, discourse with you, teach you to live and be wise.
Say to my girls that they cherish their father and comfort him always;
Bid them remember their mother, who loves as she loved them on earth.
And now, farewell, dear hearts, since to earth your yearnings have brought me.
While you live I will always be with you. Be wise, then, my children, and good."

Often at evening, the youths would climb to the mystical lake side,
Culling the simples that grew on the slopes of the desolate hills --
"Pant y Meddygon," men called it, "The dingle of the Physicians" --
And with them, wherever they went, their mother invisible came,
Teaching them all that 'tis lawful to know of the secrets of Nature
And the powers of healing that seem to be God's own prerogative gift.
Such was the knowledge they took from their loving, mystical mother,
In all our wide Britain was found no leech so skilful as they.
All the sick of the country around flocked to them to be healed by their cunning;
Broad lands in Myddfai and rank the Lord Rhys gave for their skill.
Often, for years and for years, men might see the gentle Physicians
Culling the herbs on the hills, to battle with death and with pain.
From manhood to age they passed, still learning and perfecting knowledge,
Mounting the hillside at last with slower and tottering steps;
And often a shepherd would tell of a clear voice which spoke with them always,
And oft of a shadowy form, guiding their faltering feet.

So they passed, and were laid in the grave, obeying the mandate of Nature,
Wrapt round in the sweet, cold earth by the kindly general law.
Their sons and their sons' sons came, increasing the lore of their fathers;
But no kindly Presence came to walk with them over the hills.
Slowly, through ages of Time, as the fierce glare of knowledge assails it,
Hardly the fair tale can live in the light of our commoner day;
But still through the country side runs the fame of the gentle Physicians.
The grove of Physician Evan is known in Myddfai to-day.
"Llwyn Ifan Feddyg," it runs, and another -- "Llwyn Meredydd Feddyg."
Thus, in the old, old tongue, the old, old legend survives.
The skill, which through centuries lightened the burden of suffering mortals,
Lacked not memorials still in the hearts of the aged and sick;
Nay, in fair Brecknock itself, in the church of far-off Llandefallte,
Only a century since, were their praises engraved on their tombs.
Where is the sceptic would doubt the tale of the mystical mother,
If, five centuries after she went, the Meddygon of Myddfai could heal?
Or if living men in their youth, on the first fair Sabbath of August,
Have thronged from the fair town below to the banks of the mystical lake,
Hoping to see its still surface boil sudden, the white herds emerging,
And the golden shallop and oar, and the beautiful Presence of old --
Hoping, but hoping in vain, yet in simple belief unshaken,
For had they not witnessed her cures of the weak, and the halt, and the blind?

But to-day, with its broader light, flouts these beautiful stories romantic.
No more these fair visions unearthly are seen on the lakes and the hills.
From knowledge alone is strength; but 'tis oh for the fair dreams of old time,
The genius which clothed deep truths in fanciful vestures and fair!
Not more in the legends of Hellas, than these fair myths of the Cymry,
Are grave truths and precious set in a beautiful framework of song.
Let them be; they are fair, they are fine, though they wear not their pearl on their foreheads.
Let them be; they are flowers of our Race, and as is the flower is the fruit.
Not in the savage tales of the Norseman the Cymry delighted --
Tales of blood-stained feasts and rade gods, consumed in a furnace of fire --
But this gentle Physician's story of ruth for suffering mortals,
Mild wisdom, o'ermastering Fate, young passion, and motherly love.
Not wholly your tale shall perish, oh kindly Physicians of Myddfai,
Nor the charm of that mystical soul which was born of and lost in the deep;
Not wholly, while speech is mine, though the low rays of knowledge shall flout you,
And in its broad, pitiless glare you dwindle and vanish away.

But still, as I linger and gaze, perusing the exquisite valley,
Upward by castle and peak, downward by river and town,
Whether from wooded Cystanog, or yew-shaded graves of Llangunnor,
Closing the upward gaze, far off lies the mystical steep.
Many fair scenes lie between us -- gray Drysllwyn's verdant hillock,
Grongar long precious to verse, Dynevor's castle-crowned wood,
High perched on its precipice-crags the ruins of grim Cerrigcennen,
Or the green vale higher than these, where the fair Towy winds and unwinds.
However the gaze ascends, the dark precipice closes the landscape,
Beneath whose difficult steep lies the haunted abyss of the lake.
Always the story comes back as I gaze, the beautiful legend
Which here for long ages of time the wondering peasants believed.
In yonder churchyard lie those, who ere they were freed from the body,
Grew strong through their poor brief lives by the gift of the Fair of the lake;
And, as the sun moves to the West and defines the deep shades of the hollow,
I am fired by the fair old tale, till almost I take it for true.





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