Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LLYWELYN AP GRUFFYDD; AN ODE, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LLYWELYN AP GRUFFYDD; AN ODE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: After dead centuries
Last Line: Fate and the years prepare!
Subject(s): Llyewelyn Ap Gruffud (d. 1282)


AFTER dead centuries,
Neglect, derision, scorn,
And secular miseries,
At last our Cymric race again is born,
Opens again its heavy sleep-worn eyes,
And fronts a brighter Morn.

Shall then our souls forget,
Dazzled by visions of our Wales to Be,
The Wales that Was, the Wales undying yet,
The old heroic Cymric chivalry?
Nay! one we are indeed,
With that dim Britain of our distant sires
Still the same love the patriot's bosom fires,
With the same wounds our loyal spirits bleed,
The heroes of the Past, are living still
By each sequestered vale, and cloud-compelling hill.

Dear heart that wast so strong
To guide the storm of battle year by year,
Last of our Cymric Princes! dauntless King!
Whose brave soul knew not fear!
Thou from Eryri's summits, swooping down
Like some swift eagle, o'er the affrighted town
And frowning Norman castles hovering,
Onward didst bear the flag of Victory;
And oft the proud invader dravest back
In ruin from thy country's bounds, and far
Didst roll from her the refluent wave of war,
Till 'neath the swelling flood
The low fat Lloegrian plains were sunk in blood.

Long through rude years of Force and trampled Laws,
Thy strenuous arm sustained thy country's cause,
Champion of Wales; thou through the storm of fight
The ruddy Dragon barest flaming bright;
Defeat or Victory,
Alike were naught to thee,
Undaunted warrior for thy country's weal,
Scorning the hurtling shaft, the piercing steel;
With thy raw levies fronting without fear
The Marchers' serried ranks, the Norman's spear,
Comrade of that strong Earl whose prescient mind
The coming tyrants' power could bind,
And by free air of high debate,
Healing the ills of State,
Laid firm for centuries to be
The fair broad stone of Britain's liberty.

I see thy love-tale blossom like a rose,
Amid the desert of thy troublous life,
Girt round by watchful foes,
And arid wastes of endless pain and strife;
The fair maid, sweet and mild,
The great Earl's best-loved child,
Whom crossing the tempestuous sea,
Rude pirate hands long rapt from thee,
At last in some brief truce from war's alarms
Given to thy faithful arms;
I see thy nuptial pomps by Worcester's reverend shrine,
With England's and with Scotland's King
And close thronged nobles witnessing;
And then two little years of wedded peace
Thy struggles' brief surcease,
Till thy loved Queen, rapt from the cheerful day,
Traversed too soon the unattended way,
Leaving her child and thee, and to thy loveless home
No voice of comfort more, nor peace again might come.
I see thee when thy lonely widowed heart
Grew weary of its pain,
In one last desperate onset vain,
Hurl thyself on thy country's deadly foes;
From North to South the swift rebellion sped,
The Castles fell, the land arose;
Wales reared once more her weary warworn head
Through triumph and defeat, a chequered sum,
Till the sure end should come,
The traitorous ambush, and the murderous spear;
Still 'mid the cloistered glories of Cwmhir,
I hear the chants sung for the Kingly dead,
While Cambria mourned thy dear dishonoured head.

Strong son of Wales! thy fate
Not without tears, our Cymric memories keep;
Our faithful, unforgetting natures weep
The ancestral fallen Great.
Not with the stalwart arm,
After her age-long peace,
We serve her now, nor keen uplifted sword,
But with the written or the spoken Word
Would fain her power increase;
The Light we strive to spread
Is Knowledge, and its power
Comes not from captured town or leaguered tower;
A closer brotherhood
Unites the Cymric and the Anglian blood,
Vet separate, side by side they dwell, not one,
Distinct till Time be done.

But we who in that peaceful victory
Our faith, our hope repose,
With grateful hearts, Llywelyn, think of thee
Who fought'st our country's foes.
Whose generous hand was open to reward
The dauntless patriot Bard,
Who loved'st the arts of Peace, yet knewest through life
Only incessant strife.
Who ne'er, like old Iorwerth's happier son,
Didst rest from battles won,
But strovest for us still, and not in vain;
Since from that ancient pain,
After long ages, Cambria of thy love
Feels through her veins new patriot currents move,
And from thy ashes, like the Phoenix, springs
Skyward on soaring wings,
And fronts, grown stronger for the Days that Were,
Whatever Fortune, 'neath God's infinite air,
Fate and the Years prepare!





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