Classic and Contemporary Poetry
WILD WALES: 1. LLYN Y MORWYNION, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) Poet's Biography First Line: By fair festiniog, 'mid the northern hills Last Line: To the enchanted twilights of the past. Subject(s): Wales; Welshmen; Welshwomen | ||||||||
BY fair Festiniog, mid the Northern Hills, The vales are full of beauty, and the heights, Thin-set with mountain sheep, show statelier far Than in the tamer South. There the stern round Of labour rules, -- a silent land, sometimes Loud with the blast that buffets all the hills Whereon the workers toil, in quarries hewn Upon the terraced rocksides. Tier on tier, Above the giddy depths, they edge and cling Like flies to the sheer precipice as they strike The thin cleft slate. For solace of their toil Song comes to strengthen them, and songlike verse In the old Cymric measures, and the dream Of fame when all the listening thousands round Are ranged in Session, and the rapt array Expectant of the singer's soaring voice, Or full quire rising thund'rous to the skies, The sheathed swords, and the sacred Chair of oak, Where sits the Bard. But most of all they prize Old memories of the Past, forgotten feuds, And battles long ago. One tale they tell Of a deep tarn upon the mountain side, Llyn y Morwynion called, -- "The Maidens' Lake;" And thus it is the fair old story runs. On Arvon once the men of Meirion, Being alone, nor having hearth or home, Swooped down when all her warriors were afield Against the foemen. And they snatched from them The flower of all the maidens of the race, And to their mountain fastness far away Bare them unchecked. There with great care and love They tended them, and in the captives' hearts The new observance slowly ousted all The love of home and country, till they stayed Content, forgetting all their lives before, Parents and kinsfolk, everything but love. But when the war was ended, and their arms Set free, the men of Arvon sent demand That they should straight restore to home and kin The maidens they had rapt. Then came great doubt Upon the men of Meirion, knowing well Their strength too weak to match the Arvonian hosts In unassisted war; heralds they sent To Arvon asking peace, making amends For what had been their fault. But the others nursed Deep anger in their hearts, and to their words Made only answer, "Give ye back untouched Our daughters and our sisters, whom your fraud Has stolen from us, or prepare to die." Then they, taking deep counsel with themselves, Swore, not for life itself would they return The women, only if themselves should will To leave them; and they made request of them That they might know their wish. But when they sought To question them, they answered with one voice -- "We will not go; for barren is the lot Of maidenhood, and cold the weary fate Of loveless lives, the household tasks whose weight Bears down the childless woman. Since we came We have known life in the full light of home. Say to our sires and brothers, that we stay Willing, and bid our young men that they wive From out some noble tribe; for thus it is Our Cymric race grows strong. But do ye bid Our mothers comfort them, for they shall take Their grandsons on their knees; for we are wed And cannot more return. Not Fate itself Can e'er recall the irrevocable Past." But when the men of Arvon heard the hest The herald brought, their souls were wroth in them Against the ravishers, whose cunning wiles Had worked such wrong. They called their warriors forth From every hill and dale, and marched in haste To Meirion. And they summoned them to yield, But they refused; and so the fight was set For the morrow, on the margin of a mere Deep down within the circuit of the hills. There, with the sun, within a close-set pass The men of Meirion stood, a scanty band, Waiting the approaching host. With grief and pain They left their loves, and swift, with breaking day, Marched with unfaltering steps, without a word, To the field of honour, as men go who know That all beside is lost. But as they stood, Ranged in stern silence, waiting for the fray, They saw a white procession thread the pass Behind, now seen, now lost, by flowery bends, Gorse-gold and heather-purple. At their head Blodeuwedd, she the flower in face and form By magic formed, by magic art foredoomed To sin and suffer. Then again they knew The bitterness of death, and clasped once more The forms they loved, when by the lake the sun Lit the fierce light of countless marching spears. Then with a last embrace the tearful throng Withdrew to where above the fastness rose A purple slope. No way the assailing host Might find to it while yet one stalwart arm Of Meirion lived. Toward the lake it fell, Till in a sheer, precipitous cliff it sank, Its base in the unfathomable deep. Now, while the maidens like a fleece of cloud Whitened the hill, or like a timid flock From nearer danger shrinking, swift there came Along the grassy margin of the lake The glimmering spears of Arvon. And their sires And brethren saw them, and great wrath and joy Fired them and urged them onward, till they surged And broke on Meirion. But her strong sons stood And flung them backward; and the frightened throng Of white-robed suppliants saw the deed, and feared, Hiding their eyes, hovering 'twixt hope and fear, Divided 'twixt their lovers and their kin. All day the battle raged, from morn to eve; All day the men of Arvon charged and broke, And charged again the little band which stood Unshaken in the pass, but hourly grew Weaker and weaker still. Then at the last The noise of battle ceased awhile; the shouts, The cries, grew silent. On the purple hill The kneeling women saw the Arvonian host Retreating with their dead, and rose to go With succour to their lovers. As they gazed, Sudden, as with a last despairing strength And a hoarse shout, again, a torrent of steel, The men of Arvon, by their own weight pressed, Burst on the scant defenders of the pass; Like some fierce surge which from the storm-vext sea, Through narrow inlets fenced by rocky walls, Lifts high its furious crest, and sweeps in ruin Within the rayless, haunted ocean-caves, Rocks, wreckage, and the corpses of the dead. And as the women, impotent to save, With agonizing hands and streaming eyes Looked down upon the pass, they saw their loves Driven back, o'erwhelmed, surrounded, flashing swords And thrusting spears and broken shields, and heard The noise of desperate battle, then a pause And silence, as the last of Meirion's sons Sank in his blood and the long fight was done. Then suddenly, ere yet the conquering host Might climb to them, Blodeuwedd, standing clothed In her unearthly beauty, faced the throng Of shrinking women. Not a word she spake. The sinking sun upon her snowy robe Shone with unearthly gold; like some fair bird Leading the flock she showed. With one white arm She pointed to the dreadful pass where lay The thick-piled corpses, with the other signed Toward the sheer cliff, and to the lake beneath Motioned. One word she uttered -- "Follow me," And all who heard it knew and shared her mind. Then looking to the heavens, she hurried down Through thyme and heather, chanting some wild hymn To the Immortal Gods; and with her went The white-robed throng, and when they gained the verge, Without a pause, plunged through the empty air Into the unfathomed depths, like some great flight Of white birds swooping from a seacliff down To ocean. The still waters leapt in foam; One loud shriek only woke the air, and then Silence was over all, and night and death. Still sometimes, when the dreaming peasants go By the lone mountain tarn at shut of day, The white clouds with the eve descending swift Down the steep hillside to the lake may seem The white-robed maidens falling, and the shriek Of night-birds, fair Blodeuwedd and her train; And fancy, by the ancient fable fed, Turns from the duller Present's dust and glare To the enchanted twilights of the Past. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ANTICHRIST, OR THE REUNION OF CHRISTENDOM; AN ODE by GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON WALES VISITATION by ALLEN GINSBERG WELSH INCIDENT by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES THE BARD; A PINDARIC ODE by THOMAS GRAY THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN: A FRAGMENT by THOMAS GRAY WELSH LANDSCAPE by RONALD STUART THOMAS A CAROL by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) |
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