Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WILD WALES: 3. THE CURSE OF PANTANNAS, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WILD WALES: 3. THE CURSE OF PANTANNAS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Mid fair glamorgan's hills the close-set vales
Last Line: Of the full noontide sun, our tree of life!
Subject(s): Wales; Welshmen; Welshwomen


'MID fair Glamorgan's hills the close-set vales
Teem with men's works and toil. The great shafts rise,
Belching forth smoke and fire; the labouring beams
Of the great engines slowly lift and pause
And fall with rhythmic beat. The labouring town
Creeps down the winding valley; the poor streets
Are deep in inky dust. There comes no sound
But children's clamour or the sob or shriek
Of the quick-throbbing steam. The men are sunk
Beneath the earth, or sleeping weary sleep.
Toil, toil, or rest from toil, that is the sum
Of those unnumbered lives. Yet are they filled
With joys and griefs as are the great on earth,
And through the teeming village love and toil
Are everywhere; the poor lives come to birth,
Grow ripe and are deceased, but never more
The face of nature is as 'twas at first.

But on the unfenced hillsides, far above,
The sounds, the dust, the smoke, come not at all.
Still solitude is there, where seldom foot
Of weary toil intrudes; the keen cool air
Blows fresh and still untainted on the hills;
Awhile the dark pines climb aloft, then stay,
Like a tired traveller, and naught remains
But short sweet grass and thyme and nibbling sheep,
And mountain torrents hid in deep ravines,
While the swift gaze ranges from vale to vale
Masked by its veil of smoke. And, when 'tis night,
Immense Auroras, glaring o'er the sky,
Mark where amid the folded hillsides lies
The City of the Martyr. Here, where still
The Cymric lore, the Cymric speech survive,
The half-forgotten fables of old time,
Of gnome and fairy, flourish undisturbed
Amid the noontide glare of common day,
And one there is reaped from this very spot
And breathing of the race, and it is this: --

Long, long ago, the fair-folk on the earth
Were frequent, and their rings upon the meads
Showed green wherever virgin pastures were,
And o'er the leas their elfin music thrilled
Whether of oaten pipe or silvery flute,
While the young moon was rising on the hills,
And the gay elves footed it merrily
Upon the dry smooth turf. So oft they came,
Summer and winter, on his sweet short grass,
That one grave churl who at Pantannas dwelt,
Hating the senseless revel and the race,
In anger to the witch who dwelt hard by
Revealed his case, demanding if she knew
Some potent charm wherewith to free his life
From this insensate mirth of godless souls.
Then she, knowing his wish and all the lore
Of the forbidden books, counselled him thus: --

"Wherever on thy pastures shows a ring
Which tells of elfin revelry by night,
Yoke thy strong oxen, driving straight through them
Thy ploughs, till all lie fallow. Sow them thick
With kindly corn fit for the use of man,
So, when the harvest comes, this tricksy folk,
That hates the newer race of mortal men
And that which gives them food, will come no more,
For chiefly the unsullied meads they love
Where never ploughshare came since the old time
Ere men were first on earth. So shalt thou gain
Great harvests for thy wealth, and shalt disperse
This cursed people, and shalt reap white wheat
Till all thy barns o'erflow, and thou indeed
Art lord of thy own lands far more than now.
Do thou this thing, and Fortune shall be thine,
And peace and the full mastery of thy own."

So did the churl. He drove his iron ploughs
Through the inviolate meads, and straight the sounds
Of dance and song grew silent. Never more
Came those strange elfin rings upon his fields,
Nor any traveller passing saw a glimpse
Of those quick-tripping feet; but far away
The fair-folk turned, where yet no cruel share
Was sent to kill the greensward. Springtide came:
The fields grew splendid with the wheat's bright green,
When, one day as the sun had kissed the hills,
The grave churl, turning homeward, saw a form
Upon his path which threatened him, and said,
"Daw dial!" "Vengeance comes!" And in the night,
When all was still, there came a noise which shook
The house as though 'twould fall, and the same voice,
"Daw dial!" And when now 'twas harvest-tide
And the great barns stood open for the grain,
One night, no ear nor straw was in the fields,
Only black ashes, and the same strange form
Met him again, pointing a sword at him,
And in the same weird accents, "It begins,"
"Nid yw ond dechreu."
Then the churl, afraid,
Begged for forgiveness, willing that the fields
Should turn to meads again, whereon the sprite
Promised at last that he would pray his king
Forgiveness of the fault, and come again
On the third day, bringing his lord's behest.

Now, when the third day came, the churl went forth
Through his burnt fields, and there again the elf
Waited, and to the other made report,
"The king's word is for aye unchangeable,
And vengeance must be done. Still, since thy fault
Thou dost repent, and hast atoned in part,
Therefore, not in thy time, nor of thy sons,
Shall the curse fall, but, poised on high, await
Thy distant seed." Then he, as one who hears
Reprieve from death, o'erjoyed sent forth his hinds
To turn the corn to pasture. Once again
The dark green rings grew frequent on the grass,
The gay elves danced, the old melodious sounds
Of song and music gladdened all the fields,
And he grew rich and passed in peaceful age,
And his sons followed him, and slept in peace.

But still, when fourscore years or more had fled,
The dread voice came at times, repeating still
The self-same threat, "Daw dial!" "Vengeance comes!"
Oft heard across the years; but since long use
Obscures the sense, so, when this warning came
And no harm followed it, the wealthy squire
Who held Pantannas then, took little heed
Of half-forgotten memories. His young son
Rhydderch was come to manhood, and would wed
Gwen, daughter of Pencraig, and both their houses
Were fain of it. A noble pair were they,
In fitted years, and rank, and mutual troth.
No cloud came on the sky of their young love,
But all men praised the bridegroom's gallant port
And the bride's sweetness, and they made a feast
At gray Pantannas ere the marriage day,
Whereto the fair girl Gwen and all her kin
Were bidden. It was the wintry joyous time
Of Yule-tide and the birth-time of the Lord,
When all hearts, for the sacred season glad,
Make merry in the fading of the year.

With mirth had sped the feast; all, round the hearth
Were seated, Gwen and Rhydderch side by side.
Careless they winged the hours with tale and song.
The night was still, there came no breath of sound,
Only without the loud unceasing fall
Of the full river plunging down the rocks,
Only within the noise of mirth and song.

Then suddenly they seemed to hear a voice
Above the roaring stream. A silence fell
On all the joyous group. Not as the voice
So often heard it came, but seemed to wail
Some unremembered word. The maiden clung
Close to her lover for a while, and then
The jovial hearth, the jest, the tale, the song,
Chased all their fears, and all was as before.
No sound without but the unceasing noise
Of the full river plunging down the rocks.

Then, swift again, above the sounds of mirth,
Above the river roaring through the rocks,
A clear voice, dreadful, pealed, "The Time is come!"
"Daeth Amser!" thus it wailed. And all the guests
Rose to the door, seeking whence came the voice,
And first the goodman went, his worn cheek pale
With fear, remembering the tales he heard
In boyhood of the voice. Long time they stood
Expecting, but no voice they heard, nor sound,
But the loud river plunging down the rocks.

Till, as they turned them houseward once again,
Above the roaring waters, three times heard,
The same voice pealed, "The Time is come! the Time!"
Then they affrighted and in silence went
Within the house, and then a mighty noise
Crashed round them, and it seemed a mighty hand
Shook all to the foundations. As they sate
In fear, without a word, a shapeless hag
Stood at the casement. Then one, bolder, said,
"Why comest thou, thou loathely thing?" And she,
"Peace, chatterer, I have naught with thee. I come
To tell the doom which waits this cursed house
And that which weds with it. But since thy tongue
Is thus injurious, never will I lift
The veil that doth conceal it." With the word
She vanished, none knew whither.
When she had gone,
And all was still again, the cry, the cry,
Rose loud and ceased not. Then a deep affright
Fell upon all, and gloom. The hour grew late,
And from the hapless house the trembling guests
Went on their lonely ways. Rhydderch alone,
Grown careless in the flush of innocent love,
Delayed his love's departure, till they went
Alone at midnight down the haunted vale,
Across the roaring waters. Unafraid
The lovers fared, nor voice nor shape of ill
Assailed them, undismayed, defying all
The unseen powers of Death and Doom and Ill,
Strong in the virgin mail of mutual love.

But when the maid was safe within her home,
And it was time to part, some livelier sense
Of peril took her, and her boding fear
Burst forth in tender words. "Dearest," she said,
"Good-night! Farewell! Some sense of coming ill
Weighs down my heart. If we should meet no more,
Or if some long delay should cheat our love,
I will be faithful always, and will wed
With thee, and none beside. Ay, though the powers
Of ill should part us all our lives and leave me
Widowed of thee!" And he, "Fear not, my life,
The Power of Love protects us. If I come not
At once to claim thee, as indeed I hope,
And if the powers of ill have might to part
Our lives awhile, yet am I true to thee.
It may be some dark ruin waits our house
For some forgotten wrong; yet, what care I?
They cannot touch our lives, these envious powers,
Nor blight our love. What care I for the rest,
My treasure, having thee?"
Then, with a kiss,
They parted unafraid, and the youth passed
The ceaseless voices and the roaring stream
Undaunted, clothed with love, and caring naught
For things of earth or air.
But as he sped
Across the self-same fields, which long years past
The ploughshare broke, hard by some haunted cave
Beneath the hill, a ring of fairy green
Before him showed, around him bursts of mirth
Came of invisible throats, and silvery so unds
Of elfin music sweet; and, rapt in love,
And thinking careless of his dear alone,
He stepped within the circle, and was lost,
While Time should last, to home, and kin, and love.

For nowhere might his sorrowing parents find
Trace of their son. They searched the country round,
Through every grove and brake; they searched the depths
Of the loud plunging stream; but never at all
They found him. Then, when many weeks had gone,
They sought a hermit in his holy cell,
And told him all, the wailing cry which rang
Through the sad night, the loathely form which came.
They told him all, and he, with grief and tears,
Knowing what judgment must o'ertake the youth,
Though guiltless, bade the mourners hope no more
To see him, whether in life he was or death;
And they, lamenting him as lost, at last
Lived their old life, and all was as before,
Till, losing not their sorrow, but bent down
By weight of time, they passed, and in the ground
Were laid, but never again beheld their son.

But Gwen, the gentle maiden, when she knew
That which had been, and how her love was gone,
Mourned for him long, and long time would lament
The cruelty of fate, but never at all
Believed that he was dead, for still she held
That he would come again -- it might be soon,
It might be after years, but still would come,
As his word promised. So she dried her tears,
Feeding a deathless hope, and every day,
Morning and evening, when the circling sun
Burst from the gates of dawn, or sank in night,
Upon the summit of the scarped rock
Would stand, and scan the landscape far and near,
Seeking her love's return, and, when he came not,
Descend in grief. Year after year she came,
Till from love's casements her unfaltering soul
Looked dimly, and the gathering snows of time
Whitened her chestnut locks, yet still she came,
Steadfast, nor failed of hope, while yet she could,
Still looking for her love. Until, at last,
By the old chapel of the Van, they laid
Her mortal body and undying hope.

The years slipped by, the undelaying years,
And one by one they passed, the young and old
Who knew the story; scarcely one was left
To tell of Rhydderch or his fate; the world
Rolled round upon its course; young lives were born,
Grew ripe, and faded; many a youth and maid
Came careless, rapt in love, and read the stone
Which told of Gwen, nor knew what powers of ill
Blighted her life and hope, for never more
The elfin music sounded on the leas
Since that dread night of Yule. Another race,
With other hopes and fears, was on the earth,
And the old vanished hopes, and fears, and loves,
Were gone, clean gone, like mist upon the hills.

* * * *

Then, one fair summer morning, from the cave
Where, on that sad night four score years ago,
His footsteps strayed, Rhydderch came forth again
In all the pride of youth. His heart beat high
With love and hope, nor felt he any change,
More than he feels, who, a brief month or more,
Leaves his loved home. His longing heart was full;
He listened to the joyous notes of song
Which the gay thrushes sang, as when he went
To meet his love. Slow Nature showed no change,
The old oaks seemed the same, his sweetheart's home
The same, or hardly changed. The bitter Past
Touched him no more, who for the Future looked
And recompense of love. There were the graves
Beneath the yew, where he in happy tryst
Had lingered with his love when moonrise came,
As soon he should again. "He had been ill,
Entranced, and the good folk who tended him,
He knew not where, made light of the long weeks
Which lay 'tween him and health. When he was there
'Twas Yule-tide, now 'twas May." He raised his eyes
To see if there, where then it used to wait,
A girl's form waited. Something gray was there,
Half-hidden beneath the yew. Was it herself?
He vaulted o'er the wall, and found -- a stone
Gray touched by time, and graven on it deep
In words half-hid by lichen, the sweet name
Of her he loved, "Died, aged threescore years,"
And in some strange year, forty years to come.

Then not so much a sense of grief and pain
Took him as fear. He knew not what had been;
He knew not what he was. His throbbing pulse
Grew slower at the chill cold touch of fate,
And great perplexity and new-born doubt,
And some half-consciousness of long-dead years,
As of a dream, enchained him. Soon he thought
The mists would vanish, leaving all things clear,
And then the love, the passion of his youth
Once more would live again. So, eagerly
He left the place of graves, and took his way
Along the well-known paths, to where he saw,
In the old spot -- the same, yet not the same --
The roof-tree of Pantannas. Not as yet
Had he seen human face, and a new fear
Came on him, and strange shame, as of one come
From other air than earth's; for now he knew
That either he was dazed and weak of brain,
Or some great change had passed upon his life,
Which nothing but the gaze of human eyes
And the remembered tones of human speech
Might ever again dispel. And so he went
Up the old path, and gained the well-known door,
And in the old room stood again and mused,
Changed -- yet the same; but human face or voice
He saw not. All the people were afield,
Nor was there any there to see or hear
Of those he knew of old. Then, when the load
Of silence grew too great, through the still house,
In his high youthful voice, he called for one,
His childish serving boy, who always loved
To follow him, whether with horse or hound,
All day upon the hills, "Ifan, 'tis I,
I have come back, 'Deuwch yma.'" The high voice
Through the void space resounding clear, at last
Echoed to where, within a sunny nook,
Bent double with the weight of ninety years,
There dozed an aged man, half deaf, half blind,
And when he heard, his limbs began to shake,
And he to mutter to himself; again
It came, the old man trembled to his feet;
The third time came the cry, and then in haste,
Tottering, the aged figure, bowed and bent,
Moved quickly to the door, and there beheld
His long-lost master, fair in youthful bloom,
Unchanged, and in his habit as he was
When all the world was young.
The old man's heart
Went out to him, who stood unmoved, untouched,
Not knowing whom he saw. One word alone
He uttered, "Rhydderch."
And with a flash of light
The Past revealed itself. The youth knew all
That had been, reading in another's face
The unnoted flight of Time. His life was done;
He knew it now. All his old longings dead;
Dust was his love, and all his yearnings dust;
Dust was his life, and all his body dust.
No more upon the old earth could he bear
To walk amid the light of garish day,
And when the white-haired man, with tears of joy,
Would fain have kissed his hand, the Life in Death
Shrank from the Death in Life, and fading, left
Naught but a thin dust, lost in empty air.

Thus side by side they move, the Lives of Toil
And Fancy. What is Fancy but the Past
Or Future, bathed in light which never shone,
Or shall, upon the earth, and yet which shows
Nearer than real Life, and clearer far --
A Life wherein the terror of the world,
Its mystery, its awe, its boundless hope,
Are plainer than in ours, wherein the pang
Of hopeless longing and unmerited pain
Which vex our thought, the blind unequal lot
Which takes us, find some vague apology,
And hope some dim fulfilment, and the ways
Of Fate are justified, the righteous rise,
The wicked fall? Die not, oh sacred star
Of Fancy! Show us still the charm, the awe,
The glamour of our lives, bitterer griefs,
Joys keener than our own; loftier heights,
Depths deeper still: keep mystery, which is
The nurse of knowledge, shading from the glare
Of the full noontide sun, our tree of Life!





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