Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A SONG OF THE WELSH, by ARTHUR GLYN PRYS-JONES


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A SONG OF THE WELSH, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: There is a race in an island place which rose in the morning gleam
Last Line: In a home that is ever the harp of song and legend and fairy tale.
Subject(s): Fights; Freedom; Tyranny & Tyrants; Wales; Waterloo; Liberty; Welshmen; Welshwomen; Battle Of Waterloo


I

THERE is a race in an island place which rose in the morning gleam
And made its sword of an olden song, its armour out of a dream;
Its warriors died with a stubborn pride that recked no price of tears
But followed the call of the singing sword that rang athwart the years.

And early a nation's sword was forged, and a nation's soul was
born———
Made of the magic of hills and seas, of the splendour of dew and dawn:
But the fangs of the terrible legions tore red wounds in Mona's side;
And the Saxons came in a storm of flame; and mighty Arthur died.

Then rose a host from out of the foam, and a tyrant out of the sea,
And harried the race of the singing sword with the hounds of Normandy,
Till the quarry turned, their arrows burned, their lances thrust and leapt
At Evesham grey in the bitter day when the soul of Montfort slept.

The men of the sword went far abroad when France was a blaze of spears,
And their shafts sped true—to the Frenchmen's rue — at Crécy and
Poitiers:
But long was the weary road they trod when Glyndwr brake his shield,
Till the song of the sword rang shrill and clear in the crash of Bosworth Field.

Then lo! afar, from Corsica, the ravening eagles sped
From the Midland sea to Muscovy where the trampled snows were red,
And the song of the sword came calling loud and
Picton's kinsmen flew
From Badajos through Quatre Bras to the crown of Waterloo.

II

And then through the plains that the nations spoil there burst a bitter horde
...
Down through a débris of broken men their grim, grey legions poured,
But the men of the sword had heard the call and stood within the spate,
Stemming the way by the Marne's red clay and sealing Ypres' gate.

They followed the sword that gleamed and sang; they held, they fought, they
stood
Where rivers of doom roared black with gloom through raging Mametz Wood:
They held, they fought, they stood, they won ... and the skies were molten fire
As they crossed death's bridge on Pilkem Ridge lest freedom should expire.
And out on the plains of the burning East in the noon heat and the night
They made their stand in the desert sand—and won in hero-fight
The City of God that crowns the world, and they looked on the Dolorous Way
Where the star of Richard the Lion-heart had set and had burned away.

III

Their sword is made of an olden song, their armour out of a dream,
They have seen in the rills of a thousand hills the word of the lightning gleam,
Their dream is the soul of man unbound from birth to eternity,
And the song of the sword is a sounding chant of the psalm of liberty.

And the land they love and the land they made and the place men know them by
Is a land where a tree is a singing thing and the wind is a lullaby,
Where the mists are white in the morning light as a maiden's bridal veil—
In a home that is ever the harp of song and legend and fairy tale.





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