Of the wild bull, with silver wrought of yore;
Bear ye to Tudyr's hand the golden lip,
Eagle of battle! for Moreiddig fill
The honourable Hirlas! . . where are They?
Where are the noble Brethren? Wolves of war,
They kept their border well, they did their part,
Their fame is full, their lot is praise and song...
A mournful song to me, a song of woe!..
Brave Brethren! for their honour brim the cup,
Which they shall quaff no more.
The strangers from our land; profuse of life,
Our warriors rushed to battle, and the Sun
Saw, from his noontide fields, their manly strife.
Pour thou the flowing mead! Cup-bearer, fill
The Hirlas! for hadst thou beheld the day
Of Llidom, thou hadst known how well the Chiefs
Deserve this honour now. Cyveilioc's shield
Were they in danger, when the Invader came;
Be praise and liberty their lot on earth,
And joy be theirs in heaven!.
Then from the threshold on the rush-strewn floor
Madoc advanced. Cyveilioc's eye was now
To present forms awake, but, even as still
He felt his harp-chords throb with dying sounds,
The heat and stir and passion had not yet
Subsided in his soul. Again he struck
The loud-toned harp.... Pour from the silver vase,
And brim the honourable Horn, and bear
The draught of joy to Madoc,.. he who first
Explored the desert ways of Ocean, first
Through the wide waste of sea and sky, held on
Undaunted, till upon another World,
The Lord and Conqueror of the Elements,
He set his foot triumphant! Fill for him
The Hirlas! fill the honourable Horn!
This is a happy hour, for Madoc treads
The hall of Mathraval; by every foe
Dreaded, by every friend beloved the best,
Madoc, the Briton Prince, the Ocean Lord,
Who never for injustice reared his arm.
Give him the Hirlas Horn, fill, till the draught
Of joy shall quiver o'er the golden brim!
In happy hour the hero hath returned !
In happy hour the friend, the brother treads
Cyveilioc's floor!
He sprung to greet his guest;
The cordial grasp of fellowship was given;
They gave the seat of honour, and they filled
For him the Hirlas Horn... So there was joy
In Mathraval. Cyveilioc and his Chiefs,
All eagerly, with wonder-waiting eyes,
Look to the Wanderer of the Waters' tale.
Nor mean the joy which kindled Madoc's brow,
When as he told of daring enterprise
Crowned with deserved success. Intent they heard
Of all the blessings of that happier clime;
And when the adventurer spake of soon return,
Each on the other gazed, as if to say,
Methinks it were a goodly lot to dwell
In that fair land in peace.
Of Powys, Madoc, at an happy time
Thy feet have sought the house of Mathraval;
For on the morrow, in the eye of light,
Our bards will hold their congress. Seekëst thou
Comrades to share success? proclaim abroad
Thine invitation there, and it shall spread
Far as our fathers ancient tongue is known.
The mantling mead went round at Mathraval; .
That was a happy hour! Of other years
They talked, of common toils, and fields of war
Where they fought side by side; of Corwen's day
Of glory, and of comrades now no more : ..
Themes of delight, and grief which brought its joy.
Thus they beguiled the pleasant hours, while night
Waned fast away; then late they laid them down,
Each on his bed of rushes, stretched around
The central fire.
The Sun was newly risen
When Madoc joined his host, no longer now
Clad as the conquering chief of Maelor,
In princely arms, but in his nobler robe,
The sky-blue mantle of the bard, arrayed.
So for the place of meeting they set forth;
And now they reached Melangall's lonely church.
Amid a grove of evergreens it stood,
A garden and a grove, where every grave
Was decked with flowers, or with unfading plants O'ergrown, sad rue, and funeral rosemary.
Here Madoc paused. The morn is young, quoth he, A little while to old remembrance given
Will not belate us. . . Many a year hath fled,
Cyveilioc, since you led me here, and told
The legend of the Saint. Come! be not loth!
We will not loiter long... So soon to mount
The bark, which will for ever bear me hence,
I would not willingly pass by one spot
Which thus recals the thought of other times,
Without a pilgrim's visit.
And drew Cyveilioc through the church-yard porch,
To the rude image of Saint Monacel.
Dost thou remember, Owen, said the Prince,
When first I was thy guest in early youth,
That once, as we had wandered here at eve,
You told, how here a poor and hunted hare
Ran to the Virgin's feet, and looked to her
For life?.. I thought, when listening to the tale,
She had a merciful heart, and that her face
Must with a saintly gentleness have beamed,
When beasts could read its virtue.
Upon the jutting root of this old yeugh. . .
Dear friend! so pleasant didst thou make those days,
That in my heart, long as my heart shall beat,
Minutest recollections still will live,
Still be the source of joy.
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