His glancing eye fell on a monument,
Around whose base the rosemary drooped down,
As yet not rooted well. Sculptured above,
A warrior lay; the shield was on his arm;
Madoc approached, and saw the blazonry, •
A sudden chill ran through him, as he read,
Here Yorwerth lies. . . it was his brother's grave.
Cyveilioc took him by the hand: For this,
Madoc, was I so loth to enter here!
He sought the sanctuary, but close upon him
The murderers followed, and by yonder copse
The stroke of death was given. All I could
Was done; I saw him here consigned to rest,
Daily due masses for his soul are sung,
And duly hath his grave been decked with flowers.
So saying, from the place of death he led
The silent prince. But lately, he pursued,
Llewelyn was my guest, thy favourite boy.
For thy sake and his own, it was my hope
That he would make his home at Mathraval :
He had not needed then a father's love.
But he, I know not on what enterprise,
Was brooding ever; and these secret thoughts
Led him away. God prosper
It were a happier day for this poor land
If e'er Llewelyn mount his rightful throne.
THE place of meeting was a high hill top,
Nor bowered with trees nor broken by the plough,. Remote from human dwellings and the stir
Of human life, and open to the breath
And to the eye of Heaven. In days of yore,
There had the circling stones been planted; there, From earliest ages, the primeval lore,
Through Bard to Bard with reverence handed down. They whom to wonder, or the love of song,
Or reverence of their father's ancient rites
Led thither, stood without the ring of stones.
Cyveilioc entered to the initiate Bards,
Himself, albeit his hands were stained with war,
Initiate; for the Order in the lapse
Of years and in their nation's long decline,
From the first rigour of their purity
Somewhat had fallen. The Masters of the Song
In azure robes were robed, . . that one bright hue
To emblem unity, and peace, and truth,
Like Heaven, which o'er a world of wickedness Spreads its eternal canopy serene.
Within the Stones of Federation there,
On the green turf, and under the blue sky,
A noble band, the Bards of Britain stood,
Their heads in reverence bare, and bare of foot.
A deathless brotherhood! Cyveilioc there,
Lord of the Hirlas; Llywarc there was seen,
And old Cynddelow, to whose lofty song,
So many a time amid his father's hall,
Resigning all his soul, had Madoc given
The flow of feeling loose. But Madoc's heart
Was full; old feelings and remembrances
And thoughts from which was no escape, arose :
He was not there to whose sweet lay, so oft,
With all a brother's fond delight, he loved
To listen,.. Hoel was not there! . . the hand
That once so well, amid the triple chords,
Moved in the rapid maze of harmony,
It had no motion now; the lips were dumb
Which knew all tones of passion; and that heart,
That warm, ebullient heart, was cold and still,
Upon its bed of clay. He looked around,
And there was no familiar countenance,
None but Cynddelow's face, which he had learnt
In childhood, and old age had set his mark,
Making unsightly alteration there.
Another generation had sprung up,
And made him feel how fast the days of man
Flow by, how soon their number is told out.
He knew not then that Llywarc's lay should give
His future fame; his spirit on the past
Brooding, beheld, with no forefeeling joy,
The rising sons of song, who there essayed
Their eaglet flight. But there among the youth
In the green vesture of their earliest rank,
Or with the aspirants clad in motley garb,
Young Benvras stood; and, one whose favoured race
Heaven with the hereditary power had blest,
The old Gowalchmai's not degenerate child;
And there another Einion; gifted youths,
The heirs of immortality on earth,
Whose after-strains, through many a distant age
Cambria shall boast, and love the songs that tell
The fame of Owen's house.
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