Of Madoc and his noble enterprize

Held stirring converse on their homeward way, And spread abroad the tidings of the Land,

Where Plenty dwelt with Liberty and Peace.

XII.

Dinevawr.

So in the court of Powys pleasantly,
With hawk and hound afield, and harp in hall,
The days went by; till Madoc, for his heart
Was with Cadwallon, and in early spring
Must he set forth to join him over-sea,
Took his constrained farewell. To Dinevawr
way, whence many a time with Rhys
forth to smite the Saxon foe.

He bent his

Had he gone

The Son of Owen greets his father's friend
With reverential joy: nor did the Lord

Of Dinevawr with cold or deadened heart
Welcome the Prince he loved; though not with joy
Unmingled now, nor the proud consciousness

Which in the man of tried and approved worth
Could bid an equal hail. Henry had seen
The Lord of Dinevawr between his knees
Vow homage: yea, the Lord of Dinevawr

Had knelt in homage to that Saxon king,
Who set a price upon his father's head,

That Saxon, on whose soul his mother's blood
Cried out for vengeance. Madoc saw the shame
Which Rhys would fain have hidden, and, in grief
For the degenerate land, rejoiced at heart
That now another country was his home.

Musing on thoughts like these, did Madoc roam
Alone along the Towy's winding shore.

The beavers in its bank had hollowed out
Their social place of dwelling, and had dammed
The summer-current, with their perfect art

Of instinct, erring not in means nor end.

But as the floods of spring had broken down
Their barrier, so its breaches unrepaired

Were left, and round the piles, which deeper-driven
Still held their place, the eddying waters whirled.
Now in those habitations desolate

One sole survivor dwelt: him Madoc saw,
Labouring alone, beside his hermit house;
And in that mood of melancholy thought, .
For in his boyhood he had loved to watch
Their social work, and for he knew that man

In bloody sport had well-nigh rooted out
The poor community, . . the ominous sight
Became a grief and burthen. Eve came on;
The dry leaves rustled to the wind, and fell
And floated on the stream; there was no voice
Save of the mournful rooks, who overhead

Winged their long line; for fragrance of sweet flowers,

Only the odour of the autumnal leaves;

All sights and sounds of sadness... And the place
To that despondent mood was ministrant;

Among the hills of Gwyneth and its wilds
And mountain glens, perforce he cherished still
The hope of mountain liberty; they braced
And knit the heart and arm of hardihood; .

But here, in these green meads, by these low slopes And hanging groves, attempered to the scene,

His spirit yielded. As he loitered on,

There came toward him one in peasant garb,

And called his name ; .
For he had heeded not the man's approach;
And now that sudden and familiar voice
Came on him, like a vision. So he stood
Gazing, and knew him not in the dim light,

he started at the sound,

Till he again cried, Madoc! . . then he woke,
And knew the voice of Ririd, and sprang on,
And fell upon his neck, and wept for joy

And sorrow.

O my brother! Ririd cried,

Long, very long it is since I have heard

The voice of kindness! . . Let me go with thee!
I am a wanderer in my father's land, . .

Hoel he killed, and Yorwerth hath he slain;
Llewelyn hath not where to hide his head
In his own kingdom; Rodri is in chains;
Let me go with thee, Madoc, to some land
Where I may look upon the sun, nor dread
The light that may betray me; where at night
I may not, like a hunted beast, rouse up,
If the leaves rustle over me.

The Lord

Of Ocean struggled with his swelling heart.
Let me go with thee? . . but thou didst not doubt
Thy brother!.. Let thee go?.. with what a joy,
Ririd, would I collect the remnant left,
The wretched remnant now of Owen's house,
And mount the bark of willing banishment,
And leave the tyrant to his Saxon friends,