Part 2 / Act 1 — WELSH MELODIES.
Reading edition
THE HARP OF WALES.
INTRODUCTORY STANZAS, INSCRIBED TO THE RUTHIN WELSH LITERARY SOCIETY.
Harp of the mountain-land! sound forth again As when the foaming Hirlas[158] horn was crown’d, And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain, And the bright mead at Owain’s feast went round: Wake with the spirit and the power of yore! Harp of the ancient hills! be heard once more! Thy tones are not to cease! The Roman came O’er the blue waters with his thousand oars: Through Mona’s oaks he sent the wasting flame; The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores: All gave their ashes to the wind and sea— Ring out, thou harp! he could not silence thee. Thy tones are not to cease! The Saxon pass’d, His banners floated on Eryri’s gales;[159] But thou wert heard above the trumpet’s blast, E’en when his towers rose loftiest o’er the vales! Thine was the voice that cheer’d the brave and free; They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee. Those were dark years!—They saw the valiant fall, The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain’s board, The hearth left lonely in the ruin’d hall— Yet power was thine—a gift in every chord! Call back that spirit to the days of peace, Thou noble harp! thy tones are not to cease!
DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING OF THE ROMANS.
By the dread and viewless powers Whom the storms and seas obey, From the Dark Isle’s[160] mystic bowers, Romans! o’er the deep away! Think ye, ’tis but nature’s gloom O’er our shadowy coast which broods? By the altar and the tomb, Shun these haunted solitudes! Know ye Mona’s awful spells? She the rolling orbs can stay! She the mighty grave compels Back to yield its fetter’d prey! Fear ye not the lightning stroke? Mark ye not the fiery sky? Hence!—around our central oak Gods are gathering—Romans, fly!
THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN.[161]
Where are they, those green fairy islands, reposing In sunlight and beauty on ocean’s calm breast? What spirit, the things which are hidden disclosing, Shall point the bright way to their dwellings of rest? Oh! lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages, The mighty have sought them, undaunted in faith; But the land hath been sad for her warriors and sages, For the guide to those realms of the blessèd is death. Where are they, the high-minded children of glory, Who steer’d for those distant green spots on the wave? To the winds of the ocean they left their wild story, In the fields of their country they found not a grave. Perchance they repose where the summer-breeze gathers From the flowers of each vale immortality’s breath; But their steps shall be ne’er on the hills of their fathers— For the guide to those realms of the blessèd is death.
THE SEA-SONG OF GAFRAN.[162]
Watch ye well! The moon is shrouded On her bright throne; Storms are gathering, stars are clouded, Waves make wild moan. ’Tis no night of hearth-fires glowing, And gay songs and wine-cups flowing; But of winds, in darkness blowing, O’er seas unknown! In the dwellings of our fathers, Round the glad blaze, Now the festive circle gathers With harps and lays; Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing, Steps are bounding, bards are singing, —Ay! the hour to all is bringing Peace, joy, or praise. Save to us, our night-watch keeping, Storm-winds to brave, While the very sea-bird sleeping Rests in its cave! Think of us when hearths are beaming, Think of us when mead is streaming, Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming On the dark wave!
THE HIRLAS HORN.
Fill high the blue hirlas that shines like the wave[163] When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea; And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave, The dragons of battle, the sons of the free! To those from whose spears, in the shock of the fight, A beam, like heaven’s lightning,[164] flash’d over the field; To those who came rushing as storms in their might, Who have shiver’d the helmet, and cloven the shield; The sound of whose strife was like oceans afar, When lances were red from the harvest of war. Fill high the blue hirlas! O cup-bearer, fill For the lords of the field in their festival’s hour, And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill That bursts o’er the rock in the pride of its power: Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth horn Of honour and mirth,[165] for the conflict is o’er; And round let the golden-tipp’d hirlas be borne To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd’s fair shore, Who rush’d to the field where the glory was won, As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun. Fill higher the hirlas! forgetting not those Who shared its bright draught in the days which are fled! Though cold on their mountains the valiant repose, Their lot shall be lovely—renown to the dead! While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung, While regal Eryri with snow shall be crown’d— So long by the bards shall their battles be sung, And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound. The free winds of Maelor[166] shall swell with their name, And Owain’s rich hirlas be fill’d to their fame.
THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night;[167] I weep, for the grave has extinguish’d its light; The beam of the lamp from its summit is o’er, The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more! The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still, The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill! Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene, Nor let e’en an echo recall what hath been! The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare, No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there! Oh! where are the warriors who circled its board? —The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour’d! The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night, Since he is departed whose smile made it bright! I mourn; but the sigh of my soul shall be brief, The pathway is short to the grave of my chief!
THE LAMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN.
[Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard and chief of the times of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, supposed to be a part of the present Cumberland. Having sustained the loss of his patrimony, and witnessed the fall of most of his sons, in the unequal contest maintained by the North Britons against the growing power of the Saxons, Llywarch was compelled to fly from his country, and seek refuge in Wales. He there found an asylum for some time in the residence of Cynddylan, Prince of Powys, whose fall he pathetically laments in one of his poems. These are still extant; and his elegy on old age and the loss of his sons, is remarkable for its simplicity and beauty.—See Cambrian Biography, and Owen’s Heroic Elegies and other poems of Llywarch Hen.]
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom; But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing, The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb! Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding, Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave? Why smile the waste flowers, my sad footsteps surrounding? —My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave! Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger, My spirit all wrapt in the past as a dream! Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer,[168] Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight’s glad beam; Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping! —O grave! why refuse to the aged thy bed, When valour’s high heart on thy bosom is sleeping, When youth’s glorious flower is gone down to the dead! Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing, As on to the fields of your glory ye trode! Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing, Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod![169] I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, Which rouses ye not, O my lovely! my brave! When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding, I turn from heaven’s light, for it smiles on your grave![170]
GRUFYDD’S FEAST.
[“Grufydd ab Rhys ab Tewdwr, having resisted the English successfully in the time of Stephen, and at last obtained from them an honourable peace, made a great feast at his palace in Ystrad Tywi to celebrate this event. To this feast, which was continued for forty days, he invited all who would come in peace from Gwynedd, Powys, the Deheubarth, Glamorgan, and the marches. Against the appointed time he prepared all kinds of delicious viands and liquors; with every entertainment of vocal and instrumental song; thus patronising the poets and musicians. He encouraged, too, all sorts of representations and manly games, and afterwards sent away all those who had excelled in them with honourable gifts.”—Cambrian Biography.]
Let the yellow mead shine for the sons of the brave, By the bright festal torches around us that wave! Set open the gates of the prince’s wide hall, And hang up the chief’s ruddy spear on the wall! There is peace in the land we have battled to save: Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine-cup foam high,[171] That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die! Let the horn whose loud blast gave the signal for fight, With the bees sunny nectar now sparkle in light;[172] Let the rich draught it offers with gladness be crown’d, For the strong hearts in combat that leap’d at its sound! Like the billows’ dark swell was the path of their might, Red, red as their blood, fill the wine-cup on high, That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die! And wake ye the children of song from their dreams, On Maelor’s wild hills and by Dyfed’s fair streams![173] Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty and free, Which shall flow down the waves of long ages to be. Sheath the sword which hath given them unperishing themes, And pour the bright mead: let the wine-cup foam high, That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die!
THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA.
When the last flush of eve is dying On boundless lakes afar that shine; When winds amidst the palms are sighing, And fragrance breathes from every pine:[174] When stars through cypress-boughs are gleaming, And fire-flies wander bright and free, Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming, My thoughts, wild Cambria! dwell with thee! Alone o’er green savannas roving, Where some broad stream in silence flows, Or through th’ eternal forests moving, One only home my spirit knows! Sweet land, whence memory ne’er hath parted! To thee on sleep’s light wing I fly; But happier could the weary-hearted Look on his own blue hills and die!
TALIESIN’S PROPHECY.
[A prophecy of Taliesin relating to the ancient Britons is still extant, and has been strikingly verified. It is to the following effect:—
“Their God they shall worship, Their language they shall retain, Their land they shall lose, Except wild Wales.”]
A voice from time departed yet floats thy hills among, O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung: “The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soul, The clouds which mantle things unseen away before me roll, A light the depths revealing hath o’er my spirit pass’d, A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful in the blast, And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue To which the harp of Mona’s woods by freedom’s hand was strung. “Green island of the mighty![175] see thine ancient race Driven from their fathers’ realm to make the rocks their dwelling-place! I see from Uthyr’s[176] kingdom the sceptre pass away, And many a fine of bards and chiefs and princely men decay. But long as Arvon’s mountains shall lift their sovereign forms, And wear the crown to which is given dominion o’er the storms, So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue To which the harp of Mona’s woods by freedom’s hand was strung!”
OWEN GLYNDWR’S WAR-SONG.
Saw ye the blazing star?[177] The heavens look’d down on freedom’s war, And lit her torch on high! Bright on the dragon crest[178] It tells that glory’s wing shall rest, When warriors meet to die! Let earth’s pale tyrants read despair And vengeance in its flame; Hail ye, my bards! the omen fair Of conquest and of fame, And swell the rushing mountain air With songs to Glendwr’s name. At the dead hour of night, Mark’d ye how each majestic height Burn’d in its awful beams? Red shone th’ eternal snows, And all the land, as bright it rose, Was full of glorious dreams! O eagles of the battle,[179] rise! The hope of Gwynedd wakes![180] It is your banner in the skies Through each dark cloud which breaks, And mantles with triumphal dyes Your thousand hills and lakes! A sound is on the breeze, A murmur as of swelling seas! The Saxon on his way! Lo! spear and shield and lance, From Deva’s waves, with lightning glance, Reflected to the day! But who the torrent-wave compels A conqueror’s chain to bear? Let those who wake the soul that dwells On our free winds, beware! The greenest and the loveliest dells May be the lion’s lair! Of us they told, the seers, And monarch bards of elder years, Who walk’d on earth as powers! And in their burning strains, A spell of might and mystery reigns, To guard our mountain-towers! —In Snowdon’s caves a prophet lay:[181] Before his gifted sight, The march of ages pass’d away With hero-footsteps bright; But proudest in that long array, Was Glendwr’s path of light!
PRINCE MADOC’S FAREWELL.
Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep? Too fair is the sight for a wand’rer, whose way Lies far o’er the measureless worlds of the deep! Fall, shadows of twilight! and veil the green shore, That the heart of the mighty may waver no more! Why rise on my thoughts, ye free songs of the land Where the harp’s lofty soul on each wild wind is borne? Be hush’d, be forgotten! for ne’er shall the hand Of minstrel with melody greet my return. —No! no!—let your echoes still float on the breeze, And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of seas! ’Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh; Away! we will bear over ocean and earth A name and a spirit that never shall die. My course to the winds, to the stars, I resign; But my soul’s quenchless fire, O my country! is thine.
CASWALLON’S TRIUMPH.
[Caswallon (or Cassivelaunus) was elected to the supreme command of the Britons, (as recorded in the Triads,) for the purpose of opposing Cæsar, under the title of Elected Chief of Battle. Whatever impression the disciplined legions of Rome might have made on the Britons in the first instance, the subsequent departure of Cæsar they considered as a cause of triumph; and it is stated that Caswallon proclaimed an assembly of the various states of the island, for the purpose of celebrating that event by feasting and public rejoicing.—Cambrian Biography.]
From the glowing southern regions, Where the sun-god makes his dwelling, Came the Roman’s crested legions O’er the deep, round Britain swelling. The wave grew dazzling as he pass’d, With light from spear and helmet cast; And sounds in every rushing blast Of a conqueror’s march were telling. But his eagle’s royal pinion, Bowing earth beneath its glory, Could not shadow with dominion Our wild seas and mountains hoary! Back from their cloudy realm it flies, To float in light through softer skies; Oh! chainless winds of heaven arise! Bear a vanquish’d world the story! Lords of earth! to Rome returning, Tell how Britain combat wages, How Caswallon’s soul is burning When the storm of battle rages! And ye that shrine high deeds in song, O holy and immortal throng! The brightness of his name prolong, As a torch to stream through ages!
HOWEL’S SONG.
[Howel ab Einion Llygliw was a distinguished bard of the fourteenth century. A beautiful poem, addressed by him to Myfanwy Vychan, a celebrated beauty of those times, is still preserved amongst the remains of the Welsh bards. The ruins of Myfanwy’s residence, Castle Dinas Brân, may yet be traced on a high hill near Llangollen.]
Press on, my steed! I hear the swell[182] Of Valle Crucis’ vesper-bell, Sweet floating from the holy dell O’er woods and waters round. Perchance the maid I love, e’en now, From Dinas Brân’s majestic brow, Looks o’er the fairy world below, And listens to the sound! I feel her presence on the scene! The summer air is more serene, The deep woods wave in richer green, The wave more gently flows! O fair as ocean’s curling foam![183] Lo! with the balmy hour I come— The hour that brings the wanderer home, The weary to repose! Haste! on each mountain’s darkening crest The glow hath died, the shadows rest, The twilight star on Deva’s breast Gleams tremulously bright; Speed for Myfanwy’s bower on high! Though scorn may wound me from her eye, Oh! better by the sun to die, Than live in rayless night!
THE MOUNTAIN FIRES.
[“The custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (Coelcerthi) on November eve, is said to be a traditional memorial of the massacre of the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salisbury plain. The practice is, however, of older date, and had reference originally to the Alban Elved, or new-year.”—Cambro-Briton.
When these fires are kindled on the mountains, and seen through the darkness of a stormy night, casting a red and fitful glare over heath and rock, their effect is strikingly picturesque.]
Light the hills! till heaven is glowing As with some red meteor’s rays! Winds of night, though rudely blowing, Shall but fan the beacon-blaze. Light the hills! till flames are streaming From Yr Wyddfa’s sovereign steep,[184] To the waves round Mona gleaming, Where the Roman track’d the deep! Be the mountain watch-fires heighten’d, Pile them to the stormy sky! Till each torrent-wave is brighten’d, Kindling as it rushes by. Now each rock, the mist’s high dwelling, Towers in reddening light sublime; Heap the flames! around them telling Tales of Cambria’s elder time. Thus our sires, the fearless-hearted, Many a solemn vigil kept, When, in ages long departed, O’er the noble dead they wept. In the winds we hear their voices— “Sons! though yours a brighter lot, When the mountain-land rejoices, Be her mighty unforgot!”
ERYRI WEN.
[“Snowdon was held as sacred by the ancient Britons, as Parnassus was by the Greeks, and Ida by the Cretans. It is still said, that whosoever slept upon Snowdon would wake inspired, as much as if he had taken a nap on the hill of Apollo. The Welsh had always the strongest attachment to the tract of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition to their title, that of Lord of Snowdon.”—Pennant.]
Theirs was no dream, O monarch hill, With heaven’s own azure crown’d! Who call’d thee—what thou shalt be still, White Snowdon!—holy ground. They fabled not, thy sons who told Of the dread power enshrined Within thy cloudy mantle’s fold, And on thy rushing wind! It shadow’d o’er thy silent height, It fill’d thy chainless air, Deep thoughts of majesty and might For ever breathing there. Nor hath it fled! the awful spell Yet holds unbroken sway, As when on that wild rock it fell Where Merddin Emrys lay![185] Though from their stormy haunts of yore Thine eagles long have flown,[186] As proud a flight the soul shall soar Yet from thy mountain-throne! Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams! And make the snows thy crest! The sunlight of immortal dreams Around thee still shall rest. Eryri! temple of the bard! And fortress of the free! Midst rocks which heroes died to guard, Their spirit dwells with thee!
CHANT OF THE BARDS BEFORE THEIR MASSACRE BY EDWARD I.[187]
Raise ye the sword! let the death-stroke be given; Oh! swift may it fall as the lightning of heaven! So shall our spirits be free as our strains— The children of song may not languish in chains! Have ye not trampled our country’s bright crest? Are heroes reposing in death on her breast? Red with their blood do her mountain-streams flow, And think ye that still we would linger below? Rest, ye brave dead! midst the hills of your sires, Oh! who would not slumber when freedom expires? Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain— The children of song may not breathe in the chain!
THE DYING BARD’S PROPHECY.[188]
The hall of harps is lone to-night, And cold the chieftain’s hearth: It hath no mead, it hath no light; No voice of melody, no sound of mirth. The bow lies broken on the floor Whence the free step is gone; The pilgrim turns him from the door Where minstrel-blood hath stain’d the threshold stone. “And I, too, go: my wound is deep, My brethren long have died; Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep, Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride! “Bear it where, on his battle-plain, Beneath the setting sun, He counts my country’s noble slain— Say to him—Saxon, think not all is won. “Thou hast laid low the warrior’s head, The minstrel’s chainless hand: Dreamer! that numberest with the dead The burning spirit of the mountain-land! “Think’st thou, because the song hath ceased, The soul of song is flown? Think’st thou it woke to crown the feast, It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone? “No! by our wrongs, and by our blood! We leave it pure and free; Though hush’d awhile, that sounding flood Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be. “We leave it midst our country’s woe— The birthright of her breast; We leave it as we leave the snow Bright and eternal on Eryri’s crest. We leave it with our fame to dwell Upon our children’s breath; Our voice in theirs through time shall swell— The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death. He dies; but yet the mountains stand, Yet sweeps the torrent’s tide; And this is yet Aneurin’s[189] land— Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!
THE FAIR ISLE.[190]
FOR THE MELODY CALLED THE “WELSH GROUND.”
[The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh princes, always accompanied the army when it marched into an enemy’s country; and, while it was preparing for battle or dividing the spoils, he performed an ancient song, called Unbennaeth Prydain, the Monarchy of Britain. It has been conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition of the Welsh, that the whole island had once been possessed by their ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their Saxon invaders. When the prince had received his share of the spoils, the bard, for the performance of this song, was rewarded with the most valuable beast that remained.—Jones’s Historical Account of the Welsh Bards.]
I.
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time Ere spoilers had breathed the free air of your clime; All that its eagles behold in their flight Was yours, from the deep to each storm-mantled height. Though from your race that proud birthright be torn, Unquench’d is the spirit for monarchy born.
CHORUS.
Darkly though clouds may hang o’er us awhile, The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle.
II.
Ages may roll ere your children regain The land for which heroes have perish’d in vain; Yet, in the sound of your names shall be power, Around her still gathering in glory’s full hour. Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep.
CHORUS.
Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle.
THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS.
[It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of the mountain Cader Idris, is an excavation resembling a couch; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in the morning either dead, in a a frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.]
I lay on that rock where the storms have their dwelling, The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the cloud; Around it for ever deep music is swelling, The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud. ’Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming, Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan; Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming; And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone. I lay there in silence—a spirit came o’er me; Man’s tongue hath no language to speak what I saw; Things glorious, unearthly, pass’d floating before me, And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe. I view’d the dread beings around us that hover, Though veil’d by the mists of mortality’s breath; And I call’d upon darkness the vision to cover, For a strife was within me of madness and death. I saw them—the powers of the wind and the ocean, The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms; Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion— I felt their dim presence, but knew not their forms! I saw them—the mighty of ages departed— The dead were around me that night on the hill: From their eyes, as they pass’d, a cold radiance they darted,— There was light on my soul, but my heart’s blood was chill. I saw what man looks on, and dies—but my spirit Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour; And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power! Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested, And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun;— But oh! what new glory all nature invested, When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won![191]
[“The Welsh Melodies, which first introduced Mrs Hemans to the public as a song-writer, had already made their appearance. Some of them are remarkable for the melody of their numbers—in particular, the song to the well-known air, ‘Ar hyd y nos.’ Her fine feeling for music, in which, as also in drawing, she would have signally excelled, could she have bestowed the time and patient labour requisite for obtaining mastery over the mechanical difficulties of these arts, assisted her not only in her choice of measures, but also of her words; and, although in speaking of her songs, it must be remarked that some of the later ones are almost too full of meaning to require the further clothing of sweet sound, instead of their being left, as in outline, waiting for the musician’s colouring hand, they must be all praised as flowing and expressive; and it is needless to remind the reader how many of them, united with her sister’s music, have obtained the utmost popularity. She had well studied the national character of the Welsh airs, and the allusions to the legendary history of the ancient Britons, which her songs contain, are happily chosen. But it was an instinct with Mrs Hernans to catch the picturesque points of national character, as well as of national music: in the latter she always delighted.”—Chorley’s Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 80-1.]