THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. n $ocm. IN SIX CANTOS. BY WILLIAM GAYER STARBUCK. LONDON : SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. 1854. LOAN STACK P. Shoberl, Printer to H.R.II. Prince Albert, Rupert Street. INTRODUCTION In liquid gold the sun still sets ; The moon still climbs the midnight sky ; Nor Hesperus the earth forgets, Still countless stars are hung on high; And rivers ripple, oceans swell, And zephyrs sigh, and tempests roar, And wild flowers deck the hidden dell, As gaily as in days of yore : Then shall these themes remain unsung ? Is ev'ry British harp unstrung ? And must we turn to earlier lays, To learn who struck in nature's praise? Are eyes no longer bright and sparkling, With depth of passion flashing, darkling ? Are ears all deaf to harmony, And can the power of minstrelsy Wake no more in the human breast The feeling in the theme expressed? Are hearts all cold ! is love unknown, Lip meeting lip excite no thrilling ? Is there no fervour in the tone, Which tells of joy all hope fulfilling? 531 IV INTRODUCTION. Has grief exhausted ev'ry tear ? Has sympathy for ever fled ? Are home and country no more dear ? Are honour, virtue, valour, dead? Forbid it heaven ! the human breast Still beats and throbs with fervour heated. Upon the soul is still impressed Exhaustless passion deeply seated. Then why not wake the song again? With hand unshrinking strike the wire ! Love, honour, valour, be the strain Breath'd forth, in fearless words of fire. Strike boldly ! and a thousand hearts Leap with the echo, as when starts Beneath the down press'd iv'ry key, The gushing, thrilling melody. Strike gaily ! and a thousand eyes Will sparkle with new ecstacies, And fairy forms will hang upon The ling'ring of each dying tone, And drink the soul awak'ning words, Expiring in harmonic chords. The nightless north sees gaily streaming The blood-red banner o'er its seas ; The cannon's lightning bright is gleaming, Its dense smoke rolls on ev'ry breeze. The Gallic eagle spreads its wing, For France has listened to the cry ; INTRODUCTION. i Swift to the rescue boldly spring The worshippers of liberty : The Bothnian echoes now repeat The mingled tones of either tongue, Borne from the brethren of each fleet, Who've sworn to right a nation's wrong. Beneath the southern cloudless skies, With but one heart, one thought, one feeling, March the unconquerable Allies, Where the artillery is pealing ; And patriot sons their gore are spilling, By hundreds falling in the breach, Their noble destiny fulfilling In deeds more audible than speech. The coward fights for home and life — Who will not struggle for his own, When country, parent, child, and wife, Are all into the balance thrown ? When all are heroes, and each breast These holy aspirations fire, Freedom shall crown the warrior's rest, And tyranny in groans expire. Hark ! o'er the dark and land-locked sea, A piteous wail is sadly sweeping, Like the half spoken agony, The which the stifled breast is keeping ; When ev'ry thrilling hope and pleasure, The darksome doom of fate has crush'd. VI INTRODUCTION. And perish'd is each earthly treasure, And from. the soul each joy that gush'd. Hark to the cry ! it comes, it comes, Each billow lifts it from the sea ; It rises from the wat'ry tombs Where sank the murder'd and the free. It comes ! it comes ! in tones avenging, Blood is the chorus of the theme, On those who, honour's laws infringing, Shrink not their Maker to blaspheme. It comes ! it comes ! the wild breeze bears it With fearful clearness loudly ringing, The sceptred tyrant trembling hears it, E'en in the mass his priests are singing ; 'Tis spreading on each rushing blast, It whistles round each shroud and mast Of those brave bulwarks of the right Which soon shall bear the conquerors on, The outraged nation to requite, And blood with seas of blood t' atone. Louder, still louder doth it rise — Echo the burden multiplies ; 'Tis borne unto the list'ning skies ; Upward, still upward wings it — even 'Tis heard and answer'd now from heav'n. He, who the scabbard threw away, Th' unrighteous author of the fray, Who may have deem'd on earth he trod, A mighty, fearful demi-god, } INTRODUCTION. Vll Shall learn that virtue liveth yet — In human hearts hath still a seat ; That justice has not ceased to be A spring of action with the free : This know in dire defeat and shame, E'en branded with a felon's name, That scorner of each noble tie, Which still restrains humanity. Ye brave Allies ! strike home, strike home ! Your swords shall deal a righteous doom — Ye fight before earth's myriad eyes, Truth, Justice, are your witnesses ; With a hush'd awe the world looks on, To bless you when your task is won. Won — when the modern Tamerlane Within the frozen north ye chain ; Then 'mid his icy dungeons, there - Let him blaspheme «in wild despair, And as his manacles he gnaws, He then shall feel, to outrage laws, Which nations, men, and monarchs own, Is but to spring the mine whereon Is raised his tott'ring, tyrant throne. I Farewell unto this noble theme, Mine is a feebler song ; Like some poor taper's trembling beam, The cloistered aisles among, Compared with what the strain should be, When mightiest nations snatch the shield, Vlll INTRODUCTION. And raise the gage of tyranny, For freedom's cause their faulchions wield. Though none may listen as I sing, Or coldly hear this strain of mine ; Yet round the harp I rudely ring, Erst while did bay-leaves twine. But they are withered, withered all, Not one remains for me, Yet snatch I mould'ring from the wall, That lyre once tuned to melody : Its notes are weak, its strings are worn, Its very echoes sound forlorn, But yet in mem'ry of the past I'll strike, though this song be the last. TIB MSI MTS (DIP MSMTPE CANTO THE FIRST. The pine knots blazed in Pc-wys Hall, Illumining the festival — The massive tables groaned beneath The stores of flood, and plain and heath, Mead and metheglin circled round, And horsemen, footmen, none were found Who shunn'd the bowl, which, flowing free, Heightened the joyous revelry. Upon the walls the armour hung, Now gaily ever backward flung, Like mirrors to the banquet's night, From polished helm and cuirass bright, The cheerful fire's ruddy blaze, "With ever-varying brilliant rays. And antlers wide and grim wolf's head, Which, though all power to harm was fled, Grinn'd savagely, as if in strife It sought to win again its life ; And other trophies of the chase, The ancient hall did fitly grace. B 2 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. The hunting-spear, the feathered shaft, The keen-eclged knife with buck-horn haft, The slacken'd bow, and bells and hood Of falcons swift — of which one stood, Or rather perch'd, a favour'd bird (Of Griffith's, now the castle's lord) Upon the rafters undisturb'd. And there were ancient dinted blades — If speech were theirs, of what wild raids Could they not sing, and well relate Full many a gallant foeman's fate — And battered helmets, hacked and hewed In many a valiant border feud : With horses' trappings, some were worn, And some moth-eaten, others torn ; Light tilting lance, and gay surtout, Decked the old gray walls, not a few ; All that betoken'd war or chase, In Poole's old Hall had found a place. The festive board now claims our care, With those who sat and revell'd there. Griffith ap Gwynwynwyn, the lord Of princely Powys, at the board Presided o'er the feast, and he Shunn'd not the joyous revelry. Defensive armour wore he none, The helmet and habergeon Were laid aside, but round his waist A leather belt was tightly braced, THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 3 From which a dagger hung, whose steel Now served to carve the evening meal. Beside his Lord, upon the floor, A favour'd menial sat, who bore His chieftain's feet upon his breast, The custom of the feudal feast. And no disgrace was it to be The foot-bearer, and mostly he Who fill'd this lot could proudly claim A fosterbrother's gentle name. Griffith some two score years had seen, His iron frame had often been Severely tried in war and storm, Which served to steel his stalwart form. As some dark rock upon the coast, Where boiling surf has beaten most, Though rugged here, and dinted there, Can best withstand the tempest's wear, So he, though not unmarked by time, Was now in vigorous manhood's prime : His sinewy limbs, his brawny chest, And noble height, at once impress'd Beholders that a giant's might Was his who ruled the festal night ; His dark brown hair was ting'd with gray, And o'er the temples worn away By helmet's pressure, day by day ; And wrinkles deep from side to side Were drawn across his forehead wide ; b 2 } 4 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. And his left cheek, extending far, Was dinted by a deep white scar, Keceived in bloody border war. His ever wand'ring hazel eye Beam'd with the look of majesty ; Bright glancing in his hour of wrath, Like comet in its fiery path, But when the fitful storm passed by, It shone with mild benignity. Yet oft when mirth possessed the hour, Across his features dark would lour A gloom forbidding, sad, and drear, As if remorse or coward fear Were struscgdino; in that hour to win His soul. None knew the sin, Or priest, or friend — the weight alone He bore; his secret was his own. Then with an effort he would cast The thought away ; the influence past, No one was gayer then than he, More boisterous 'mid festivity. Ambition ! soul-inspiring name, A spark of an eternal flame, Which fires the breast with fervent hope, And if restrain'd in righteous scope No nobler sentiment can rest Within, or fire the ardent breast. Our fathers' souls ambition warm'd, Its images their day-dreams charm'd. } THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. Prompting the sons to emulate Than their forbears a nobler state ; And thus the centre it became, Whence sprung the varied roads to fame ; And science, art, from swathe-clothes burst, By just ambition fondly nursed, Still bids it, — press on — onward — on — Till mankind's final goal is won : But o'er ambition's picture yet A shade will steal, none can forget. That from the earliest days of time Its curse hath prompted ev'ry crime ! More death, more misery, more woe, More torture, horror, here below, Ambition ! thou to man hast given, Than every passion under heaven. Thy image hath been bathed in gore, Thy altars have been drown'd in blood, And moans concentrated would roar, A tempest o'er th' ensanguin'd flood. Could we together catch the cries, And hear the dying agonies Of those who in thy cause e'er fell, And made the smiling earth a hell. Let hist'ry build thy temple's fane, It is a mountain chain of slain ; But on thy altars those shall bleed, The sacrificial flame to feed, Who long have worshipped at thy shrine, And fondly hailed thee, all divine ! 6 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. When justice shall assert her rights, The heroes of ambitious fights, Lords, princes, monarchs, emperors — all — All who have worshipped there shall fall, Ere yet the power of peace shall sweep Thy name into oblivion's deep. Ambition was Lord Griffith's bane — Oft had he struggled, but in vain, To quell the demon which still held Him prisoner, and his virtues quell'd. A traitor to his native land, His treachery ambition fann'd, But still within his bosom dwelt Compassion for the harassed Celt, And 'gainst his heart of hearts 'twould jar To aid the Normans in the war. Beside him sat his only son, Beloved as is an only one ; His slender form of middle height, His curling locks as dark as night. And face almost as woman's fair Contrasted with his ebon hair; His chisell'd features faultless were, No sculptor's greatest skill or care A face more faultless could design Than his — last scion of his line. And that which sculpture's power defies, His beaming, glancing, coal black eyes, Like jewels in th' illumined night, THE LAST DAYS OF DISEPwTH. But so expressive, and more bright — As when the clouds o'er heaven straying Of ebon hue, and there is playing Xo ray of starlight, moonlight pure, From boundless fields of deep azure, A sudden cleft divides the veil, Then the soft streaming moonbeams pale Burst through the shadowy curtain riven, As from th' unfathomed wells of heaven, And brighter seem, like diamonds set In a surrounding field of jet. Thus to his eyes his pure thoughts rose, Thus burst they on the gaze of those Who saw in rays of light defined The secret workings of his mind. Oh sing of beauty, give to me The features formed as if by art — Yes, perfected in symmetry — Then let expression do its part, And beautify the beauteous whole, And give to sculptured grace the soul. Call that not loveliness of face, Where sweet expression shines alone, Where features are devoid of grace, It but for plainness doth atone ; As 'mid the storm a sunbeam's ray, Pale glimmering where the lightnings play Cannot make nature fair and clear, But the wild tempest still more drear. 8 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. Oh how the mother loved her son, Owain, her treasured only one. All that within her bosom glowed — All that within her warm heart flowed — That which a mother can but know Of that deep, all-absorbing glow Of love maternal, which doth spring E'en from the soul, and round doth fling- Its hallowing ever deep'ning feeling Through heart, and mind, and bosom stealing, Was hers her son to fling around With Fervour lasting and profound. And can a mother love but one — Thus fondly cherish one alone ? No ! every child her heart may share, And know alike her love and care ; But when like blossoms from the trees, Which fall before the murmuring breeze, They one by one on earth are lying, And one by one are sadly dying, Till but the last is left to bloom — The others withered in the tomb — Then does she love as one, the last? When all beside sleep with the past ? Nay ; all the passion of her breast, Fondly divided with the rest, A warm flood mingled gushes forth Upon lier last loved tie on earth. THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 9 " Fill the deep Hirlas horn ! fill high !" Was Griffith's now exulting cry. The horn with sparkling mead runs o'er — Steadily to his lips he bore The generous liquor — at one draught, And only one, 'tis fairly quaffed ; And then the jovial feast to crown, The lordly horn is clearly blown ; Loudly it rang throughout the hall, The warders heard it on the wall, Who, starting, deem'd at first the sound Some foeman at the gate had wound, Then at their false alarm they smiled, While rang again its music wild. — " Fill high the ' Hirlas horn !' fill high ! Another's lips shall drain it dry." 'Tis fill'd, and then unto his Bard, The sparkling mead bore Powys' Lord : (i Behold the horn, with silver tipp'd — By no mean dribbler be it sipp'd !" He cried. " Cyfesliog, quaff its flood — 'Twill warm thy soul — 'twill fire thy blood — It will inspire thy fervent brain, And aid thee wake the battle's strain." Never the noble bard refrained Such proffer'd draught — again is draind The " Hirlas horn:" — with sparkling eye, The Bard awakes his minstrelsy. b o 10 THE LAST DAYS OF DISEETH. €i)c dfall of 33au$an. " On Tovvy's banks the steeds are prancing : In Towy's flood the spears are glancing ; And Towy's echoes bear the neigh Of bold war-horse and trumpet's bray. Fierce Stephen Bauzan heads the van, And many a noble partizan In fjlitt'rinff mail their steeds bestride, 'Neath banners floating in their pride. Their swords are sharp, their lances keen, And haughty is each warrior's mien, As on the genial summer's morn, Their foe, the Welch, they laugh to scorn. They ravaged Ystrad Towy's plains, The smoking hamlets marked their path With all that border warfare stains, Fierce cruelty and savage wrath ! Still on ! The Welch retreat before, They gain at length Llandile Vawr ; And when their bloody work was done The evening shades were hastening on. The watch is set — the watch-fires glow — The horse are picketted around — The ruddy cup they circle now, But while they drink, a murm'ring sound Floats softly 'neath the midnight skies, Decp'ning like moans— now sad, like sighs, And then along the wooded vale, Swept the soft, piteous, gentle wail. THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 1 1 Was it the wind which swept alone O'er upland moor and dark gray stone ? Was it the river which rippling fell O'er rocky beds, through wooded dell ? Or was it thus the woodland fays Mingled their voices with the flood, And thus together tun'd their lays In mourning for the deeds of blood Which unavenged upon the sod, And tinging deep the rippling waves, Cried out for vengeance unto God, For those who slept in unknown graves ? What those unspoken voices were None knew, but that mysterious air Fell like a warning on the foe — Each warrior cross'd his vizor'd brow, Murmur'd an ave, or breathed a vow. " The night passed on : with morning's light The Normans mount their barbed steeds, Firmly they grasp'd their lances bright, Which seemed a forest dense of reeds. Four thousand warriors, steel clad men, All confident of victory, Through mountain pass and darksome glen, Where the wild Welch in numbers lie, In bold defiance of their powers, Press on to Abertievy's towers, Arm'd with contempt they march'd along, Nor dream'd that in the battle's throng 1 2 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. The hated and despis'd Kymry, Could tame their boasted chivalry. With trumpet's note and clarions shrill, "Which woke the echoes of the hill, Gay pennons floating in the breeze, Bright helmets glancing 'mid the trees, And not a foeman to be seen — But many a searching glance and keen, From bush and briar, of wary scout, As they swept by, peep'd gently out ; For Owain had a thousand eyes — Each wood and dell was fill'd with spies. " Now, press'd within a narrow vale, Each haughty leader's cheek grows pale : They saw the rocks, which round them rose, Might form a shelter for their foes, When loud throughout the dell there rang. Not the soul-stirring trumpet's clang, Which ev'ry warrior doth inspire, And feeds the flame of martial fire, But louder, wilder, fiercer far Than clarion's brazen note of war Was that wild awe-inspiring yell, Which woke the echoes of the dell. There was in that exulting cry The tone assured of victory, The note triumphant of revenge, Of those who soon can well avenge THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. Unnumber'd wrongs, unnumber'd ills, Heap'd higher than their native hills. The Normans trembled, for they felt No mercy from the harass'd Celt Would they receive, and cursed the hour, That placed them in the Kymry's power. " They sternly gazed, but saw no foe — No Celt on whom to strike a blow ; But every rock and greenwood fell Seem'd vocal, for again that yell, With its wild, fearful, dread refrain, Burst on their deafened ears again. And spears and arrows now were thrown ; From rock to rock, from stone to stone, With bounding step like startled deer, Sprang many a hundred mountaineer, Hov'ring o'er van, or centre, rear, Show'rino; their missiles far and near — That death hail unremitting pour'd, And vaunted mail of Norman lord Was quickly, deeply pierced, and those Fell first who most despised their foes. The Normans raged, but raged in vain ; Cursing they fell beneath that rain, Which fiercely pour'd with deadly force — Roll'd on the around both man and horse : And those who sank ne'er rose again, For some were smothered, others slain. »> 14 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. On press'd the knights, through wood and pass, But (there were many) each morass Which spread across their mountain road, With smiling surface fair and broad, Within its treach'rous breast receiv'd Full many a knight whom hist'ry griev'd. As wolves surrounding timid deer, Hung on their flanks each mountaineer, Who almost quench'd their hate that day, So deadly was the bloody fray. ' Halt !' was the cry, in ring they meet, A circle in all parts complete : Sadly the Normans rein'd their horse, To counsel on their future course : — c Small need of valour,' Bauzan said ; ' My lords, this day we've only bled — And not a Welchman's corse is lying, T' atone for heaps of dead and dying. May curses light on Mechyl's head, Who led us in this ambuscade. That twice damn'd traitor now has fled, To glory o'er our heaps of dead.' He glanced around — e By Heav'n, I swear But half our noble force is here, And we like sheep are falling low, Without the power to strike a blow. Oh Mary ! if we're doom'd to die, Oh let us with our focmen lie, So that in our untimely death, Our mingled bloods may stain the heath !— THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 15 Lord Patrick !' then aloud he cries, 6 Or Carew, what can ye advise ?' Sadly they answered — ( On, still on, Till Abertievy's walls are won ; Retreat is vain, we cannot fly, Press onward, let us fight, or die !' " Onward, still onward, while their spears Hurl ceaselessly the mountaineers, And Meredydd, with sparkling eye, Smiling beholds the Normans die. Loudly he cheers his warriors on, Their ills, their injuries t' atone; The Kymry need no urging cheer, The bosom of each mountaineer, With patriot ardour, wildly glows, And detestation of his foes. The arrows whistle through the air ; The spears are hurled on high ; Loudly the Cambrian breezes bear The death moans of the enemy — But still relentless, fiercer still, Echoes from cliff and hoary hill, The conquerors' heart-piercing cry, Which they shout forth exultingly. " Noon now was glowing in the sky, The knights were toiling wearily, For they had press'd through bush and briar, O'er rock and stone, through stream and mire 3 • ] 6 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. Dark blood-stains dimm'd their polish'd steel, Or dripp'd in streams from head to heel, And plumes o'er vizored heads were drooping, And forms o'er saddle-bows were stooping ; Brave comrades by their sides were falling, Sons on their sires in death were calling — Then, with a moan suppressed of pain, Sank lifeless on the gory plain. Within a narrow glen compress'd Where only two could ride abreast ; W r ith rocks on each side piled on high, In stern and hoary majesty, On these the active Kymry trod, As if it was a beaten road ; And in the hollow gorge beneath, Masses of stone in heaps they cast, Which dealt around on all sides death, Thus many a warrior breathed his last. " No power could longer now restrain The Welch from rushing on their foe ; Command, entreaty, all is vain, For hand to hand, and blow for blow, With flashing steel and hungry spears, In thousands rush'd the mountaineers. Vainly did knightly valour then, Strive 'gainst the sons of hill and glen ; De Bauzan was the first who sank, Ap O wain's blade his life blood drank ; THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 1 7 Then valiant Merydith ap Rhys, The soul of Patrick did release. The Normans fought like wolves at bay : Inured in many a bloody fray To deeds of might, with sword and axe, Thev strove against renewed attacks, As only men will fight who feel Their life hangs on their glancing steel, While desperation nerves the heart, And strength supernal does impart. In vain their efforts ; band on band Aid the wild conflict hand to hand ; Some turn to fly, but yet around, The furious Welch in swarms are found, And those who reach the Towy's flood, Reach but to stain it with their blood, Or find beneath its glassy wave No respite, save a wat'ry grave ; Those who spur madly o'er the plain Their noble chargers, speed in vain — Trembling they sink beneath their load, And die upon the grassy sod ; Those who bestride them cannot rise, Rider and horse in agonies, Together, in the flight or strife, Yields each at once his weary life. " And now the sun with reddening glow, Was trmnns; o'er each mountain brow, CD O 18 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. And with its fast declining beams, Are lmsh'd the Normans' dying screams, While echo no more multiplies The warrior's closing agonies. The Welch have slaked their thirst for blood, Appeased is their revengeful mood, For scarcely one escaped to tell What fate their brethren true befel. By Towy's flood in many a heap, Thousands of Norman warriors sleep, O'er whom the Cambrian eagles keep A sick'ning watch, a savage ward, Their bloody feast of slain to guard. Full many a noble, known to fame, Whose deeds had earned a warrior's name, Sleeps in some wild and tangled dell, His resting-place not one can tell — He mingles with the dust he trod, Perchance he now may deck the sod — Some child who plucks the violet's bloom, May linger o'er a Norman's tomb. Thus, thus, Lord Griffith, was the fray, None can my simple tale gainsay, How Cambria's children won the day ; And ever may it thus bcfal Those who the Kymry would enthrall." } } Hush'd was the gallant Minstrel's strain- Burst from young O wain's heart, Amen ! THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 1 9 The stern response was hardly breathed, With the deep sigh together heaved, When, hark ! the trumpet's brazen note Through the old hall doth clearly float. " Who wakes the night ?" Lord Griffith cried ; The pages from the banquet hied, The warders answered from the wall — They bore the tidings to the hall — " That Diserth's Captain at the gate, With fifty horsemen armed, did wait." " Come they in peace ?" " They do, my Lord ; Sir Hugh de Lacy sends thee word, That with the dawn he craves thy lance Himself to aid, e'en a Voutrance? " Then let the drawbridge fall," he said ; " Bid the portcullises be raised. Bring mead and wine, heap faggots high, We will prolong the revelry. But first command the heralds sound, Let warders line the courtyard round, And bid the torches blaze, that we May greet the knight with courtesy." The drawbridge clatters o'er the moat, The heralds wake the trumpet's note, 'Neath the arch'd gate the Normans ride, In all the pomp of martial pride ; Their armour glitters in the blaze Of hundred torches redd'ning rays, While clang of steel, and horses' neigh, And tramp of men, and trumpet's bray, 20 THE LAST DAYS OF DISEETH. Discordant mingling in the air, Awake the reel deer from his lair, And stately herons, soaring high, Scream forth their harsh and piercing cry. " Welcome is Hugh de Lacy here," Lord Griffith cried ; " my humble cheer E'en now is waiting on the board — Then once more welcome, Diserth's Lord." Their mutual greeting warm soon o'er, They sought the banquet hall, and pour Their generous pledges free ; the feast, With no mean hand renewed, each guest Betakes him to, and flesh of deer With other viands disappear 'Neath the determined charge of those Who round the jovial banquet close. Deep were their draughts, but well supplied, The wine in no illib'ral tide Was measured forth, for kind and free Was Griffith's hospitality. The feast was o'er — the board was clear'd : " Strange must this visit have appeared, My Lord," de Lacy said : " but now Before high heaven I've made a vow To dye my faulchion to the hilt, In the heart's blood of Tewdwr Wylt. Thou know'st the outlaw ?. Yester morn, But then return'd, and weary, worn, THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 2L (For I had ridden from Hereford) My vassal tenants brought me word, That Tewdwr Wylt, with all his band, Had ravaged, burnt my border land — And now in Powys' woods he lies, With other dangerous enemies. Therefore, Lord Griffith, in the name Of England's King, thy aid I claim This murd'rous villain to chastise, Who doth both law and right despise." " Thy claim's acknowledged, Diserth's Chief — For him of whom I hold my fief. But wait till day — then we will ride With thee, and tame the Outlaw's pride." But Owain murmur'd, " Eagles fight Not with their kind — or kite with kite : For galled was his young heart to know, His sire should deem a Celt a foe — And Normans join in England's cause, Against his country's rights and laws. No sleep the Chieftains knew that night, But with the earliest dawn of light, With twice three score of horse and men, They seek the Outlaw of the glen. Wide were the woods of Powys then, Where scarce an oak now greets the ken ; Dense was the wood and forest shade, Which harbour for the outlaw made. 22 THE LAST DAYS OF DISEHTH. Those were the days of .Robin Hood, With his wild craftsmen of the wood, When the winged arrow Avon the meal, And life depended on the steel ; Then law was weak, and might was right. The sword th' offender did indite, The word was followed by the blow, And only blood appeased the foe. Twice three score warriors seek the blood Of this wild Chieftain of the wood But half the number of the band, Would rather to the English land Their Lord would lead them, than that they Should stake their lives in civil fray. For many friends had Tewdwr Wylt, And seldom was his foe a Celt ; Though outlaw'd still a patriot's fire His deeds of bloodshed did inspire, For Cambria's sons he ever spared, And none save trait'rous Kymri shared, With Normans of the border land, The vengeance of his bloody brand. None knew the hist'ry of his life, Save that in ceaseless deeds of strife For many a year was known his name, And wide had grown his valour's fame. Of noble birth by many dcem'd, By some a peasant churl estecm'd, .;•? THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. Or monk disgraced ; and others said He'd ever been a warrior bred ; And it was whisperd and believed Some bidden crime bis spirit grieved, And that when in his gloomy hour, He'd yield him to the demon's power, When the most favour'd of his men Dared not approach his Chieftain then — For he would roam by brook and stream, In the wild storm when lightning's gleam Lit up around his lonely path, And roar'd the tempest in its wrath ; Then with his head exposed and bare — While round him play'd the livid glare Of heaven's dread fire, and pour'd the rain, Which beat against his heated brain — Upon the beetling cliff he'd stand, Above the flood with outstretch'd hand, He'd point where roar'd the stream below, Exclaiming, " Ha ! I see thee now !" With quivering lip and starting eye, As if he writhed in agony : And then anon with sudden start, As though an arrow cleft his heart, High in the air he'd spring and cry — " At last, at last I see thee die !" The madd'ning fit would pass at length, His cave he'd reach with failing strength, Sink on the rocky floor, and there Yield up his spirit to despair, 24 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. And ne'er till morning dawn would he Recover from his misery. Such was the Outlaw of the glen De Lacy sought to slay ; but when He left his towers, he little thought One of the band whose chief he sought, Had heard the trumpet sound to horse, Correctly numbered o'er his force, Then like an arrow from the bow, Had sped to warn of coming foe. Dark Tewdwr listened with a smile, " Wait," said he, " till the dark defile, The trait'rous Welsh and Normans gain, Then when retreat will all be vain, Sir Hugh de Lacy's pride we'll tame, And make him dread the Tewdwr's name.'' Down by the Vrnwy's rushing tide, The mingled forces quickly ride, Till LlansantfFraint is pass'd, and then They turn them up the Tanat's Glen ; For 'neath the Berwyn's gloomy shade, The Outlaw fierce his hold had made. Up, up the valley, on, still on, Till Milltir Gerrig's pass is won ; Bleak, desolate, where nature's mood Ever denies the dark fir wood, To spread its boughs amid the scene, And softly tint her sternest mien. THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 25 There sleep in majesty sublime, Unchanged from earth's primaeval time, The hoary rocks which scorn to wear A wreath to hide their temples bare, But proudly gaze upon the sun, Like regal chiefs transform'd to stone, Regarding mortal sympathy An insult to their dignity, Alike defvinsr winds and storms, To shake or tear their stalwart forms. Halt ! for the road with stone was block'd. Listen ! as if a demon mock'd, A shout derisive loudly rung, The while with giant force was flimsr A spear, which struck De Lacy's horse, The noble charger fell a corse. Rider and steed roll o'er and o'er, Beside them does the torrent roar ; Another moment, the ravine De Lacy's burial place had been, When Owain from his charger sprung, Around the knight his arms he flung, And then with concentrated force, He dragg'd him from his quiv'ring horse. Now general the fight became, The Normans fought, but fought in vain, For Tewdwr's men, above, around, Held everywhere the vantage ground. c 26 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. The Lord of Powys cheer'd his troops, But fiercer than an eagle swoops, The Outlaw with his battle-axe, Led on his followers' attacks. Lord Griffith's men, with failing strength, Would not support the charge ; at length, Their chief surrounding, they gave way, Their hearts ne'er warm'd unto the fray, And now they only cared to save Their leader from a bloody grave. De Lacy cursed their recreant hearts, With all the ire which hate imparts, As, disappointed of his prey, He gnashed his teeth like wolf at bay ; And galling was the smart to know, That foil'd and vanquished by a foe, Whom he that morn had vow'd should die, He with his troops perforce must fly. But where is Owain ? In the flight Cut off, with a tried warrior's might, His back against a wall of rock, He fights unconquer'd and alone, Nor reels before the tempest shock Of spears in fury thrown. Before him piled a heap of dead, Of friends and followers who had shed Their life blood to defend their lord, And now their bodies form a guard, THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTII. 27 A rampart, which no foe can gain Its brave defender with the slain To pile — though wounded sore, And crimson'd with his welling; gore. Yet adds he to the bloody wall, For foemen heap'd on foemen fall ; And glist'ning spear does not avail, Deeply to pierce his polish'd mail. Thus hung the fight, when from the crowd, An outlaw burst, and yelling loud, With wild goat's bound the rock ascends Where scarce a fissure footing lends ; With knife inserted, here and there, Awhile suspended in the air, Then upward springing, ne'er deterr'd By sense of fear, at first he heard Fiercely approving shouts below, Then these were hush'd ; all silent now, With breath held hard, beheld him clinging, Where every footstep down was flinging The crumbling rock which fail'd to hold His weight, and down the dark cliff roll'd. A jutting crag he reach'd at length, There paused he to regain his strength : It shakes, it trembles, hung on high, It leaves him 'twixt the earth and sky, Against the surface of the sione, Supported by his arms alone ; Yet undismayed, one effort more, The cragsman's fearful task is o'er. c2 28 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. Still panting, from beneath he hears His fellow outlaws' deaf 'ning cheers ; Then o'er the rock he peers below, To mark where stands th' unconquer'd foe, A pond'rous mass of stone he bears Unto the edge, while fiercely glares His blood-shot eye, and o'er his brow The look of triumph glistens now. He lifts the fragment in the air, With grinning rage and hate, but ,ere He hurls it on the helpless foe, Headlong himself he rolls below. A shout of horror from beneath Greeted their comrade's fearful death, And ere he reach'd the mountain's base, A mother could no features trace. While O wain's fosterbrother's eye Beam'd with the look of victory ; For he his youthful chief had lost, And seeking where the dead were most, Beheld him valiantly withstand The infuriate foe with bloody brand, Had mark'd the cragsman in his wrath Ascend the awe-inspiring path, Then by a longer, safer road, Which none though save a goat had trod, He'd reach'd the peak in time to save His chieftain from a bloody grave. " Hold ! monsters, hold !" as they renewed, With wild revenge, th' unequal feud ; a THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 29 " Hold, hold !" Each outlaw lower'd his spear, Abash'd was each wild mountaineer. With faulchion dyed from point to hilt, Before them stood dark Tewdwr Wylt. He turn'd to Owain: "Yield, or die!" Who cried, " I scorn your clemency." tc Then be thy blood" — he paused, and then He glanced his dark eye down the glen, Where heaps of Welch and Normans lay, The victims of the mountain fray. My cup of blood hath well been filled This day," he muttered ; " thou shalt yield." " Ho !" to his troops, " o'erpower yon knight, And bloodless end the bloody fight." Like waves which rush upon the rock, So fell they on : beneath their shock Owain was overwhelmed ; he sank — A pris'ner on the torrent's bank. On Cader Ferwyn's giant form Is hang-ins; now the infant storm ; Around its summits vapours lour, And time proclaims the evening hour. Who ever from the vale beneath Has watch'd the misty rain-clouds wreath Their fluttering robes round summit hoar, Descending gently, lower, lower, Till all the peaks are lost to sight, Obscured in an etherial night 30 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. Of driving mist — anon, the gleam Of lightning, like a burning seam Through nature's vapoury veil, divides The spheres: then fancy may behold How in stern majesty forth rides, "With flashing bannerole unroll'd, The " Old Storm King ;" while madly springs At the red symbol, on wild wings, From the unfathomed depths of space, The legion of his kindred race, To battle with the briny sea, And scourge the wolds, the woods, and lea. Beside the Tanat's shrunken flood, Dark Tewdwr, in his sullen mood, Was pacing wildly to and fro; Anon upon the stream below His eyes were bent, then upward cast, He listened to the rising blast, Or watched the Cader's summit sear In the thick vapours disappear; The dark defile seem'd darker still, Whistled the wild blast o'er the hill, The Pistyll's fall with mournful sound, Loud echo'd through the dark profound. High o'er the cliff it falls at first, Then 'neath a rocky arch doth burst ; Thence in a vast unbroken sheet, The rocks recumbent at its feet THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 31 Receive the rushing of roaring flood, Firmly as when at first they stood. Dark Tewdwr mark'd the hill storm gather, Then sweep across the mountain heather ; As if he felt the hour his own, He sprung upon the arch of stone, Which spann'd the cataract midway, Half hidden in the flashing spray. He seem'd the genius of the hour, Endued with supernatural power, Standing unmoved where men would quiver, And stoutest, hardiest frame would shiver ; Then with his hand raised o'er the water, Burst from his lips derisive laughter. It ceased, the very stream that gushed, Seem'd for that fearful moment hush'd, As if that man had power to still The mighty torrent of the hill. " Ye clouds, descend — ye mighty winds, Speak louder — ye are my true friends ; In unison your voices chime With my gnarl'cl breast, in tones sublime, As when with mighty, fearful groans, And deep, low, agonizing moans, Creation in its woe gave birth Unto this foul abortion — earth. That dread prophetic awful cry Ye bore throughout the shrinking sky, 32 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. Which trembled as it heard — a world Upon the fields of space was hurl'd, Where coming days should see unfurl'd The banner of that fallen one, Who heaven itself would fain have won. When ye spread o'er the void that tale, Ye would have seen heaven's suns turn pale, Were vision yours — how each bright star, When ye its future did declare, Must horror-struck have heard its doom, That through the endless nights to come They were, until the death of time, 1 To be the witnesses of crime !' Ye rushing winds, your theme howl forth — Speak on ! there is a kindred madness In your wild speech. As ye round earth Have sail'd, each tale of wretchedness Which ye have heard, I'd hear, and know Th' accursed sum of human woe, That I in others' pangs might feel That stern companionship in ill, Which quells the poignancy of grief, Not soothing, though it brings relief. "Ye, who have swept across the desert's waste; Ye, who have whispered in each cloistered aisle ; Ye, who have dwelt in halls, in marble cased, Lingered in palaces which proud kings pile ; Ye, Avho have wandered in the peasant's home, Danced with the barque upon the curling foam, THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. S3 Hung on bright flowers, sighed in sweet orange groves, Listen'd in every clime to human loves, Kiss'd Beauty's lip, slept on her glowing breast, In silence heard the burning tale confess'd ; Moan'd 'mid the ruins where the ivy creeps, Stirr'd its smooth leaf when it in moonlight sleeps ; Dried the salt tear, the burning forehead coofd, When grief or passion could not be controlled : On soft wings hovered where the soldier dies, And wafted upward, to the list'ning skies, The moan of his heart-rending agonies ; Ye, who have borne, and spread upon your breeze, The hydra-headed phantom of disease ; Ye, who have roam'd from the remotest time, 'Mid every deed of virtue and of crime — Tell me, ye winds ! unto the human heart, Can aught such burning extacy impart, As just revenge ? I hear ye answer — No ! Well have ye said; be this, then mine, to know." He paused — loud through the wave-worn gorge, The naiads their white steeds onward urge ; And now above his head appeared, The mountain stream a dark wall rear'd. On, on it came with deaf 'ning roar, Then o'er the precipice rush'd o'er ; c 5 34 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. Still on the fearful arch he stood, "Wild gazing at the madden'd flood ; O'er his tall form the white spray fell, And wrapt him in a misty veil. " Yes," he resumed, " the hour is mine ; Spirit of vengeance, I am thine — Griffith ! thou art my enemy. Revenge, revenge ! thy son shall die." The bloody doom was scarcely said — Was it an image fancy made ? That flowing hair, that rounded form, Was no creation of the storm. Speechless he gazed — the image grew Still more distinct in clearer view. He shudder'd. " Yes, 'tis she, indeed !" The vision seem'd as it would plead : Its arms were raised, its upturn'd eye Appeared imploring clemency. " No, woman ! I have sworn," he cried " He dies ! let weal or woe betide." And then, with one gigantic bound, He clear'd the yawning dark profound, And headlong down the valley rush'd, Swifter than the waters guslfd. There sat within a spacious cave, A lonely pair, one sad, both grave : The former was a woman fair, Of figure slight, but noble air; THE LAST DAYS OF DISEETH. 35 Blue was her eye as mountain lake, When the soft wind no ripples make. And often so intense the blue, It might be deem'd of ebon hue, As when the lamps of paradise, In sparkling myriads deck the skies. The arch'd concave, whence they are hung, Seems in the radiance by them flung, Its native blaz'ning to forget, In hue half azure and half jet. And o'er her breast her auburn hair Fell in long ringlets rich, and rare, As unconfined her form they graced, Floating below her rounded waist. Her faded cheeks were pale and wan, Her neck, like bosom of the swan ; Like marble, her expanded brow In whiteness mock'd the winter's snow. With head reclining on her breast, A manly form doth fondly rest ; His features large, but well defined, Not coarse, and deeply, deeply lined, As if with care or thought — his face A monarch's regal line might grace. Command was in his coal-black eye, In sternness were his features cast, They wore the look of majesty O'er mind and man. He gently pass'd His hand across his forehead wide, Then, as if he some thought defied, 36 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. He bit his lips, and ground his teeth, While panting, heaving came his breath. " What ails thee, Tewdwr ?" it was he — " Oh, let me share thy thoughts with thee.' r She pass'd her hand through his dark locks, The raven hair its whiteness mocks. " Oh, Tewdwr, tell me ! day by day, Thou'rt growing colder, yet dost say, I love thee, Newryst, from my heart ! Then why not thy dark griefs impart ? I know no other joy but thee ; No thought can breathe felicity, Unless thy name is mingled there, For thou dost all my day dreams share. All the imaginings I know, Of hope, and pleasure, peace, all flow In that warm stream of love for thee, Soul of my soul ! and pure and free, Through life will that warm heart-flood be. Deceive me not with love's cold name." " Newryst," he murmur'd, " still the same To thee as ever, am I now. Thy hand may smoothe my wrinkled brow, But that which boils within the brain, To soothe it, all thy power is vain. But, oh, forgive me if I seem Darker and colder ; 'tis the gleam Of days by-gone, which, lightening like, Withers where its bright glancings strike. } THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 37 And such a gleam this day has pass'd Across my sight. I stood aghast Like Cain, when on his ear loud struck » His doom, when God Almighty spoke; Or like King Saul, when Samuel rose To speak the victory of his foes ; Or as when Caesar rose to cry, f We meet again at Philippi,' I trembled, in my agony — ■ But yet I swear the youth shall die !" He started to his feet. " What youth ?" She cried. " Thou dost but jest — in truth, Thou canst not mean to slay thy foe — Tewdwr, thou dost but mock me now." " Mock thee — no ! I've sworn the word, Childless shall be fair Powys' lord." She flung herself upon his breast, With starting eyes and streaming hair. " 0, Tewdwr ! thou must surely jest ; Then why assume this gloomy air? By all that's dear to thee on earth, By every thought of noble birth, By all thy fondest hopes of heaven, By all thy darkest fears of hell, As thou wouldst wish to be forgiven, Tewdwr, forego thy purpose fell ! I know thy wrongs are passing great, I know the bloody thirst, the hate, 38 THE LAST DAYS OP DISERTH. With which thy life is sought, by those Who are thy unrelenting foes. I would not stay thee in the fight, I would not raise my hand to save, Nor have thee sheathe thy faulchion bright While yet a foe should need a grave. But now, when reason on her throne Does make thee all thyself, thy own, And thou thy purpose well canst weigh, In sober judgment, let me pray, That murder's soul-condemning guilt May never stain thee, Tewdwr Wylt. "I know thou wilt relent; thy heart Shrinks at the thought ; I feel thee start With horror that thy name should be Branded with such ignominy. Thou hast endured, hast been revenged, Though much remains to be avenged ; But each event throughout thy life, Each fearful scene of bloody strife, Where thou hast e'er a conqueror trod, Has raised from off thy breast a load, And made thee feel the debt was less Thou owest man : though pitiless Was then thy blade, yet no regret Bade memory the past forget. But now, permit thy steel to drink Thy captive's blood ! oh, do not think THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 39 The deed will cause thy heart one thrill Of joy or pleasure, but it will Thy bosom haunt, with sin's dread curse, With endless gnawings of remorse. Yield, I implore thee — lov'd one, yield ! Bid thy stern, bounding heart be still'd, And grant this boon, the first, and last — If I denied am from thee cast. I cannot look upon thy brow, I cannot bask beneath thine eye, I cannot love, as I love now, If thy young prisoner must die. Thou whom I've look'd upon as one, The greatest, if not more than man, To see thee levelled with the herd Of villains, by thyself abhorr'd, Would be to have my temple razed, The image broken, which I've gazed, Gazed on — nay, worshipped, and adored, Where my heart's incense was outpour'd. But I could never live to prove The mis'ry of a wreck of love ; Then, Tewdwr, bid me cease to grieve, And learn His god-like to forgive." He wiped the tear-drop from her cheek, His eyes met hers upturn'd to his ; ft JSewryst," he said, " that look doth speak< Oh, how much more than words — and this 40 THE LAST DAYS OF DISEltTH. Is love — that for thy sake I give Thy wished for boon — the boy shall live ; Thou ne'er hast known me yield before — This act of grace, then, value more. 'Tis purely for thy sake ; no claim Of heaven, or earth, which thou couldst name, Would for an hour preserve his life From the keen all-avenging; knife. Think'st thou that if in Poole's old halls, A pris'ner in its massive walls, Or if within De Lacy's power, My life would be prolong'd an hour ? If, rising from the mould'ring grave, The very dead for me should crave, E'en they in vain would leave their gloom, Denied, each ghost would seek its tomb. Yet I have lived to spare my foe — It is enough, but I will now Learn if the youth thy love doth save Would fill a man's or coward's grave." Dark was the cell where Owain lay, And damp the rocks of granite gray ; Yet sleeps he as an infant sleeps, When o'er its rest its mother keeps Her loving watch ; and now the rays Of pine knot's cheerful ruddy blaze, Borne by a friar, doth illume His stony dungeon's pitchy gloom. THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. 41 The friar murmur d, " Sleeps lie now, No painful thoughts disturb his brow ; Not the effect of apathy, But calm, as if from danger free ; This, this is courage more than I Have dream Yl of in philosophy. See how his eyelids' drooping fringe The marble of his cheek doth tinge ; But, hush ! how softly he is breathing, How sweet that smile his red lips wreathing ; And now he heaves a gentle sigh, And murmurs words, in melody, Like the soft breeze, on harp strings straying, Or when the fingers are delaying Upon the notes unthinkingly, They wake sweet dreamy tones wh In soft and silv'ry reverie, As ill-tim'd buds which never bloom, But sink part open'd to the tomb. Be still, my beating heart, thou'rt dreaming, Such foolish thoughts are not beseeming ; The mortal foe of all my race — But there is something in that face Which wakes a chord within my breast, Which I had deein'd was aye at rest ; It brings unto my mind again, My boyhood's hope, my manhood 1 And dreams of joy which time proved Yes, yes, each lineament is hers, Oh, that I could my days reverse, Inch die, V Pa pain, V roved vain. / 42 THE LAST DAYS OF DISERTH. And taste that bright felicity Again, in all its purity. But this is madness, and that fay, Which fancy conjured in the spray, And now this lovely sleeping child, Pictures her beauty ere she was beguil'd, While memory wakes the woman in my heart, Bidding the long dried tear-drop start." He press'd his hand upon his burning brow, And murmur'd, " Newryst, how I thank thee now." A trembling hand was slipp'd within his own, A swimming eye was bent upon his face, A soft voice whisper'd, " The victory is won, And thou hast triumph'd with a monarch's grace." THE LAST DATS OF DISERTH. 43 CANTO THE SECOND. " Nay, Evan, is it dawn so soon ? Methought 'twas but of night the noon ; No, I mistake, it is not day — Then, why this torch, whose ruddy ray, Thus brightly streaming, made it seem The morning- light ? Is this a dream ?" A holy monk ! upon his brain Flash'd the stern truth : " I yet remain Captive — my fate methinks 1 know — 'Tis 'graven, father, on thy brow..."" " Yes," he replied, " I bear thy doom — 'Tis mine to shrive thee for the tomb." " Then be it so." " Can one so young See from his grasp unmurmuring flung Hope, pleasure, honour, riches, might — All that which makes man's dark lot bright- Without a sigh, without a tear For all we deem on earth most dear ?" " Yes," Owain answered, " be it so ; I scorn, from a much-injured foe, To ask the boon of life, when he Would know no act of clemency, 44 THE LAST DAYS OF DISEETH. Himself a pris'ner in the hands Of Griffith's or De Lacy's bands... Short be my shrift ! I bid thee tell My noble sire no tear-drop fell, Or sigh burst forth, to taint the fame Of my forefathers' princely name. Then soothe my gentle mother's woe — Dry the salt tears that then will flow : Say that my Christian faith stood fast, And that I loved her to the last. One more request : this lock of hair To Hugh de Lacy's daughter bear ; Say thou didst cut it from my head, When I was numbered with the dead, And that I breath'd her name, when fell The blow which hush'd my last farewell. Now, holy father, let me be Once more alone — in spirit free ; And, though no bell my knell shall toll, Yet pray thou for the passing soul." " Thy boon I grant ; but ere I go, The outlaw'd Chief desires to know Why Owain ap Griffith is his foe?" " I am no foe of Tewdwr Wylt, Himself must answer for his guilt ; He ne'er has injured mine or me ; And ever spared the wild Cymry, Save those defamed by treachery ; And I must hang my head with shame, My sire's is e'en a traitor's name ; }