IX.

And we passed the Isle of Witches, and heard their musical

cry:

"Come to us, O come, come! in the stormy red of a sky Dashing the fires and the shadows of dawn on the beautiful

shapes,

For a wild witch naked as heaven stood on each of the loftiest capes,

And a hundred ranged on the rock like white sea-birds in a

row,

And a hundred gambol'd and pranced on the wrecks in the sand below,

And a hundred splash'd from the ledges, and bosom'd the burst of the spray,

But I knew we should fall on each other, and hastily sail'd

away.

X.

And we came in an evil time to the Isle of the Double

Towers:

One was of smooth-cut stone, one carved all over with

flowers:

But an earthquake always moved in the hollows under the dells,

And they shock'd on each other and butted each other with clashing of bells,

And the daws flew out of the Towers and jangled and wrangled in vain,

And the clash and boom of the bells rang into the heart and the brain,

Till the passion of battle was on us, and all took sides with the Towers,

There were some for the clean-cut stone, there were more for the carven flowers,

And the wrathful thunder of God peal'd over us all the day, For the one half slew the other, and after we sail'd away.

XI.

And we came to the Isle of a Saint who had sail'd with St. Brendan of yore;

He had lived ever since on the isle, and his winters were fifteen score,

And his voice was low as from other worlds, and his eyes were sweet,

And his white hair sank to his heels, and his white beard fell to his feet,

And he spake to me: "O Maeldune, let be this purpose of

thine!

Remember the words of the Lord when he told us ‘Vengeance is mine!'

His fathers have slain thy fathers in war or in single strife, Thy fathers have slain his fathers, each taken a life for a

life;

Thy father had slain his father-how long shall the murder

last?

Go back to the Isle of Finn and suffer the Past to be Past." And we kiss'd the fringe of his beard, and we pray'd as we heard him pray,

And the holy man he assoil'd us, and sadly we sail'd away.

XII.

And we came to the Isle we were blown from, and there on the shore was he,

The man that had slain my father. I saw him and let him

be.

O weary was I of the travel, the trouble, the strife, and the

sin,

When I landed again, with a tithe of my men, on the Isle of

Finn.

MADOC.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

XVII.

THE DEPARTURE.

WINTER hath passed away; the vernal storms
Have spent their rage; the ships are stored, and now
To-morrow they depart. That day a boy,

Weary and foot-sore, to Aberfraw came,
Who to Goervyl's chamber made his way,
And caught the hem of her garment, and exclaimed,
"A boon, a boon, dear Lady!" Nor did he

Wait more reply than that encouragement
Which her sweet eye and lovely smile bestowed:
"I am a poor, unhappy, orphan boy,
Born to fair promises and better hopes,
But now forlorn. Take me to be your page.
For blessed Mary's sake, refuse me not!

I have no friend on earth nor hope but this."

The boy was fair; and though his eyes were swoln, And cheek defiled with tears, and though his voice Came choked by grief, yet to that earnest eye,

And supplicating voice so musical,

It had not sure been easy to refuse

The boon he begged. "I can not grant thy suit,"
Goervyl cried, "but I can aid it, boy!

Go, ask of Madoc!" And herself arose

And led him where her brother, on the shore,
That day the last embarkment oversaw.
Mervyn then took his mantle by the skirt,
And knelt and made his suit; she, too, began
To sue; but Madoc, smiling on the maid,
Won by the virtue of the countenance
Which looked for favor, lightly gave the yes.

Where wert thou, Caradoc, when that fair boy Told his false tale? for, hadst thou heard the voice, The gentle voice, so musically sweet,

And seen that earnest eye, it would have healed Thy wounded heart, and thou hadst voyaged on, The happiest man that ever yet forsook

His native country. He, on board the bark, Leaned o'er the vessel-side, and there he stood And gazed, almost unconscious that he gazed, Toward yon distant mountains where she dweltSenena, his beloved. Caradoc,

Senena, thy beloved, is at hand,

Her golden locks are clipped, and her blue eye
Is wandering through the throng in search of thee,
For whose dear sake she hath forsaken all.
You deem her false, that her frail constancy
Shrunk from her father's anger, that she lives
Another's victim-bride: but she hath fled
From that unnatural anger-hath escaped
The unnatural union; she is on the shore,
Senena, blue-eyed maid, a seemly boy,
To share thy fortunes, to reward thy love,
And to the land of peace to follow thee,
Over the ocean-waves.

Now all is done.

Stores, beeves and flocks and water, all aboard ;
The dry East blows, and not a sign of change
Stains the clear firmament. The Sea Lord sate
At the last banquet in his brother's court,
And heard the song. It told of Owen's fame,

When with his Normen and assembled force
Of Guienne and Gascony, and Anjou's strength,
The Fleming's aid, and England's chosen troops,
Along the ascent of Berwyn, many a day
The Saxon vainly on his mountain foes
Denounced his wrath; for Mona's dragon-sons,

By wary patience, baffled long his force,
Winning slow Famine to their aid, and helped
By the angry Elements, and Sickness sent
From Heaven, and Fear, that of its vigor robbed
The healthy arm; then in quick enterprise
Fell on his weary and disheartened host,
Till with defeat and loss and obloquy
He fled with all his nations. Madoc gave
His spirit to the song; he felt the theme
In every pulse; the recollection came,
Revived and heightened to intenser pain,
That in Aberfraw, in his father's hall,

He never more should share the feast, nor hear
The echoing harp again. His heart was full;
And, yielding to its yearnings, in that mood
Of awful feeling, he called forth the King,
And led him from the palace-porch, and stretched
His hand toward the ocean, and exclaimed:
"To-morrow over yon wide waves I go;
To-morrow, never to return, I leave

My native land! O David! O my brother!
Turn not impatiently a reckless ear

To that affectionate and natural voice

Which thou wilt hear no more! Release our brethren; Recall the wanderers home; and link them to thee

By cordial confidence, by benefits

Which bless the benefactor. Be not thou

As is the black and melancholy yew,

That strikes into the grave its baleful roots,

And prospers on the dead! The Saxon King,—
Think not I wrong him now; an hour like this
Hath softened all my harsher feelings down;
Nor will I hate him for his sister's sake,

Thy gentle Queen-whom, that great God may bless,
And, blessing her, bless thee and our dear country,
Shall never be forgotten in my prayers.