world to him.

—And one who fought his fight and held his way,
   Through life’s long latter day
Moving among the green, green English meads,
   Ere in this niche he took
His rest, oft ’mid his kinsfolk told the deeds

Of that gay passage through the Midland sea;
   Cyprus and Sicily;
And how the Lion-Heart o’er the Moslem host
   Triumph’d in Ascalon
Or Acre, by the tideless Tyrian coast,

Yet never saw the vast Imperial dome,
   Nor the thrice-holy Tomb:—
—As that great vision of the hidden Grail
   By bravest knights of old
Unseen:—seen only of pure Parcivale.

The ‘Thud Crusade,’ 1189-1193, is the subject of this poem.  Richard Coeur de Lion carried his followers by way of Sicily and Cyprus: making a transient conquest of the latter.  In the Holy Land the siege of Acre consumed the time and strength of the Crusaders.  They suffered terribly in the wilderness of Mount Carmel, and when at last preparing to march on Jerusalem (1192) were recalled to Ascalon.  Richard now advanced to Bethany, but was unable to reach the Holy City.  The tale is that while riding with a party of knights one of them called out, ‘This way, my lord, and you will see Jerusalem.’  But Richard hid his face and said, ‘Alas!—they who are not worthy to win the Holy City are not worthy to behold it.’

The vast Imperial dome; The Church of the Holy Sepulchre was built by the Emperor Constantine; a.d. 326-335.

The hidden Grail; This vision forms the subject of one of Tennyson’s noblest Idylls.

A BALLAD OF EVESHAM

August 4: 1265

Earl Simon on the Abbey tower
In summer sunshine stood,
While helm and lance o’er Greenhill heights
Come glinting through the wood.
‘My son!’ he cried, ‘I know his flag
Amongst a thousand glancing’:—
Fond father! no!—’tis Edward stern
In royal strength advancing.

The Prince fell on him like a hawk
At Al’ster yester-eve,
And flaunts his captured banner now
And flaunts but to deceive:—
—Look round! for Mortimer is by,
And guards the rearward river:—
The hour that parted sire and son
Has parted them for ever!

‘Young Simon’s dead,’ he thinks, and look’d
Upon his living son:
‘Now God have mercy on our souls,
Our bodies are undone!
But, Hugh and Henry, ye can fly
Before their bowmen smite us—
They come on well!  But ’tis from me
They learn’d the skill to fight us.’

—‘For England’s cause, and England’s laws,
With you we fight and fall!’
—‘Together, then, and die like men,
And Heaven has room for all!’
—Then, face to face, and limb to limb,

And sword with sword inwoven,
That stubborn courage of the race
On Evesham field was proven

O happy hills!  O summer sky
Above the valley bent!
Your peacefulness rebukes the rage
Of blood on blood intent!
No thought was then for death or life
Through that long dreadful hour,
While Simon ’mid his faithful few
Stood like an iron tower,

’Gainst which the winds and waves are hurl’d
In vain, unmoved, foursquare;
And round him raged the insatiate swords
Of Edward and De Clare:
And round him in the narrow combe
His white-cross comrades rally,
While ghastly gashings, cloud the beck
And crimson all the valley,

And triple sword-thrusts meet his sword,
And thrice the charge he foils,
Though now in threefold flood the foe
Round those devoted boils:
And still the light of England’s cause
And England’s love was o’er him,
Until he saw his gallant boy
Go down in blood before him:—

He hove his huge two-handed blade,
He cried ‘’Tis time to die!’
And smote around him like a flail,
And clear’d a space to lie:—
‘Thank God!’—no more;—nor now could life
From loved and lost divide him:—

And night fell o’er De Montfort dead,
And England wept beside him.

In the words given here to Simon (and, indeed, in the bulk of my narrative) I have almost literally followed Prothero’s Life.  The struggle, like other critical conflicts in the days of unprofessional war, was very brief.

THE DIRGE OF LLYWELYN

December 10: 1282

Llanyis on Irfon, thine oaks in the drear
Red eve of December are wind-swept and sere,
Where a king by the stream in his agony lies,
And the life of a land ebbs away as he dies.

Carádoc, thy sceptre for centuries kept,
Shall it pass like the ripple, unhonour’d, unwept:
Unknowing the lance, and the victim unknown,
Far from Aberffraw’s halls and Erýri the lone!

O dark day of winter and Cambria’s shame,
To the treason of Builth when from Gwynedd he came,
And Walwyn and Frankton and Mortimer fell
Closed round unawares by the fold in the dell!

—As who, where the shadow beneath him is thrown,
By some well in Saharan high noontide alone
Sits under the palm-tree, nor hears the low breath
Of the russet-maned foe panting hot for his death;

So Llywelyn,—unarm’d, unaware:—Is it she,
Bright star of his morning, when Gwynedd was free,
Fair bride, the long sought, taken early, goes by?
In the heart of the breeze the lost Eleanor’s sigh?

Or the one little daughter’s sweet face with a gleam
Of glamour looks out, as the dream in a dream?
Or for childhood’s first sunshine and calm does he yearn,
As the days of Maesmynan in memory return?

Or,—dear to the heart’s-blood as first-love or wife,—
The mountains whose freedom was one with his life,
Gray farms and green vales of that ancient domain,
The thousand-years’ kingdom, he dreams of again?

Or is it the rage of stark Edward; the base
Unkingly revenge on a kinglier race;
The wrong idly wrought on the patriot dead;
The dark castle of doom; the scorn-diadem’d head?

—Lo, where Rhodri and Owain await thee!—The foe
Slips nearing in silence: one flash—and one blow!
And the ripple that passes wafts down to the Wye
The last prayer of Llywelyn, the nation’s last sigh.

But Llanynis yet sees the white rivulet gleam,
And the leaf of December fall sere on the stream;
While Irfon his dirge whispers on through the combe,
And the purple-topt hills gather round in their gloom.

Where a king; The war in which Llywelyn fell was the inevitable result of the growing power of England under Edward I; and, considering the vast preponderance of weight against the Welsh Prince it could not have ended but in the conquest of Wales.  Yet its issue, as told here, was determined as if by chance.

Aberffraw; in Anglesea: the residence of the royal line of Gywnedd from the time of Rhodri Mawr onwards.

Eryri; the Eagle’s rock is a name for Snowdon.  The bird has been seen in the neighbourhood within late years.

Is it she; Eleanor, daughter to Simon de Montfort.  After some years of betrothal and impediment arising from the jealousy of Edward I, she and Llywelyn were married in 1278.  But after only two years of happiness, Eleanor died, leaving one child, Catharine or Gwenllian.

Maesmynan; by Caerwys in Flintshire; where Llywelyn lived