retiredly in youth.

The thousand-years’ kingdom; The descent of the royal house of North Wales is legendarily traced from Caradoc-Caractacus.  But the accepted genealogy of the Princes of Gwynedd begins with Cunedda Wledig (Paramount) cir. 400: ending in 1282 with Llywelyn son of Gruffydd.

The scorn-diadem’d head; On finding whom he had slain, Frankton carried Llywelyn’s head to Edward at Rhuddlan, who, with a barbarity unworthy of himself, set it over the Tower of London, wreathed in mockery of a prediction (ascribed to Merlin) upon the coronation of a Welsh Prince in London.

Rhodri and Owain; Rhodri Mawr, (843), who united under his supremacy the other Welsh principalities, Powys and Dinefawr; Owain Gwynedd, (1137),—are among the most conspicuous of Llywelyn’s royal predecessors.

THE REJOICING OF THE LAND

1295

So the land had rest! and the cloud of that heart-sore struggle and pain
Rose from her ancient hills, and peace shone o’er her again,
Sunlike chasing the plagues wherewith the land was defiled;
And the leprosy fled, and her flesh came again, as the flesh of a child.
—They were stern and stark, the three children of Rolf, the first from Anjou:
For their own sake loving the land, mayhap, but loving her true;
France the wife, and England the handmaid; yet over the realm
Their eyes were in every place, their hands gripp’d firm on the helm.
Villein and earl, the cowl and the plume, they were bridled alike;
One law for all, but arm’d law,—not swifter to aid than to strike.

Lo, in the twilight transept, the holy places of God,
Not with sunset the steps of the altar are dyed, but with scarlet of blood!
Clang of iron-shod feet, and sheep for their shepherd who cry;
Curses and swords that flash, and the victim proffer’d to die!
—Bare thy own back to the smiter, O king, at the shrine of the dead:
Thy friend thou hast slain in thy folly; the blood of the Saint on thy head:
Proud and priestly, thou say’st;—yet tender and faithful and pure;
True man, and so, true saint;—the crown of his martyrdom sure:—
As friend with his friend, he could brave thee and warn; thou hast silenced the voice,
Ne’er to be heard again:—nor again will Henry rejoice!
Green Erin may yield her, fair Scotland submit; but his sunshine is o’er;
The tooth of the serpent, the child of his bosom, has smote him so sore:—
Like a wolf from the hounds he dragg’d off to his lair, not turning to bay:—
Crying ‘shame on a conquer’d king!’—the grim ghost fled sullen away.
—Then, as in gray Autumn the heavens are pour’d on the rifted hillside,
When the Rain-stars mistily gleam, and torrents leap white in their pride,
And the valley is all one lake, and the late, unharvested shocks
Are rapt to the sea, the dwellings of man, the red kine and the flocks,—
O’er England the ramparts of law, the old landmarks of liberty fell,
As the brothers in blood and in lust, twin horror begotten of hell,

Suck’d all the life of the land to themselves, like Lofoden in flood,
One in his pride, in his subtlety one, mocking England and God.
Then tyranny’s draught—once only—we drank to the dregs!—and the stain
Went crimson and black through the soul of the land, for all time, not in vain!
We bore the bluff many-wived king, rough rival and victor of Rome;
We bore the stern despot-protector, whose dawning and sunset were gloom;
For they temper’d the self of the tyrant with love of the land,
Some touch of the heart, some remorse, refraining the grip of the hand.
But John’s was blackness of darkness, a day of vileness and shame;
Shrieks of the tortured, and silence, and outrage the mouth cannot name.
—O that cry of the helpless, the weak that writhe under the foe,
Wrong man-wrought upon man, dumb unwritten annals of woe!
Cry that goes upward from earth as she rolls through the peace of the skies
‘How long?  Hast thou forgotten, O God!’ . . . and silence replies!
Silence:—and then was the answer;—the light o’er Windsor that broke,
The Meadow of Law—true Avalon where the true Arthur awoke!
—Not thou, whose name, as a seed o’er the world, plume-wafted on air,
Britons on each side sea,—Caerlleon and Cumbria,—share,
Joy of a downtrod race, dear hope of freedom to-be,

Dream of poetic hearts, whom the vision only can see! . . .
For thine were the fairy knights, fair ideals of beauty and song;
But ours, in the ways of men, walk’d sober, and stumbling, and strong;—
Stumbling as who in peril and twilight their pathway trace out,
Hard to trace, and untried, and the foe above and about;
For the Charter of Freedom, the voice of the land in her Council secure
All doing, all daring,—and, e’en when defeated, of victory sure!
Langton, our Galahad, first, stamp’d Leader by Rome unaware,
Pembroke and Mowbray, Fitzwarine, Fitzalan, Fitzwalter, De Clare:—
—O fair temple of Freedom and Law!—the foundations ye laid:—
But again came the storm, and the might of darkness and wrong was array’d,
A warfare of years; and the battle raged, and new heroes arose
From a soil that is fertile in manhood’s men, and scatter’d the foes,
And set in their place the bright pillars of Order, Liberty’s shrine,
O’er the land far-seen, as o’er Athens the home of Athena divine.
—So the land had rest:—and the cloud of that heart-sore struggle and pain
Sped from her ancient hills, and peace shone o’er her again,
Sunlike chasing the plagues wherewith the land was defiled:
And the leprosy fled, and her flesh came again, as the flesh of a child.
For lo! the crown’d Statesman of Law, Justinian himself of his realm,

Edward, since Alfred our wisest of all who have watch’d by the helm!
He who yet preaches in silence his life-word, the light of his way,
From his marble unadorn’d chest, in the heart of the West Minster gray,
Keep thy Faith . . . In the great town-twilight, this city of gloom,
—O how unlike that blithe London he look’d on!—I look on his tomb,
In the circle of kings, round the shrine, where the air is heavy with fame,
Dust of our moulder’d chieftains, and splendour shrunk to a name.
Silent synod august, ye that tried the delight and the pain,
Trials and snares of a throne, was the legend written in vain?
Speak, for ye know, crown’d shadows! who down each narrow and strait
As ye might, once guided,—a perilous passage,—the keel of the State,
Fourth Henry, fourth Edward, Elizabeth, Charles,—now ye rest from your toil,
Was it best, when by truth and compass ye steer’d, or by statecraft and guile?
Or is it so hard, that steering of States, that as men who throw in
With party their life, honour soils his own ermine, a lie is no sin? . . .
—Not so, great Edward, with thee,—not so!—For he learn’d in his youth
The step straightforward and sure, the proud, bright bearing of truth:—
Arm’d against Simon at Evesham, yet not less, striking for Law,—
Ages of temperate freedom, a vision of order, he saw!—
—Vision of opulent years, a murmur of welfare and peace:

Orchard golden-globed, plain waving in golden increase;
Hopfields fairer than vineyards, green laughing tendrils and bine;
Woodland