Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  And what your sons should be! These savages

  Seek not to wreak on ye immediate death;

  So are ye safe, if safety such as this

  Be worth a thought; and in the interval

  We yet may gain, by keeping to the last

  This entrance, easily to be maintained

  By us, though women, against foes so few, —

  Who knows what succor chance, or timely thought

  Of our own friends, may send, or Providence,

  Who slumbereth not? — While thus she spake, a hand

  In at the window came, of one who sought

  That way to win the entrance. She drew out

  The arrow through the arm of Malinal

  With gentle care, — the readiest weapon that, —

  And held it short above the bony barb,

  And, adding deeds to words, with all her might

  She stabb’d it through the hand. The sudden pain

  Provok’d a cry, and back the savage fell,

  Loosening his hold, and maimed for further war.

  Nay! leave that entrance open! she exclaim’d

  To one who would have closed it; who comes next

  Shall not go thence so cheaply! — for she now

  Had taken up a spear to guard that way,

  Easily guarded, even by female might.

  O heart of proof! what now avails thy worth

  And excellent courage? for the savage foe,

  With mattock and with spade, for other use

  Design’d, hew now upon the door, and rend

  The wattled sides; and they within shrink back,

  For now it splinters through, — and, lo, the way

  Is open to the spoiler!

  Then once more,

  Collecting his last strength, did Malinal

  Rise on his knees, and over him the maid

  Stands with the ready spear, she guarding him

  Who guarded her so well. Rous’d to new force

  By that exampled valor, and with will

  To achieve one service yet before he died, —

  If death indeed, as sure he thought, were nigh, —

  Malinal gathered up his fainting powers;

  And reaching forward, with a blow that threw

  His body on, upon the knee he smote

  One Hoaman more, and brought him to the ground.

  The foe fell over him; but he, prepar’d,

  Threw him with sudden jerk aside, and rose

  Upon one hand, and with the other plunged

  Between his ribs the mortal blade. Meantime

  Amalahta, rushing in blind eagerness

  To seize Goervyl, set at nought the power

  Of female hands, and, stooping as he came

  Beneath her spear-point, thought with lifted arm

  To turn the thrust aside. But she drew back,

  And lowered at once the spear, with aim so sure,

  That on the front it met him, and plough’d up

  The whole scalp-length. He, blinded by the blood,

  Staggered aside, escaping by that chance

  A second push, else mortal. And by this,

  The women, learning courage from despair,

  And by Goervyl’s bold example fir’d,

  Took heart, and, rushing on with one accord,

  Drove out the foe. Then took they hope; for then

  They saw but seven remain in plight for war;

  And, knowing their own number, in the pride

  Of strength, caught up stones, staves, or axe, or spear,

  To hostile use converting whatsoe’er

  The hasty hand could seize. Such fierce attack

  Confus’d the ruffian band; nor had they room

  To aim the arrow, nor to speed the spear,

  Each now beset by many. But their Prince,

  Still mindful of his purport, call’d to them, —

  Secure my passage while I bear away

  The White King’s Sister: having her, the law

  Of peace is in our power. — And on he went

  Toward Goervyl, and with sudden turn,

  While on another foe her eye was fix’d,

  Ran in upon her, and stooped down, and claspt

  The maid above the knees, and, throwing her

  Over his shoulder, to the valley straits

  Set off; — ill seconded in ill attempt;

  For now his comrades are too close beset

  To aid their Chief, and Mervyn hath beheld

  His lady’s peril. At the sight, inspired

  With force, as if indeed that manly garb

  Had cloth’d a manly heart, the Page ran on,

  And, with a bill-hook striking at his ham,

  Cut the back sinews. Amalahta fell;

  The maid fell with him; and she first hath risen,

  While, grovelling on the earth, he gnash’d his teeth

  For agony. Yet even in those pangs,

  Remembering still revenge, he turned and seiz’d

  Goervyl’s skirt, and pluck’d her to the ground,

  And roll’d himself upon her, and essay’d

  To kneel upon her breast: but she clinch’d fast

  His bloody locks, and drew him down aside,

  Faint now with anguish and with loss of blood;

  And Mervyn, coming to her help again,

  As once again he rose, around the neck

  Seized him, with throttling grasp, and held him down, —

  Strange strife and horrible! — till Malinal

  Crawled to the spot, and thrust into his groin

  The mortal sword of Madoc; he himself,

  At the same moment, fainting, now no more

  By his strong will upheld, the service done.

  The few surviving traitors, at the sight

  Of their fallen Prince and Leader, now too late

  Believed that some diviner power had given

  These female arms strength for their overthrow,

  Themselves proved weak before them, as, of late,

  Their God, by Madoc crush’d.

  Away they fled

  Toward the valley straits: but in the gorge

  Erillyab met their flight; and then her heart,

  Boding the evil, smote her, and she bade

  Her people seize, and bring them on in bonds,

  For judgment. She herself, with quickened pace,

  Advanced to know the worst; and, o’er the dead

  She cast a rapid glance, and knew her son.

  She knew him by his garments, by the work

  Of her own hands; for now his face, besmear’d

  And black with gore, and stiffened in its pangs,

  Bore of the life no semblance. — God is good!

  She cried, and closed her eyelids, and her lips

  Shook, and her countenance changed. But in her heart

  She quelled the natural feeling. — Bear away

  These wretches! — to her followers she exclaim’d,

  And root them from the earth! Then she approach’d

  Goervyl, who was pale and trembling now,

  Exhausted with past effort; and she took

  Gently the maiden’s tremulous hand, and said,

  God comfort thee, my Sister! At that voice

  Of consolation, from her dreamy state,

  Goervyl, to a sense of all her woe

  Awoke, and burst into a gush of tears.

  God comfort thee, my Sister! cried the Queen,

  Even as he strengthens me. I would not raise

  Deceitful hope, — but in his hand, even yet,

  The issue hangs; and he is merciful.

  Yea, daughter of Aberfraw, take thou hope!

  For Madoc lives! - he lives, to wield the sword

  Of righteous vengeance, and accomplish all.

  XVII.

  Madoc, meantime, in bonds and solitude,

  Lay listening to the tumult. How his heart

  Panted! how then, with fru
itless strength, he strove

  And struggled for enlargement, as the sound

  Of battle from without the city came;

  While all things near were still; nor foot of man,

  Nor voice, in that deserted part, were heard.

  At length one light and solitary step

  Approach’d the place; a woman cross’d the door:

  From Madoc’s busy mind her image pass’d

  Quick as the form that caus’d it; but not so

  Did the remembrance fly from Coatel,

  That Madoc lay in bonds. That thought possess’d

  Her soul, and made her, as she garlanded

  The fane of Coatlantona with flowers,

  Tremble in strong emotion.

  It was now

  The hour of dusk; the Pabas all were gone,

  Gone to the battle; — none could see her steps;

  The gate was nigh. A momentary thought

  Shot through her: she delayed not to reflect,

  But hasten’d to the Prince, and took the knife

  Of sacrifice, which by the altar hung,

  And cut his bonds, and with an eager eye,

  Motioning haste and silence, to the gate

  She led him. Fast along the forest way,

  And fearfully, he follow’d to the chasm.

  She beckon’d, and descended, and drew out,

  From underneath her vest, a cage, or net

  It rather might be called, so fine the twigs

  Which knit it, where, confined, two fire-flies gave

  Their lustre. By that light did Madoc first

  Behold the features of his lovely guide;

  And, through the entrance of the cavern gloom,

  He follow’d in full trust.

  Now have they reached

  The abrupt descent; there Coatel held forth

  Her living lamp, and, turning, with a smile

  Sweet as good Angels wear when they present

  Their mortal charge before the throne of Heaven,

  She show’d where little Hoel slept below.

  Poor child! he lay upon that very spot,

  The last whereto his feet had follow’d her;

  And, as he slept, his hand was on the bones

  Of one who years agone had perish’d there,

  There, on the place where last his wretched eyes

  Could catch the gleam of day. But when the voice,

  The well-known voice, of Madoc waken’d him, —

  His uncle’s voice, — he started, with a scream

  Which echo’d through the cavern’s winding length,

  And stretch’d his arms to reach him. Madoc hush’d

  The dangerous transport, rais’d him up the ascent,

  And follow’d Coatel again, whose face,

  Though tears of pleasure still were coursing down,

  Betoken’d fear and haste. Adown the wood

  They went; and, coasting now the lake, her eye

  First what they sought beheld, a light canoe,

  Moored to the bank. Then in her arms she took

  The child, and kiss’d him with maternal love,

  And placed him in the boat; but when the Prince,

  With looks and gestures, and imperfect words,

  Such as the look, the gesture, well explain’d,

  Urged her to follow, doubtfully she stood:

  A dread of danger, for the thing she had done,

  Came on her, and Lincoya rose to mind.

  Almost she had resolv’d; but then she thought

  Of her dear father, whom that flight would leave

  Alone in age; how he would weep for her,

  As one among the dead, and to the grave

  Go sorrowing; or, if ever it were known

  What she had dared, that on his head the weight

  Of punishment would fall. That dreadful fear

  Resolv’d her, and she wav’d her head, and rais’d

  Her hand, to bid the Prince depart in haste,

  With looks whose painful seriousness forbade

  All further effort. Yet unwillingly,

  And boding evil, Madoc from the shore

  Push’d off his little boat. She on its way

  Stood gazing for a moment, lost in thought,

  Then struck into the woods.

  Swift through the lake

  Madoc’s strong arm impell’d the light canoe.

  Fainter and fainter to his distant ear

  The sound of battle came; and now the Moon

  Arose in heaven, and pour’d o’er lake and land

  A soft and mellowing ray. Along the shore

  Llaian was wandering with distracted steps,

  And groaning for her child. She saw the boat

  Approach; and as on Madoc’s naked limbs,

  And on his countenance, the moonbeam fell,

  And as she saw the boy in that dim light,

  It seemed as though the Spirits of the dead

  Were moving on the waters; and she stood

  With open lips that breath’d not, and fix’d eyes,

  Watching the unreal shapes: but when the boat

  Drew nigh, and Madoc landed, and she saw

  His step substantial, and the child came near,

  Unable then to move or speak or breathe,

  Down on the sand she sunk.

  But who can tell,

  But who can feel, her agony of joy,

  When, by the Prince’s care restor’d to sense,

  She recogniz’d her child, she heard the name

  Of mother from that voice, which, sure, she thought

  Had pour’d upon some Priest’s remorseless ear

  Its last vain prayer for life? No tear reliev’d

  The insupportable feeling, that convuls’d

  Her swelling breast. She look’d and look’d, and felt

  The child, lest some delusion should have mock’d

  Her soul to madness; then the gushing joy

  Burst forth, and with caresses and with tears

  She mingled broken prayers of thanks to Heaven.

  And now the Prince, when joy had had its course,

  Said to her, Knowest thou the mountain path?

  For I would to the battle. But, at that,

  A sudden damp of dread came over her, —

  O leave us not! she cried; lest haply ill

  Should have befallen! for I remember, now,

  How in the woods I spied a savage band

  Making towards Caermadoc. God forefend

  The evil that I fear! — What! Madoc cried,

  Were ye, then, left defenceless? — She replied,

  All ran to arms: there was no time for thought

  Nor counsel in that sudden ill; nor one

  Of all thy people, who could in that hour

  Have brook’d home-duty, when thy life or death

  Hung on the chance.

  Now God be merciful!

  Cried he; — for of Goervyl did he think,

  And the cold sweat started at every pore.

  Give me the boy! — he travels all too slow.

  Then in his arms he took him, and sped on,

  Suffering more painful terrors, than, of late

  His own near death provoked. They held their way

  In silence up the heights; and when at length,

  They reach’d the valley entrance, there the Prince

  Bade her remain, while he went on to spy

  The footsteps of the spoiler. Soon he saw

  Men, in the moonlight, stretch’d upon the ground;

  And quickening then his pace, in worst alarm,

  Along the shade, with cautious step, he mov’d

  Toward one to seize his weapons: ’twas a corpse;

  Nor whether, at the sight, to hope or fear

  Yet knew he. But anon, a steady light,

  As of a taper, seen in his own home,

  Comforted him; and, drawing nearer now,

  He saw his si
ster on her knees, beside

  The rushes, ministering to a wounded man.

  Safe that the dear one liv’d, then back he sped

  With joyful haste, and summon’d Llaian on,

  And in loud talk advanced. Erillyab first

  Came forward at the sound; for she had faith

  To trust the voice. — They live! they live! she cried;

  God hath redeemed them! — Nor the maiden yet

  Believ’d the actual joy: like one astound,

  Or as if struggling with a dream, she stood,

  Till he came close, and spread his arms, and call’d,

  Goervyl! — and she fell in his embrace.

  But Madoc linger’d not; his eager soul

  Was in the war: in haste he donn’d his arms;

  And, as he felt his own good sword again,

  Exulting play’d his heart. — Boy, he exclaim’d

  To Mervyn, arm thyself, and follow me!

  For in this battle we shall break the power

  Of our blood-thirsty foe; and, in thine age,

  Wouldst thou not wish, when young men crowd around

  To hear thee chronicle their fathers’ deeds,

  Wouldst thou not wish to add, — And I, too, fought

  In that day’s conflict?

  Mervyn’s cheek turn’d pale

  A moment; then, with terror all suffus’d,

  Grew fever-red. Nay, nay! Goervyl cried,

  He is too young for battles! — But the Prince,

  With erring judgment, in that fear-flushed cheek

  Beheld the glow of enterprizing hope

  And youthful courage. I was such a boy,

  Sister! he cried, at Counsyllt; and that day,

  In my first field, with stripling arm, smote down

  Many a tall Saxon. Saidst thou not but now,

  How bravely, in the fight of yesterday,

  He flesh’d his sword? — and wouldst thou keep him here,

  And rob him of his glory? See his cheek!

  How it hath crimson’d at the unworthy thought!

  Arm! arm! and to the battle!

  How her heart

  Then panted.! how, with late regret, and vain,

  Senena wish’d Goervyl then had heard

  The secret, trembling on her lips so oft,

  So oft by shame withheld! She thought that now

  She could have fallen upon her Lady’s neck,

  And told her all; but, when she saw the Prince,

  Imperious shame forbade her, and she felt

  It were an easier thing to die than speak.