CHARACTER OF THE SHEPHERDESS AND HER LOVER.—FEAST OF RUTHYN.—SONGS OF
THE BARDS.
Listen, O man! to the voice of wisdom. The world thou inhabitest was
not intended for a theatre of fruition, nor destined for a scene of
repose. False and treacherous is that happiness, which has been
preceded by no trial, and is connected with no desert. It is like the
gilded poison that undermines the human frame. It is like the hoarse
murmur of the winds that announces the brewing tempest. Virtue, for
such is the decree of the Most High, is evermore obliged to pass
through the ordeal of temptation, and the thorny paths of adversity.
If, in this day of her trial, no foul blot obscure her lustre, no
irresolution and instability tarnish the clearness of her spirit, then
may she rejoice in the view of her approaching reward, and receive with
an open heart the crown that shall be bestowed upon her.
The extensive valley of Clwyd once boasted a considerable number of
inhabitants, distinguished for primeval innocence and pastoral
simplicity. Nature seemed to have prepared it for their reception with
all that luxuriant bounty, which characterises her most favoured spots.
The inclosure by which it was bounded, of ragged rocks and snow-topt
mountains, served but for a foil to the richness and fertility of this
happy plain. It was seated in the bosom of North Wales, the whole face
of which, with this one exception, was rugged and hilly. As far as the
eye could reach, you might see promontory rise above promontory. The
crags of Penmaenmawr were visible to the northwest, and the unequalled
steep of Snowden terminated the prospect to the south. In its farthest
extent the valley reached almost to the sea, and it was intersected,
from one end to the other, by the beautiful and translucent waters of
the river from which it receives its name.
In this valley all was rectitude and guileless truth. The hoarse din of
war had never reached its happy bosom; its river had never been
impurpled with the stain of human blood. Its willows had not wept over
the crimes of its inhabitants, nor had the iron hand of tyranny taught
care and apprehension to seat themselves upon the brow of its
shepherds. They were strangers to riches, and to ambition, for they all
lived in a happy equality. He was the richest man among them, that
could boast of the greatest store of yellow apples and mellow pears.
And their only objects of rivalship were the skill of the pipe and the
favour of beauty. From morn to eve they tended their fleecy
possessions. Their reward was the blazing hearth, the nut-brown beer,
and the merry tale. But as they sought only the enjoyment of a humble
station, and the pleasures of society, their labours were often
relaxed. Often did the setting sun see the young men and the maidens of
contiguous villages, assembled round the venerable oak, or the
wide-spreading beech. The bells rung in the upland hamlets; the rebecs
sounded with rude harmony; they danced with twinkling feet upon the
level green or listened to the voice of the song, which was now gay and
exhilarating, and now soothed them into pleasing melancholy.
Of all the sons of the plain, the bravest, and the most comely, was
Edwin. His forehead was open and ingenuous, his hair was auburn, and
flowed about his shoulders in wavy ringlets. His person was not less
athletic than it was beautiful. With a firm hand he grasped the
boar-spear, and in pursuit he outstripped the flying fawn. His voice
was strong and melodious, and whether upon the pipe or in the song,
there was no shepherd daring enough to enter the lists with Edwin. But
though he excelled all his competitors, in strength of body, and the
accomplishments of skill, yet was not his mind rough and boisterous.
Success had not taught him a despotic and untractable temper, applause
had not made him insolent and vain. He was gentle as the dove. He
listened with eager docility to the voice of hoary wisdom. He had
always a tear ready to drop over the simple narrative of pastoral
distress. Victor as he continually was in wrestling, in the race, and
in the song, the shout of triumph never escaped his lips, the
exultation of insult he was never heard to utter. On the contrary, with
mild and unfictitious friendship, he soothed the breast of
disappointment, and cheered the spirits of his adversary with honest
praise.
But Edwin was not more distinguished among his brother shepherds, than
was Imogen among the fair. Her skin was clear and pellucid. The fall of
her shoulders was graceful beyond expression. Her eye-brows were
arched, and from her eyes shot forth the grateful rays of the rising
sun. Her waist was slender; and as she ran, she outstripped the winds,
and her footsteps were printless on the tender herb. Her mind, though
soft, was firm; and though yielding as wax to the precepts of wisdom,
and the persuasion of innocence, it was resolute and inflexible to the
blandishments of folly, and the sternness of despotism. Her ruling
passion was the love of virtue. Chastity was the first feature in her
character. It gave substance to her accents, and dignity to her
gestures. Conscious innocence ennobled all her reflexions, and gave to
her sentiments and manner of thinking, I know not what of celestial and
divine.
Edwin and Imogen had been united in the sports of earliest infancy.
They had been mutual witnesses to the opening blossoms of understanding
and benevolence in each others breasts. While yet a boy, Edwin had
often rescued his mistress from the rude vivacity of his playmates, and
had bestowed upon her many of those little distinctions which were
calculated to excite the flame of envy among the infant daughters of
the plain. For her he gathered the vermeil-tinctured pearmain, and the
walnut with an unsavoury rind; for her he hoarded the brown filberd,
and the much prized earth-nut. When she was near, the quoit flew from
his arm with a stronger whirl, and his steps approached more swiftly to
the destined goal. With her he delighted to retire from the heat of the
sun to the centre of the glade, and to sooth her ear with the gaiety of
innocence, long before he taught her to hearken to the language of
love. For her sake he listened with greater eagerness to the mirthful
relation, to the moral fiction, and to the song of the bards. His store
of little narratives was in a manner inexhaustible. With them he
beguiled the hour of retirement, and with them he hastened the sun to
sink behind the western hill.
But as he grew to manly stature, and the down of years had begun to
clothe his blushing cheek, he felt a new sensation in his breast
hitherto unexperienced. He could not now behold his favourite companion
without emotion; his eye sparkled when he approached her; he watched
her gestures; he hung upon her accents; he was interested in all her
motions. Sometimes he would catch the eye of prudent age or of
sharp-sighted rivalry observing him, and he instantly became
embarrassed and confused, and blushed he knew not why. He repaired to
the neighbouring wake, in order to exchange his young lambs and his
hoard of cheeses. Imogen was not there, and in the midst of traffic,
and in the midst of frolic merriment he was conscious to a vacancy and
a listlessness for which he could not account. When he tended his
flocks, and played upon his slender pipe, he would sink in reverie, and
form to himself a thousand schemes of imaginary happiness. Erewhile
they had been vague and general. His spirit was too gentle for him not
to represent to himself a fancied associate; his heart was not narrow
enough to know so much as the meaning of a solitary happiness. But
Imogen now formed the principal figure in these waking dreams. It was
Imogen with whom he wandered beside the brawling rill. It was Imogen
with whom he sat beneath the straw-built shed, and listened to the
pealing rain, and the hollow roaring of the northern blast. If a moment
of forlornness and despair fell to his lot, he wandered upon the heath
without his Imogen, and he climbed the upright precipice without her
harmonious voice to cheer and to animate him. In a word, passion had
taken up her abode in his guileless heart before he was aware of her
approach. Imogen was fair; and the eye of Edwin was enchanted. Imogen
was gentle; and Edwin loved.
Simple as was the character of the inhabitants of this happy valley, it
is not to be supposed that Edwin found many obstacles to the enjoyment
of the society of his mistress. Though strait as the pine, and
beautiful as the gold-skirted clouds of a summer morning, the parents
of Imogen had not learned to make a traffic of the future happiness of
their care. They sought not to decide who should be the fortunate
shepherd that should carry her from the sons of the plain. They left
the choice to her penetrating wit, and her tried discretion. They
erected no rampart to defend her chastity; they planted no spies to
watch over her reputation. They entrusted her honour to her own
keeping. They were convinced, that the spotless dictates of conscious
innocence, and that divinity that dwells in virtue and awes the shaggy
satyr into mute admiration, were her sufficient defence. They left to
her the direction of her conduct. The shepherdess, unsuspicious by
nature, and untaught to view mankind with a wary and a jealous eye, was
a stranger to severity and caprice. She was all gentleness and
humanity. The sweetness of her temper led her to regard with an eye of
candour, and her benevolence to gratify all the innocent wishes, of
those about her. The character of a woman undistinguishing in her
favours, and whose darling employment is to increase the number of her
admirers, is in the highest degree unnatural. Such was not the
character of Imogen. She was artless and sincere. Her tongue evermore
expressed the sentiments of her heart. She drew the attention of no
swain from a rival; she employed no stratagems to inveigle the
affections; she mocked not the respect of the simple shepherd with
delusive encouragement. No man charged her with broken vows; no man
could justly accuse her of being cruel and unkind.
It may therefore readily be supposed, that the subject of love rather
glided into the conversation of Edwin and Imogen, than was regularly
and designedly introduced. They were unknowing in the art of disguising
their feelings. When the tale spoke of peril and bravery, the eyes of
Edwin sparkled with congenial sentiments, and he was evermore ready to
start from the grassy hilloc upon which they sat. When the little
narrative told of the lovers pangs, and the tragic catastrophe of two
gentle hearts whom nature seemed to have formed for mildness and
tranquility, Imogen was melted into the softest distress. The breast of
her Edwin would heave with a sympathetic sigh, and he would even
sometimes venture, from mingled pity and approbation, to kiss away the
tear that impearled her cheek. Intrepid and adventurous with the hero,
he began also to take a new interest in the misfortunes of love. He
could not describe the passionate complaints, the ingenuous tenderness
of another, without insensibly making the case his own. “Had the lover
known my Imogen, he would no longer have sighed for one, who could not
have been so fair, so gentle, and so lovely.” Such were the thoughts of
Edwin; and till now Edwin had always expressed his thoughts. But now
the words fell half-formed from his trembling lips, and the sounds died
away before they were uttered. “Were I to speak, Imogen, who has always
beheld me with an aspect of benignity, might be offended. I should say
no more than the truth; but Imogen is modest. She does not suspect that
she possesses half the superiority over such as are called fair, which
I see in her. And who could bear to incur the resentment of Imogen? Who
would irritate a temper so amiable and mild? I should say no more than
the truth; but Imogen would think it flattery. Let Edwin be charged
with all other follies, but let that vice never find a harbour in his
bosom; let the imputation of that detested crime never blot his
untarnished name.”
Edwin had received from nature the gift of an honest and artless
eloquence. His words were like the snow that falls beneath the beams of
the sun; _they melted as they fell_. Had it been his business to have
pleaded the cause of injured innocence or unmerited distress, his
generous sympathy and his manly persuasion must have won all hearts.
Had he solicited the pursuit of rectitude and happiness, his ingenuous
importunity could not have failed of success. But where the mind is too
deeply interested, there it is that the faculties are most treacherous.
Ardent were the sighs of Edwin, but his voice refused its assistance,
and his tongue faultered under the attempts that he made. Fluent and
voluble upon all other subjects, upon this he hesitated. For the first
time he was dissatisfied with the expressions that nature dictated. For
the first time he dreaded to utter the honest wishes of his heart,
apprehensive that he might do violence to the native delicacy of
Imogen.
But he needed not have feared. Imogen was not blind to those
perfections which every mouth conspired to praise. Her heart was not
cold and unimpassioned; she could not see these perfections, united
with youth and personal beauty, without being attracted. The accents of
Edwin were music to her ear. The tale that Edwin told, interested her
twice as much as what she heard from vulgar lips. To wander with Edwin
along the flowery mead, to sit with Edwin in the cool alcove, had
charms for her for which she knew not how to account, and which she was
at first unwilling to acknowledge to her own heart. When she heard of
the feats of the generous lover, his gallantry in the rural sports, and
his reverence for the fair, it was under the amiable figure of Edwin
that he came painted to her treacherous imagination. She was a stranger
to artifice and disguise, and the renown of Edwin was to her the feast
of the soul, and with visible satisfaction she dwelt upon his praise.
Even in sleep her dreams were of the deserving shepherd. The delusive
pleasures that follow in the train of dark-browed night, all told of
Edwin. The unreal mockery of that capricious being, who cheats us with
scenes of fictitious wretchedness, was full of the unmerited
calamities, the heartbreaking woe, or the untimely death of Edwin. From
Edwin therefore the language of love would have created no disgust.
Imogen was not heedless and indiscreet; she would not have sacrificed
the dignity of innocence. Imogen was not coy; she would not have
treated her admirer with affected disdain. She had no guard but virgin
modesty and that conscious worth, _that would be wooed, and not
unsought be won_.
Such was the yet immature attachment of our two lovers, when an
anniversary of religious mirth summoned them, together with their
neighbour shepherds of the adjacent hamlet, to the spot which had long
been consecrated to rural sports and guiltless festivity, near the
village of Ruthyn. The sun shone with unusual splendour; the Druidical
temples, composed of immense and shapeless stones, heaped upon each
other by a power stupendous and incomprehensible, reflected back his
radiant beams. The glade, the place of destination to the frolic
shepherds, was shrouded beneath two venerable groves that encircled it
on either side. The eye could not pierce beyond them, and the
imagination was in a manner embosomed in the vale. There were the
quivering alder, the upright fir, and the venerable oak crowned with
sacred mistletoe. They grew upon a natural declivity that descended
every way towards the plain. The deep green of the larger trees was
fringed towards the bottom with the pleasing paleness of the willow.
From one of the groves a little rivulet glided across the plain, and
was intersected on one side by a stream that flowed into it from a
point equally distant from either extremity of its course. Both these
streams were bordered with willows. In a word, upon the face of this
beautiful spot all appeared tranquility and peace. It was without a
path, and you would imagine that no human footsteps had ever invaded
the calmness of its solitude. It was the eternal retreat of the
venerable anchorite; it was the uninhabited paradise in the midst of
the trackless ocean.
Such was the spot where the shepherds and shepherdesses of a hundred
cots were now assembled. In the larger compartiments of the vale, the
more muscular and vigorous swains pursued the flying ball, or contended
in the swift-footed race. The bards, venerable for their age and the
snowy whiteness of their hair, sat upon a little eminence as umpires of
the sports. In the smaller compartiments, the swains, mingled with the
fair, danced along the level green, or flew, with a velocity that
beguiled the eager sight, beneath the extended arms of their fellows.
Here a few shepherds, apart from the rest, flung the ponderous quoit
that sung along the air. There two youths, stronger and more athletic
than the throng, grasped each others arms with an eager hand, and
struggled for the victory. Now with manly vigour the one shook the
sinewy frame of the other; now they bended together almost to the
earth, and now with double force they reared again their gigantic
stature. At one time they held each other at the greatest possible
distance; and again, their arms, their legs and their whole bodies
entwined, they seemed as if they had grown together. When the weaker or
less skilful was overthrown, he tumbled like a vast and mountain oak,
that for ages had resisted the tumult of the winds; and the whole plain
resounded at his fall. Such as were unengaged formed a circle round the
wrestlers, and by their shouts and applause animated by turns the
flagging courage of either.
And now the sun had gained his meridian height, and, fatigued with
labour and heat, they seated themselves upon the grass to partake of
their plain and rural feast. The parched wheat was set out in baskets,
and the new cheeses were heaped together. The blushing apple, the
golden pear, the shining plum, and the rough-coated chesnut were
scattered in attractive confusion. Here were the polished cherry and
the downy peach; and here the eager gooseberry, and the rich and
plenteous clusters of the purple grape. The neighbouring fountain
afforded them a cool and sparkling beverage, and the lowing herds
supplied the copious bowl with white and foaming draughts of milk. The
meaner bards accompanied the artless luxury of the feast with the
symphony of their harps.
The repast being finished, the company now engaged in those less active
sports, that exercise the subtility of the wit, more than the agility
or strength of the body. Their untutored minds delighted themselves in
the sly enigma, and the quaint conundrum. Much was their laughter at
the wild guesses of the thoughtless and the giddy; and great the
triumph of the swain who penetrated the mystery, and successfully
removed the abstruseness of the problem. Many were the feats of skill
exhibited by the dextrous shepherd, and infinite were the wonder and
admiration of the gazing spectators. The whole scene indeed was
calculated to display the triumph of stratagem and invention. A
thousand deceits were practised upon the simple and unsuspecting, and
while he looked round to discover the object of the general mirth, it
was increased into bursts of merriment, and convulsive gaiety. At
length they rose from the verdant green, and chased each other in mock
pursuit. Many flew towards the adjoining grove; the pursued concealed
himself behind the dark and impervious thicket, or the broad trunk of
the oak, while the pursuers ran this way and that, and cast their wary
eyes on every side. Carefully they explored the bushes, and surveyed
each clump of tufted trees. And now the neighbouring echoes repeated
the universal shout, and proclaimed to the plain below, that the object
of their search was found. Fatigue however, in spite of the gaiety of
spirit with which their sports were pursued, began to assert his
empire, and they longed for that tranquility and repose which were
destined to succeed.
At this instant the united sound of the lofty harp, the melodious
rebec, and the chearful pipe, summoned them once again to the plain.
From every side they hastened to the lawn, and surrounded, with ardent
eyes, and panting expectation, the honoured troop of the bards, crowned
with laurel and sacred mistletoe. And now they seated themselves upon
the tender herb; and now all was stilness and solemn silence. Not one
whisper floated on the breeze; not a murmur was heard. The tumultuous
winds were hushed, and all was placid composure, save where the gentle
zephyr fanned the leaves. The tinkling rill babbled at their feet; the
feathered choristers warbled in the grove; and the deep lowings of the
distant herds died away upon the ear. The solemn prelude began from a
full concert of the various instruments. It awakened attention in the
thoughtless, and composed the frolic and the gay into unbroken
heedfulness. The air was oppressed with symphonious sounds, and the ear
filled with a tumult of harmony.
On a sudden the chorus ceased: Those instruments which had united their
force to fill the echoes of every grove, and of every hill, were
silent. And now a bard, of youthful appearance, but who was treated
with every mark of honour and distinction, and seated on the left hand
of the hoary Llewelyn, the prince of song, struck the lyre with a lofty
and daring hand. His eye sparkled with poetic rapture, and his
countenance beamed with the sublime smile of luxuriant fancy and
heaven-born inspiration. He sung of the wanton shepherd, that followed,
with ungenerous perseverance, the chaste and virgin daughter of
Cadwallo. The Gods took pity upon her distress, the Gods sent down
their swift and winged messenger to shield her virtue, and deliver her
from the persecution of Modred. With strong and eager steps the
ravisher pursued: timid apprehension, and unviolated honour, urged her
rapid flight. But Modred was in the pride of youth; muscular and sinewy
was the frame of Modred. Beauteous and snowy was the person of the
fair: her form was delicate, and her limbs were tender. If heaven had
not interposed, if the Gods had not been on her side, she must have
fallen a victim to savage fury and brutal lust. But, in the crisis of
her fate, she gradually sunk away before the astonished eyes of Modred.
That beauteous frame was now no more, and she started from before him,
swifter than the winds, a timid and listening hare. Still, still the
hunter pursued; he suspended not the velocity of his course. The speed
of Modred was like the roe upon the mountains; every moment he gained
upon the daughter of Cadwallo. But now the object of his pursuit
vanished from his sight, and eluded his eager search. In vain he
explored every thicket, and surveyed all the paths of the forest. While
he was thus employed, on a sudden there burst from a cave a hungry and
savage wolf; it was the daughter of Cadwallo. Modred started with
horror, and in his turn fled away swifter than the winds. The fierce
and ravenous animal pursued; fire flashed from the eye, and rage and
fury sat upon the crest. Mild and gentle was the daughter of Cadwallo;
her heart relented; her soft and tender spirit belied the savage form.
They approached the far famed stream of Conway. Modred cast behind him
a timid and uncertain eye; the virgin passed along, no longer terrible,
a fair and milk white hind. Modred inflamed with disappointment, reared
his ponderous boar spear, and hurled it from his hand. Too well, ah,
cruel and untutored swain! thou levelest thy aim. Her tender side is
gored; her spotless and snowy coat is deformed with blood. Agitated
with pain, superior to fear, she plunges in the flood. When lo! a
wonder; on the opposite shore she rises, radiant and unhurt, in her
native form. Modred contemplates the prodigy with astonishment; his
lust and his brutality inflame him more than ever. Eagerly he gazes on
her charms; in thought he devours her inexpressive beauties. And now he
can no longer restrain himself; with sudden start he leaps into the
river. The waves are wrought into a sudden tempest; they hurry him to
and fro. He buffets them with lusty arms; he rides upon the billows.
But vain is human strength; the unseen messenger of the Gods laughs at
the impotent efforts of Modred. At length the waters gape with a
frightful void; the bottom, strewed with shells, and overgrown with
sea-weed, is disclosed to the sight. Modred, unhappy Modred, sinks to
rise no more. His beauty is tarnished like the flower of the field; his
blooming cheek, his crimson lip, is pale and colourless. Learn hence,
ye swains, to fear the Gods, and to reverence the divinity of virtue.
Modred never melted for another’s woe; the tear of sympathy had not
moistened his cheek. The heart of Modred was haughty, insolent and
untractable; he turned a deaf ear to the supplication of the helpless,
he listened not to the thunder of the Gods. Let the fate of Modred be
remembered for a caution to the precipitate; let the children of the
valley learn wisdom. Heaven never deserts the cause of virtue; chastity
wherever she wanders (_be it not done in pride or in presumption_) is
sacred and invulnerable.
Such was the song of the youthful bard. Every eye was fixed upon his
visage while he struck the lyre; the multitude of the shepherds
appeared to have no faculty but the ear. And now the murmur of applause
began; and the wondering swains seemed to ask each other, whether the
God of song were not descended among them. “Oh glorious youth,” cried
they, “how early is thy excellence! Ere manhood has given nerve and
vigour to thy limbs, ere yet the flowing beard adorns thy gallant
breast, nature has unlocked to thee her hidden treasures, the Gods have
enriched thee with all the charms of poetry. Great art thou among the
bards; illustrious in wisdom, where they all are wise. Should gracious
heaven spare thy life, we will cease to weep the death of Hoel; we will
lament no longer the growing infirmities of Llewelyn.”
While they yet spoke, a bard, who sat upon the right hand of the
prince, prepared to sweep the string. He was in the prime of manhood.
His shining locks flowed in rich abundance upon his strong and graceful
shoulders. His eye expressed more of flame than gaiety, more of
enthusiasm than imagination. His brow, though manly, and, as it should
seem, by nature erect, bore an appearance of solemn and contemplative.
He had ever been distinguished by an attachment to solitude, and a love
for those grand and tremendous objects of uncultivated nature with
which his country abounded. His were the hanging precipice, and the
foaming cataract. His ear drank in the voice of the tempest; he was
rapt in attention to the roaring thunder. When the contention of the
elements seemed to threaten the destruction of the universe, when
Snowdon bowed to its deepest base, it was then that his mind was most
filled with sublime meditation. His lofty soul soared above the little
war of terrestrial objects, and rode expanded upon the wings of the
winds. Yet was the bard full of gentleness and sensibility; no breast
was more susceptible to the emotions of pity, no tongue was better
skilled in the soft and passionate touches of the melting and pathetic.
He possessed a key to unlock all the avenues of the heart.
Such was the bard, and this was the subject of his song. He told of a
dreadful famine, that laid waste the shores of the Menai. Heaven, not
to punish the shepherds, for, alas, what had these innocent shepherds
done? but in the mysterious wisdom of its ways, had denied the
refreshing shower, and the soft-descending dew. From the top of
Penmaenmawr, as far as the eye could reach, all was uniform and waste.
The trees were leafless, not one flower adorned the ground, not one
tuft of verdure appeared to relieve the weary eye. The brooks were
dried up; their beds only remained to tell the melancholy tale, Here
once was water; the tender lambs hastened to the accustomed brink, and
lifted up their innocent eyes with anguish and disappointment. The
meadows no longer afforded pasture of the cattle; the trees denied
their fruits to man. In this hour of calamity the Druids came forth
from their secret cells, and assembled upon the heights of Mona. This
convention of the servants of the Gods, though intended to relieve the
general distress, for a moment increased it. The shepherds anticipated
the fatal decree; they knew that at times like this the blood of a
human victim was accustomed to be shed upon the altars of heaven. Every
swain trembled for himself or his friend; every parent feared to be
bereaved of the staff of his age. And now the holy priest had cast the
lots in the mysterious urn; and the lot fell upon the generous Arthur.
Arthur was beloved by all the shepherds that dwelt upon the margin of
the main; the praise of Arthur sat upon the lips of all that knew him.
But what served principally to enhance the distress, was the attachment
there existed between him and the beauteous Evelina. Mild was the
breast of Evelina, unused to encounter the harshness of opposition, or
the chilly hand and forbidding countenance of adversity. From twenty
shepherds she had chosen the gallant Arthur, to reward his pure and
constant love. Long had they been decreed to make each other happy. No
parent opposed himself to their virtuous desires; the blessing of
heaven awaited them from the hand of the sacred Druid. But in the
general calamity of their country they had no heart to rejoice; they
could not insult over the misery of all around them. “Soon, oh soon,”
cried the impatient shepherd, “may the wrath of heaven be overpast!
Extend, all-merciful divinity, thy benign influence to the shores of
Arvon! Once more may the rustling of the shower refresh our longing
ears! Once more may our eyes be gladdened with the pearly, orient dew!
May the fields be clothed afresh in cheerful green! May the flowers
enamel the verdant mead! May the brooks again brawl along their pebbly
bed! And may man and beast rejoice together!” Ah, short-sighted,
unapprehensive shepherd! thou dost not know the misfortune that is
reserved for thyself; thou dost not know, that thou shalt not live to
behold those smiling scenes which thy imagination forestallest; thou
dost not see the dart of immature and relentless death that is
suspended over thee. Think, O ye swains, what was the universal
astonishment and pity, when the awful voice of the Druid proclaimed the
decree of heaven! Terror sat upon every other countenance, tears
started into every other eye; but the mien of Arthur was placid and
serene. He came forward from the throng; his eyes glistened with the
fire of patriotism. “Hear me, my countrymen,” cried he, “for you I am
willing to die. What is my insignificant life, when weighed against the
happiness of Arvon? Be grateful to the Gods, that, for so poor a boon,
they are willing to spread wide the hand of bounty, and to exhaust upon
your favoured heads the horn of plenty.” While he spoke he turned his
head to the spot from which he had advanced, and beheld, a melting
object, Evelina, pale and breathless, supported in the arms of the
maidens. For a moment he forgot his elevated sentiments and his
heroism, and flew to raise her. “Evelina, mistress of my heart, awake.
Lift up thine eyes and bless thy Arthur. Be not too much subdued by my
catastrophe. Live to comfort the grey hairs, and to succour the
infirmities of your aged parent.” While the breast of Arthur was
animated with such sentiments, and dictated a conduct like this, the
priests were employed in the mournful preparations. The altar was made
ready; the lambent fire ascended from its surface; the air was perfumed
with the smoke of the incense; the fillets were brought forth; and the
sacred knife glittered in the hand of the chief of the Druids. The
bards had strung their harps, and began the song of death. The sounds
were lofty and animating, they were fitted to inspire gallantry and
enterprise into the trembling coward; they were fitted to breathe a
soul into the clay-cold corse. The spirit of Arthur was roused; his eye
gleamed with immortal fire. The aged oak, that strikes its root beneath
the soil, so defies the blast, and so rears its head in the midst of
the whirlwind. But oh, who can paint the distress of Evelina? Now she
dropped her head, like the tender lily whose stalk, by some vulgar and
careless hand has been broken; and now she was wild and ungovernable,
like the wild beast that has been robbed of its young. For an instant
the venerable name of religion awed her into mute submission. But when
the fatal moment approached, not the Gods, if the Gods had descended in
all their radiant brightness, could have restrained her any longer. The
air was rent with her piercing cries. She spoke not. Her eyes, in
silence turned towards heaven, distilled a plenteous shower. At length,
swifter than the winged hawk, she flew towards the spot, and seized the
sacred and inviolable arm of the holy Druid, which was lifted up to
strike the final blow. “Barbarous and inhuman priest,” she cried,
“cease your vile and impious mummery! No longer insult us with the name
of Gods. If there be Gods, they are merciful; but thou art a savage and
unrelenting monster. Or if some victim must expire, strike here, and I
will thank thee. Strike, and my bosom shall heave to meet the welcome
blow. Do any thing. But oh, spare me the killing, killing spectacle!”
During this action the maidens approached and hurried her from the
plain. “Go,” cried Arthur, “and let not the heart of Evelina be sad. My
Death has nothing in it that deserves to be deplored. It is glorious
and enviable. It shall be remembered when this frame is crumbled into
dust. The song of the bards shall preserve it to never dying fame.” The
inconsolable fair one had now been forced away. The intrepid shepherd
bared his breast to the sacred knife. His nerves trembled not. His
bosom panted not. And now behold the lovely youth, worthy to have lived
through revolving years, sunk on the ground, and weltering in his
blood. Yes, gallant Arthur, thou shalt possess that immortality which
was the first wish of thy heart! My song shall embalm thy precious
memory, thy generous, spotless fame! But, ah, it is not in the song of
the bards to sooth the rooted sorrow of Evelina. Every morning serves
only to renew it. Every night she bathes her couch in tears. Those
objects, which carry pleasure to the sense of every other fair, serve
only to renew thy unexhausted grief. The rustling shower, the pearly
dew, the brawling brook, the cheerful green, the flower-enameled mead,
all join to tell of the barbarous and untimely fate of Arthur. Smile no
more, O ye meads; mock not the grief of Evelina. Let the trees again be
leafless; let the rivers flow no longer in their empty beds. A scene
like this suits best the settled temper of Evelina.
He ceased. And his pathetic strain had awakened the sympathy of the
universal throng. Every shepherd hung his mournful head, when the
untimely fate of Arthur was related; every maiden dropped a generous
tear over the sorrows of Evelina. They listened to the song, and forgot
the poet. Their souls were rapt with alternate passions, and they
perceived not the matchless skill by which they were excited. The lofty
bard hurried them along with the rapidity of his conceptions, and left
them no time for hesitation, and left them no time for reflection. He
ceased, and the melodious sounds still hung upon their ear, and they
still sat in the posture of eager attention. At length they recollected
themselves; and it was no longer the low and increasing murmur of
applause: it was the exclamation of rapture; it was the unpremeditated
shout of astonishment.
In the mean time, the reverend Llewelyn, upon whose sacred head ninety
winters had scattered their snow, grasped the lyre, which had so often
confessed the master’s hand. Though far advanced in the vale of years,
there was a strength and vigour in his age, of which the degeneracy of
modern times can have little conception. The fire was not extinguished
in his flaming eye; it had only attained that degree of chasteness and
solemnity, which had in it by so much the more, all that is majestic,
and all that is celestial. His looks held commerce with his native
skies. No vulgar passion ever visited his heaven-born mind. No vulgar
emotion ever deformed the godlike tranquility of his soul. He had but
one passion; it was the love of harmony. He was conscious only to one
emotion; it was reverence for the immortal Gods. He sat like the
anchorite upon the summit of Snowdon. The tempests raise the foaming
ocean into one scene of horror, but he beholds it unmoved. The rains
descend, the thunder roars, and the lightnings play beneath his feet.
Llewelyn struck the lyre, and the innumerable croud was noiseless and
silent as the chambers of death. They did not now wait for the pleasing
tale of a luxuriant imagination, or the pathetic and melting strain of
the mourner. They composed their spirits into the serenity of devotion.
They called together their innocent thoughts for the worship of heaven.
By anticipation their bosoms swelled with gratitude, and their hearts
dilated into praise.
The pious Llewelyn began his song from the rude and shapeless chaos. He
magnified the almighty word that spoke it into form. He sung of the
loose and fenny soil which gradually acquired firmness and density. The
immeasurable, eternal caverns of the ocean were scooped. The waters
rushed along, and fell with resounding, foamy violence to the depth
below. The sun shone forth from his chamber in the east, and the earth
wondered at the object, and smiled beneath his beams. Suddenly the
whole face of it was adorned with a verdant, undulating robe. The
purple violet and the yellow crocus bestrewed the ground. The stately
oak reared its branchy head, and the trees and shrubs burst from the
surface of the earth. Impregnated by power divine, the soil was
prolific in other fruits than these. The clods appeared to be informed
with a conscious spirit, and gradually assumed a thousand various
forms. The animated earth seemed to paw the verdant mead, and to
despise the mould from which it came. A disdainful horse, it shook its
flowing mane, and snuffed the enlivening breeze, and stretched along
the plain. The red-eyed wolf and the unwieldy ox burst like the mole
the concealing continent, and threw the earth in hillocs. The stag
upreared his branching head. The thinly scattered animals wandered
among the unfrequented hills, and cropped the untasted herb. Meantime
the birds, with many coloured plumage, skimmed along the unploughed
air, and taught the silent woods and hills to echo with their song.
Creatures, hymn the praises of your creator! Thou sun, prolific parent
of a thousand various productions, by whose genial heat they are
nurtured, and whose radiant beams give chearfulness and beauty to the
face of nature, first of all the existences of this material universe
acknowledge him thy superior, and while thou dispensest a thousand
benefits to the inferior creation, ascribe thine excellencies solely to
the great source of beauty and perfection! And when the sun has ceased
his wondrous course, do thou, O moon, in milder lustre show to people
of a thousand names the honours of thy maker! Thou loud and wintery
north wind, in majestic and tremendous tone declare his lofty praise!
Ye gentle zephyrs, whisper them to the modest, and softly breathe them
in the ears of the lowly! Ye towering pines, and humble shrubs, ye
fragrant flowers, and, more than all, ye broad and stately oaks, bind
your heads, and wave your branches, and adore! Ye warbling fountains,
warbling tune his praise! Praise him, ye beasts, in different strains!
And let the birds, that soar on lofty wings, and scale the path of
heaven, bear, in their various melody, the notes of adoration to the
skies! Mortals, ye favoured sons of the eternal father, be it yours in
articulate expressions of gratitude to interpret for the mute creation,
and to speak a sublimer and more rational homage.
Heard ye not the music of the spheres? Know ye not the melody of
celestial voices? On yonder silver-skirted cloud I see them come. It
turns its brilliant lining on the setting day. And these are the
accents of their worship. “Ye sons of women, such as ye are now, such
once were we. Through many scenes of trial, through heroic constancy,
and ever-during patience, have we attained to this bright eminence.
Large and mysterious are the paths of heaven, just and immaculate his
ways. If ye listen to the siren voice of pleasure, if upon the neck of
heedless youth you throw the reins, that base and earth-born clay which
now you wear, shall assume despotic empire. And when you quit the
present narrow scene, ye shall wear a form congenial to your vices. The
fierce and lawless shall assume the figure of the unrelenting wolf. The
unreflecting tyrant, that raised a mistaken fame from scenes of
devastation and war, shall spurn the ground, a haughty and indignant
horse; and in that form, shall learn, by dear experience, what were the
sufferings and what the scourge that he inflicted on mankind. The
sensual shall wear the shaggy vesture of the goat, or foam and whet his
horrid tusks, a wild and untame’d boar. But virtue prepares its
possessor for the skies. Upon the upright and the good, attendant
angels wait. With heavenly spirits they converse. On them the dark
machinations of witchcraft, and the sullen spirits of darkness have no
power. Even the outward form is impressed with a beam of celestial
lustre. By slow, but never ceasing steps, they tread the path of
immortality and honour. Then, mortals, love, support, and cherish each
other. Fear the Gods, and reverence their holy, white-robed servants.
Let the sacred oak be your care. Worship the holy and everlasting
mistletoe. And when all the objects that you now behold shall be
involved in universal conflagration, and time shall be no more; ye
shall mix with Gods, ye shall partake their thrones, and be crowned
like them with never-fading laurel.”