The House of Hendra.
‘S’ai Plas Hendre
Yn Nghaer Fyrddin:
Canu Brechfa,
Tithau Lywelyn’.
I.
The House of Hendra stood in Merlin’s Town, and was sung by Brechva on his Harp of gold at the October Feasting of Ivor.
In the town where wondrous Merlin
Lived, and still
In deep sleep, they say, lies dreaming
Near it, under Merlin’s Hill,
In that town of pastoral Towy,
Once of old
Stood the ancient House of Hendra,
Sung on Brechva’s harp of gold.
With his harp to Ivor’s feasting
Brechva came,
There he sang and made this ballad,
While the last torch spent its flame.
Long they told,—the men of Ivor,
Of the strain
At the heart of Brechva’s harping
Heard that night, and not again.
ERNEST RHYS
II.
Incipit Brechva’s Ballad of the House of Hendra, and of his deep sleep there on Hallowmas Night, and of his strange awaking.
In yon town, he sang,—there Hendra
Waits my feet,
In renownèd Merlin’s town where
Clare’s white castle keeps the street.
There, within that house of heroes,
I drew breath;
And ’tis there my feet must bear me,
For the darker grace of death.
There that last year’s night I journeyed,—
Hallowmas!
When the dead of Earth, unburied,
In the darkness rise and pass.
Then in Hendra (all his harp cried
At the stroke),
Twelve moons gone, there came upon me
Sleep like death. At length I woke:
I awoke to utter darkness,
Still and deep,
With the walls around me fallen
Of the sombre halls of sleep:
With my hall of dreams downfallen,
Dark I lay,
Like one houseless, though about me
Hendra stood, more fast than they:
But what broke my sleep asunder,—
Light or sound?
There was shown no sound, where only
Night, and shadow’s heart, were found.
III.
Anon he hears a voice in the night, and rising from sleep, looks out upon the sleeping town.
So it passed, till with a troubled
Lonely noise,
Like a cry of men benighted,
Midnight made itself a voice.
Then I rose, and from the stairloop,
Looking down,
Nothing saw, where far before me
Lay, one darkness, all the town.
In that grave day seemed for ever
To lie dead,
Nevermore at wake of morning
To lift up its pleasant head:
All its friendly foolish clamour,
Its delight,
Fast asleep, or dead, beneath me,
In that black descent of night:
But anon, like fitful harping,
Hark, a noise!
As in dream, suppose your dreamer’s
Men of shadow found a voice.
ERNEST RHYS
IV.
Hearing his name called, Brechva descends to the postern, and sees thence a circle of Shadows, in a solemn dance of Death.
Night-wind never sang more strangely
Song more strange;
All confused, yet with a music
In confusion’s interchange.
Now it cried, like harried night-birds,
Flying near,
Now, more nigh, with multiplying
Voice on voice, “O Brechva, hear!”
I was filled with fearful pleasure
At the call,
And I turned, and by the stairway
Gained the postern in the wall:
Deep as Annwn lay the darkness
At my feet;—
Like a yawning grave before me,
When I opened, lay the street.
Dark as death, and deep as Annwn,—
But these eyes
Yet more deeply, strangely, seeing,
From that grave saw life arise.
And therewith a mist of shadows
In a ring,
Like the sea-mist on the sea-wind,
Waxing, waning, vanishing.
Circling as the wheel of spirits
Whirled and spun,
Spun and whirled, to forewarn Merlin
In the woods of Caledon.
V.
The spirits are no dream-folk; but ancient inmates of the House of Hendra.
Shades of men, ay, bards and warriors!—
Wrought of air,
You may deem, but ’twas no dream-folk,
Born of night, that crossed me there.
And my heart cried out,—“O Vorwyn!
They are those
Who of old-time lived to know here
Life’s great sweetness in this house.”
I had bid them kinsman’s welcome,
In a word,
For the ancient sake of Hendra,
Which they served with harp and sword.
But as still I watched them, wondering,
Curiously,
Knowing all they should forewarn me,—
Of my death and destiny!
Ere I marked all in the silence,
Ere I knew,
Swift as they had come, as strangely
Now their shadowy life withdrew.
ERNEST RHYS
VI.
The Spirits being gone, Brechva hears aërial music, and sees in vision all the Bards in the seventh Heaven.
They were gone; but what sweet wonder
Filled the air!—
With a thousand harping noises,—
Harping, chiming, crying there.
At that harping and that chiming,
Straightway strong
Grew my heart, and in the darkness
Found great solace at that song.
Through the gate of night, its vision,
Three times fine,
Saw the seventh heaven of heroes,
’Mid a thousand torches’ shine:
All the bards and all the heroes
Of old time
There with Arthur and with Merlin
Weave again the bardic rhyme.
There a seat is set and ready,
And the name
There inscribed, and set on high there,—
Brechva of the Bards of Fame.