"Our hearts grew haunted by that patient face,18
And much we schemed to soothe the sense of thrall.
She learn'd to love us,—let our love replace
That she had lost,—and thank'd her God for all,
Even for chains and bondage:—awed we heard,
And found the secret in the Gospel Word.
"Thus, Cymrian, we were Christians. First, the slave19
Taught that bright soul whose shadow fell on mine;
Thus we were Christians;—but, as through the cave
Flow hidden river-springs, the Faith Divine
We dared not give to-day—in stealth we sung
Hymns to the Cymrian's God, in Cymri's tongue.
"And for our earlier names of heathen sound20
We did such names as saints have borne receive;
One name in truth, though with a varying sound;
Genevra I—and she sweet Genevieve,—
Words that escaped from other ears, unknown,
But spoke as if from angels to our own.
"Soon with thy creed we learn'd thy race to love,21
Listening high tales of Arthur's peerless fame,
But most such themes did my sweet playmate move;
To her the creed endear'd the champion's name,
With angel thoughts surrounded Christ's young chief,
And gave to Glory haloes from Belief.
"Not long our teacher did survive, to guide22
Our feet, delighted in the new-found ways;
Smiling on us—and on the cross—she died,
And vanish'd in her grave our infant days;
We grew to woman when we learn'd to grieve,
And Childhood left the eyes of Genevieve.
"Oft, ev'n from me, musing she stole away,23
Where thick the woodland girt the ruin'd hall
Of Cymrian kings, forgotten;—through the day
Still as the lonely nightingale midst all
The joyous choir that drown her murmur:—So
Mused Crida's daughter on the Saxon's foe.
"Alas! alas! (sad moons have waned since then!)24
One fatal morn her forest haunt she sought
Nor thence return'd: whether by lawless men
Captured, or flying of her own free thought,
From heathen shrines abhorr'd;—all search was vain,
Ne'er to our eyes that smile brought light again."
Here paused the maid, and tears gush'd forth anew,25
Ere faltering words rewove the tale once more;
"Roused from his woe, the wrathful Crida flew
To Thor's dark priests, and Odin's wizard lore.
Task'd was each rune that sways the demon hosts,
And the strong seid[3] compell'd revealing ghosts.
"And answer'd priest and rune, and the pale Dead,26
'That in the fate of her, the Thor-descended,
The Gods of Cymri wove a mystic thread,
With Arthur's life and Cymri's glory blended,
And Dragon-Kings, ordain'd in clouded years,
To seize the birthright of the Saxon spears.
"'By Arthur's death, and Carduel's towers o'erthrown,27
Could Thor and Crida yet the web unweave,
Protect the Saxon's threaten'd gods;—alone
Regain the lost one, and exulting leave
To Hengist's race the ocean-girt abodes,
Till the Last Twilight[4] darken round the Gods.'