“I don’t think so,” said I; “after braving a thousand tempests, it was meeter for it to fall of itself than to be vanquished at last. But to return to Ab Gwilym’s poetry, he was above culling dainty words, and spoke boldly his mind on all subjects. Enraged with the thunder for parting him and Morfydd, he says, at the conclusion of his ode,
‘My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee,
For parting my dear pearl and me!’”
“You and I shall part; this is, I shall go to my tent if you persist in repeating from him. The man must have been a savage. A poor wood-pigeon has fallen dead.”
“Yes,” said I, “there he lies just outside the tent; often have I listened to his note when alone in this wilderness. So you do not like Ab Gwilym; what say you to old Goethe:—
‘Mist shrouds the night, and rack;
Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack!
Wildly the owls are flitting,
Hark to the pillars splitting
Of palaces verdant ever,
The branches quiver and sever,
The mighty stems are creaking,
The poor roots breaking and shrieking,
In wild mixt ruin down dashing,
O’er one another they’re crashing;
Whilst ’midst the rocks so hoary,
Whirlwinds hurry and worry.
Hear’st not, sister—’”
“Hark!” said Belle, “hark!”
“‘Hear’st not, sister, a chorus
Of voices—?’”
“No,” said Belle, “but I hear a voice.”
CHAPTER XCVI.
A Shout—A Fire Ball—See to the Horses—Passing Away—Gap in the Hedge—On Three Wheels—Why Do You Stop?—No Craven Heart—The Cordial—Across the Country—Small Bags.