Our hero never used the money acquired by his art for his own requirements, and we must not forget to say here that the cash our hero received for the parson’s horse, was cast into the parish poor-box.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Twm’s poetical address to his “lady love.” “A gipsy’s life is a joyous life.” Dinas and a singular natural cave. Faithless woman.
Twm’s thoughts were not often forgetful of Ystrad Feen, and its inhabitants: the lady “of the ilk” seldom indulged in silent reverie, without making the absent Twm the principal figure in her day-dream. She had not known a day’s peace since his absence, and was daily waving between a resolution to send for him back, to bestow on him her hand, and a deference for her father and proud relatives, who insisted that if she ever married again, it should only be to a title and fortune; by which they themselves might share in the honour.
Information was brought to her of his wild excesses, which gave her the greatest concern, as she conceived herself in part the authoress of his misfortunes. Twm, at the same time, felt that his tedious absence from the fair widow was no longer to be endured; and as he knew her to be watched by her father’s spies, he determined on paying her a visit in disguise. Previous to putting his design into execution, he composed and sent her the following poem, in which he dwells on, and exaggerates, his own misfortunes, in a strain calculated to move her tenderness in his favour.
CYWYDD Y GOVID. [264]
The outcast’s forced ally is mine
And Govid is his name;
It is a ruthless savage mate,
And like a foe that’s pale with hate,
To crush me is his aim:
His cruel shafts are fiercely hurl’d,
He forced me friendless on the world.If forward, seeking good I wend,
My eager steps outstrip the fiend;
If backward I retreat from ill,
My cruel foe arrests me still:I seek the flood to end despair,
Relentless Govid meets me there,
And tells of endless pangs of pride,
The wages of the suicide.Fell Govid’s mighty in the land,
His children are a horrid band,
Who joy in hapless man’s distress,
Lo, one in debt—one nakedness:—
And need against me doth combine;
(Fierce Govid’s loveless concubine;)
And care, that knows not how to yearn,
Is Govid’s consort, keen and stern:
And thus this family of ill,
E’er bruise my heart and curb my will.Though lost to me the tranquil day,
My vanquisher I hope to slay;
The fierce enormous giant fiend
No more the heart of Twm shall rend,
If thou, my lady-love! but smile,
Thou gentle fair, devoid of guile—
Thou darling object of my choice,
Oh bless me with assentive voice,
And soon shall Govid lay his length,
A curse! struck down by Rapture’s strength.
The Lady of Ystrad Feen did not read the pathetic poem without being deeply affected, and tears ran down her fair cheeks as she sobbingly perused it for the fourth time. She still bowed her head in grief, when her maid entered her chamber, and in a tone of complaint informed her mistress that there was a very important and troublesome gipsy in the kitchen, who, after having told the fortunes of all the servants in the house, insisted on seeing her also.
“I am not in a mood to relish such foolery now, so send her about her business,” answered the lady, in a tone more sorrowful than angry. “It is quite useless,” replied the girl, “to attempt to send her away; big Evan the gardener tried to take her by the shoulders, and turn her out by force, but she whirled round, grasped him by his arms, tripped up his heels, and laid him in a moment on the floor. There she sits in the kitchen, and vows she will not budge from thence for either man or woman, till she sees the Lady of Ystrad Feen, whom she loves, she says, dearer than her life, and would not for millions harm a hair of her head.”
Although too deeply absorbed in sorrow to have curiosity much excited, she went down stairs, and approached the sybil, who had now taken her station in the hall, asking her, “What do you want, my good woman?”—“To tell you,” answered she, “not your fortune, but what may be your fortune if you choose.” “Let me hear then,” said the Lady Joan, with a faint incredulous smile, walking before her, at the same time, into a little back parlour. Before she could seat herself, the apparent gipsy caught her right hand wrist, and looking round, whispered in her ear,—
“To heal your torn bosom, and ease every smart,
Oh take—he’s before you—the youth of thy heart.”