  Not to that demon's son, whom Arthur erst, For necromancy, at Caerleon, first Graced greatly, Merlin,—not to him alone Did those lost learnings of white magic, known As sorcery and witchcraft, then belong. Taliesin, now, hath told us in a song Of one at Arvon, Math of Gwynedd; lord Of some vague cantrevs of the North; whose sword Beat back and slew a southern king, through wrath And puissance of Gwydion, whose path Thence on, with love, he honored. Now this Math Was learned in wondrous witchcraft: as he willed, He wrought the invisible visible, and filled The sight with seeming shapes, which it believed Realities, nor knew it was deceived. For, at his word, the winds were wan with tents, And armies rose of airy elements; And brassy blasts of war from bugles brayed, And armored hosts in battle clanged and swayed, And at a word were not. And at his nod, Steeds, rich-accoutered, whinnying softly, trod The dÆdal earth; and hounds, of greater worth, And wirier, too, than dogs of mortal birth, Rose up, like forest fungus, from the earth Around th' astonished stag, or flying doe, Let Math but wish it or his trumpet blow. But only things that had their counterpart On earth could he make real through his art. Now, to his castle, Math, through Gwydion,— The son of Don,—the daughter dark of Don, The silver-circled Arianrod, had brought; A southern rose of beauty, whom Math thought To wed, in love and friendship, without blame, And at Caer Dathyl. When the maiden came Said Math, "Art thou a virgin?"—Like a flame Mantling, her answer angered, "Verily, I know not other, lord, than that I be!"— So wrought he then through magic that the form Of her boy baby seemed upon her arm, White as a rose. "A Mary!—Yea!" laughed Math; "Forsooth, another Mary!" then in wrath Laid harsh hands on the babe and fiercely flung Far in the salt sea. But the strong winds clung Fast to the Elfin and the lithe waves swept Him safely shoreward dry; some fishers kept Him thus unseaed and christened Dylan, fair Son of the wave, and fostered him with care. Nor was this really hers. But Gwydion, Brother to Arianrod, before the sun Had time to glimpse it with one golden glaive, Swiftly,—as hoping the real babe to save,— Some dim small body on the castle pave In raven velvet seized; and, hiding, he Stole this from court, to subtly raise to be A comely youth. In time, to Arianrod Came, swearing by the rood and blood of God He brought her back her son. Quoth she: "More shame Dost thou disgrace thyself with, and more blame Dost damn thyself with, thus to mix our name With this dishonor, brother, than myself!" Then, waxing wroth, cried Gwydion, "The Elf Is thine then?—Tell me, wanton! is thy son Dylan, the fisher, or this fair-haired one, This youth?—God's curse!"—and daggered her with looks. And she in turn waxed fiery, saying, "Books Of magic I have read as well as Math! And now I tell thee, keep from out my path! Thou and thy bastard, he as well as thou! Thou dog! And on thy folly, listen, now I lay a threefold curse: behold! the first— Until I name him, nameless be he! Cursed Be they who give him arms!—the second:—nor Shall he bear arms until I arm for war. And, lastly, know, however high his birth, He shall not wed a woman of the Earth!— Malignity! to shame me with thy sin!" Then passed into her tower and locked her in. But Gwydion, departing with the youth, Sware he would compass her; if not through truth, Through wiles and learnÉd magic. And he wrought So that unbending Arianrod was brought To name the lad. Again he managed that, Though strange enchantments as of war, he gat Her to give arms. But then, not for his life, Howbeit, could he get the youth a wife. Persisting, desperate, at last the thing Wrought in him blusterous as a backward spring. Now Llew the youth was named. And Gwydion Made his complaint to Math, the mighty son Of Mathonwy. Said Math: "Despair not. We With charms, illusions, and white sorcery Will seek to make—for mine are wondrous powers— A woman for him out of forest flowers." And so they toiled together one wan night, When the full moon hung low, and watched, a white Wild wisp-like face behind a mist. They took Blossoms of briars, blooming by a brook Shed from the April hills; and phantom blooms Of yellow broom that filtered faint perfumes; And primrose blossoms, frail, of rainy smell, Weak pink, dim-clustered in a glow-worm dell; Wild-apple sprigs, that tipsied bells of blaze, And in far, haunted hollows made a haze Of ghostly, fugitive fragrance; and the blue Of hollow harebells, hoary with the dew; The gold of kingcups, golden as low stars; And white of lilies,—rolled in limpid bars, Like sleepy foam,—that swayed aslant and spilled Slim nectar-cups of musk the rain had filled; And paly, wildwood wind-flowers; and the gloss And glow of celandine; and bulbs that boss And dot the oak-roots bulging up the moss; Last, on the elfin uplands, pulled the buds, That burn like spurts of moonlight when it suds The showering clouds, of blossomed meadow-sweet, And made a woman fair; from head to feet Complete in beauty. One far lovelier Than Branwen, daughter of the gray King Llyr; Or that dark daughter of Leodegrance, The stately Gwenhwyvar. And young romance Dreamed in the open Bibles of her eyes: Music her motion; and her speech, like sighs Of roses swinging in the wind and rain, And lilies dancing on the sunlit plain: And in her eyes and face there bloomed again The bluebell and the poppy; and |
|
