874. Robert Southey to Charles Watkin Williams Wynn, [c. 23 December 1803]*

I hoped to have sent you off the fair copy of Madoc as far as it is corrected by this Xmas but my poor eyes have not had strength for that kind of writing – & indeed I begin to fear that they are seriously weakened – for after any reading or writing, objects at the other end of the room become quite indistinct. I must therefore send you such parts as will bear detaching. The following will require pruning & retouching in its minor parts – but on the whole I think it will please you.

To Bardsey was the Lord of Ocean bound, Bardsey the Holy Island, in whose soil Did many a Chief & many a Saint repose, His great progenitors. He mounts the skiff, Her canvas swells before the breeze, the sea Sings round her sparkling keel, & soon the Lord Of Ocean treads the venerable shore.

There was not on that day a speck to stain The azure Heaven. the blessed Sun alone In unapproachable divinity Careerd, rejoicing in his fields of light, How beautiful beneath the bright blue sky The billows heave! one glowing green expanse, Save where along the bending line of shore Such hue is thrown as when the peacocks neck Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst Imbathd in emerald glory. All the flocks Of Ocean are abroad; like floating foam The sea gulls rise & fall upon the waves; With long protruded neck the cormorants Wing their far flight aloft, & round & round The plovers wheel & give their note of joy. It was a day that sent into the heart A summer feeling. Even the insect swarms, From their dark nooks & coverts issued forth For one day of existence more & joy, The solitary primrose on the bank Seemd now as tho it had no cause to mourn Its bleak autumnal birth, – the Rocks & Shores And everlasting Mountains had put on The smile of that glad sunshine, they partook The universal blessing. To this Isle Where his forefathers were consigned to dust Did Madoc come in natural piety, And therefore had he made his coming known, Ordering a solemn service for their souls. Therefore for this the church that day was drest; For this the Abbot in his alb arrayd At the high altar stood; for this infused Sweet incense from the waving thuribule Rose like a mist, & the grey brotherhood Chanted the solemn mass. And now on high Their mighty Mystery had been elevate, And now around the graves the bretheren In long array proceed; each in his hand, Tall as the staff of some wayfaring man Bears the brown taper, with their day-light flame Dimming the chearful day. before the train The cross is borne, where fashioned to the life In shape & size & ghastly colouring The aweful Image hangs – his face like death, The side-wound streaming, his extended palms Transpierced & lacerate with the bodys weight His dead eyes open still. Next in its shrine Of crystal, by the Abbot borne with awe The mighty Mystery came, on either hand Three Priests upheld above on silver wands The purple pall. with holy water next A father came therewith from hyssop branch Sprinkling the graves, the while with one accord¹

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I want some historical knowledge of this place to bring in here² – such as who founded the convent there³ – & what Kings & Worthies were there buried. The Abbot in Madocs time was his brother Cadwallon⁴ – but Madoc having too many brothers already I have dropt them him. What is the Welsh name of Bardsey?⁵ for I have not Warrington here.⁶

The solemn psalm of mercy all intoned.

Pure was the faith of Madoc, tho his mind To all this pomp & solemn circumstance Yielded a willing homage. but the place Was holy, – the dead air that underneath Those arches, never felt the healthy sun Nor the free motion of the elements, Chilly & damp imprest associate awe. The sacred odours of the incense still Floated; the day light & the taper flames Commingled, dimming each, & each bedimmd, And as the slow procession paced along, Still to their hymn as if in symphony The regular foot fall sounded, swelling now Their voices in one chorus loud & deep Rung oer the echoing-aisle, & when it ceased The silence of that huge & sacred pile Came on the heart. what wonder if the Prince Yielded his homage now? the influences Of that sweet autumn day made every sense Alive to every impulse, & he stood On his forefathers dust. ‘Father, quoth he, When now the rites were ended, ‘far away It hath been Madocs lot to pitch his tent On other shores; there in a foreign land Far from my fathers burial place must I Be laid to rest, yet would I have my name Be held with theirs in memory. I beseech you Have this a yearly rite for evermore, As I will leave endowment for the same, And let me be remembered in the prayer. The day shall be a holy day with me While I do live; they who come after me Will hold it holy; it will be a bond Of love & brotherhood when all beside Hath been dissolved, & the wide ocean rolls Between my people & their mother isle This shall be their communion; they shall send In the lan same language the same prayer to Heaven, And each remembering each in piety Pray for each others welfare. The old man Partook that feeling & some pious tears Fell down his aged cheek. ‘Kinsman & son It shall be so, said he, & thou shalt be Remembered in the prayer; nor then alone, But till my sinking sands be quite run out, This feeble voice shall from its solitude Go up for thee to Heaven. And now the Bell Rung out its cheerful summons. to the Hall The assembled brethren pass. the Serving men Wait with white napkins & the ready ewer. The place of honour to the prince is given, The Abbots right-hand guest. the viands smoke, The horn of ale goes round; & now the cates Removed, – for days of festival reserved Comes choicer beverage, clary, hippocras, And mead mature that to the goblets brim Sparkles & sings & smiles. It was a day Of that allowable & temperate mirth That leaves a joy for memory. Madoc told His tale, & thus with question & reply And cheerful intercourse from noon till nones The brethren sate & when the quire <choir> was done Renewed their converse till the vesper bell.

But then the Porter called Prince Madoc out To speak with one, he said, who from the land Had sought him, & required his private ear. Madoc in the moonlight met him. in his hand The stripling held an oar, & on his back Like a broad shield the coracle was hung. ‘Uncle! he cried, & with a gush of tears Sprang to the glad embrace. O my brave boy! Llewelyn! my dear boy! with stiffled voice And interrupted utterance Madoc cried, ‘I knew not where to seek thee, nor how gain This meeting, yet would I have left no means Untried, to win thee to forsake this land This poor unhappy country doomd to fall. Wilt thou fo with me & partake my fate?

No. by my God! the high-hearted youth replied It never shall be said Llewelyn left His fathers murderer on his fathers throne! I am the rightful King of this poor land Go thou & wisely go – but I must stay To save my people Madoc, – tell me Uncle The story of thy fortunes – I can hear it Here in the lonely isle, & at this hour Securely. Nay, quoth Madoc, tell me first Where are thy haunts & coverts, & what hope Thou hast to bear thee up? why goest thou not To Mathrafal? there would Cyveilioc give A kinsmans welcome, - or at Dinevor The guest of honour shouldst thou be with Rhys, And he belike from David might obtain Some recompense, tho poor. What recompense? Exclaimd Llewelyn – what hath he to give But life for life? & what have I to claim But vengeance & my father Yorwerths throne? If with aught short of that my soul could rest, Would I not thro the wide world follow thee Dear Uncle - & fare with thee well or ill, And show to thine old age the tenderness [MS obscured] childhood found from thee! – what hopes I have Let time display! have thou no fear for me – My bed is made within the ocean waves Of sea weeds & of sea fowls down composed, I know the mountain dens & every hold And fastness of the forest, – & I know What troubles him by day & in his dreams There’s many an honest heart in Gwyneth yet. But tell me thine adventure – that will be A joy to think of in long winter nights When stormy billows make my lullaby.

So as they walkd along the moonlight shore Did Madoc tell him all, & still he strove By dwelling in that noble end & aim That of his actions was the heart & life To win him to his wish. it touchd the youth And when the Prince had ceasd, he heavd a sigh Long drawn & deep, as if regret were there. No – no – he cried – that must not be! lo yonder My native mountains, & how beautiful They rest in the moonlight! I was nurst among <them> They saw my sports in childhood, they have seen My sorrows, they have saved me in the hour Of danger. I have vowd that as they were My cradle, they shall be my monument. – But we shall meet again, & thou wilt find me When next thou visitest thy native land, King in Aberfraw. Nevermore Llewelyn, Madoc replied, shall I behold the shores Of Britain, nor will ever tale of me Reach the green Isle again, with fearful care I chuse my little company, & leave No traces of our path, where Violence And bloody Zeal & bloodier Avarice Might find their blasting way. If it be so, And so it should be, then the youth replied, Thou wilt not know my fate – but this be sure It shall not be inglorious. – I have in me A hope from Heaven, give me thy blessing Uncle.

Llewelyn knelt upon the sand & clasp[MS obscured] His knees, with lifted head & streaming eyes Listening. he rose & fell on Madocs neck, And claspd him with a silent agony, Then launchd his coracle & took his way A lonely traveller on the moonlight sea.⁷

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You might well wonder to receive such news⁸ of me by way of Bedford – but the truth is the circumstance itself was first so uncertain – & still so little a source of any pleasure to me that I had told nobody – when to my utter surprize Rickman congratulated me – Somebodys hope or guess had passd for assertion – & the assertion happened to be true. I cannot say that I rejoice at this. the last loss went so deep that I dread the repetition, a child that did not promise so much I could not love so well – & one that did would keep me in perpetual fear of a second deprival. It is better to forego delight than to risque tranquillity – but believe it that we are not permitted to chuse for ourselves.

I should have written to you sooner but besides my ordinary business I have been vexed & harassed by the misconduct of my both my younger brothers. – the one has been so idle that he has been obliged to quit his situation at Norwich & remove to Edinburgh twelve months sooner than was intended, & of course before any means had been taken to prepare for the expence. beside this he has been extravagant there, & the want of feeling which extravagance implies in his circumstance hurts me more than the want of prudence. The other boy never promised well – but I had by his own choice sent him to sea – & now his Aunt – who had once the impudence to write to you for money as if for my Mothers use – & who is actuated by the most demonic like madness that every cursed any human being – has persuaded him to quit the service & sold all his uniforms – & the boy who is not yet fifteen has been obtaining credit & taking up money in my name. These things are uppermost in my mind at present – & so[MS obscured]nt th[MS obscured] came – Although I should now I believe very few und[MS obscured]duc[MS obscured] have ever had so many [MS obscured] vexations as have fallen to my lot.

It is one comfort however that in spite of rain & snow & frost & thaw in endless alternation I am in good health – as good indeed as ever I enjoyed. My second crop of reviewing goes off to day, & I have only Ritsons Romances – the Essay on Population, a History of the Methodists, & another of the Missionary Society – to finish off my Annual work,⁹ unless another cargo should arrive. Coleridge has set off for Devonshire for change of climate – so that being completely out of all society – for Wordsworth is too far off to be accounted a neighbour, I am making a closer intimacy than ever with my books.

Prince William¹⁰ & the Liverpool people provoke me as much as Wyndham¹¹ & Colonel Crawford.¹² I do not think the French can escape our navy, & if they can I am sure they cannot escape the vengeance of the people of England.¹³ It is perfectly infamous to hear Wyndham compare English & French soldiers in the way he does. Coleridge does growl at him, & if he once begins to bark Mr W. will have his belly full of baiting –

God bless you R S