Читать книгу Children's Stories in English Literature: From Taliesin to Shakespeare - Henrietta Christian Wright - Страница 4

Once upon a time a company of daring seamen from the eastern borders of the North Sea, sailing the ocean in search of new adventures, came to a land whose white cliffs had seemed to shine a welcome to them for many a mile across the gray waters. This was the country now known as England, but then called Britain; and the seamen found it to be a green and pleasant land, with safe coasts and good harbors, and inhabited by a race like themselves, brave, strong, and warlike, always eager for battle, and happiest when engaged in deadly combat with some foe as fierce and unrelenting as themselves.

The new-comers stayed long enough to learn something of the life and customs of the strangers—and perhaps had a battle or two with them in order to try their mettle—and then sailed away again; and when they returned home told their friends wonderful stories of the Britons—those island warriors—and their brave deeds; of their terrible appearance in battle, with their dark hair floating back from their foreheads, and the upper part of their bodies naked and covered with pictures of monsters and demons, and of their savage war-cries, and their war-chariots with their wheels furnished with sharp scythes to cut down the opposing foemen.

And they told also of the wide-stretching meadows, and fine rivers, and great forests filled with all kinds of game; and of their walled cities and beautiful temples, which had been built by Roman conquerors when they claimed the island for their own.

These stories spread from one tribe to another until all the people living on the eastern borders of the North Sea knew about the Land of the Sea-Cliffs; and many voyages were made thither. We do not exactly know the date when these foreign tribes first began to visit Britain, though it was probably about the year 350; but from that time it was no uncommon thing for the Britons to see these strangers landing on their coasts. And as time passed the visitors, who had first been attracted by curiosity, or love of gain, or friendship—for the Britons more than once asked their help in the wars that they had with unfriendly tribes in the north—came gradually to consider the country as their own, and built homes there in the shades of the deep forests, or on the borders of the sea, and the ancient inhabitants were regarded by them almost as intruders.

Then for two hundred years or more there were wars over all the country, and as the strangers were more and more successful, and made settlement after settlement, even the old name Britain began to be seldom heard, and the country was called the land of the Angles, or Saxons, or Jutes, after the different tribes of invaders.

The Britons who were thus made to fight for their homes were a race hard to conquer. Even the Roman soldiers, who subdued almost all of Europe, never really conquered these island warriors, and only succeeded in living harmoniously with them when they offered them friendship and taught them the arts of peace, instead of trying to make slaves of them.

Their religion was a gloomy and forbidding one, but taught them to die like heroes, and to fear nothing except the anger of their priests, who were called Druids, and who held unlimited power over the people. They worshipped sometimes in the great stone temples, round and roofless, which were built in the open plain, and sometimes in the groves that were consecrated to religious uses. And as the solemn ceremony proceeded, and the prisoners taken in battle were brought forward and sacrificed upon the altars, the warriors felt that they too were connected with the mysterious rites that held such awe for them, and believed all the more firmly that war was a glorious thing, and to die in battle the only death for a brave man.

The treasures taken in battle were kept in the sacred groves, unguarded; for so great was the fear of the Druids and their power that not even the bravest chieftain would approach the spot; and this custom gave them an added terror as foemen, for no prize of gold or silver or jewel offered by the enemy as the price of peace could compare in value, to the British warrior, with the branch of oak or twig of mistletoe which the priests bestowed upon him as the reward of valor.

Thus loving war and content with their rough mode of life, nothing that an enemy could offer would seem worth accepting; and although the Romans built walled cities, and laid out gardens and vineyards, and reclaimed the forest lands from the wild beasts, the nature of the people did not change very much. And thus, notwithstanding the centuries of Roman influence which preceded, the sea-kings who came to conquer Britain for their own found its people as savage and war-loving as themselves, and the conflict between them was a bitter one.

It was natural that as war was the thing that engaged the thoughts of the people most, it should also form the subject of their songs, and the sweetest singer, in the mind of the British chieftain, was he who could best praise the warlike deeds of his chief, and predict honor and glory for him in the future. From the earliest times it was the custom among them for each chieftain or king to have certain bards and singers attached to his court, whose duty it was to recount his deeds of battle and those of his forefathers, to relate the history of ancient times, to sing the glories of the present, and to prophesy future victories. These minstrels held places of high importance, and took rank with the chief officers of the household.

Sometimes, when war had ceased for awhile, the warriors would resume their old pastimes, and hunt the wolves, bears, deer, and boars that roamed almost unchecked through the vast forests; and after the hunt, as they lay around the great fires weary with the day's slaughter, the bards would sing other songs more peaceful in character, and partaking somewhat of the nature of their rough, but cherished home-life. And from the fragments of these songs that have come down to us, we are able to judge somewhat of the manner of living in those far-off times.

One of these old British lays relates the story of Crede, a beautiful princess of Kerry, who declared she would marry no one but a poet capable of describing her house. And then we see the picture of the young poet stepping out into the midst of the gay company, wearing a crimson cloak fastened with a gold brooch, and bearing his gold-rimmed shield, and gold-hilted sword, and shining spear, which he stands against the side of the hall while he takes the harp and sings of the beauty of Crede's house.

And from his song we learn that the house of the beautiful princess was well worthy of her. It was a hundred spans from one corner to another, and the heavy oaken door was twenty feet wide, with a lintel of carved silver, and posts of green bronze, and a portico thatched with wings of blue and yellow birds. Inside, the corner-stones were of silver and gold, and the floor was covered with green rushes. There were beautiful couches from the East, adorned with yellow gold and precious stones, and with embroidered curtains hanging from bronze rods; and there were chairs blazing with jewels, and silken gowns and blue mantles, and red and gold and crystal cups; and there was the great bronze vat filled with the "pleasant juice of the malt," and the cup-bearers clad in rich raiment passing to and fro among the guests bearing jewelled goblets filled with mead, and serving cakes and fruits; and there were songs and laughter and merry words, for Crede's house was always filled with guests, all of whom received cordial welcome, from the wandering musicians who paid for their welcome with a song, to the stern and solemn Druids who awed the children with their grave silence.

Such was the Song of Crede—sung by the brave young harper who was suing for her love, and listened to with critical attention by the gathered company who desired that the praises of their fair princess and her beautiful house should be celebrated in words and music the most fitting.

And then there was the song of Bailé, the Sweet-spoken, and the Princess Aillin, which tells how the unfortunate pair, being crossed in love and parted by bitter fate, set out to meet each other privately on the banks of the Boyne; and how, as Bailé and his followers were resting, having unyoked their chariots and sent their horses out to graze, they saw a horrible spectre like a man coming toward them along the shore, "swiftly as the hawk darts from the cliff or the wind rushes from off the sea." And he told Bailé that Aillin was dead, as had been foretold by the Druids, and that they would never meet in life, but would meet after death and would not part forever after that. And then the man passed by "as a blast of the wind," and Bailé fell dead of the evil tidings, and his tombstone was set up, and a yew grew up through his grave and the form of Bailé's head appeared on the top of it. And then the horrible spectre sped southward, and passed into the sunny chamber of Aillin, and told her he had witnessed the lamentations over Bailé who died while coming to meet her. Then Aillin fell dead, and her tombstone was set up and an apple-tree grew through her grave and became a great tree, and Aillin's head appeared on the top of it. And at the end of seven years the two trees were cut down by the poets and prophets and seers, and were made into two tablets, on which were written the loves of Bailé and Aillin. And long afterward, at a great festival of the bards of the realm, the poets came from the North bringing the tablet of yew, and the poets came from the South bringing the tablet of applewood, and as the lord of the festival held the two tablets in his hands, in order to read the tragic story engraven thereon, suddenly they sprang together and were united so firmly that they could not possibly be separated. And they were preserved many years in the treasury at Tara, until it was burned by an enemy of the land.

Among the most popular of these old songs were those of Taliesin, one of the greatest of the old bards. Taliesin, whose name meant Shining Forehead, and was given him on account of the wondrous beauty of his countenance, was one of those fascinating personages whom the early races delighted to surround with mystery. There were strange accounts of his birth, some asserting that he was the son of an enchanter and knew all the secrets of the past and the mysteries of the future, as well as the voices of nature in the world around, and that he had come from his home in the region of the summer stars to encourage man by his songs and prophecies.

Many of the songs relate to the victories of the great British chief Urien, which took place between the years 547 and 560. Taliesin is supposed to have passed many years of his life at the court of Urien, where he was chief bard, and at all the great feasts the warriors listened in astonishment and delight while Taliesin sang in a voice of unrivalled sweetness and power the deeds of their famous chieftain. He boasted always of Urien's exploits with loyal enthusiasm, Urien, whose rage was a sword and whose spirit inspired his followers, charging them to keep their faces ever toward the foe and raise their spears high above the heads of the Saxons. "Urien," he says, "is warlike, with the grandeur of a perfect prince." Urien is "the eagle of the land—he terrifies the trembling Saxon, whose destiny is a bier." And then, as the listeners bend forward more eagerly, the music swells, and the words grow more vehement. "What noise is that? Is it the earth that quakes, or the white swell of the sea rolling landward? If there is a cry on the hill, is it not Urien that terrifies? If there is a cry in the valley, is it not Urien thrusting his spear? If there is a cry in the mountains, is it not Urien conquering his enemies? If there is a sigh on the dyke, or a cry over the plains, or in the vale, it is Urien, whose spear is like death!"

Always of Urien the bard sings lovingly and boastingly, till the great chieftain meets his death and leaves his kingdom to his sons, whom Taliesin also serves till, one by one, they fall in battle. And then Taliesin withdraws from the world and spends the rest of his life in solitary retreat in Wales, mourning the past, and sighing over the years that have left him alone and homeless.

Among the finest of his songs which do not celebrate battle, is the "Song to the Wind," one of the best examples of the old British poetry. In this poem Taliesin sings of the wind, which will never be older or younger, which is unconfined and unequalled, coming from the four regions of the earth, and flaunting his banners over every land; unseen and seeing not, afar off and near by, bold and vehement, mute and loud-voiced, older than the earth, on sea and on land, coming unwelcome and refusing to come when desired, refusing to repair his wrong-doing and yet sinless, bearing heat of the sun and cold of the moon, without wants, and indispensable to man.

There are also a "Song to the Great World" and a "Song to the Little World," a "Song to Mead," and a "Song of Pleasant Things"—in all of which Taliesin shows that familiarity with nature and the acute perception of her beauties which are the gifts of the true poet. The wheat on the stalk waving in the wind, the berries which the reapers gather from the hedgerows in harvest time, the sea-gulls circling on the shore, the open fields where sing the cuckoo and nightingale, the slow, long days of summer, the charlock in the springing corn, the green heath, and the salt marsh, fire, water, mist, flowers, and south winds, are all noticed with a faithful touch by this old poet, to whom nature spoke so truly and lovingly, and who knew her heart so well, that even now, after so many years, the later poet can find no meaning fairer than that given by Taliesin to the mysteries that it is the poet's gift to divine.

The later deeds of Urien were also sung by Llywarch Hen, now generally considered the greatest genius perhaps of all the old bards, though to Taliesin is given the praise of possessing the sweetest voice. Llywarch Hen was a warrior as well as bard, and followed his chief to many a bloody battle. His "Lament for Urien" is full of power and pathos, and became so popular that it was sung hundreds of years afterward by the people of the country, when chief and poet were alike almost forgotten. The minstrel-warrior was with Urien as brother-in-arms at his last great battle with the Saxons, and carried the head of his chief in his mantle from the field. The old chant is full of the horrors of that fatal day—and Llywarch sings his song with a heart full of sorrow:

"The eagle of Gol, bold and generous,

Wrathful in war, sure of conquest

Was Urien with the ardent grasp.

A head I bear by my side,

The head of Urien, the leader,

And on his white bosom the black raven is perched;

A head I bear in my hand,

He that was a soaring eagle,

That was the shield of his country,

That was a wheel in battle,

That was a ready sword—

A head I bear that supported me.

Is there any known but he welcomed?

Woe to my hand, he is gone,

Woe to Reged from this day."

After the death of Urien, Llywarch Hen took refuge with Cyndyllan, another chief, who also fell in battle with the Saxons, who burned his house and massacred his family, and Llywarch Hen was again called upon to chant a funeral song. He sang mournfully:

"The house of Cyndyllan is gloomy this night, without fire and without song. Roofless and dark it stands, an open waste, that was once the resort of strong warriors. Without, the eagle screams loud, he has swallowed fresh drink, heart blood of Cyndyllan the fair. The house of Cyndyllan is the seat of chill grief, encircled with wide-spreading silence. Lonely it stands on the top of the rock of Hydwyth, without its lord, without guests, without the circling feasts!"

Twenty-four brave sons had Llywarch Hen, and all of them fell in fighting against their enemies. Gwenn, his best beloved, strong and large of stature, was the first to fall under the spears of the foemen, and the father's heart is filled with bitter grief as he laments for his favorite child:

"Let the wave break noisily; let it cover the shore as the lances meet in battle, let it cover the plain as the lances join in shock, for Gwenn has been slain at the ford of Morlas. O Gwenn, woe to him who is too old since he has lost you. Woe to him who is too old to avenge you! Behold the tomb of Gwenn, the fearless! Sweetly a bird sang above the head of Gwenn before they covered him with turf. But the song broke the heart of Llywarch Hen."

Llywarch Hen was also a close observer of nature, and in his descriptive poetry there is that same out-of-door freshness which distinguishes the work of Taliesin, and which is to be found in the writings of all the great English poets. In his songs of winter nothing seems to have been too small or insignificant to pass over, and every object is touched upon with the skill of the true poet; so that in reading the verses we see, as in a picture, the wet furrows, the yellow birch-tops, the bent branches bowing in the wind, the scurrying leaves, the heaps of hard grain safely housed, and hear without the war of the "gale and storm keeping equal pace."

Another time he speaks of the green-topped birch-saplings, and the long stems of brambles full of berries, of the thrush in her leafy nest, and the ferns drenched with showers, and the ocean veiled with the rain; he sees also the willow tops, the clover, the dog-rose, the apple blooms, the cresses and water-lilies, the hawthorn and meadow-sweet, and hears the cuckoo sing on "the blossom-covered branches, and in the ivied trees." And at night he shows us the humid glens shining under the moon, and the white-topped cliffs, and the wet beach surf-beaten and glistening, and we hear the "wave of sullen din and loud," breaking and washing over the pebbles and gravel of the shore.

Such were the songs that the old Britons listened to as they sat in the halls of their chiefs, or gathered around the blazing fires in the heart of the forest—songs of their kings and princes, and of the bloody battles fought with the enemy who had come to conquer their loved land, and of the familiar world of nature around them. It is impossible to tell positively just when these old songs were composed, for in those early times the poetry and history of the race were both handed down from generation to generation by word of mouth mainly. Taliesin and Llywarch Hen, it is pretty certain, lived in the sixth century, but, from the manner of transmitting the old songs by word of mouth, it might happen that a song in praise of one chieftain would, in the next generation, be applied to another, and thus it is hard to fix a date even for those songs which contain names somewhat familiar to history. But this does not make the songs themselves any the less interesting, as for many centuries the customs and habits of the Britons remained unchanged; and the lays that are ascribed to Taliesin, Llywarch Hen, Anewin, Ossian, and other bards will always have a charm for lovers of true poetry as well as for those who delight to trace the beginnings of a nation's history.