And Lancastrians,
under the surface of the plain, where Mortimer's Cross once stood,
that plain on the eastern side of which meanders the murmuring Lug;
that noble plain, where one of the hardest battles which ever
blooded English soil was fought; where beautiful young Edward
gained a crown, and old Owen lost a head, which when young had been
the most beautiful of heads, which had gained for him the
appellation of the Rose of Anglesey, and which had captivated the
glances of the fair daughter of France, the widow of Monmouth's
Harry, the immortal victor of Agincourt.
Nevertheless, long did I stare at that tomb which though not that
of the Rose of Mona and his queen, is certainly the tomb of some
mighty one of the mighty race of Theodore. Then saying something
in Welsh to the pretty damsel, at which she started, and putting
something into her hand, at which she curtseyed, I hurried out of
the church.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Mental Excitation - Land of Poets - The Man in Grey - Drinking
Healths - The Greatest Prydydd - Envy - Welshmen not Hogs -
Gentlemanly Feeling - What Pursuit? - Tell him to Walk Up - Editor
of the TIMES - Careful Wife - Departure.
I REGAINED the high road by a short cut, which I discovered, across
a field. I proceeded rapidly along for some time. My mind was
very much excited: I was in the birthplace of the mighty Tudors -
I had just seen the tomb of one of them; I was also in the land of
the bard; a country which had produced Gwalchmai who sang the
triumphs of Owain, and him who had sung the Cowydd of Judgment,
Gronwy Owen. So no wonder I was excited. On I went reciting
bardic snatches connected with Anglesey. At length I began
repeating Black Robin's ode in praise of the island, or rather my
own translation of it, executed more than thirty years before,
which amongst others, contains the following lines:-
"Twelve sober men the muses woo,
Twelve sober men in Anglesey,
Dwelling at home, like patriots true,
In reverence for Anglesey."
"Oh," said I, after I had recited that stanza, "what would I not
give to see one of those sober patriotic bards, or at least one of
their legitimate successors, for by this time no doubt, the sober
poets, mentioned by Black Robin, are dead. That they left
legitimate successors who can doubt? for Anglesey is never to be
without bards. Have we not the words, not of Robin the Black, but
Huw the Red to that effect?
"'Brodir, gnawd ynddi prydydd;
Heb ganu ni bu ni bydd.'
"That is: a hospitable country, in which a poet is a thing of
course. It has never been and will never be without song."
Here I became silent, and presently arrived at the side of a little
dell or ravine, down which the road led, from east to west.
