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Llewellyn was attached to Eleanor, the daughter of Simon de Montford, Earl of Leicester. Eleanor being a guest at the court of Philip, King of France, Llewellyn transmitted to him a request, that Eleanor might be sent to Cambria. “The French King granted his request, and sent the Lady Eleanor, under the conduct of her brother Amoury, to be conveyed into Wales, to Llewellyn, but ere they approach to Wales, at the Isles of Scilly, both the brother and sister were taken prisoners by some ships from Brystow.” Holinshead.

172

ELEANOR, thy promised bride,
From thine arms, is torn away;
By old Severn's rapid tide,
She is sad, who once was gay,
Desolate as maid may be,
Yet, Llewellyn! true to thee.

At the summons Love convey'd,
To the waiting bark I sped;
In the breeze the streamer play'd;
The sun, around, his glories shed;
Birds chanted loud their carols wild,
Whilst heaven, and earth, and ocean smiled.

Ah! little thought I of the fate,
So soon to whelm me in despair;—
That I should to my prison grate
Fly, to breathe the balmy air,
And ever, mid tumultuous fear,
Find friend, nor soothing parent near!

Down to the beach my mother came,
Cheerful, as she strove to be;—
I saw her turn, dear sainted name,
And shed a tear, a tear for me!
Of her captive daughter's woe,
May she never, never, know!

O'er the curling billows borne,
Fast I left the Gallic shore;
Thy Eleanor forgot to mourn,
For Love, inviting, sailed before:
Joy proclaim'd her jubilee—
I, Llewellyn, thought of thee!

173

A sudden cloud o'ercasts the sky!
At hand, two hostile ships appear!—
The scenes are past, and I will try
To check the unavailing tear!
Born to grief, and sorrow's heir,
I, alone, my portion bear!

The best of brothers, good, and kind,
From my side, nor succour near,
He, by war, with fury blind,
Was dragg'd to dungeon, dark, and drear:
His frantic grief, his last adieu,
Still, with shuddering heart, I view!

Amoury! thy life is sought;
All our promised joys are o'er;
I shall see, O piteous thought!
I shall see thy face no more!
Yet, thy memory, sweet to me,
Amoury! will ever be.

The dearest friend, of many, dear,
Thus, with me, I call to weep;
Yet, while thou drop'st affection's tear,
Still thy stately tenor keep!
Wield the sword of Roderi,
Till thy foes beneath thee lie!

Wherefore, from a maid like me,
Should these warlike accents flow?
I would not endanger thee,
For all the choicest gifts below.

174

Terrors, that new terrors wake,
Round, and round, their circuit take!

Mourn not, though the piercing blast
O'er my head, unshelter'd, flies;
May thy evil days be past!
May thy prosperous star arise!
Yet, sometimes, though vain it be,
Wilt thou, sighing, think of me?

At evening's still and solemn close,
I look toward Cambria's mountain bound;
And bless the river, as it flows
From meads and hills, where thou art found:
In its waters, hurrying by,
Oft Llewellyn's form I spy.

Must I, from my spirit cold,
Tear the last hope glimmering there?
Must I watch the hours unfold
With the fixed eye of despair?
Amid the bleak and wintry sky,
Expect no joy, no summer nigh?

Though it be delusion vain,
On which my faithless dreams recline;
I will banish grief and pain;
The dawn of fortune still may shine;
Hope, that glistens through my tear,
Whispers, Happier days are near!

Ah! I hear, mid Severn's roar,
A voice, as of a seraph mild;
Which says, that thou wilt never more
See De Montford's sorrowing child!

175

Farewell, Llewellyn! round my head,
Still deeper mists and shadows spread!

Yet, as before me, earth declines,
The sun, upon thy brow, appears!
His fairest beam, there, lingering shines!
Thou source of all my hopes and fears,
When I am dead, which soon will be,
I know that thou wilt think of me!