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they remained, of Edward Ie Despenser and Elizabeth, his wife. The Avon family seems to have been more parochial in their outlook, though the last of the lords, Thomas, is stated to have married a daughter of Sir William Blount of the North, than were the lords of Coyty and doubt- less they commanded a more purely tribal allegi- ance. Yet they, too, were influenced by the social atmosphere of the of the "vale," to such degree as we have already mentioned to resist anything like a call from native chieftains, like Llewelyn Bren, who fired with love of freedom and country, dreamed of, and what is more was willing to hazard, a national revolt. But such attempts long before the 14th century, were doomed to early failure, if not actually stillborn. [Arianrod of the Silver Girdle cast upon Liew Llaw Gyffes such doom as that he should wed no woman born; wherefore Math ap Mathonwy and Gwydion ap Don made for him a wife out of flowers, whom they called Blodeu- wedd, that is to say Flower-Face but she gave her love to Gronw Pebyr, Lord of Penllyd, who by her aid smote Llew with a spear, so that he was turned into the like- ness of a raven. Then Gwydion by his magic arts restored Llew to his natural shape, and he slew Gronw, but Blodeuwedd Gwydion changed to an owl. And there- fore it is that all birds hate and attack the owl, because she was faithless to her husband.] As I went through the little wood, Where the gnarled old ashes dreaming stood, In the broken moonlight, dim and vast, A gray owl flew lumbering past, Gleamed in a moon-ray, wheeled, and lurched To a knotted bough, and there perched, Glaring at me with great round eyes Of an indolent fierceness, malignly wise With the wisdom of all earth's hoarded sin. I stopped, and felt my heart begin To thump my ribs; my blood ran chill With a sick fear. The owl still Stared unwinking, and ere I knew, "Bird," I cried, "What thing are you, Night-begotten, like some foul thought Out of the soul's dark caverns brought To haunt my waking hours"? And she In human accents answered me Lucent clear, like a silver bell, The sweet tones on the darkness fell: Me, by help of demon powers Math and Gwydion made from flowers. From many a fragrant, dim recess They chose, to build my loveliness, All flowers most tender and delicate, Shy wood-sorrel and violet, Windflowers, milkworts white and blue, Exquisite harebells pearled with dew, Speedwell, bugle, and clover white; And so, to music and mystic rite, Wrought marvellously, by magic art, My dainty body and passionate heart. For the proud queen of the silver zone BLODEUWEDD. The Norman intrusion into the lordship of Glamor- gan was not a mere conquest by arms. The peaceful penetration of the alluring comforts of life that the Normans brought with them sapped the moral stamina of the native inhabitants. This enticement was accentuated in the 13th century and still more so in the 14th century, when those arch-lovers of pomp, display and ease, the Despensers, whose metier in that direction had won for them royal favour and privilege, set a glowing example, which the underlings of baronial magnificence endeavoured tø emulate, the whole cancer eating through to those fiery spirits who desert d their holdings in the hil country for the more attractive pursuits and pleasures of borough and vill. On Llew Llaw Gyffes such doom had thrown No woman born should be his wife. For him they shaped me and gave me life And such beauty as child of man Never wore since life began; And to Llew's hall I went as bride, To rule Ardudwy by his side." "Ah Queen I cried, "the tale I know, Your love and treason, the felon blow That Gronw Pebyr dealt to Llew, And the dark day that Gronw slew And turned your beauty to this night-bird." I ceased and of a sudden I heard, On the still night-air, such lament, So sweet yet sad, and so blent With fragments of forgotten moan And all grief that was ever known, 'Twould have drawn tears from a heart of stone. I wept for pity; and "Oh," she cried, "To remember all my beauty's pride, The long fingers, the flower-sweet hair, The white feet that walked on air, And slim body, and rich, full breast, And the red lips that, night-long pressed To his lips, drunk with bliss, Those burning kisses, kiss on kiss, Gave and took, while outside In the swaying boughs the gale cried, And the fire sank, and the torches died, And the hangings heaved along the wall, But we lay there, and love was all "But love and hate and laughter and tears Lie buried under the heaped-up years, And the long feasts we loved of old, The rich raiment, the gems and gold, And youth and song and lustihead Like morning mists are all fled The voice died, and a low moan, To the sad lament sad undertone, Stirred the air; and silence fell. The wood dreamed in the moonlight's spell; And she, through the branches glimmering gray, Flew like a ghost; and I went my way. H. IDRIS BELL.