"Bala Lake Ballad"

A poem based on the Welsh “Story of Llyn Tegid”

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BALA LAKE BALLAD

by Jane Murphy

Deep in the ocean, sequestered in gloom,
Many great wonders abound.
Treasures long lost that the waters entomb
Lure but will never be found.

Wonder lies, too, in the depths of great lakes,
Where in the mountains they lie.
Fields of bright gemstones the sun of them makes;
Though they’re drab neath a grey sky.

At midnight, when phantoms arise from their graves,
The lakes are enchanted, they say,
And moonlight gleams silvery over their waves
Like footprints of fairies at play.

What secrets lie in the depths far below,
Hidden in soundless repose?
What would one find, if there one were to go?
None can tell; nobody knows.

Yet it is said that if one comes to stand
List’ning in stillness, he’ll hear
Echoes from when that deep place was dry land,
Vague music whose strains once were clear.

Sometimes one hears in those mystical streams
A faint, distant pealing of bells,
Chimes of a glad celebration, it seems,
Or mournful, funereal knells.

Some people say that in perfect suspension
Of everything less than serene,
Deep in the waters, an inner dimension
Of long-ago life can be seen.

Opulent cities where mansions of fine
Marble in glorious hues
Stand amid gardens of tasteful design,
Tall trees and broad avenues.

Workshop and marketplace tell of the rush
Of life that once fared in this land.
All lies inert in mysterious hush,
Surrounded by lake weed and sand. 

Stories are told of a powerful prince
Who ruled an abundant domain.
No one before him nor anyone since
Has held a more prosperous reign.

Owner of forest and orchard and field,
And all things produced on the farms,
Each year a stunningly bountiful yield
Filled his storehouses and barns.

His coffers were laden with wealth from his mines,
His cellars with fruits of the soil,
Tribute was paid by unchanging deadlines
From peasants’ hard labor and toil. 

That mighty prince might have been wise and kind,
Content in his fortunate lot.
He might have been honored, his epoch enshrined,
He might have; alas, he was not.

Cunningly evil and wicked instead,
He ruled by oppression and fear.
Few dared to whisper of warning or dread,
Lest somehow their words find his ear.

By tyranny crushing all under his sway,
He raised a manse of marble walls.
Masons and carpenters toiled night and day,
Enhancing his palace’s halls.

Next, he commanded a garden be made,
More wondrous than ever was seen.
He sneered at the workers who meekly obeyed,
And threats of his whip were routine.
 
His workmen exhausted, he’d only begun
His indulgence in lavish extremes.
It took many years for the work to be done
On all of his grandiose schemes.

The people toiled thus for the wicked man’s pelf,
For he was more clever than they,
Thinking no power transcended himself,
No cause not to force his own way.

He might have known better, had he taken warning
That came to him by a small bird.
“Vengeance will come!” it sang one grey morning,
But he feigned that he hadn’t heard.

Yet he had heard, and heard it repeatedly,
For that voice haunted his mind.
Sometimes he laughed and scoffed most conceitedly,
Vowed he’d be yet more unkind.

Remorseless, he snarled in anger and hatred
When he heard repeated that word:
“Vengeance! Vengeance!” The warning was sacred,
But he cursed the messenger bird.

The prince had a daughter as evil as he;
And soon would come her wedding day.
He planned for the grand celebration with glee;
His excess would be on display.

All his acquaintances, friends, and relations
Were evil and devil-may-care.
He sent to them all elegant invitations,
And when that day dawned, all were there.

While circulating among preparations
For all the events of the day,
The prince heard the word that caused him vexation,
And cursed as the bird flew away.

“Vengeance will come! Vengeance will come!”
The tiny voice piped overhead.
The prince found distraction by raging at some
Poor servant’s arrangements of bread.

Fragrance of flowers enchanted the air,
Feasting continued all day,
Glorious music was heard everywhere!
Revelry! Merriment! Play!

The peasants withdrew to the side of the hill,
Away from the prince’s iron hand.
Dawn became proud golden daylight until
The eventide darkened the land.

A weary old harper came over the road,
Hoping that somehow he might
Find shelter where he could lay down his load,
A meal, and a bed for the night.

Seeing a woman at her cottage door,
He asked if she knew such a place.
Never in his life had he seen a more
Terrified look on a face,

Whispering faintly so that none might hear,
Of evil that everywhere lay.
“Go away, harper! There’s cause for great fear!
Get out of this place while you may!”

She quickly retreated into her abode,
And hastily bolted her door.
None in the village nor none on the road
Would say to him anything more.

The poor old man, knowing he must eat or die,
At length approached the palace grounds.
Moonlit magnificence stunned his old eyes;
His ears heard melodious sounds.

Through open windows the old man could see
A glamorous, candlelit ball,
Colorful revelers dancing, carefree,
To music that filled the great hall.

He took up his harp then, and tenderly played,
Revived by the music he heard.
A servant brought food, which his hunger allayed,
And soon came a small, friendly bird.

The bird sang, then moved a short distance away,
Beckoning to its new friend.
The old man arose, disinclined there to stay,
And followed its lead to the end.

“Vengeance! Vengeance!” The sorrowful song
Preceded the harper’s retreat
Far from the palace with its merry throng,
On tired but unquestioning feet.

At last, they arrived at the top of a hill,
High above that accursed land.
The old man, for sleep that eluded him still,
Lay down with his harp near his hand.

Ere he surrendered to his sleepy trance,
He thought of the place where he’d dined,
The glamorous spell of the music and dance,
The sumptuous feast, and the wine.

What of the good life that he’d left behind?
Was it too late to return?
The steep downward path he was meant not to find,
While sleep was his rightful concern.

When the old harper awakened at dawn,
He looked towards the valley below.
All that had been there before was now gone!
Where, wondered he, did it go?

He rubbed his old eyes to prove he was awake,
And truly perceiving the scene:
The mirrorlike face of a wide, serene lake, 
As though it forever had been.

But the harper knew well that on that fateful night
The waters of vengeance had come
To swallow the works of malevolent spite
By a tyrant who tortured therefrom.

So lies Bala Lake o’er that ancient nightmare,
Whose palace no more knows the day.
Yet once by pale moonlight, a boatman rowed there,
Then stopped, and his oars pulled away.

In the stillness and silence of those midnight hours,
The boatman gazed into the deep.
He saw marble walls and magnificent towers,
And heard a faint avian peep.

The voice sang its song, repeating it long.
There was no sign of where it came from,
But its warning is clear to all those who will hear:
Where evil lives, vengeance will come.

Source: Bernard Henderson and Stephen Jones, Wonder Tales of Ancient Wales (2010): 35-40