"That drops from Macon's sooty tree, "Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell, "Our Cross with crimson wove and gold!" THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR. AN ODE. STATELY the feast, and high the cheer: Girt with many an armed peer, And warlike splendour, Henry sate; A thousand torches flam'd aloof: The storied tapestry was hung: many a sunless solitude Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude,) To crown the banquet's solemn close, Themes of British glory chose; And to the strings of various chime Attemper'd thus the fabling rhyme. "O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roar'd, High the screaming sea-mew soar'd; "On Tintaggel's topmost tower "Darksome fell the sleety shower; "Round the rough castle shrilly sung "The whirling blast, and wildly flung "On each tall rampart's thundering side "The surges of the tumbling tide : "When Arthur rang'd his red-cross ranks "On conscious Camlan's crimson'd banks: By Mordred's faithless guile decreed "Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed! "Yet in vain a paynim foe "Arm'd with fate the mighty blow; "For when he fell, an elfin queen, "All in secret, and unseen, "O'er the fainting hero threw "To her green isle's enamell'd steep, "She pillow'd his majestic head; "O'er his brow, with whispers bland, "Thrice she wav'd an opiate wand; "And to soft music's airy sound, "Her magic curtains clos'd around. "There, renew'd the vital spring, Again he reigns a mighty king; "And many a fair and fragrant clime, "Blooming in immortal prime, "By gales of Eden ever fann'd, "Owns the monarch's high command: "Thence to Britain shall return, "(If right prophetic rolls I learn) "Borne on victory's spreading plume, "His ancient sceptre to resume; "Once more, in old heroic pride, "His barbed courser to bestride; "His knightly table to restore, "And brave the tournaments of yore." They ceas'd: when on the tuneful stage And thus he wak'd the warbling wire. "Listen, Henry, to my read! "Not from fairy realms I lead Bright-rob'd Tradition, to relate "In forged colours Arthur's fate; 66 Though much of old romantic lore "On the high theme I keep in store: "But boastful Fiction should be dumb, "Where Truth the strain might best become. "If thine ear may still be won "With songs of Uther's glorious son, 66 Henry, I a tale unfold, "Never yet in rhyme enroll'd, "Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bower; 66 Taught me to chant, one vernal dawn, "Deep in a cliff-encircled lawn, "What time the glistening vapours fled "From cloud-envelop'd Clyder's head; "And on its sides the torrents gray "But when he fell, with winged speed, "His champions, on a milk-white steed, "Bore him to Joseph's towered fane, "No mouldering trophies mark the grave: "Away the ruthless Dane has torn "Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn; "And long, o'er the neglected stone, "Oblivion's veil its shade has thrown: "The faded tomb, with honour due, "Yon recreant isle, and sheath'd the sword, |