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Displaying what is exquisite display'd,
Alone she came, alone she went not on.
Emrys and Uther, come not here to charge
Noon is ablaze in Heaven, but gloom, the gloom
And first majestical, yet mild, arose A lofty shape, por less than monarch seem'd, Whose royal look from souls bold, brave, and free, Not stouping slavery claim'd, but upright awe And noble homage; yet uncrown'd he wore Dominion, him with stately reverence heard That armed Senale. “Princes of the land, Lords of the old hereditary thrones Of Britain, we, the sons of Constantine,
“ Warriors of Britain! me nor pomp of words Beseems, nor strife of smooth and liquid phrase In the debate of swords, the fray of steeds
No combatant unskill'd. I will not boast
Vortigern is our foe, no more our King,
Had never his high vaulting pride disdain'd
The smooth dominion of old use, nor striven But when my arm 'gan grasp a sword, those tears, To fix on our impatient necks the yoke Those soft unseemly waters, turn'd to hues
Of foreign usurpation ; our free land Of burning indignation; every crown
Will not endure the heathen Saxon's rule. Show'd, every kingly title to my ear
Nor him that roles by heathen Saxon power.
From our once King not falling off in hate
So march we forth, and in such state may make
Side by side, the fair airs to captivate As summer meteor, more pernicious, that
To an approval of our upright deed, Waning into the dul unkindling air,
Our royal banner and the Cross of Christ; We burning, desolating as we pass.
And move within their cirque of splendour, calm, On, Britons, on! a tyrant fills your throne,
And yet resistless as the bright-maned steeds Nor fitter monument may tyrant find
That bear the Morn to disenthrone old Night. Than his throne's ruins ; let the flat earth close
“ And now our kingly sceptre, forced aside, O'er both at once; the stranger Saxon lords
By stress and pressure of disorder'd times, Within our isle, the seas that bore him here
Devious into an alien hand, reverts In his storm-braving navy, bear him back
To the old line; the heir of Constantine, Weltering and rossing in their drowning surge."
Constans, the elder than this noble pair, Low'ring he stood, still in fierce act of speech,
Stands foremost on succession's golden roll. Yet speechless. Sudden, then, in dread uproar
Nor know not I his gentle soul more apt, Rose shout of war, with thundering clash of arms
To listen the soft flowing vesper hymn, Mingled, then hurrying spears and nodding helms
Than danger's spini-stirring trump, yet deem, With glittering tumult in the pale gloom flash'd;
Thus once forewarn'd 't is dangerous to divert War, war each voice, each stricken shield denounced. The stream of royal blood, that broken, pours
Waters of bitterness and civil strife Amid the multitudinous din arose
O'er th' harass'd land, and therefore thus hail I Solemnly the Bright City's Lord; down sunk Constans the King of Britain. Speak I right? Instant all tumult, broke abruptly off
I pause, and wait, 0 Chiefs ! your high award." Fierce voice and clash of arms : so mute and deep
He ceased, nor time for voice or swift acclaim, Settled the silence, the low sound was heard of distant waterfall; the acorn drop
Scowling a sullen laugh of scorn, leap'd forth
The mouniain King, the Sovereign of the lakes From the green arch above. Still and abash'd
And dales this side the Caledonian bound ;
He only, when the Kings sate awe-struck, stood
Elate with mocking pity in his frown; “ Brave sight for earth, and heaven! it doth not fail. A mighty savage, he of God and man A nation's cry for freedom and for faith,
Alike contemptuous : nought of Christian lore Nor faint, nor deaden in the mist and gloom
knew he, yet scoff'd unknown, 't was peaceful, meek, of this low earth, it takes the morning's wings,
Thence worthless knowledge. Him delighted moro Passeth the crystal skies, and beats heaven's gale ; Helvellyn's cloud-wrapt brow to climb, and share There glideth through the gladdening Angel choirs, The eagle's stormy solitude ; 'mid wreck That fan it onward with their favouring plumes,
Of whirlwinds and dire lighinings huge he stood, To the eternal sapphire throne, and him
Where his own Gods he deem'd on volleying clouds That sits thereon, Ineflable. O Kings !
Abroad were riding and black hurricane. Our council thus appealing may not wear
Them in their misty pride assail'd he oft Seeming of earthly passion, lust of sway,
With impious threat, and laugh'd when th' echoing Or frenetic vengeance: we must rise in wrath,
glens But wear it as a mourner's robe of grief,
His wild defiance cast unanswer'd back. Not as a garh of joy: must boldly strike,
Now with curi'd lip of scorn, and brow uplift, But like the Roman, with reverted face,
Lordly command, not counsel fierce he spake. In sorrow to be so enforced. Brave Chiefs,
Shame. coward shame! as though the fowls os It would misseem a son of this proud isle,
heaven, To trample on the fallen, though a King;
When in dusk majesty and pride of wing It would misseem a Christian to rejoice
Sails forth the monarch eagle, down should stoop Where virtue haih plny'd false, and fame's pure light In homage to the daw. O) craven souls ! Hath sicken'd to dishonourable gloom.
When Snowdon or high Skiddaw's brow is bare,
To plant the stately standard of revolt
They in blank wonder sate, nor wholly quell’d Upon a molehill. Constans ! that to him
Wrath and insulted majesty, with look Caswallon should bow down ; aloft our crown As he were still in presence fix’d, and stern. Upon the giddy banner staff, that rocks
Then spake Prince Emrys, “ Not of trivial toil On Troynovant's tall citadel, uphang,
To shape the rude trunk of our enterprise And who the dizzy glory will rend down,
To smooth perfection ; deeply must we found, Or Constans or Caswallon? The bright throne And strongly build the fabric of our hopes, Environ with grim ranks of steel-girt men :
And each must hold his charge. Be, Samor, thine Huge Saxons black with grisly scars of war,
To bear our brother Constans Britain's crown,
In name of our assembled Kings. Be mine
The succours of his high-famed Chivalry.
Thou. Uther, to the West ; each other King
To lead his armed Vassalage abroad."
So saying, each departed; fell again
The ancient silence on the solemn place. In rude disorder and infuriate haste
Together from the forest pass'd the friends, Sprang every warrior from his seat, as clouds
Samor and Elidure; below their way Amid the sultry heaven, thunderous and vast, Went wandering on through flowery meads, or sank Gather their blackening disarray to burst
Beneath green arches dim of beechen shade. l'pon some mountain turret, so the Chiefs
Around the golden hills in summer wealth Banded their fierre confusion to rush on.
Bask'd in the sunshine ; on a river bank And whelm in his insulting pride the foe.
Long gleaming down its woodland course, reposed He stood as one in joy, and lower'd a smile,
Many a white hamlet: even fierce shrines of war With wolf-skin robe Aung back, broad shield out. Wore aspect mild of peace; towers dark of yore stretch'd,
And rugged in the Roman war array, A battle are uplift: vaunting and huge
With wanton ivy and grey moss o'ergrown, As fabled giant on embattled Heaven,
Their green crowns melted in the azure heavens. Glaring not less than utter overthrow, And total wreck. Forth with a youth rush'd out,
"Oh grief! o'er yon fair meads and smiling lawns His moony buckler high upheld to bar
Must steeds of carnage batten, men of blood The onset, and with voice, which youthful awe
Their fell magnificence of murderous pomp Temper'd to tone less resolule, address'd
Pavilion in yon placid groves of peace. The haughty Chieftain. “Father, deem not thou, The blood-thirsi savages of wood and air, Malwyn confederate in thy lawless thought;
In meet abodes of wilderness and woe,
Shroud their abhorred revels; the gaunt wolf
Raven and screaming vulture. Man, fell man, And burnan joy almost to sofiness smoothed
Envious of bliss he scorns, 'mid hannis of peace Caswallon's rugged brow. * Well bast thou said,
Spots fair and blissful, the rare stars of earth, Son of Caswallon, worthy of thy sire !
Plays ever his foul game of spoil and death, On thine own track mount thou to fame, nor swerve
Ruthless, then vaunts himself Creation's pride, For man, or more than man."- A while the Kings Supreme o'er all alone in deeds of blood.” Brief parley held, then stately and severe Rose Emrys, and pronounced their stern arrest.
Thus Elidure; bim Samor, from deep trance
Wakening, address’d: “Sofi man of peace, my prayer -Caswallon of the Mountains, long our isle Would ask of heaven no theatre of strife Hath mark'd thy wavering mood, now friend now Save yon fair plain : there forth the weak would start foe;
In the tumultuons valour of despair, Now in the Caledonian inroad prompt
The timorous proudly tower in scom of death : To bear thy skare in rapine, foremost now
There, where each free, each dell, each grassy knoll, In our high councils. This we further say,
Lovely from memory of some past delight,
The altar of his bridal vow, the font
Blissful and free, that angels there might walk or branches rent by his unstooping helm.
Forgetful of their heavenly bowers of light,
Friend of my boyhood, these all-conquering foes, Scornful, she said, Lo, Britain, through your land Who fetter the free winds, and ride the sea
I lead the enthralled sovereign of your isle. Kinglike, their menacing prows would turn aloof, Yet so surpassing fair, brief instant wish'd And bitterly, in bafiled lust of prey,
Those wrathful Briton Chiefs their leafy screen Curse the proud happiness that mock'd their might." A thin transparent cloud : of his high charge
Brief while forgelful, Samor stood entranced, Lo, here he paused, gay files of dazzling light Fearing her form should Neet too swift away. Slow o'er the plain advancing, indistinct From their full brightness ; gradual the long blaze Came it from earth or air, yon savage shape, Broke into form, and lance and bow and helm,
His garb, if garb it be, of shaggy hair Standard and streamer, chariot and fair steed,
Close folding o'er his dusky limbs, his locks Start from the mingled splendour. On their height And waving maited beard like cypress boughs Unseen, the Chieftains watch'd the winding pomp. On bleak heath swaying to the midnight storm ? And all before the azure-vested Bards
Came he from yon deep wood ? On the light spray From glancing instruments shook bridal glee.
No leaf is stirring. On the winged winds Then came the gorgeous chariots, rough with gold,
Rode he? No breeze awakes the noontide air. And steeds their proud heads nodding with rich 'Mid that arm'd throng, dismaying, undismay'd, weight
With a strange eye dilated, as unused Of frontlet wreathed with flowers and shadowy To common sights of earth, and voice that seem'd plumes;
Rarely to hold discourse with human ears, Therein sate ladies robed in costly state,
“Joy," and again, and thrice he utiered “ Joy." Each like a Queen; the noble charioteers,
Cower'd Horsa on his palsied steed ; aghast, Briton in garb, with purple mantle loose,
As toiling to despise the thing he fear'd, O'er steel, in network bright, or scale o'er scale,
Sate Hengist. “Joy to Bridegroom and to Bride! Glittering, and aventayle barr'd close and firm,
Why should not man rejoice, and earth be glad ? As yet the gaudy traitors shamed to meet
Beyond the sphere of man, the round of earth, The cold keen glance of countrymen betray'd.
There's loud rejoicing ; 't is not in the heavens ! Dark in their iron arms, some wildly girt
And many ministrant Angels shake their wings With Caledonian spoils, their yellow hair
In gladness, wings that are not plurned with light Down from the casque in broad luxuriant flow
The dead are jocund, not the dead in bliss. Spreading, and lofiy banner wide display'd,
Your couch is blest — by all whose blessings blast, Whereon a milk-white courser reinless shone,
All things uplovely gratulate your love. Paced forth the Saxon warriors. High o'er all,
I see the nuptial pomp, the nuptial song Tempestuous Horsa, chafing his hot steed,
I hear, and full the pomp, for Hate, and Fear, And Hengist with his wreath of amber beads,*
And excellent Dishonour, and bright Shame, His hoary strength, in spite of age or toil,
And rose-cheek'd Grief, and jovial Discontent, A tower of might; with that tall grove of spears,
And that majestic herald, Infamy, Circled, and rampire close of serried shields,
And that high noble, Servitude, are there, T'he bridegroom Monarch rode, his bright attire
A blithesome troop, a gay and festive crew. Peaceful, as fitting nuptial pomp, his robe
And the Land's curses are the bridal hymn; Rich-floating strew'd the earth with purple shade,
Sweetly and shrilly doth th'accordant Isle And on his lofty brow a regal crown,
Imprecale the glad Hymenean song. Bright as a wreath of sunbeams; high his arm
So joy again, I say, 10 Britain's King, The ivory sceptre bore of kingly sway:
That taketh to his bosom Britain's fate,
Her beautiful destruction to his bed.
And joy to Britain's Queen, who bears her Lord
So bright a dowry and profuse, long years Now jocund, changed anon to wandering stare,
of war and havoc, and fair streams of blood, Fearful and wild, as the still air were rise With vengeful javelins showering death ; his pace
And plenteous ruin, loss of crown and fame,
And full perdition of the immortal soul;
So thrice again I utter •joy,' joy,' joy!”
Then up sprung spear to strike, and bicker'd bow. With silver bells its pendent mane profuse,
Ere spear could strike, or shaft could fly, the path Of silver and of stainless ermelin
Was bare and vacant; shape nor sound remain'd; The bright caparisons, and all her robes
Only the voice of Vortigern moan'd out, White as of woven lily cups, the Bride
" Merlin,"— and on the long procession pas'd. Majestic rode as on a waving throne.
Down in a quiet dale, where beechen groves Her sunbright hair she waved, and smiled around,
With interchanging gold and glossy green As though, of less than kingly Paramour
O'ermantled the smooth slopes, that fell around * He is so decorated by the Welsh Poets. Sce Transl. of the Like a fair amphitheatre, beneath Brut. of Tysilio, by Peter Roberts.
A brook went wand'ring through fresh meadow banks,
To Britain's throne?" “Even free as I renounce The everlasting enemy of man." “Will thy voice mingle with the general cry, “Long live King Emrys?'”-“ Long may Emrys live, Even the eternal life beyond the grave."
“ Yet one word more: 't is perilous in the storm For the tall pine, nor less, in evil days, For the high-born and exalted of the state. The Saxon blood-hounds are abroad for prey, Seek thou some quiet solitude remote, Beyond their prowling range."--His arm to Heaven Slowly uplified, “ Will they reach me there ?" Spake the meek Hermit, “ there is rest secure.”
They parted; gentle Elidure alone, Lingering with somewhat of an envious gaze, View'd the deep quiet of that placid del).
With a cool summer dashing, here the Chiefs
They at his feet down laid the kingly crown,
That night were seen along the dusky wood, Of more than human stature moving forms, Pale faces circled with black iron helms, Not of the Briton shape their garb or arms; Stealthy their pace and slow; the peasants thought Demons of evil that sad night had power, And pray'd Heaven's grace to guard the saintly man.
At morn roved forth the peasant, down the dale His dog went bounding to the Hermit's cell, For all mute creatures loved the man of God. A quick and desolate moaning nearer callid The peasant; in officious grief the dog Stood licking the cold hand that drooping hung Lifeless; the mild composure of his brow On the cross rested; praying he had died, And his cold features yet were smiling prayer.
Calm answer'd Constans : " Earth's exalted fame, Grandeurs and glories gleam upon my soul Like wintery sun-light on a plain of snow. With prayers, a Hermii's arms, I aid your causeFarewell. Why pause ye, as to question more The wisdom of my choice-lo, yon fair orb; How spotless the fine azure where he holds His secret palace, knows not his pure light A stain of dimness, till th' abode of men Pours o'er it is infectious mists.” “Oh, Prince ! "T is not the glory of that peerless light, The barren glittering, the unfruitful waste 01 splendour on the still inanimate skies; It is the life, the motion, and the joy It breathes along this world of man, the broad Munificence of blessing that awakes, And in its rapturous gratitude springs up, To glorify its bounteous source of pride."
Orient the bright-hair'd Charioteer of heaven
“ I see thy brow at thine own words on fire; Mine. Samor, yel is calm and cold.” “Dost thou, Constans, all title, claim, and right renounce
"Saxon! that o'er this fair and princely ísle Thou wouldst win empire by the sword of war, I marvel not, arraign not-'t is a dream, Noble as o'er the heavens to walk abroad,