With liquid glory: so may thy renown
Burn in my heart, and give to thought and word
The aspiring and the radiant hue of fire.

Forth from the gates of Troynovant hath pass'd
King Vortigern; the Princes of the Isle
Around him; on the walls, for then (though now
Scorn bounds her mighty wilderness of streets,
And in magnificence of multitude
Spread, and illimitable grandeur), walls
With jealous circuit and embattled range
Girt Britain's narrow Capital; where swarm'd
Eager her wondering citizens to see

The Monarch. Him the Saxon Hengist met,
And Horsa, with their bands in triumph led,
As from a recent victory; their blue eyes
Sparkled, and proud they shook their saffron hair;
And in the bicker of their spears, the toss
Of ponderous mallets, the quick flash of swords,
Th' emblazon'd White Horse on their banners waved,
Was triumph. Thus King Vortigern began:

"Welcome, Deliverers! of our kingdom's foes,
Welcome, thrice-honour'd Conquerors! never more
Shall painted Caledonian o'er our realm
The chariots of his rapine wheel, so full
The desolation, havoc so complete

Hath smote and blasted in Erle Hengist's path.
The mouldering ruins of our Roman wall,
Leagued with the terror of the Saxon name,
Shall be defence more mighty, than when soar'd
Its battlements unbrokep, and above
The imperial Eagle shook its wings of gold.
Oh, toil'd with victory, burthen'd with renown,
For ye our baths float cool and clear, our air
Is redolent with garland wreathes, and rich
Within our royal citadel is crown'd
For ye the banquet; welcome once again,
Mighty to save, and potent to defend!"
A faint acclaim, a feeble sullen din
Ensued, with less of gladness than fierce grief,
And wrath ill stifled. Seeming all unmoved,
Elate the Monarch onward led the way;
Slow follow'd Saxon Hengist's martial train,
Clashing their armour loud, as they would daunt
All Britain with the clamour: march'd behind
The island Nobles, save some restless hands
Were busy with their sheathed swords, they moved
Silent, and cold, and gloomy, as a range

Of mountain pines, when cloudy lowers the storm.

Upon the azure bosom of the Thames
Reclining, with its ponderous mass of shade,
Arose the royal Citadel, the work

Of the great Cæsar. Danger he and dread
Of Rome and Pompey; yet 'gainst savage foes
Vantage of trench and tower and massy wall
Scorn'd not, so swift, so perilous, so fierce
Cassivelan his painted charioteers
Whirl'd to the frantic onset, standing forth
Portent of freedom 'mid a world enslaved.

They pass'd the portal arch; the sumptuous hall Flung back its gates; around the banquet board Ranged Prince and Chieftain, where luxurious art

Shower'd prodigal her dainties, poisons sweet,
And baleful splendour. Fierce the Saxon gazed
On goblet, and huge charger carved with gold,
Contemptuous wonder. But the Monarch's brow
'Gan lighten, as with greedy joy he quaff d
Oblivious bliss; thus ever guilty soul
Woos frenzy, and, voluptuous from despair,
Forgets itself to pleasure. High aloof,
Each in his azure robe, the band of Bards
Mingled the wanton luxuries of sound;
Gentle melodious languor, melting fall,
With faint effeminate flattery the soul
Guiling of manhood. Silent veil'd his harp
White-hair'd Aneurin, and indignant tears
Stood in the old man's eye, for wrathful shame
To hear his god-like and heaven-breathing art
Pampering loose revels with officious chime.
Then rose the glorious madness; forth he sprung
With one rude stroke along the clashing chords
Won silence deep as of a summer eve
After a noontide storm; his silver locks
Waved proud, the kindling frenzy of his eye
Flash'd triumph, as the song of Chariots rose.
The song that o'er the van of battle shower'd
Pale horror, when that scourged Icenian Queen
Through the square legions drove her car; were heard
Her brazen wheels to madden, the keen scythes
Gride through their iron harvest; then rush'd rout,
Wail'd havoc; seem'd Bonduca fiercer urged
The trampling steeds; behind her silence sank
Along the dreary path of her revenge.

Ceased the bold strain, then deep the Saxon drain'd
The ruddy cup, and savage joy uncouth
Lit his blue gleaming eyes; nor sate unmoved
The Briton Chiefs; fierce thoughts began to rise
Of ancient wars, and high ancestral fame.
Sudden came floating through the hall an air
So strangely sweet, the o'erwrought sense scarce felt
Its rich excess of pleasure; softer sounds
Melt never on the enchanted midnight cool,
By haunted spring, where elfin dancers trace
Green circlets on the moonlight dews; nor lull
Beculmed mariner from rocks, where basks
At summer noon the Sea-maid; he his oar
Breathless suspends, and motionless his bark
Sleeps on the sleeping waters. Now the notes
So gently died away, the silence seem'd
Melodious; merry now and light and blithe
They danced on air: anon came tripping forth
In frolic grace a maiden troop, their locks
Flower-wreath'd, their snowy robes from clasped zone
Fell careless drooping, quick their glittering feet
Glanced o'er the pavement. Then the pomp of sound
Swell'd up, and mounted; as the stately swan,
Her milk-white neck embower'd in arching spray,
Queens it along the waters, entered in
The lofty hall a shape so fair, it lull'd
The music into silence, yet itself
Pour'd out, prolonging the soft ecstasy,
The trembling and the touching of sweet sound.
Her grace of motion and of look, the smooth
And swimming majesty of step and tread,

The symmetry of form and feature, set The soul afloat, even like delicious airs

Of flute or harp: as though she trod from earth,
And round her wore an emanating cloud
Of harmony, the Lady moved. Too proud
For less than absolute command, too soft
For aught but gentle amorous thought: her hair
Cluster'd, as from an orb of gold cast out
A dazzling and o'erpowering radiance, save
Here and there on her snowy neck reposed
In a soothed brilliance some thin wandering tress.
The azure flashing of her eye was fringed
With virgin meekness, and her tread, that seem'd
Earth to disdain, as softly fell on it

As the light dew-shower on a tuft of flowers.
The soul within seem'd feasting on high thoughts,
That to the outward form and feature gave
A loveliness of scorn, scorn that to feel
Was bliss, was sweet indulgence. Fast sank back
Those he. fair harbingers, their modest eyes,
Downcast, and drooping low their slender necks
In graceful reverence; she, by wond'ring gaze
Unmoved, and stifled murmurs of applause,
Nor yet unconscious, slowly won her way
To where the King, amid the festal pomp,
Sate loftiest; as she raised a fair-chased cup,
Something of sweet confusion overspread
Her features; something tremulous broke in
On her half-failing accents as she said,
"Health to the King!".

up,

King Vortigern, and from his brow transferr'd A coronet of radiant Eastern gems

To the white hair of Hengist, and drank off

A brimming cup, and cried, "To Kent's high King,
A health, a health to Vortigern's fair bride,
The golden-hair'd Rowena." - Seized at once
Each Saxon the exulting strain, and struck
The wine-drain'd goblet down, "Health, King of
Kent!"

As 'mid the fabled Libyan bridal stood Perseus, in stern tranquillity of wrath, Half stood, half floated on his ancle plumes Out-swelling, while the bright face on his shield Look'd into stone the raging fray; so rose, But with no magic arms, wearing alone Th' appalling and control of his firm look, The solemn indignation of his brow, The Briton Samor; at his rising, awe Went abroad, and the riotous hall was mute; But like unruffled summer waters flow'd His speech, and courtly reverence smoothed its tone.

As eager 't were to touch so fair a lip.

A moment, and the apparition bright Had parted; as before the sound of harps Was wantoning about the festive hall.

As one just waking from a blissful dream Nor moves, nor breathes, lest breath or motion break The beauteous tissue of fine form woven o'er His fancy, sate King Vortigern. "Whence came, And whither went she? of what race and stem Sprang this bright wonder of our earth, that leaves The rapture of her presence in our hall,

Over our lives, our princedoms, and our souls,
King Vortigern, as well may'st thou presume
To a dominion o'er our winds, to set

Thy stamp and impress on our light from heaven.
The Britain cannot rest beneath the shade
Of Saxon empire, this our Christian soil
The harvest of obedience will not bear
To Heathen sway; and hear me, Vortigern,
The golden image that thou settest up,
Like the pride-drunken Babylonian king,
Though dulcimer and psaltery soothe us down
To the soft humour of submission tame,
We will not worship."-- From the hall he past,
Thus saying. Him the Island's brave and proud

Erle Hengist) in our ancient Saxon faith,

Ill bodes the joyless feast, where maiden's lips
Pledge not the wassail goblet."-"By my soul,"
Cried Vortigern, "a gallant faith! and I
Omen so sweet discredit not; the health

Never to Britain wanting, though in hours
Loosest of revels soft, and wanton ease.
But Vortigern, more largely pouring in
The vine's delicious poison, sate, and cried,
Whom the flax binds not, must the iron gyve,

A fragrance and a sparkling have they left

Evening fell gentle, and the brilliant sun

To-morrow shall the nations bask again In thy full glory."-Thus he said, and turn'd To where the King went rapid past.-"And thou, Thou to thy setting hastest, never more Thou thy benighted splendour to renew; Late at thy noon of pride, now sunk, declined For ever from thy fair meridian, go Into thy cloudy rest!"-The solemn tone Of his deep voice seized on the King, as frosts Arrest the rapid flowing stream-" What means The Sovereign of the Vales, even in my halls, And on my castle battlements, to cast Bold scorn on Britain's King? Ingrate and blind, When I the valiant Saxon have brought in To check the Caledonian, through your isle Marching by wild light of your burning towns; Ye, wedded to your sorrow and your shame, Mock at the safety my free love provides." "Ah, provident! ah, sage! ah, generous King! That sets the emaciate wolf to dog the flock; The hawk to guard the dovecote."-"Wise-lipp'd chief, I thank thee for thy phrase: doves are ye, doves That fly with piteous and most delicate speed Before the Scottish kites, that swoop your nests And flesh their greedy talons in your young.""Monarch! the eaglet, were it smoothly nurst In the dove's downy nest, at its first flight Would shrink down dazzled from the morning sun; But with strong plumes refresh'd, anon 't would claim Its old aspiring birthright, and unblench'd Bathe in the bickering of the noontide car. Oh, we have slumber'd on soft luxury's lap To her loose tabret; but, misjudging King! Britain is like her soil; above the turf Lies velvet smooth, hard iron lurks beneath. I know the northern Pagans waste our land, And the tame mission to the Roman sent I know: The fierce Barbarian to the sea Drives us, the sea to the Barbarian back Merciless' so ran the plaintive legend. True! But soldiers would it cast us back; despair Hath its own valour; war makes warriors. King! Calamities are on us, evil days

O'er our isle darken, but the noble wear
Disaster, as an Angel wears his wings.
To elevate and glorify. Nor us
Shroudeth alone the enveloping gloom, the frame
And fabric of our world is breaking up.
Rome's dome of empire, that o'ervaulted earth
With its capacious shadow, rent and split,
Disorders the smooth course of human things,
Leaving confusion lord of this wide ball,
While to and fro the Nations sway perplex'd,
Like a tempestuous sea. Oh, 'mid such wreck,
Our Britain in lone safety to uphold,
On every side 'gainst gathering foes present
A rampire of hard steel, or firmer far,
The bulwark of a haughty spirit pour'd
From the throned Sovereign through her sons, were
pride,

Were honour, might arrest Heaven's plumed hosts,
And in their sphere-born music win renown.
So He whose sceptre glitters in thy grasp,

He the Deliverer, the Defender named,

So Constantine had done, had the high Sonl's bane
Ambition, never madden'd him to wear
The purple, madly worn, yet nobly lost

On the sad plain by Arles."-"I knew, I knew
"T would come to this, that Constantine would end
The high-wrought orat'ry. This too I know,
And this I tell thee, Samor! nor yet add
Rebel! thy secret commerce with his sons,
To undermine my stately throne; the right,
So babble ye in your licentious phrase,
Conferr'd by our assembled British Kings
On Constantine for ever and his heirs."-

"Alas! how better were it to know nought,
Than, like kings, darkly. Constantine's brave sons
And Samor oft have met, have met to wail
The hazard of their native land, to swear
Before the altar of the eternal God,
Never, amid these rude and perilous times,
With their allegiance Britain's throne, though fill'd
To blow the trump of civil strife, to prop
By one they deem usurping. Vortigern!
I am upon the string that jars thy soul,
And it must vibrate to its highest pitch.
Oh what a royal madness, that might build
Upon the strong rock of a people's love,
Yet chooseth the loose quicksand of distrust,
With a rude Saxon buttress, whose stern weight
And overlays the palace of his pride
Must crush it. Thou dost fear thy subjects arm'd,
Fear, lest the old valiance in their hearts inure,
And therefore fight'st their wars with foreign steel;
And is this he, the noble and the wise,
The Vortigern, that Britain on the plain
Of Arles, that fatal plain, hail'd Captain, King?
Arise, be King, be Captain, be thyself!
And we will stand around thy throne, and mock
The ruinous fashion of the times."—“Away!
My royal word is to the Saxon given."
"O, Vortigern! this knee hath never bow'd,
Save to the King of kings, thus low on earth

I sue thee, cast the Saxon off."— At once
The swift contagious grandeur set on fire
The Monarch "I am thine, am Britain's all:
Now by my throne, thus, thus I have not felt,
Since first this circling gold eat in my brow,
So free, so upright, and so kingly, chains
Fall from me, mists are curling off my soul."

Like two bold venturers, silently they stand,
Launching amid the sun-light their rich bark
O'er glassy waters to the summer airs:
Their solemn pondering hath the lofty look
Of vaunting, over each high brow flames out
A noble rivalry of hope and pride.

The sound of wheels, lo, sliding came and smooth
A car, wherein, like some fair idol led
Through the mute tumult of adoring streets,
Bright-hair'd Rowena pass'd the portal arch.

Have ye a sense, ye gales, a conscious joy In beauty, that with such an artful touch And light ye float about her garment folds,

Displaying what is exquisite display'd,

And thinly scattering the light veil where'er
Its shadowing may enhance the grace, and swell
With sweet officiousness the clustering hair
Where fairest tufts its richness, and let fall
Where drooping most becomes; that thus ye love
To lose yourselves about her, and expire
Upon her shape, or snow-white robes? She stood,
Her ivory arm in a soft curve stretch'd out,
As only in the obedience of her steeds
Rejoicing; they their necks arch'd proud and high,
And by her delicate and flower-soft hands
Sway'd, as enamour'd of her mastery moved,
Lovingly on their bright-chafed bits reposed,
Or in gay sport upon each other fawn'd.
But as the Monarch she beheld, she caught
The slack rein up, and with unconscious check
Delay'd the willing coursers, and her head,
Upon her snowy shoulder half declined
In languor of enjoyment, rising wore
Rosy confusion, and disorder fair
Transiently on her pride of motion broke.
Or chance, or meaning wander'd to his face
Her eye, with half command, entreating half;
Haughty to all the world, but mild to him,

Th' all admired admiring, and th' all awing awed
She look'd on him, and trembled as she look'd.
Alone she came, alone she went not on.

BOOK II.

NOON is ablaze in Heaven, but gloom, the gloom
Of the brown forest's massy vault of shade,
Is o'er the Kings of Britain; the broad oaks,
As in protection of that conclave proud,
Lake some old temple's dome, with mingling shade
Meet overhead, around their rugged trunks
Show like fantastic pillars closely set
By Druids in mysterious circle, wont
Here, when the earth abroad was bright and clear
With moonshine, to install their midnight rites
By blue nor earthly kindled fires, while Bards
Pour'd more than music from their charmed harps.
Each on his mossy seat, in arms that cast
A glimmer which is hardly light, they sit
Colossal, stern, and still; on every brow
Indignant sorrow and sad vengeance lowers.
Them had the Pagan peasant deem'd his gods,
In cloudy wrath down stooping from the heavens
To blast the mighty of mankind, and wreak
On some old empire ruin and revenge.

Emrys and Uther, come not here to charge
Inconstant counsel on your wisdom, nought
Arraigning, that the sceptre to our line
Solemnly given, in those disastrous days,
When for the Empire of the Occident,
For Gaul o'er-master'd, and submitted Spain,
Warr'd Constantine, and warring nobly fell,
Ye placed in elder hand, our right foregone
For the more precious public weal: oh, Chiefs,
"T was well and wisely done; a stripling's arm
May rear the kingly standard in its pomp
To play with Zephyrs under cloudless skies,
But when the rude storm shakes its ponderous folds
"T were hard for less than the consummate man
Aloft to bear it, yet unstooping. Well
Stemm'd your new standard-bearer Vortigern
The o'ershadowing tempest, nor abased his front
Your crown's old glories; till, alas! dire change!
Dread fall! the sceptre that ye fondly hoped,
Would blossom, like the Hebrew Hierarch's rod,
With the almond bloom of mercy and of love,
Liker the Egyptian magic-worker's wand
Became a serpent, withering all your peace
With its infection: then your virtues wrought
Your sorrows, from your valour grew your shame.
Your borders were o'erleap'd, your towns on fire,
And the land groan'd beneath fierce Rapine's wheels
Ye cried unto your King for arms, he sage

In cold and jealous wisdom fear'd to arm,
Whose arms might brave himself, and cast control
On the fierce wanderings of his royal will.
Saxons must fight our wars, our hard-wrung gold
Buy us ignoble safety, till the slaves
Swell'd into Lords, and realms must pamper
Our hirelings into Princes: Kent, fair Kent,
The frontlet of our isle, where yet are seen
The graves great Cæsar peopled with his dead,
When on his rear the Briton conqueror hung,
Where first the banner of the Cross was waved,
Sinks to a Heathen province. Warriors! Kings!
This must not be among baptized men,
This cannot be 'mong Britons. Therefore here,
Here in your presence dare we call again,
Your throne our throne, and challenge in your love
A Sovereign's title: by our youth we fell
From that great height, but Vortigern hath fall'n
By his own guilt; we therefore rise again
In majesty renew'd; he falls, no more
To soar into the sacred royal seat."
Thereat with concord loud, and stern acclaim,
Gave answer that proud Senate, and denounced
Judgment irrevocable. But with mien
Somewhat appall'd, as one in high debate,
And solemn council unassay'd, arose

Prince Uther: ere he spake his clanging mail
Smote with fierce stroke, as audience to enchain,
Himself the battle sound enkindling, high
His haughty brow and crested helm upflung,
Thus rude his fiery eloquence pour'd forth.

"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