The flush of passion, smile or tear had seem'd On the fix'd brightness of each dazzling cheek, Strange and unnatural: statues not unlike By nature, in fantastic mood congeal'd From purest snow, the fair of earth to shame, Surpassing beauteous: breath of mortal life Heaved not their bosoms, and no rosy blood
Dire and ill-boding, or if heard, disdain'd Adverse what prosperous seem'd a voice from Heaven
"By what rich rite," he cried, "may Briton Chief Win favour from high Woden?"—"Not the blood Of steed or stag; a flower of earth must fade. Blest o'er all virgins of the earth, the chaste,
Tinged their full veins; yet moved they, and their The beautiful, by Heaven ordain'd to lead
Were harmony. But three of that bright troop, The loveliest and the wildest, stood aloof, Enwrapt by what in human form were like Impulse divine, of their fine nature seem'd The eternal instinct. Them no less survey'd Caswallon with the knitted brow of scorn: Bitter he spake "No marvel Saxon souls Revel in war's delights, so stern, so fierce Their deities." Severe with wrath suppress'd, As one ill brooking that irreverent mirth Scoff'd the feign'd lore, himself ne'er dared to doubt, Answer'd the son of Woden. "These, proud Chief, So snowy, soft, and airy, gentle, these Are ministers of destiny and death, The viewless Riders of the battle field: When sounds the rushing of their sable steeds, Down sink the summon'd mighty, and expand Valhalla's cloudy portals; to their thrones They the triumphant strangers lead, and pour Lavish the eternal beverage of the Gods.
Mark thou yon bright-hair'd three? and would thy soul
Grasp the famed deeds of ancient time, or know The master spirits of our present world? Lo Gudur, she whose deep mysterious soul Treasureth the past, and Rosta, who beholds All acts and agents of this living earth; She too is there before whose spacious sight The years that have not been start up and live, Who reads within the soul of man unborn The unimagined purpose, of the sage Skulda the sagest. Ask and thou shalt know." -"I am not King of Britain, have not been; Hateful the present and the past, my soul Thirsteth for what shall be."-Then Hengist spake In tone of mix'd authority and prayer,
Queen of the Future, Valkyr, hear and speak, Speak to the Son of Woden."- All the troop Instant the thin bright air absorb'd alone, Stood Skulda with her white hair waving wide, As trembling on the verge of palpable being, Ready to languish too in light away.
"O'er Britain's isle doth Woden to his sons Give empire?" She, but in no human tone, E'er from the soul's emotion harsh or soft, One glittering rich unvarying tone replied, To thine, but not to thee?"-And, "I am thine," Caswallon shouted loud, and sternly shook His visionary sceptre. Whence the foe Fatal to Hengist, and to Hengist's sway?" "Not from the mountain, Saxon, from the Vale." Heard, heeded not the Mountain Chief that strain
The souls of valiant men to the pale hall Of the Immortal; air her path, and Heaven Her dwelling, with the fair and brave of earth Her sole communion ?"-"By my future throne, Proud office for the daughter of a King! A royal damsel, mine own blood, shall join Your cloudy mysteries."- A hue like joy O'erspread her face and form, while slow Into the air she brighten'd indistinct Even now, and now invisible. Sad seem'd In gloomy converse with his own dark mind Old Hengist, nor despair'd that bold of soul, In pride of human wisdom to revoke The irrevocable, what himself deem'd fate By force or fraud to master or elude.
O glorious eminence of virtuous fame, Glorious from peril! Warrior of the Vales, Fate-signal'd Samor, vaunt not thou the love Of a blind people, or weak prince: thy boast The sworn unerring hate of Britain's foe.
So pass'd they forth, one in wild joy elate, Already in his high disdainful thought Wielding supremacy; each of fix'd fate Nought heeding, but what fed his fierce desires.
The car slides light, the deer bound fleet, nor sun Nor star in all the hazy heavens. Snow, snow, Above, around, beneath. Unblinded yet, Drive on the kingly charioteers, and shake The showery plumage from their locks; fast fades The long pale plain, the giant ice-hills sink, Lakes, rivers, seas are patient of their speed, Huge, dim, and dusk the forest pines rush back, Now pant the brown deer by that ocean bay.
How desolate are now thy unplough'd waves, Dark Baltic! wandering Elbe, thy icy breast How silent of thy hunters! Sleep thou calm Amid thy wanton vineyards, Gaul! no more The blue-eyed Plunderers, bridging thy broad Rhine Waste thy inebriate harvests' clustering pride. Sing songs of joy, soft Italy! o'er thee
But Alaric and Attila drive on
Their chariot-wheels of conquest, this their peer In majesty of havoc, in renown
Of devastation, this, the fiercer third
Of human Furies, scapest thou: therefore sing, Soft Italy; for lo, at Hengist's call, Vast Germany dispeoples her wide realm, Deserts to silence and the beasts of game Her long and soundless forests. Seems the North The forge of Nations, in one fleet t'exhaust Her iron wealth of warriors; helmed high
The Suevian with his towery knotted locks, Frisian and Scandinavian, Cimbrian rich In ancient vauntage of his sires, who clomb The Alpine snows, and shook free Rome with dread. And other nameless, numberless, sweep forth Their bands; but three almost in nations came: The Jute, the Anglian, and the Saxon, each Leaving earth bare for many a lonesome league, His wives, his children, and his Gods embarks, On the fierce quest of peril and of power.
Then forth arose each Chieftain to salute The pole-star of their baleful galaxy. Prime Architect of ruin: him who sway'd Their hot marauding, desultory strife
To cool and steady warfare, of their limbs The domineering soul. As each pass'd on Shook up the Scald his harsh-strung shell, and cast The war-tones of each nation to the winds; And Hengist with imperious flattery met Each tall and titled Leader: "Art thou here, Bold Frisian Hermangard! a broader isle And fairer than thy azure Rhine laves round, Spreads for thee her green valleys. How brook'st thou,
Strong Scandinavian Lodbrog, thou the Chief Of the renown'd Vikinger, while the waves So nobly riot with the wintry storms,
The tame and steadfast land? Now freely leap, Arngrim, along thy Suevian forests brown The bear and foam-tusk'd wild boar; let them leap, A braver game is up on Britain's shore. O Cerdic, grey in glory, young in power, The Drave ran purple with thy boyish deeds, A darker, redder dye, o'er silver Thames Shall spread before thy ancient battle-axe. Ho, Offa, the rich-flowing mead hath worn Your Jutland cups, beneath the British helms Capacious goblets smooth and fair await Offa's carousals. Heir of Cimbric fame,t Frotho, how these, of late the Roman's slaves, Will the race daunt, who set our Thor afront The Roman's Capitolian Jove. And thou, My gold-hair'd brother, are the British maids, Or British warriors, Abisa, the first
In the fierce yearnings of thy boyish soul? And lo the mighty Anglian; oh, unfold Ocean more wide, more wealthy realms, too brief, Too narrow for Argantyr's fame, the round Of this the choice, the Sovereign of thine isles."
Thereat a sound of clattering shields arose, As all the rocks around with one harsh rift Had rent asunder: "Fair must be the land, And brave the conquest, plenteous the renown, Where Hengist leads strong Woden's sceptred sons!"
But inly laugh'd Caswallon, as he long'd With each or all to match his Briton strength;
Insigne gentis obliquare crinem, nodoque substringere-In altitudinem quandam et terrorem, adituri bella, compte, ut hostium oculis, ornantur.-TACIT. Germ. 38.
↑ Cimbri parva nunc civitas sed gloria ingens.-- TACIT. Geria.
On the prophetic Valkyr thought, and glanced Proud pity on the legends of their praise.
Advanced Argantyr, his bold grasp apart,
As peer his peer, led Hengist. "Thou and I, Saxon, must have our compact; dark I know Thy paths of strife, while frank valour loves my The broad bright sunshine; thou by sleight and art Minest thy slow conquest; I with naked sword Affront my peril, till its menacing height Bow to the dust before me; for bold war, For noonday battling, tender I mine arm. But no allegiance own to subtle craft; To peace Argantyr doth revolt when thou Array'st stern war in the smooth garb of guile." "The weak, Argantyr, and the friendless, need Such politic skill; I take thee at thy word. Who skulks a fox when he dare prowl a wolf? Power charters force; where strong Argantyr stands Is power-And now aboard, brave Chiefs, aboard, Or the soft spring o'ertakes our tardy keels, And with her slothful breezes smooths the skies."
Wonderous that ocean armament; in shoals Ride boat and bark, innumerous as the waves That show white slender streaks of foam between Their tawny sides, save here and there towers up Some statelier admiral in lordly height O'er the frail comm'nalty, whose limber ribs Are the light wicker, cased with sturdy hides Their level bottoms smooth. Oh, that frail Man, Loose-woven frame of dissoluble stuff, Uncharter'd from the boisterous license rude Of pitiless winds and fierce unfetter'd waves, To that unshackled libertine, wild Chance, Amenable, unguarantied from burst And inroad of invading surge, that he, With such thin barrier between life and death, Should sit and skim along the ocean waste, Careless as maiden in a flowery field; Valour or frenzy is it? They their toil Ply nimbly, and with gallant oar chastise The insurgent billows, their despotic sails Lords o'er the wild democracy of air.
Less vast, and mann'd with tamer, feebler spirits, In later days, against our Virgin Queen, The Spaniard's mad Armada; but the flag Of Howard, and the Almighty's stormy hand, Belied their braggart baptism, so they won Brave conquest! graves in ocean's barren caves, Or on the whirlpool-girded Orcades.
But onward rides that Pagan fleet: young Spring Hath scarcely tipt the leafless woods with green, Tyne's jetty tide is blanch'd with German vars.
Now whither with that dark-brow'd priest set forth Old Hengist and the Briton Mountain Lord ? Is it, fell Hengist, that Caswallon's name
Primum cana salix, made facto vimine parvam Texitur in puppim, cæsoque induta, juvenco, Vectoris patiens tumidum super emicat amnem; Sic Venetus stagnante Pado, fusoque Britannus Navigat oceano.
Paragon thine in British hate, close link'd By fellowship in nameless rites accurst, Be hence more deeply, execrably thine? Or, from weak credence in such impious Gods, Urgest thou that fell sacrifice? Oh, where The spotless Virgin doom'd (so wild the creed) The Valkyr's airy troop to join, and glide Immortal through Valhalla's cloudy halls?
SUNK was the sun, and up the eastern heaven, Like maiden on a lonely pilgrimage, Moved the meek Star of Eve; the wandering air Breathed odours; wood, and waveless lake, like man, Slept, weary of the garnish babbling day.
Dove of the wilderness, thy snowy wing In slumber droops not; Lilian, thou alone, 'Mid the deep quiet, wakest. Dost thou rove, Idolatrous of yon majestic moon,
That like a crystal-throned queen in Heaven, Seems with her present deity to hush To beauteous adoration all the earth? Might seem the solemn silent mountain tops Stand up and worship, the translucent streams Down the hill sides glittering cherish the pure light Beneath the shadowy foliage o'er them flung At intervals; the lake, so silver white, Glistens, all indistinct the snowy swans Bask in the radiance cool; doth Lilian muse To that apparent Queen her vesper hymn?
Nursling of solitude, her infant couch Never did mother watch, within the grave. She slept unwaking; scornful turn'd aloof Caswallon, of those pure instinctive joys By fathers felt, when playful infant grace, Touch'd with a feminine softness, round the heart Winds its light maze of undefined delight, Contemptuous; he with haughty joy beheld His boy, fair Malwyn, him in bossy shield Rock'd proudly, him upborne to mountain steep Fierce and undaunted, for their dangerous nest To battle with the eagle's clamorous brood.
But she the while from human tenderness Estranged, and gentler feelings that light up The cheek of youth with rosy joyous smile, Like a forgotten lute, play'd on alone By chance-caressing airs, amid the wild Beauteously pale, and sadly playful grew, A lonely child, by not one human beart Beloved, and loving none; nor strange, if learnt Her native fond affections to embrace Things senseless and inanimate; she loved All flow'rets that with rich embroidery fair Enamel the green earth, the odorous thyme, Wild rose, and roving eglantine, nor spared To mourn their fading forms with childish tears. Grey birch and aspen light she loved, that droop
Fringing the crystal stream; the sportive breeze That wanton'd with her brown and glossy locks, The sunbeam chequering the fresh bank. Ere dawn Wandering, and wandering still at dewy eve, By Glenderamakin's flower-empurpled marge, Derwent's blue lake, or Greta's wildering glen.
Rare sound to her was human voice, scarce heard Save of her aged nurse, or shepherd maid Soothing the child with simple tale or song. Hence, all she knew of earthly hopes and fears, Life's sins and sorrows; better known the voice Beloved of lark from misty morning cloud Blithe carolling, and wild melodious notes Heard mingling in the summer wood, or plaint, By moonlight, of the lone night-warbling bird. Nor they of love unconscious, all around Fearless, familiar they their descants sweet Tuned emulous. Her knew all living shapes That tenant wood or rock, dun roe or deer, Sunning his dappled side at noontide crouch'd, Courting her fond caress, nor fled her gaze The brooding dove, but murmur'd sounds of joy.
One summer noon, the silvery birchen shade Pendent above from dripping crag her brow Veil'd from the fiery sunbeam, gems of spray Gleam'd cool around with watery rainbow-light, From a pure streamlet down its rocky bed Dashing sweet music; she on mossy couch Sate listening the blithe thrush, whose airy notes In amorous contention Echo caught
Responsive. Sudden droop'd its flagging wing The timorous bird of song, and fluttering sought Soft refuge in the maiden's snowy breast. She o'er the nestling prisoner folding light Her careless vest, stood gazing, where, awhile Dark in the sun-cloud's white, came fiercely down A swooping falcon: at her sight it check'd; Its keen eye bright with joy, th' admiring bird Fearfully beauteous floated in the air, Its silver wings, and glossy plumage grey, Glanced in the sun-light. Up the maiden gazed, Smiling a pale and terrified delight,
And seem'd for that loved warbler in her breast Beseeching mercy. 'Mid the green-wood sank Th' obedient bird; she, joyous at his flight, Her bosom half reveal'd, with gentle hand Caressing smoothed her captive's ruffled plumes. Anon around a frighted thankful look Glancing, what seem'd a human shape she saw, Or more than human; stately on his arm The falcon sate, and proudly flapp'd his wings. She turn'd to flv, yet fled not, turn'd to gaze, Yet dared not raise her downcast eye; she felt Her warm cheek, why she knew not, blush, her hand Unconscious closer drew her bosom's fold. With accent mild the Stranger brief delay Entreated she, albeit his gentle words Fell indistinct on her alarmed ear, Listening delay'd, and still at fall of eve Delay'd, e'en then with dim reverted eye, Slow lingering on her winding homeward path.
No more in pomp of war, or vaulting steed, Joyeth the Son of Vortigern, nor feasts With jocund harpings, and rich-jewell'd dames, Outshining in their pride the starry heavens.
As fair the spring-flower's bloom, as graceful droops The wild ash-spray, as sweet the mountain bee Murmurs, melodious breathes the twilight grove, Unheard of her, unheeded, who erewhile Visited, constant as the morning dew,
Those playmates and sweet sisters of her soul. In one sole image sees the enamour'd maid Concentrated all qualities of love,
All beauty, grace, and majesty. The step Of tall stag prancing stately down the glen, The keen bright fierceness of the eagle's glance, And airy gentleness of timorous roe, And, more than all, a voice more soothing soft Than wild bird's carol, or the murmuring brook, With eloquence endued and melting words So wondrous; though unheard since eve, the sounds Come mingling with her midnight sleep, and make The damask of her slumbering cheek grow warm. And she is now beneath the moonlight rock, Chiding the rippling waters that efface That image on its azure breast distinct, Garb, form, and feature, Vortimer; though mute, As prodigal of fondness, his bright face Looks up to her with glance of tenderer love, Than wild-dove to its mate at earliest spring.
The wild birds singing on the twinkling spray, Wake her no more; the summer wind breathes soft, Waving the fresh grass o'er her narrow bed, Gladdening to all but her. Senseless and cold She lies; while all she loved, unheard, unseen, Mourn round her." There broke off her faltering voice. Dimly, with farewell glance, she roved around, Never before so beautiful the lake,
Like a new sky, distinct with stars, the groves, Green banks and shadowy dells, her haunts of bliss, Smiled, ne'er before so lovely, their last smile; The fountains seem'd to wail, the twilight mists, On the wet leaves were weeping all for her. Had not her own tears blinded her, there too She surely had beheld a youthful form, Wandering the solitary glen. But loud The courser neigh'd, down bursting, wood and rock Fly backward, the wide plain its weary length Vainly outspreads; and now 't is midnight deep. Ends at a narrow glen their fleet career. That narrow glen was paled with rude black rocks, There slowly roll'd a brook its glassy depth; Now in the moon-beams white, now dark in gloom. She lived, she breathed, she felt to her denied That sole sad happiness the wretched know, Even from excess of feeling, not to feel. Behold her gentle, delicate, and frail, Where all around, through rifted rock and wood, Grim features glare, huge helmed forms obscure People the living gloom, with dreary light Glimmering, as of the moon from iron arms
Oft hath that moonlight wax'd and waned, since last Coldly reflected, lovely stands she there,
He parted, all of him that could depart; Save that no distance could remove the words, The look, the touch, that lives within her still, The promise of return sworn on her lips.
And hark it comes, his steed along the glen; She o'er the lucid mirror stooping, braids Hasty her dark-brown tresses, bashful smiles Of virgin vanity flit o'er her cheek, Tinging its settled paleness. Now 't is near, But ne'er did Vortimer with iron hoof Bruise the green flowery sward that Lilian loves. A gentle frown of winning fond reproach Arch'd her dark eyelash, as her head she turn'd, Ah! not on Vortimer. Her father stood Before her, stern and dark, his trembling child Cheer'd nor fond word, nor greeting kiss; his arm Clasp'd round her, on his steed again he sprung.
And on through moon-light and through shade he spurr'd,
Gleam'd like a meteor's track his flinty road, Like some rude hunter with a snow-white fawn, His midnight prey. Anon, the mountain path 'Gan upward wind, the fiery courser paused Breathless, and faintly raising her thin form; "Oh, whither bear ye me?" with panting voice, Murmur'd. Caswallon spake unmoved, "to death."
"Death, father, death is comfortless and cold! Ay me! when maiden dies, the smiling morn,
Like a blest Angel 'mid th accurst of Hell. A voice is heard." Lo, mighty Monarch, here The stream of sacrifice; to man alone Fits the proud privilege of bloody death By shaft or mortal steel; to Hela's realm, Unblooded, woundless, must the maid descend; So in the bright Valhalla shall she crown For Woden and his Peers the cup of bliss." Her white arms round her father's rugged neck Winding with desperate fondness, she 'gan pour, As to some dear, familiar, long-loved heart, Most eloquent her inarticulate prayers. Is the dew gleaming on his cheek? or weeps The savage and the stern, yet still her sire? But some rude arm of one, whose dreadful face She dared not gaze on, seized her. Gloomy stood, Folding his wolf-skin mantle to conceal The shuddering of his huge and mailed form, Caswallon. Then again the voice came forth,
Fast wanes the night, the Gods brook no delay, Monarch of Britain, speed." He, at that name Shaking all human from his soul, flung back The foldings of his robe, and stood elate, As haughty of some glorious deed, nor knew Barbarian blind as proud, who feels no more The mercies and affections of his kind, Casts off the image of God, a man of ill, With all his nature's earth, without its heaven.
A sound is in the silent night abroad, A sound of broken waters; rings of light
Float o'er the dark stream, widening to the shore.* And lo, her re-appearing form, as soft
As fountain Nymph by weary hunter seen,
In the lone twilight glen; the moonlight gleam Falls tenderly on her beseeching face, Like the halo of expiring Saint, she seems Lingering to lie upon the water top, As to enjoy once more that light beloved; And tremulously moved her soundless lips As syllabling the name of Vortimer;
Then deep she sank, and quiet the cold stream, Unconscious of its guilt, went eddying on, And look'd up lovely to the gazing moon.
Her broken faith, as fond as Vortimer, As full of love. "T is closer now; he leaps From his high steed, he draws it to the shore. Scarce time for fancy or for fear, the moon Quench'd her broad light behind a rushing cloud, And utter darkness settled round. He sate In solitude, with that cold lifeless thing; He dared not leave it, for a hideous thought Was in his brain.-"Why is it like to thee, My Lilian! be it any one but thou- Hopelessly cold, irrevocably cold:
It cannot be, and yet 't was like: her height, Her slender waist like Lilian's, and her hair As dainty soft, and trick'd with flowers; 't is she,
What deepest thoughts, young Vortimer, have place And I will kiss her, pardon if I err,
Within thy secret breast? thou slowly ridest
By Eamont's alder brink, thy silver arms
If stranger lips round, smooth like thine; but oh! So coldly passive; when we parted, thine
Through the brown copse with moonshine glittering Thwarted me with a struggling bashfulness,
Is't that late fight by Thanet, when the fire From thine and Horsa's steel, frequent and red, Burnt the pale sea-spray? or thy stately charge, With show of British war, to curb and check The threatening Caledonian? or what bathes Youth's cheek in bitterest and most gall-like tears; Thy father's shame, the curse that, unredeem'd By thy young valour, his once kingly name Brands with the deep-sear'd characters of hate?
Or is 't that gentle Maid by Derwent lake, Her flower-wreath'd tresses and her pale sweet smile? How pleasant, after war and journeying fleet To Britain's Northern realm, from Kent's white cliffs, Once more to see her early gliding foot Skimming the morning dews, to hear her voice. As artless, as melodious, melt on air, Among the wood-birds' matins to surprise Thine own dear name upon her bashful lips!
What floateth down the stream a deep dead white Amid the glittering moonshine, where the stream Runs black beneath the thicket boughs, still white, Still slowly drifting, like a dying swan, In snowy beauty, on its watery bier?
Oh, were but Lilian here! perchance ita neck May struggle up, to the still waves to chaunt Its own soft requiem, the most gentle breath, Most fancifully, delicately sweet,
That ever soothes the midnight's dewy calm.
Near, and more near, it takes a human shape: Some luckless maiden; haply her loved youth Awaits her at the well-known place, upbraids
Homo autem quem sors immolandum obtulerat, in fontem qui ad locum sacrificiorum scat riebat vivus immergebatur: qui si facile efflaret animam, faustum renunciabant sacerdotes votum: moxque inde ereptum in vicinum nemus, quod sacrum credebant, suspendentes, inter Deos translatum affirmabant. Quo factum erat, ut beatum se crederet, qui eo immolatione e vivis excederet. Accidit nonnunquam reges ipsos simili sorte delectos victimari Qued quia fausti simum regno libamen æstimabatur, totius populi multitudo cum summa congratulatione tam insignes victimas prosequebantur. Enimvero sic
defunctos non omniro mori, sed tam illos quam se ipses immortales esse.-OLAUS MAGNUS, Book 3, cap. 6.
And, won at length, with meek surrender swell'd. Wild and delirious fancy! many a maid Hath full round lips, to trick the hair with flowers "Tis common vanity. If dead, even dead, So chilly senseless Lilian could not be To Vortimer's embrace. Oh, but for light, Though dim and scanty as a glow-worm's fire, To make me surely, hopelessly undone! Aught but this racking ignorance. Dawn forth, Thou tortoise-footed sluggard, Morn! one beam, Thou pitiless cold Moon!"-Morn dawn'd not yet And pale and thick remain'd the moonless sky. Darkness around, the dead within his arms, He sate, even like a poison'd man, that waits, Yet haunted by a miserable hope, The palpable cold sickness in his veins, And yearns to live or die, scarce cares he which, So one were certain. But when slow the dawn Unveil'd its filmy light, he turn'd away From that which might be Lilian's face, and pray'c Even for the hateful, dun, uncertain gloom, As now by habit the slow-creeping grief, Winding like ivy round and round his heart, Were rapture, and not lightly to be lost. It seem'd unconsciously his hand held up, Unconsciously declined his heavy eye, Where slowly brighten'd on that lifeless face The intrusive beauty; one tress lay across, O'erspreading yet a thin and shadowy doubt; Move it he dare not, but the officious wind At length dispersed it. As the thought, the fear Were new, were sudden, like the lightning flash That sears the infant in its mother's arms, Smote on him the dire certainty. He clasp'd Her damp dead cheek to his." Thus, meet we thus Lilian, my Lilian, silent, strange, and cold?
I do not bid thee fondly gaze, nor ask Long garrulous welcoming,-but speak, but move! Lilian; ne'er thought I, I should live to loathe Thy gentle presence.-Most ungrateful girl, And I for thee forsook my warrior trust, Was truant to my country's cause for thee. By the green Tees my murmuring camp upbraids My soft unwarlike absence-ay, upbraid! Henceforth finds Fortune no where in this soul
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