To fasten misery on; I laugh at Fate, For I am past its wavering malice now.
Thinks she with hollow gauds of fame, and clang
Of cymbal praise, to lure me forth, a bland
And courteous parasite in her fond train?
No; hang thou there, my helm, my broad-barr'd shield
Rust on yon bank; my sword, one duty more,
Lilian's grave;
To shape the smooth turf for my
Thy bridal bed, sweet Maid, it should have been,
Where thou and Vortimer had met. Thy grave
Shall be my field of fame, my wreath of pride
The flowers the courteous spring shall lavish there;
And I'll have glory in my depth of woe-
A wild and strange delight in my despair:
Not yet, the cold earth must not part us yet,
One glimmer more from thine eye's dark-fringed blue,
One throb, one tremor, though it be the last
In thy soft limbs-dead, sightless, icy dead!"-
O'er his lost Love, thus that sad Prince, undream'd The hell-born secret of her fate, arraign'd
Of infants and decrepit eld, from Thames
To Thanet crown the pale-brow'd cliffs of Kent.
As when from Aulis that immortal fleet
Swept the Ægean, all the hollow beach,
And
every Phrygian promontory glow'd
With brazen battle, here the Morning's Son,
Swarth Memnon, here the invulnerable strength
Of Cycnus, here the beardless Troilus,
Unwounded by soft Cresscide's arrowy eyes;
Here Hector, seeking through the watery route
The tall Thessalian prow, with fatal thirst
Furious even then, the silver-footed Queen
To orphan of her heaven-soul'd boy. So broad,
So brave in splendour tower'd the rampart bold
Of British Warriors on that pallid shore.
On Thanet are the Sea King Brethren met.
Their greeting in that fiercely sportive strain
That, elevate with imminent success,
Scoffs at past ill.-"On Thanet's marge well met,
Erle Horsa; now meseems our spacious realm
Blind Chance for keen-eyed Man's earth-sullying sins. Is somewhat waste and shrunken, since we last
But southward far the savage fleet bore on.
On Flamborough-head the morning sun look'd dusk
Through their dim sails; where Scarborough's naked
Spurns back, and saith, "no further," to the waves, From cleft and cave the sullen sea-birds sprang, Wheeling in air with dizzy flight, and shriek'd Their dreary fears abroad. The Shepherd, wont O'er level Lindesay view the watery plain, Blue trembling to the soft horizon's line, Sees, like a baleful portent from the heavens, That sable train of gloom warp slowly past. Th' Icenian coast (that sceptred woman's realm, Bonduca, who from her fair body slaked The stain of Roman Just in Roman blood,) Looks haggard, with distracted faces wan, Hoar age, fair youth, the woman and the child, From beech or steep cliff, gazing now to Heaven, Now on that ocean army's watery march.
Oh Nelson! if the unborn soul distinct
Amid the loose infinity of space,
Be visited by apparitions dim
Of this earth's fleeting Present, and inhale
Faint foretaste of its mortal passions, thon,
When, with usurping prow, that foreign fleet
Daunted thy Britain, thou didst surely yearn
To unordain'd maturity to force
Thy unripe being, to foreseize from Fate
Thy slow existence. Oh, the days must dawn,
When Saxon and when Briton, melted off
All fend, all hate, all discord, of their strength
And valour blent th' abstract and essence rich,
One sword, one name, one glory, and one God,
From their bright armoury of Captains, thee
Their chosen thunderbolt shall usher forth,
From the leagued Nations' frantic grasp to wrest
Britain's allotted sceptre of the sea.
A brighter and more British battlement,
Than tender forms of woman, the pale dread
View'd its fair confines: for such noble guests
And numerous as attend our royal march,
Our kingdom's harbours show too close, our land
Narrow and brief for such free spirits' range.
Ill husbandry! our fertile province wide
To barter for this spare and meagre isle.
Horsa, for anchorage and breathing space
Our weary mariners must e'en go sue
Their gentle Briton neighbours; haply they,
Knowing our native courtesy, may cede
From their abundance some fair leagues of earth."
"Ingrate and blind (cried Horsa,) they forswear
Our mild dominion; to their King's behest
Rebellious, they proclaim the British earth
The undivided, indivisible right
Of their old British sires, nor may 't descend
Sever'd and mutilate to their British sons.
They shook not off the Roman's gentle sway,
To slave it to Barbarians. Specious terms,
And with such cogent arguments enforced,
We were fain shroud us in this narrow isle
From such hot disputants; a desperate spirit
Was that old Cæsar, who first planted here
The tree of conquest."-"Holds the King his faith?"
"Oh, thy fair daughter hath a soft-link'd chain
For the old royal Lion; he obeys,
Like a slim greyhound in a silken leash.
Her eye-won empire. But there walks abroad
A youngling of the brood; no blood but mine
Might flesh the ravin of his dainty jaws.
This Vortimer, this bright-eyed, beardless boy.
Ay, front to front I met him, but their bands
Rent us asunder, and my crest-lopp'd helm,
My scatter'd blood, pass'd unavenged. Now earth
Swallow me in my wrath, heaven's bolt sear up
My constant heart, if I forget thee, Boy,
Nor shear the gay sprouts of thy budding fame!"
"A child their mightiest !"-"Scornful Hengist, no;
A manlier spirit rideth the fierce storm,
One in whom bravery and counsel vie
For excellence: wild battle wears the shape
His will ordains; and if the rebel swerve,
He forceth it with his strong sword to obey
His high behest, and take the fate he gives."
"His name-his name!"-"The Chieftain of the Vales,
So sounds his title."-Then a bitter groan,
"Twere hard to tell from what bad passion, hate
Or dread, or hideous hope, from Hengist's breast
Burst forth; with his mail'd hand he clasp'd his head,
As though to mould the discord of his thoughts
To one strong mass: then, as the birth were ripe,
A light and laughing carelessness relax'd
Those knitted furrows, seem'd his eager soul
Clasp'd the dim future with a wanton joy.
But on the mainland, in sad council, meet
The Baronage of Britain, timorous hearts
In hollow unsubstantial valour trick'd,
While those who dare show fear, fear undisguised.
Their first fierce rush of courage pass'd, like flame
The mountain heath devouring, with fleet blaze,
But transitory; they of generous thoughts,
Of appetites whose sole rich draught is fame,
Wanting the steadfast fuel, the strong wind
Wanting of love devotional, heart-deep
To their own native land, that passion proud
That is all passions, that hath breath to fan
To a broad light beyond the noon-day Sun
The waning embers of faint zeal; they hence
Powerful, but now with gallant charge to sweep
From Kent's fair Valleys Horsa's Saxon train,
Downcast in mien and mind, with prospect sad
Now count that countless navy's gathering sails.
Not now the rapture and the restlessness,
The riding and the racing, burst and shock,
And sudden triumph, or as sudden death;
Now long, long wasting of the limbs and life,
The circumspect cold strife, drear march, damp watch,
Forepining day, and vigilant sleepless night,
Eternal and interminable war,
Before them spreads its comfortless wide tract.
Gone all soft joys, all courtly luxuries gone:
The languor of the bath, the harp, the song
By twilight in the lady's sleepless porch,
The loitering in the sunny colonnade,
The circus, and the theatre, the feast
Usurping the mild midnight's solemn hours;
From holier hearts, the chapel and the prayer,
The matins, and melodious vesper hymn,
The bridal with its gay and jocund rout,
The baptism with its revel, gone-all gone.
The burial on cold battle field, unhymn'd,
Unmourn'd, untomb'd; nor taper, tear, nor rite:
Gentle commercing between God and man
Broke off, save hasty prayer ere batile morn,
Cold orison upon the midnight watch.
Sole pillar of the quaking temple, firm, Inflexible, on the foundation deep
Of his broad spirit, Samor bears the weight
Of imminent danger, and his magic voice
Scatters the languid mist, that wreathes their souls, And from their blanch'd cheeks drives the white dismay.
What ho! a trumpet from the Thanet shore, Truce for the Saxon's embassage; his hand Outholding the white wand of peace, comes on Old Cerdic, and before the assemblage proud Speaks frank and bold that grey Plenipotent.
"Britons, most strange 't will sound, while our vast
fleet
Affronts your pale cliffs with fierce show of war,
Yet would we peace with Britain. Deem not this,
In the blown arrogance of brief success,
The hard-wrung cowering of faint fear; look round
Your own brief camp, then gaze abroad, our sails
Outnumber your thin helms, and that pale fear
Is not familiar with our German souls.
This know ye further, what we Saxons dare,
That dare we nobly, openly. Far south
A rich and wanton land its champaign green
Spreads to the sun, there all the basking hills
Glow with the red wine, there the fresh air floats
So fragrant, that 'tis pleasure but to breathe,
Aye one blue summer in the cloudless skies;
And our old Bards have legends, how of yore
From that soft land bright eagles, fledged with gold
Danube or Rhine o'erflew, their Cæsars fired
Our holy groves with insolent flames, and girt
Our fierce free foresters with slavish chains,
That scarce bold Herman rent their massive links.
Not to despoil a mild and gentle isle.
For full fierce vengeance on Imperial Rome
Pours forth embattled Germany. Then hear
Brave islanders! our Saxon terms of peace:
For this fair province, ours by royal boon
Of your King Vortigern give plenteous gold;
And with it take the gift, that deepest wrings
Our German souls to part with, our revenge.
With most unwonted patience will we bear
Erle Horsa's camp with fierce assault o'erborne,
And British wolves full gorged with Saxon gore.
Then not as foes, but friends, we disembark
Our sea-worn crews, ourselves, the Chiefs of war
In solemn festival to your high Lords,
Pledge on the compact our unwavering faith.
But if ye still with lavish thirst pursue
War's crimson goblets, freely let them flow.
If the fierce pastime of the fire and sword
Be jocund to ye, ho, let slip the game.
Your city walls are not so airy high,
But our fleet flames may climb their dizzy towers
And revel on their pinnacles of pride;
Your breastplates not so adamantine proof,
But our keen falchions to your hearts may find
A direful passage. And not we alone,
Caswallon, at our call, o'er the wide North
Wakes the hoarse music of his rushing cars.
Then choose your bride, oh Britons, lo, each courts
Your arms with rival beauties, Peace and War."
Thus half in courtesy, defiant half,
With shame, with praise, with soothing, and with scorn, To wait their answer he withdrew. Ere died
His voice, ere from a single lip assent
Had parted, Samor rose, and cried aloud-
"Britons. oh Britons! hinds fear fawning wolves,
The peasant flies the snake that smoothly coils
Round his numb foot its gay enamell'd rings;
I dread a peaceful Saxon. 'Tis too rare,
Prodigious, and unnatural, like a star
Seen in the noon-day. Was 't for this, for this
Round Vortigern's tame soul that proud-ey'd Queen
Wound her voluptuous trammels? did the meek,
The hermit Constans, bleed for this? Oh, Peace
Is like the rain from heaven, the clouds must burst
Ere earth smile lovely with its lucid dews.
Peace must be won by war, swords, swords alone
Work the strong treaty. Shall our slaves, that sold
Their blood, their lives unto us for base hire,
On our fair provinces set now their price?
Nor feast, nor metal give we, but cold steel!
Give gold! as wisely might the miser lead
The robber to his treasury, and then cry,
"Go hence, and plunder;" 't were to tempt, to bribe
The undream'd perjury, and spread a lure,
To bring the parted spoiler swiftly back.
Outnumber us! and are we sunk so low
To count our valour by our helmet crests?—
Oh, every soul that loves his native land,
It is a legion; where the fire shall sear
The hydra heads of liberty? Our earth
Shall burst to bearing of as boon a crop
Of sworded soldiers, as of bladed grass,
And all our hills branch out in groves of steel.
So thought our fathers, so they bravely strove
For the bleak freedom of their steamy moors,
Their black oak's fruitage coarse, and rites uncouth
Of Druid, by the beal-fire's lurid flame.
But we, less drossy beings, filter'd off
Our natures rude and gross, create anew
Souls of fine wants and delicate desires,
Rich in the fair civilities of life,
Endued with sensitiveness keen and clear
Of earth's best pleasures, shall we tamely yield
Our beauteous Britain, our own pleasant isle,
To dreary-soul'd Barbarians? "Tis not now
Merely to 'scape the heaven-branded name of slaves,
For license to breathe where we choose, and wield
At our own wayward will unfetter'd limbs.
Oh, if we fail, free Christians must sink down
To Heathen slaves, our gilded palace roofs
Shout the loose riot of new Lords, our wives
Be like base plunder, vilely bought and sold;
Worse shame! worse sin! the murky Heathen groves
O'er our failen Churches their pale gloom advance;
Our holy air go hot and reeking up
With impious incense to blood beveraged Gods!
The deep damnation of a Pagan creed
Rot in our children's souls! Then be our peace
Not hasty, as of timorous souls that snatch
At every feeble reed, but stoop we to it
As with a conqueror's pride, with steel-gloved hand
Seal our stern treaty. So if they depart,
And with their spread sails hunt their mad emprize; But while one prow dash menace on our shore,
Our earth be patient of one armed hoof,
Tame treaty, temporizing truce, avaunt!
The foreign banner that usurps our winds,
Be it a foe, strange steel that doth divert
One ray of sunlight from our shores, be that
The scope and centre of all British swords.
So build we up our peace on the strong rock
Of brave defiance, cement it with scorn,
Set bright-arm'd Valour in its jealous porch,
Bold warden; from our own intrinsic strength
Not from the mercy of our foes, be free.”—
Oh the soul's fire, of that swift element Th' intensest, broadest spreads and nimblest mounts, With flaky fierce contagion; it hath caught In that Baronial conclave, it hath blazed. But then rose Elidure, with bashful mien, Into himself half shrinking; from his lips The dewy words dropt, delicate and round, And crept into the chambers of the soul, Like the bee's liquid honey:-"And thou too, Enamour'd of this gaudy murderer, War! Samor, in hunger's meagre hour who scorns A fair-skinn'd fruit, because its inward pulp May be or black or hollow? this bland Peace May be a rich-robed evil; war, stern war, Wears manifest its hideousness, and bares Deformities the Sun shrinks to behold. Because 't is in the wanton roll of chance That he may die, who desperately leaps Into the pit, with mad untimely arms To clasp annihilation? Were no path But through the grim and haunted wilds of strife, To the mild shrine of peace, maids would not wear Their bridal chaplets with more joy, than I Th' oppressive morion: then th' old vaunt were wise, To live in freedom, or for freedom die. Then would I too dissemble, with vain boast Our island's weakness; wear an iron front, Though all within were silken, soft, and smooth. For what are we, slight sunshine birds, thin plumed For dalliance with the mild, luxurious airs! To grapple with these vultures, whose broad vans, Strung with their icy tempests, but with wind Of their forth rushing down would swoop us? Then, Then, Samor, eminent in strength and power, It were most proud for thee alone to break The hot assault, with single arm t' arrest The driving ruin-ruin, ah! too sure. Oh, 't were most proud; to us sad comfort; sunk, Amerced of all our fair, smooth sliding hours, Our rich abodes the wandering war-flame's feast. Samor, our fathers fear'd not death; cast off Most careless their coarse lives; with nought to lose. They fear'd no loss; our breathing is too rich, Too precious this our sensitive warm mould, Its joyances, affections, hopes, desires, For such light venture. Oh, then, be we not Most wretched from the fear of wretchedness! If war must be, in God's name let war be: But, oh, with clinging hand, with lingering love, Clasp we our mistress, Peace. Gold! what is gold My fair and wealthy palace set to sale,
Cast me a beggar to the elements' scorn;
But leave me peace, oh, leave my country peace,
And I will call it mercy, bounty, love!"—
So spake he, with vain show of public zeal
Blazoning his weak intent; and so prevail'd
His loose and languid eloquence. Each rent
The golden frontlet from his helm, cast down
His breastplate's golden scales, in contest free
Prodigal rivals at rich price to buy
That baleful merchandize, their country's shame.
Oh, where the royal Brethren now? the pride
Serene of Emrys? where thy Dragon crest,
Prince Uther? for thy voice, young Vortimer?
Seal, Samor, thy prophetic lips; in vain
The trumpet of thy warning shouts abroad.
Will the winds hear thee? will the rocks obey?
Or hearts than wind more light, than rocks more cold?
Grey Cerdic hath their faint award; they part
Jocund, and light of hope; but Samor grasp'd
The hand of Elidure My childhood's friend,'
I sue thee by all joys we two have shared;
Our interchange of souls, communion free
Of every thought and motion of our hearts,
Our infant pastimes, and our graver joys,
Go not thou to this feast."-" Doth Samor go?"
"Britain must have no danger, gentle friend,
That Samor shares not; thou art noted well
To hate the riotous and brawling feast.
With thy fond bride, thy Evelene, await
Silent the knowledge whether thou or I
In fleet career 'neath the rank air; the earth
Gave up no echo to their noiseless feet,
And on them look'd the moon with leprous light
Prodigious; haply like those slender shapes
In the ice desert by Caswallon seen.
From Mona to the snowy Dover cliffs,
From Skiddaw to St. Michael's vision'd mount,
Unknown from heaven or earth, or nether pit,
Unknown or from the living or the dead,
From being of this world, or nature higher,
Pass'd one long shriek, whereat old Merlin leap'd
From his hoar haunt by Snowdon, and in dusk
And dreary descant mutter'd all abroad
What the thin air grew cold and dim to hear.
"I is said, rude portents in the church of God.
With insolent noises, brake the holy calm.
The grey owl hooted at the noontide chaunt,
The young owl clamour'd at the matin song,
The pies and ravens, from the steeple top,
To the priest's Benedicite moan'd back
A sullen hoarse Amen, and obscene bats
Around the altar candlesticks did flap
Their leathern wings. Yea, from his stricken hand
The white-stoled Bishop to the earth let fall
The consecrated chalice; the holy wine
(Ineffable!) flowed on the pavement stone.
Have err'd in this day's council."-" No, best friend, SWAN of the Ocean, on thy throne of waves
Samor must have no danger Elidure
Shares not. Oh, why this cold and gloomy dread?
In the deep centre of our isle be held
This dreaded banquet. Samor, ne'er thought I,
While my mild blood ran constant, thine would flag,
And curdle with the pallid frost of fear."
"Tis famed, that then, albeit amid the rush
Of clamorous joy unmark'd in drearier days,
Remember'd signs on earth, and signs in heaven,
With loud and solemn interdict arraign'd
That hasty treaty; maniacs kindled up
With horrible intelligence the pits
Of their deep hollow eyes, and meaning strange
Gave order to their wandering utterance: stream'd
Amid the dusky woods broad sheeted flames;
The blue fires on the fen at noon-day danced
Their wavering morrice, and the bold-eyed wolves
Howl'd on the sun. Life ominous and uncouth
Seized upon ancient and forgotten things;
The Cromlechs rock'd, the Druid circles wept
Cold ruddy dews; as of that neighbouring feast
Conscious, the tall Stone Henge did shrilly shriek
As with a whirlwind, though no cloud was moved
In the still skies. A wailing, as of harps,
Sad with no mortal sorrow, sail'd abroad
Through the black oaks of Mona. Old deep graves
Were restless, and arm'd bones of buried men
Lay clattering in their stony cells. "T was faith,
Waite women upon sable steeds were seen
Exultant dost thou sit, thy mantling plumes
Ruffled with joy, thy pride of neck elate,
To hail fair peace, like Angel visitant,
Descending, amid joy of earth and heaven,
To bless thy fair abode. The laughing skies
Look bright, oh, Britain! on thy hour of bliss.
In sunshine fair the blithe and bounteous May
O'er hill and vale goes dancing; blooming flowers
Under her wanton feet their dewy bells
Shake joyous; clouds of fragrance round her float.
City to city cries, and town to town
Wafting glad tidings: wide their flower-hung gates
Throw back the churches, resonant with pomp
Of priests and people, to the Lord their prayers
Pouring, the richest incense of pure hearts.
With garland and with song the maids go forth,
And mingle with the iron ranks of war
Their forms of melting softness; gentle gales
Blow music o'er the festal land, from harp
And merry rebeck, till the floating air
Seem harmony; still all fierce sounds of war;
No breath within the clarion's brazen throat;
Soft slumber in the war-steed's drooping mane.
Not in the palace proud, or gorgeous hall,
The banqueting of Peace; on Ambri plain
Glitter the white pavilions to the sun,
Their snowy pomp unfolding; there the land
Pours its rejoicing multitudes to gaze,
Briton and Saxon, in majestic league,
Mingling their streaming banners' blazon'd waves.
Blithe as a virgin bridal, rich and proud
As gorgeous triumph for fair kingdom won,
Flows forth the festal train; with arms elate
The mothers bear their infants to behold
That Hengist, whose harsh name erewhile their cheeks
Blanch'd to cold paleness; they their little hands
Clap, smiling, half delighted, half in dread.
Upon that hated head, from virgin hands,
Rain showers of bloom; beneath those hated feet
Is strewn a flowery pavement; harp and voice
Hymn blessings on the Saxon, late denounced
Th' implacable, inexorable foe.
Lordly they pass'd and lofty; other land
Save Britain, of such mighty despots proud,
Had made a boast of slavery; giant men
In soul as body. Not the Goth more dread,
Tall Alaric, who through imperial Rome
March'd conqueror, nor that later Orient chief,
Turban'd Mohammed, who o'er fall'n Byzance
His moony ensign planted: they, unarm'd,
Yet terrible, went haughty on, of power
A world to vanquish, not one narrow isle.
The hollow vault of heaven is rent with shouts,
Wild din and hurry of tumultuous joy
Waves the wide throng, for lo, in perfect strength,
Consummate height of manhood, but the glow,
The purple grace of youth, th' ambrosial hue
Of life's fresh morning, on his glossy hair,
His smooth and flushing features, Samor comes.
His name is on the lisping infant's lips,
Floats on the maiden's song; him warrior men
Hail with proud crest elate; him present, deem
Peace timorous mercy on the invading foe.
Around the Kings of Britain, some her shame,
Downy and silken with luxurious ease,
Others more hardy, in whose valiant looks
Were freedom and command: of princely stem
Alone were absent the forsaken King
And his sad Son, and those twin royal youths,
Emrys and Uther; nor the Mountain Lord,
With that young eaglet of his race, deign share
The gaudy luxuries of peace; save these,
All Britain's valiance, princedom, and renown
March'd jubilant, with symphony and song.
Noon; from his high empyreal throne the Sun Floods with broad light the living plain; more rich Ne'er blazed his summer couch, when sea and sky, In royal pomp of cloudy purple and gold,
Curtain his western chambers, breathing men
Gorgeous and numberless as those bright waves
Flash, in their motion, the quick light; aloof
The banqueters, like Gods at nectar feast,
Sit sumptuous and pavilion'd; all glad tones
From trembling string, or ravishing breath or voice,
In clouds of harmony melt up to Heaven;
O'erwhelming splendour all of sight and sound,
One rich oppression of eye, ear, and mind.
Midnight, in darkness heavy, thick, and chill;
In silence rigid, deep and breathless, stands
On the wide plain one lonely man. Wan light,
From dim decaying firebrand in his grasp,
Feebly, with gleam inconstant, shows his mien
Hopeless, too haughty to despair: His eye,
As jealous of dark foe, goes wandering round:
Yet seems he one more fear'd than fearing; rent
His robes' rich splendour; and his ponderous arm,
With its wild weapon wearily declined,
Bears token of rude strife-though rude, though fierce,
By thy brow's pride, thou sad and stately Man!
No faint inglorious craven hast thou shrunk,
In dread of death, or avarice base of blood.
At that dead hour, in Cæsar's city* gates The Briton wives and mothers sate; at eve They from the plain had homeward turn'd, to rock Their infants' rosy sleep, or trim the couch For him beloved and loving; some, from joy Sleepless, sate watching the grey shadows fall, In luxury of impatience; slumbering some, From weariness of pleasure, in light dreams Lived o'er again the morning's jocund hours.
That hour, one horn with long and solemn blast Went wailing up the heavens; less shrill, less drear, Blew through the fatal Roncesvalles pass, In after times, Roland's deep bugle, heard Dolorous, so poets feign, on Paris' wall.
The air seem'd shivering where the knell pass'd on, As with a cold wind shudder'd the thick trees.
But those fond women hail that brazen sound, Joy's harbinger, sweet signal of return: As the fond maid her lover's moonlight lute, They drink in its dire harshness, busy round Gazing, if aught neglected, careless aught Belie the welcome, or to wakening child Smile the glad tidings, or along the walls People the dim air with the forms they love. Oh, fond of fancy! credulous of hope! Ye hear but pleasure in that horn; but see, In the dim tumult of yon moving lights, Swift homeward hurrying. Now the slow delay Is but a lengthen'd rapture: steps are heard, And figures indistinct are in the gloom Advancing; yet no festal pomp proclaim'd By music's merry breath, but mute and slow, As from dark funeral-haply wearied all With the long revel day. But ye 'gin trace Some well-known gesture, dear familiar step, Each boastful of her lover's speedier pace. Saxon the first, how wearily slow they pass! Still are they Saxon, Saxon still, the last Saxon; in wonder they, nor yet in fear, Question the dark air with their searching eyes, Incredulous arraign the deepening gloom, That with an envions melancholy shroud Pails the long-look'd for, late-returning. Them, Ah, deeper darkness covers; to their homes Never more to return! Lo, all at once The bloody knives, borne boastful, their red light
*Salisbury.-Sarisburga, qu. Cæsaris burga?
|