Flash murtherous; known is all ere aught is fear'd.
And yet are there unfaded on their brows
The garlands that ye fondly wove, the air
Not silent of your blessings. From these walls,
At morn, three hundred breathing valiant men
Went proudly forth-in solitary life

Moves o'er the plain that one majestic shape,
Like Spirit of Vengeance o'er some ghastly land
That scoff'd erewhile, in high portentous guilt.
The slumbering of God's wrath now blasted lies,
Infecting with the ashes of its wreck

The late chastising heavens. So lone, so dark,
But pale with human sorrows at his heart,
The King of that Bright City in the Vales,
Walks the waste gloom; around him the cold winds
Speak voices from the dead, and oft he turns,
Brandishing defiance on the air, and smites
Some seeming Saxon with his smouldering brand.

Now rests he in that old mysterious ring, The dateless and the numberless Stonehenge, That is, and hath been, whence or how, none knows. But even the Master Druid with slow dread

Or deign'st thou this low frame of dust to choose
Thy minister of wrath, I not with prayer
Vain and presumptuous, summon from the clouds
Thy thunders, nor invoke prodigious Death
To smite my foes. Hopes perishable man,
At his wild bidding, thou the laws wilt burst,
Wherewith thou fetterest thy Onnipotence?
Harden to stern endurance these frail limbs,
With adamantine patience sheathe my soul,
That nor pale shrinking of the coward flesh,
Nor inward palsying swerve from its brave scope
Th' aspiring spirit; grant thou this sole prayer,
And I thus lone, thus desolate, proclaim,
Single, yet dauntless, to yon Saxon host
Stubborn defiance, haughty to bear up
The wreck of Britain with unstooping neck."

Now over all the orient sky, the Morn Spread rosy in her youth of light, as fair, As bright her rising on this plain of death, As yesterday, when festal multitudes Greeted her dawn: so vain the boast of man, That earth, and air, and sky, their mimic hues Borrow from his fantastic woes and joys.

sage,

Th' Invisible his cloudy presence here Embodied, and with wisdom heavenly and high Full feasted the tranced soul; all the dire place Fled, fearing more, unknowing what they fear'd.

Amid those stony giants that uptower In massy darkness, or in the wind's rush Seem swaying on their dizzy balance, stands, If virtue of aught earthly may feel awe, Awe-struck the Christian; now his calmer soul Had time for grief, for memory, o'er him flows Deep-lulling quiet; here the light and gay Had felt a motion on their lips like prayer; Nor marvel then that holy thoughts oppress'd With a full ecstasy the Christian soul.

"Merciful! by whose will mine arm hath paved
With the strewn corpses of my murtherous foes
A dismal passage, while around me Death
Mow'd Britain with his secret scythe! oh God,
I thank thee, if I die, a warrior's death
May be my brave distinction: if this life
Be worthy thy upholding, though all lost,
The friendships and the prides, that made its course
Blissful and bright, I thank thee for my life:
Thank thee, that yet on British earth shall breathe
A Briton, resolute on that last crag,

That knows not the rude Saxon's tread, to rise
Erect in stately freedom, and o'er-brood
The dim and desert beacon of revenge.

And o'er the plain began his lonely way The Warrior, on his brow the unheeded wind Fann'd freshness, and the wandering lark unheard Quiver'd her blithe song, like an airy voice, Bathing in light. Anon a dale beneath Open'd, and slow withdrew the misty veil

Tinged with a liquid azure the thin air.
Along the winding path he roves, that none,
Save feet habituate to its maze, could thread,
Heedless that here to Elidure's green home
He came, unweeting visitant. Within,
Breathless, as though she listen'd in her sleep,
Close to the door, as jealous lest some ear
Earlier than her own should catch the sound
Of Elidure's returning tread, or voice
Anticipate the welcome of her own,
Reclined the bride, soft Evelene. The step
Up from the pillowing hand her flushing cheek
Waken'd, or ere the threshold he o'erpast,
The form yet indistinct to her quick sight,
Murmur'd her fond upbraiding. "Truant Lord,
Art thou too changed, thou too of midnight feast
Enamour'd? time hath been the rosy cup,
Thou Saxon in thy revels, had look'd pale
To Evelene's cheek-"T is wretched solace, yet
"Tis solace in the drear extreme of grief,
To find one human heart whose deeper woe
Makes weakness of our wailing." Though alone
Of the fray's dizzy tumult lay distinct
Elidure's image on the Wanderer's soul,
His image as beneath the Saxon steel
Dying, he struggled back to life from joy
His stern friend to behold with fiery brand
Piercing his path of flight, less bitter seem'd
His cup of woe, when from him sprang that bride,
Nor knew him; knew him, but not Elidure.
Then sued for tidings, and with all her soul

Listen'd but could not hear, mistrusting all
While yet but fearing, but when all assured,
Mistrusting even her fears, even then to hope
Clinging with desperate energy of soul.

Her Samor left in that dead night of mind,
When madness were a comfort, all wild whirl,
All dizzy hurry of rack'd sense were rich,
Were rapturous to that blank and dismal void,
When one incessant miserable thought
Blends with the life, the being of the spirit.

Him scared no Saxon clarion, the drear blast
Winding of fleet pursuit; came o'er his soul
His own, his wedded Emeric, her babes
Hushing, while greedily with ear and soul
She drinks each sound the busy babbling fame
Spreads on the wandering winds; the fleetest steed
Of Elidure bestriding, still he moves
A tardy laggard to his soul's desire.
Sedulous each throng'd haunt of man avoids
His jealous speed, and still from town and tower
Came blithely forth the jubilant hymns of peace;
Still unextinguish'd their glad brilliance, waned
In morn's grey mists the yellow festal fires.

Day pass'd, day sank: 't is now the dewy eve.
Beneath him, in the soft and silent night.
Spread the fair Valleys, mead and flowery lawn
With their calm verdure interspersed allay
The forest's ponderous blackness, or retire
Under the chequering umbrage of dim groves,
Whose shadows almost slumber: far beyond
Huge mountains, brightening in their secret glens,
Their cold peaks bathe in the rich setting sun.
Sweeps through the midst broad Severn, deep and dark
His monarchy of waters, its full flow

Still widening, as he scorn'd to bear the main
Less tribute than a sea; or inland roll'd
Ambitious ocean, of his tide to claim
The wealthy vassalage. High on its marge
Shone the Bright City, in her Roman pomp,
Of bath, and theatre, and basilic,
Smooth swelling dome, and spiring obelisk,
Glittering like those more soft and sunny towns
That bask beneath the azure southern skies
In marble majesty. Silent she stands
In the rich quiet of the golden light;
The banner on her walls its cumbrous folds
Droops motionless. But Samor turn'd aloof,
Where lordly his fair dwelling's long arcade
On its white shafts the tremulous glittering light
Cherish'd, and starry with the river dews
Its mantle of gay flowers, the odorous lawn
Down sloped, as in the limpid stream to bathe.

No waten-dog, with glad bark and fawning joy, His Lord saluted: Samor mark'd it not. No menial caught the slack rein from his hand : He heeded not. No swift familiar step Forth started at his coming; face of joy Brightened not-vacant all: yet heeds he not. No infants, in their giddy, tottering speed, Clung round his knees. So early at their rest!

Thought the fond father. Emeric's chamber door
Stands open; he but paused his name to hear
Low mingled with her murmur'd orisons:
All hush'd as in a tomb; perchance she sleeps,
At his long absence heartsick. He the folds
Gently withdrawing of his nuptial bed,
As with the amorous violence of his lips
To wake her to delicious fear, bends down.
Cold, cold as marble, the forsaken bed
Received the fervent pressure. Back he sprung
And strange, like one that moveth in his sleep,
Stood with loose arms and leaden listless gaze.
Unconscious, to the city walls, far seen
From that high chamber, rove his eyes: behold
Against the Sun's last light a wandering breeze
Swells up the heavy banner; in the gleam
The White Horse of the Saxon shakes his mane.

Then felt he the blank silence, then perceived The tumult, and rude disarray that marr'd The face of his fair dwelling. Forth he rush'd, As eager that his soul at one wild draught Might glut itself with perfect woe, all ill Exhausted, laugh drain'd destiny to scorn. Cradle and infants' couch with frantic hand Hurrying he explores; the sad chill void Almost delights. Now on the river brink He watches yon huge forms that pace the walls; Saxon their long black lances, Saxon helms Nod o'er their lofty brows, terrific gloom.

Lo! at his feet, beneath a primrose bed,
Half veil'd, and branching alder that o'er-droop'd
Its dark green canopy, a slumbering child—
If slumber might be call'd, that but o'erspread
A wan disquiet o'er the wither'd cheek,
Choked the thin breath that through the pallid lip
Scarce struggled, closed not the soft sunken eye.
Well Samor knew her, of his love first pledge,
First, playfullest, and gentlest: he but late
Luxurious in the fulness of his woe,
Clings to this 'lorn hope like a drowning man,
Not yet, not yet in this rude world alone.
Lavish of fond officious zeal, he bathes
With water from the stream her marble brow,
Chafes her; and with his own warm breath recalls
The wandering life, that like a waning lamp
Glimmer'd anon, then faded: but when slow
Unfix'd her cold unmeaning eye regain'd
Brief consciousness, powerless her languid arm
Down fell again, half lifted in his hair
To wreathe as it was wont, with effort faint
Strove her hard features for a woeful smile:
And the vague murmurs of her lips 'gan fall
Intelligible to his ear alone.

"And thou art come--too late-yet thou art come,
He soothing her with hope, he knew most false,
Slow modell'd from her broken faltering voice
One sad continuous story." "T was at eve
We went to rest, I never slept so soft;
Our mother lull'd us with assurance sweet
Of thy returning.-By and by I woke,
But the bright morning was not shining fair,

Nor the birds singing as they used. I saw,
By a dim dusky light, huge iron men
With hair like fire, and their fierce voices spake
Strange language: of my prayers I thought, and strove
My eyes to close, still those grim-visaged men
Stood in the wavering darkness by the light
Of their blue weapons-then they went away.
I crept out to my mother's couch; she lay
Asleep, but not as I have seen her sleep,
When I have stolen at morn to look on her,
And thou hast laid me by her quiet side.
She shiver'd in her sleeping, and her skin
Was chilly to the touch, yet, oh to sleep,
Even as she did, I long'd; for they came back,
Those shapes in all their darkness, all their light;
Before their rugged faces I felt cold

As in the snow time; my eyes could not see,
Oh, but I heard a dizzy sound, like shrieks
Of many voices all at once. I thought
Rude hands were busy on my mother's couch,
As though to bear her thence-yet woke she not.
Oh Father, I have never look'd on death,
But she was dead, I felt that she was dead.
I could not breathe, yet from my thirsty throat
My voice was bursting, but down o'er me fell
The foldings of the couch-long, long it seem'd,
Ere from that cumbrous weight I struggled forth,
Then all was silent, all except the dash
Of distant oars: I cried aloud, and heard
But my own voice, I search'd, yet found I none;
Not one in all these wide and lofty halls-
My mother, my sweet brothers gone, all gone.
Almost I wish'd those fierce men might return
To bear me too in their dread arms away.
Hither I wander'd, for the river's sound
Was joyous to the silence that came cold
Over my bosom, since the Sun hath shone.
Yet it seem'd dark-but oh, 't is darker now,
Darker, my Father, all within cold, cold,
The soft warmth of thy lips no more can reach
This shuddering in my breast-yet kiss me still."-

Vain, all in vain, that languid neck no more Rises to meet his fondness, that pale hand

Cling with a coward fondness?-but a step To quiet-to forgetfulness, a step.

But alien to proud Samor, those bad thoughts
Startled his nature, burnt his soul with shame,
That such unholy musings dare intrude
On its sad sanctity; upright he sprung;
Oh, not in vain a Christian, with clench'd hand
And inward rack convulsive of choked pain,
Forced calmness to his brow, his hollow voice
Wrought to a mournful fortitude.-"Oh thou,
Glorious in thy prosperity of crime,

Hengist, and thou that barter'st thy old fame
For sweet lascivious chambering, hast unking'd
Thy stately soul within the wreathing arms
Of that fair Saxon, in loose dalliance soft
To steep the inebriate sense,' on Samor's state
Look, and be pale with envy; he dare stand
Lofty beneath yon starry throne of God,
And bless him, that his fate is scant and poor
In joys like yours, by all your pomp, your bliss,
Made lovesick of his misery; still he feels
The haughty solace of disdain; still soothes
The madness of his grief by pitying you.
Nor yet, oh impotent of cruelty!

I am not utterly from this dark world
Estranged and outcast: gone, for ever gone,
Those exquisite mild luxuries of the heart,
That summer sunshine of the soul, sweet love,
That makes life what we deem of heaven; remain
Hardier delights, severer joys. Oh reft
Of all thy brave, thy princely, of my faith
Thou hast a deeper need-be thou my bride,
O Britain! to thy wreck I proudly wed
The sadness of my widowhood, and bid
Pale bridemaids to our nuptials, holy Wrath
And iron-handed Vengeance; and invoke

Death, that dark minstrel, from fast-slaughter'd mounds
Of Saxons, to awake our bidal hymn,
And spread for torchlight on our spousal eve
Wild gratulation of their funeral fires.

"And thou, Q stainless denizen of heaven! Soft soul of my lost Emeric, endure Though jealous my new bride from thee bereave

Its last of sweetness: wanted this alone
That could enhance his agony, baffled hope.
Quiet and cool the deep tide at his feet

Rolls with a tranquil murmur; one lone gleam
Still lingering from the sunken Sun, beneath
The moving surface, lightens its cold depth.
How pleasant in its secret caves to quench
The soul, the body's fever; to cast off
This restless, trembling consciousness, that clings
Enamour'd to its anguish, sedulous

To nurse its own disquiet: not to feel,

Though cast by wandering waves on Emeric's grave;
Though Saxon barks triumphant bound above,
To feel not, and have freedom though in death.
For why this barren wilderness of earth
Still haunt, man's pity, and the arch fiend's scoff;
Why to the wearying wretchedness of life

I consecrate to thee; then slide thou down,
Like moonlight on the darkness' raven wing,
And oh! if human passion, human love,
Stain the pure essence of immortal spirits,
Leave heaven in heaven, earth's frailer loveliness
Resuming, chaste mild fondness, timorous warmth
Visit my desert fancy. Hin by day,
Savage and merciless, with soul of steel,
And pale brow cloudy with a nation's cares,
Shall midnight find an amorous dreamer fond,
A dotard on a dim unreal shade."

Now o'er what was the rosy, playful, warm, Now pale, now changeless, icy cold the maid Whose blue eyes danced with rapture, whose light step Was consort to the air-roving winds (half seal'd That lustreless wan azure; stiff and damp

Those sprightly limbs,) oft pausing as yet loath
To part from what he shudder'd to behold,
Heaps Samor the light earth; ere o'er her face
He placed the primrose knot, once stoop'd his lips,
And started to find cold what he knew dead.

Now closed that mournful office, nearing fast Is heard a dash of oars, and at his side Forth leap'd an armed Saxon, with raised arm Menacing; but Samor down with scornful strength The grim intruder dash'd to earth, and fix'd His stern heel on his neck, and stood in act The life to trample from the gasping trunk. Sudden withdrawn his angry tread, he spake, "Thee first of Saxon race, thee last, this arm Spares, not of milky mercy, but as meet To minister my purpose; go unscathed, And tell to Hengist, tell thy Lord, who robs The Lion's den, should chain the Lion first; Add, Samor is abroad."-Then to the boat He sprang, and pass'd to Severn's western shore.

BOOK VI.

A VOICE, o'er all the waste and prostrate isle Wandereth a valiant voice; the hill, the dale, Forest and mountain, heath and ocean shore Treasure its mystic murmurs; all the winds From the bleak moody East to that soft gale That wantons with the summer's dewy flowers, Familiar its dark burthen waft abroad.

Is it an utterance of the earth? a sound
From the green barrows of the ancient dead?
Doth fierce Cassivelan's cold sleep disdain
That less than Cæsar with a master's step
Walk his free Britain? Doth thy restless grave,
Bonduca, to the slavish air burst ope,
And thou, amid the laggard cars of war,
Cry, "Harness and away!" But far and wide,
As when from marish dank, or quaking fen,
Venomous and vast the clouds uproll, and spread
Pale pestilence along the withering land.
So sweeps o'er all the isle his wasting bands
The conqueror Saxon; he, far worse, far worse
His drear contagion, that the body's strength
Wastes, and with feverish pallor overlays
The heaven-shaped features; this the nobler soul,
With slavery's base sickliness attaints,
Making man's life more hideous than his death.
Thames rolls a Saxon tide; in vain delays
Deep Severn on Plinlimmon's summits rude
His narrow freedom, tame anon endures
Saxon dominion: high with arms uplift,
As he had march'd o'er necks of prostrate kings,
Caswallon on the southern shore of Trent

Drives onward, he nought deeming won, while aught
Remains unwon. But still that wonderous voice,
Like vulture in the grisly wake of war,
Hovers, and flings on air his descant strange,

"Vengeance and Vigilance!"-in van, in rear,
Around, above, beneath, the clouds of Heaven
Enshroud it in their misty folds; earth speaks
From all her caves, "Vengeance and Vigilance!"
Aye, at that sound the Briton crest assumes
High courage and heroic shame; he wears
With such bold mien his slavery, he might seem
Lord over fortune, and with calm disdain
He locks his fetters, like proud battle arms.
Without a foe o'er this wide land of foes
Marcheth the Saxon. City, tower, and fort
On their harsh hinge roll back their summon'd gates,
With such a sullen and reluctant jar,
Submission seems defiance. Though to fear
Impassive, scarce the Victor dare unfurl
Banner of conquest on the jealous air.
Less perilous were frantic strife, were wrath
Desperate of life, and blind to death, wild hate
Of being struck all heedless so it strike,
Than this high haughty misery, that fierce woe
Baffles by brave endurance, and confronts
With cold and stern contentedness all ill,
Outrage, and insult, ravage, rape, and wreck,
That dog barbaric Conquerors' march of war.
'Tis like the sultry silence, ushering forth
The thunder's cloudy chariot, rather like
The murky smothering of volcanic fire
Within its rocky prison; forth anon
Bursts the red captive, to the lurid heaven
Upleaps, and with its surging dome of smoke
Shuts from the pale world the meridian Sun.
But in their camp, in fierce divan and full,
The lordly robbers sate, assemblage proud,
Ethling, and Erle, and King, for council met,
For council and carousal ;* so they deem'd
The drunken sense would hardier daring grasp,
And the bold revel of the blood, the soul
Flush to more noble valiance, strong desire
In fierce embrace to meet that mistress dark,
Danger: Hoarse din of merriment, the air
Smote with meet music blending loud and deep.

But Horsa lighting with disdainful mirth

His broad bright eye, 'gan scoff with rugged jest.

Ill have we done, though for one sumptuous feast

Be ours this spacious isle, ill have we done;-
That in our prodigal and heedless waste
Of those tall high-born Britons spared we none
To tilt at with our thirsty spears, and scare
The frost and slumber from our sluggish hearts.
Now hang we forth our banners to disport
In the smoooth breeze, our armour's steeled clasps
To summons soft of Lady's tender hands
Surrender; or go joust the hardy oaks

For pastime. Oh! along these velvet plains
To prance 'mid timorous hinds with their pale souls
In their white faces, heralds crouching low,
With looks beseeching, voices meek, clasp'd hands;
"Tis tame and wearisome as at dead noon
To rock upon the flat and hazy sea.'

* De pace denique ac bello plerumque in conviviis consultant; tanquam nullo magis tempore aut ad simplices cogita tiones pateat animus, aut ad magnas incalescat.--TAC. Germ.

"This too," cried hoary Cerdic; "this bright sword Loathes its long Christian fast, yet not despairs Erewhile to glut with banquet rich and full Its ravening blade; for trust me, fiery Erle, Many a fierce steed hath brook'd the brazen curb, That chafed anon, from his high sent to dust Hath shaken his pale rider: Erle, I read In yon bow'd foreheads sterner characters Than abject, tame allegiance, homage base: There the firm purpose, meditation deep, And study of revenge; the wand of peace Is in their hands, but in their souls they grasp The battle-axe and spear."-A bitter laugh Came with the fierce reply, "Shall Horsa watch The shiftings in the visage of a slave? I issue forth my mandate, and 't is done, Whether with cloudy or with sunshine brow I know not and regard not."-Cerdic's voice, Ruffled to somewhat of prophetic tone:

"Not, Horsa, to the stones, the deaf dull stones,
Nor the cold current of the senseless winds
Speaks that wild orator, the Man, whose paths
Are hidden as the ways of fate, unknown
Who knoweth all, who seeth all unseen,
Nor like the lightning shaft his presence dread
Divulgeth, but to shatter, but to slay.

Whose breath beneath the soft dove's snowy down
A soul might breathe of valour to outsoar
The falcon's pitch of pride: I tell thee, Erle,
This soft effeminate Britain, to our sway
Gentle and pliant as a willow wand,
Will that dark Man uprear a ponderous Mace
To crush our infant empire."-"Man! hath man
Curdled the blood of Offa, made his soul
Patient of that pale trembling motion, fear,
And Offa live, live shameless of his shame,
Amid his peers with unblench'd front to say,

Then shall he 'scape.'-High o'er our path a rock
Hung beetling, from its summit came a voice,
'Behold him!'--with the voice a fragment vast,
An earthquake had been weak to hurl it forth;
Two stately necks to the low earth sank down,
And o'er them that huge mass lay stern and still,
Like an old giant's monument. But we
Leap'd onward, Ella met the dark unknown,
Heavy with ruin hung his arm in air,
But in his valiant heart a javelin stood,
Drinking the crimson life. Still on we swept,
Many a wild league o'er moor and marish swamp,
Forest and wold, and still our pathway lay
O'er the warm corpses of our foremost peers.
Sole, sad survivors of our host, we came,
Sigvart and Offa; on the giddy brink
Of precipice abrupt the conqueror paused.
As weary with his prowess, our defeat,
To mock us with the calmness of his rest.
'Now come what will,' cried Sigvart, 'come what may
Or thou, or I, or both.'-Then on he sprung,
Yet not the more relax'd that shape of gloom
Its stern contemptuous quiet, waved his arm
With motion less of strife than proud command,
And then of Sigvart's fall the deep abyss
Sent up a hollow sound. I fled, proud Peers;
say again, I fled, and, or disdain'd
That being dark a lone and single foe,
Or by the shielding of our mightier Gods,
I 'scaped.""I too (cried Hermingard), I too
Of that mysterious Wanderer have known
The might and savage mercy. I had stray'd
Into a fabric fair, of Christian Gods,
A fane it seem'd, rich-crested pillars ranged
On either side, above the hollow roof
Aye lessening, seem'd to melt into the air
On which it floated.-High uprear'd there shone
An altar, bright with chalice, lamp, and cup,

I

felt

The aspen's coward fluttering, and the Sun

That saw his flight, hath seen not his revenge?

Cerdic, the name of perishable man

Thou dost belie, so titling beings dim,

Viewless and formless denizens of air,

That sport and dally with the human shape,
Making of mortals to their mortal peers,

Dark things of doubt and danger. We had sworn,
Gurmund and Sigvart, Ælla, Attilar,
And other six, than who no German arm
Sways heavier the long lance, nor German foot
Treads firmer battle's crimson paths, I speak,
Fiery-soul'd Horsa, to thy front; to thine,
High-sceptred Hengist! mortal steel we swore
Should choke that full-voiced Wanderer's clamorous

breath.

Sage oath! as to adjure our souls, and vow
Th' irregular mad ocean our word 'Peace'
Should hearken, and sleek smooth his cresting waves.
But gaily went we forth with brand and bow,
Like hunters to the chase, scoffing our prey.
Now if he meet us in his mortal shape,
Let him melt back into his native air;

An arm was on my neck, that dash'd me down
Like a soft infant; then a vengeful voice
Struck on my dizzy hearing- But thy blood
Would dye this holy pavement with foul stain,
Heathen, thy soul and mortal shape were rent
Asunder.'-As I fled, I turn'd-reclined
Low by that altar on his knees, all quench'd
Fierce wrath and fiery menace, drooping all
Stern pride of mastery, triumph, and high scorn,
That wild Unknown, calm not with weariness,
Gentle but not with sleep. Majestic light
Beam'd on the quiet of his heavenward brow,
Yet human tears stood glittering in his eyes.
My thoughts were vengeance, but the cold clear air
Drank up the languid current of my blood.
Went creeping up my veins, an awful frost
And unrevenged I fled that tranquil Man."

Upsprang young Abisa, and beauteous scorn
Curl'd his smooth cheek-"In tumult or in calm,
But have he blood within his beating veins,
Mine is a steel of such a searching thirst,

"T will drain its crimson source." "Thou! wanton Boy,"