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The pale laugh wrinkling on his swelling lip.
"Thou! thou! (cried Offa) with thy mother's milk
Yet white within thy beardless cheek."-" Proud Jute,
The stem of Woden is a mounting tree,
Its saplings soar to meet the golden Sun,
While tamer shrubs creep with base trail on earth.
Hengist, my King, my Brother! by our Sire
I swear, that ne'er again metheglin cup
Shall sparkle on these lips, till I have met
This mystic deity of Offa's fear."

Then on the Monarch turn'd all eyes; he sate
In darkness, or, by chance or art, the lamps
Stream'd bright and yellow down the festal b
But fell no ray within his folded robe.
Yet wore not Hengist on his brow his soul,
High spake he from its cold and stately calm
Law to the lawless, to the dauntless dread;
But his were rarer qualities of power,
Dominion o'er himself; deep, deep within
Dwelt all the stormy passions; by no eye
Pierced in its dark abiding lay the spirit

With all its shames and grandeurs, loves and hates,
And all its greedy family of lusts.

Though now there seem'd beneath his royal crown
A faint uncertain paleness, as of fear
Not wholly quell'd, and on his cheek and lip
Hover'd a quivering motion, ere he spake,
But cool his speech." Presumptuous youth, thy oath
Though wild, is holy-Woden guard thee well.
Yet art thou sole in madness? time hath been
When the brave frenzy of rash daring spread
A broad contagious flame through all our camp,
Till not a sword but shamed its sluggish sheath.
Needed not Saxon king, as now, to gild
Fair danger ere it pleased, as now proclaim
Rich guerdon to the warrior, that aspires
To rival Woden's blood, and be the peer
Of Abisa in peril and renown.
More lofty duties fetter thee and me,
High Horsa"-(for the fiery warrior's hand
Had started to his sword's familiar hilt)
Rob we not of their fame the valiant Erles."

No seat was vacant, not a voice came forth,
As he were single in his shame sate each,
Nor dared on his compeers to look, in fear
Soul might be there more dauntless than his own.
Blank silence all! but loud that silence spake
Not vainly, Samor, worn thy title proud,
Avenger! by thy country's Conquerors thou
Magnificently deified; so soar'd

Thy mortal virtue o'er their tamer Gods.
Not that the vassal elements thy sway
Hearken'd, nor beings of the middle air
Stoop'd on their glistening wings to work thy will,
Avenger! but for thee, the Almighty wrought
Most marv'lous, most mirac'lous; in.thy soul,
That nobler field, high wonders manifold
Labour'd to light and lustre for what thought
Unwing'd by in-breathed Godhead e'er might dream
Of glory to be born from this broad night
Of desolation and deep darkness, strive

:

For faint, impalpable, and airy good,

Through the thick clouds of evil and of woe.
Strong, stately, constant, like an eagle set
To drink the last light of the parting sun?
What heart of earthly clay, that ne'er imbibed
Holier and purer ether, might endure
Danger, dismay, despair, all ills that wring
Within, and rack and rankle? not alone
Fierce wrong and insult of triumphant foe,
But worse, far worse, from those our friends mis-
deem'd,

Pity of calm, cold cowards, or rude scorn
From sleek and smiling slaves; or scoff and mock
At our hard sufferings from those ingrate hearts
For whom we suffer; these the woes that wait
That nobly desperate, who with steadfast hand
The statue of his country's fame, down dash'd
And trampled by barbarian feet, ingrain'd
With the coarse dust and black, before the world
Would rear again to sov'reignty and state.
But thou didst strive and suffer, thou didst hope,
And therefore in thy dark and silent deeds
Beam'd manifest God's Spirit; till in thee
Even the base body that e'er clogs and clouds
The nobler energies, its state infirm
Shook off, and by communion close assumed
The soul's immortal essence, or the soul
A climate and peculiar atmosphere
Spread round its weaker instrument of power.

Hence human accidents of heat and cold,
Famine and thirst, wasting and weariness,
Fell light and thin upon thy tranquil frame,
Like flakes of snow upon th' unbroken lake;
Thus didst thou pass most fearless, and most fear'd;
By virtue, and thy foeman's dread, array'd
In attributes of strong divinity;
Danger became thy safety, thy renown
Grew from thy utter desperate wretchedness.

But now the more enjoy'd that Saxon youth
His solitude of glory; forth he springs
Hasty, lest valorous repentance fire
Some rival Erle of half his peril yet
To wrong him. In his tent, soft languid sounds
Expiring on her falling lute, arose

To welcome home her Lord his beauteous slave;
His slave! is that her slavery, round his neck
The snowy girdle of her arms to wreathe?
To catch a master's mandate doth she raise
The bashful fringes of her eyes, and meet
Those glances of no lordly scorn, that soothe
Her gentle wayward angriness of love,

Soothe, dare not chide, that coldness faint and brief
That would be wooed, but sweeter to be won?
Nor dares not she withhold that arm upraised
From their high stand the furniture of fight,
Glaive, corslet, morion to displace; her touch
Now clings with soft resistance, playful now
Thwarts his stern purpose.-"Oh, remove not them;
In hours of absence, thou too dearly lovest,
They are my comfort, my companions they,
My all but thou: the dusky shades of eve
Brown o'er their glittering steal, and there array,
A bright and armed man, th' officious air

Gives motion, and with all thy graceful pride
Shakes the light plumage; thou art there, in spite
Of thy own tardy lingering, thou art there.
Oh, I have woke at midnight, when my soul
With thee hath been a wanderer through sad fields,
'Mid death and battle, though my lightest touch
Had proved thee by my side, yet my faint hand
Lack'd courage with that dangerous proof to front
My unsubstantial fears. Oh then, if light
Of star or moon on their blue surface gleam'd,
Or wind awoke them into sound, again
Calm on my pillow droop'd my cheek to rest,
Secure to find thee sweetly slumbering there.
Yet, yet unwon, oh, lighten that cold brow,
And I will sing the soft and sleepy song
That makes a woman of thy angry eyes,
Lulls the rude tumult in thy troubled breast,
Leaving nought there but melody and me."

Then started she to feel how hard and cold
Between her and her bosom's resting-place
The corslet lay, by stealth her fond embrace
Supplanting; gently his one arm declined
Over her neck, in careless fondness hangs;
Busy the other, its rude office frames,
Linking the breastplate's clasps; now holds he back
From her approaching lips his cheek, to fix
The weighty morion; but her garrulous grief
Paused not-" At midnight! now! oh brave misdeem'd,
Misdeem'd, who only th' open day would front
With his bold armour; who but I would love,
I, weak and brain-sick, one whose valour shrouds
Its prowess in the cloudy gloom of night?
Oh not, oh not to war, thou goest to win
Some lovelier or some newer bride. Go, go;
Though faithless, barbarous, cruel, cold to me,
Yet make not her too wretched, make not her
Heart-sick with sad expectance."-But her arms
Belied her desperate language, closer clasp'd
With more than maiden strength. "Oh, stony heart.
And I for thee forsook my infant home,
Where all my steps were music, all my smiles
Glad sunshine to my parents' wintry blood,
That glanced like summer waters at my sight:
For thee did violence to my virgin fame:
By war's rude force might I have seem'd enthrall'd,
A luckless, pitied damsel; my fond heart
Ill brook'd the coarse reproach of ravisher
Should couple with a name so dear as thine.
At night-fall fled I to thee; even as now
The stars shone beauteous, and a kindly gloom
Curtain'd our meeting even as now; no change
From soft and fond and gentle, but in thee."-

Oh pause,

Her beauties in his churlish arms.
And yet farewell, 'tis exquisite to part,
For oh, thou weep'st at parting. 't was past hope
To see a tear on that stern face for me."-

She hath her last cold kiss through the barr'd helm
Won hardly; she is calm as though it dwelt
Yet on her lips; she hears his parting steps,
Yet lingers on her cheek that liquid glow,
That brilliant harmony of smile and tear
That at the presence of the one beloved
Flits o'er the settled purple of the cheek.
Oh, if soft woman hath her wilder fears,
She hath her wilder hopes, for man's stern grasp
Too thin, too airy! "Never yet found false,
Thou wilt return;" (so wanton'd her gay dreams)
"So young, so lovely, fate would shame to snatch
So early the choice glories of the earth."
Then sate she down triumphal coronets
To weave, but not in modest quiet grief,
And gentle resignation pale and mild,
But with a dancing heart and bright blithe eye:
And when her eyelids droop'd, soft o'er her came
A sweet inconstant slumber, such as sleep
Love-dreaming maidens ere their bridal morn.
But through the clear calm night, the azure plain
Of heaven, with all its glittering paths of light
Distinct and dazzling, moved that fair-hair'd youth:
So if old fable may be won to smile

Its grace upon our darker tale, the boy,
Smooth-cheek'd Endymion, his enamour'd Moon
Wooed with no lawless witchcraft from her sphere:
Nor she delay'd, her silver-sandal'd feet
Gliding and glancing o'er the dews she came,
And curtain'd in a cloud of snowy light,
Mock'd mortal harps that hymn'd her cold and chaste.
No amorous fancies o'er thy downless cheek
Flushing their rosy heat, no love-lipp'd tones
In sweet disturbance stealing on the air,

Young Abisa! with more imperious charm
Thou summon'st from wild wood or cavern'd heath,
Nor vainly, their fierce habitant. Behold,
A shadow by thine own, its stately length
On the white dews advancing; at thy side
The Avenger, as upsprung from nether earth.

Then fatal gladness leap'd in that young heart,
He flung his vizor'd helmet proudly up,
And dash'd defiance 'gainst fierce Offa's dread.

But Samor, for when his pure heart was wean'd
From all the faint and feeble of his kind,
The mercies clung within, and gentleness
So mingled with his nature, that it slaked

"Peace, trembler, peace! to-morrow's dawn shall hail, Even the blood-thirsting frenzy of revenge;

Borne in the shield of honour, on the necks
Of his tall peers, thy Abisa; no voice
Silent, no quiet in the troubled air,
Restless with his hymn'd triumph, Offa's heart
Sick with wan envy. Then Myfanwy, then
My glory shall make rapture of thy tears,

Samor that beauteous youth survey'd, the stars
Glimmer'd a blue and hazy light, that show'd
His soft locks spreading their bright clusters wide,
His vermeil cheek most lovely in its wrath,
And brow that seem'd to wonder and delight
At its own dauntlessness. So tall, so fair,
"Oft had he imaged his own perish'd boy

And thou shalt bless the grief that wrings thee now."
'Oh, glory hath a stern and savage mate,
Danger her lawless paramour, enfolds

In flower of youth, that flower which never bloom'd
Tender and mild his voice, as though he spake

Even to that dead beloved-"Oh, brave and fair,
Why thus abroad amid the silent night,
With menace and fierce gesture wild and strange?"
"Thou heardst my call, thou seest my arms, my aim
Idly thou question'st."—""T is not, gentle youth,
Thy golden luxury of hair, nor cheek
Warm in the rosy wantonness of youth,

But thy brave bearing, gallant mien and prond,
That winds long-banish'd inercy round my sword,
To save from it one Saxon life."-" Soft praise,
And sweet from lady's lips, but not to hear
Smooth Flattery's descant come I, but to win
What, being won, is in its lofty self
Imperishable beauty, garlands youth
With honour passing the white hairs of age,
Glory, the life of life."-" And is there none
Whose pillow dreams of thee are haunting now?
No mother, whose last waking thought was hope,
At morn, to meet thee in thy wonted glow
Of loveliness and life? No gentle maid
Whom the bare thought of paleness in thy cheek,
Of death's wan chili upon thy brow, would waste
And wither like the canker'd flower of spring?
Return to her, oh fair, high-minded youth!
Ere yet too late, return."-But more delay

The breezes are melodious with her voice,
The dews are printed by her slender feet,
She flows into his arms, her fond embrace
Is warm upon his soul. Thus aye she comes,
Or when 't is wintry in the starless skies,
Or when the moonlight bathes the earth, to her
Heaven opes its crystal portals, beauteous light
Ushers her presence, sleep can ne'er estrange
That luxury from his heart; when consciousness
Of all things earthly slumbereth and is dead,
She haunts within, her sweet intrusion clings
To the lull'd spirit, senseless but to her,
All, all the living of the man is her's.

Oh, in their dreamings, their communions wild
With airy, immaterial visitants,

Most differ Guilt and Virtue; there are shapes
Hideous and hateful, snaky Gorgon smiles,
And all the fabled populace of hell,
Brooding disquiet o'er the thorny couch;
But Virtue's visions are almost as fair
As angels' blest realities; to thee
Lovely thy nightly visitant, said Chief!
As to man, sinless yet in Eden bowers,
On beds of odorous amaranth asleep,

The hot youth brook'd not; down he clasp'd his helm, Yet uncreated, came his virgin bride,

And leaping to the frantic onset, cried,

"Now, Offa, for thy shame, and for thy meed,
My brother Hengist!"-As when lightning flame
Dashes at midnight o'er his slumbering lids,
Up starts the wild steed, all his tawny mane
Bristling and blazing, he devours the earth
In fury; even so sudden those rash words
Set flames upon the Avenger's brow, set wrath
On the impetuous motion of his spear.

Oh, holy Night! in thy injurious gloom
How blank the proud distinctions of man's fame!
Languor and loftiness, and shame and pride
In one dead darkness, deep forgetfulness,
Lie, as within a grave, till Virtue's self,
But for her haughty consciousness within,
Might weary of her mute and viewless deeds.
Secret and still! that I might violate
Thy mysteries, and redeem from envious gloom
That Saxon boy's dead honours, dearly won,
Most dearly, yet most nobly. Morn shall tell
The issue of that conflict, but no morn
Will dawn upon his silent, perish'd praise.

Two hours are past, alone the Avenger moves
Under the stars of heaven; 't is midnight deep,
Now comes his hour of softness; love-sick boy,
Tuning soft frenzies to his wanton lute,
Is not more wild, fantastical, or fond,
Than Britain's stately hope, high Hengist's dread.
For ever at this hour, of parted joy
Dim gleams revisit his forsaken soul,
Like once-loved music o'er a maniac's ear;
Faintly and feebly sweet, the dead put on
Their earthly lustre; Emeric comes, as fair
As from the bridal altar, but less coy,
In fervent full abandonment of love.

Delicate phantom; then his fresh pure soul
Amorous enchantment first entranced, first rose
That our best feeling, of lost Paradise
That sole surviving pleasure, holy love.

Beauteous thy blue uprising, mist-robed Morn!
All thy bright glittering of fantastic dews
With their thin tissue silkening the green meads,
And all thy music of blithe leaves that dance
In the caressing breeze, and matins gay
From all the living woodland, Sleep is pleased
To be so sweetly banish'd her soft reign.
But dreary are thy sounds, and sad thy light
On the lewd wassail, riot's orgies rude,
Polluting day with sights that shame dark night.
Now from the state pavilion forth are pour'd
The synod of high banqueters, their eyes
Hot with loose raptures and distemper'd joy,
Voluptuously turbulent their souls.
Right in their way stood fix'd a lofty spear,
Not with gay garland crown'd, or streaming silk,
But, with that beauteous head that yesternight
Confronted them with graceful pride; the cheek
Where wantonly youth's rosy banner gleam'd,
Pale, dewy, stiffening, lifeless, lustreless;
Part matted with red damp the golden locks
Clung round the spear, part curling on the air,
Sad semblance show'd of life, in all the rest
Making the stillness and fix'd cold more dread.

No cheek was there so bright, voluptuous heart
So hot, but, like bleak snow, fear fell on it
With a cold thrill and searching; if their sight
Had vet perception, humbler chiefs might draw
From high example comfort for their dread;
Brow might they see with kingly crown beset,
White, sad, and shrunken as their own. Alone,

Fierce smiled the pride of Offa; he held up To those wan lips the sparkling shell of mead : "Drink, thou hast kept thy oath, drink, soft-lipp'd boy!"

O'er all the camp spread loud and wide and far
The name of Abisa; Myfanwy heard
Where lay she dreaming half, and fabling half
Of garlands and of gay triumphal pomp.
How nimble are the feet that bear light hearts!
She is gone forth, and all for joy forgot
The veil e'er wont to dim her dazzling cheek,
Forgot the braiding of her hair, the maid
So soft, so timorous, at the wanton breeze
She oft hath trembled, 'neath day's eye retired
Even from the fondness of her own loved youth.
Through files of warriors, who uncasque their brows
To fill their curious gaze, she hurries on,
She knows not what she sees, and only knows
She sees not what she seeks, that cheek, that eye
Which fed on her with such excess of love
As if 't were worse than blindness to lose sight
Of its sole idol; only she is blithe,
She only smiling 'mid those many sad.

She meets even all she longs for; up from earth
(For now from that sad eminence of scorn
Had friendly hand removed it, now had cleansed
Its damp defilement) that dear face on her
Settled its fix'd and inexpressive gaze.
Her mien was strangely rational, her look
Like one that calmly ponder'd what it saw,
Her voice articulate and passionless.

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Once her rash lips approach'd: so pass'd the hours
From earliest morning till the setting sun.
Then that wild spirit and playfulness of grief
Sadden'd to drear sobriety, gave place
Sweet-dreaming twilight to the bright clear day.
Then first she thought of beasts and fowls obscene
Battening on his fair limbs, no hand to heap
The scanty pity of a little earth

Upon the brave, the princely, and the fair:
Envious of partner in her sacred toil,
Bearing her cold wan burthen in her arms,
Alone upon the pious quest she speeds.
She fears not, ah too wretched now to fear!
Darkness is on her steps, but what to her
Though nature's rich varieties are blank?
Her guide the unblinded sympathies within;
The love that link'd her to his living soul
Will light her to him lifeless; yon wan stars,
That struggle with the haze, are bright enough
To beam upon the dead. But now more fast
Their golden cressets multiply, more clear,
And lo fierce Offa in her path: his eye
Fix'd on her with a rude imperious lust,
As the pollution of his bad desires
Did honour to their victim. But the maid,
Unbelieving, unsuspecting aught impure,
With sweet beseeching, almost with caress,
Would win her onward passage; when her soul
Was startled into fear, she would not think
Such savage nature dwelt in human hearts.
She wept, she sued, she drew the veil away,
Upheld that lovely lifeless thing-in vain :

Who hath done this?"-"The Avenger, the un- The snowy dove is in the rude kite's grasp,

known,"

Spake many voices.-"Oh, my hands are weak;
Ye see them soft and delicate and white,

But thou, and thou, and thou, art bold and strong,
And bear'st bright armour, ye will sure requite
The slaughter on the slaughterer's head."-Ensued
Brief moments of a stagnant grief, life paused,
As 't would prolong unconsciousness; delay
Yet, yet that state that wakes with waking sense.
Then kindled up her eye, but not with joy,
Then flush'd her cheek a light and sanguine red,
That its fair marble flitted o'er, but left
Nor tinge nor warmth; she snatch'd up to her heart
That lifeless thing and fled; as some fond bird
With spread wings hovering o'er her nest, looks round
At some black shape of fear, then turns to see
If yet her callow brood are slumbering safe:
So wandering her dim eye on all around,
Anon with full intensity of love,

Settled on her cold care. She reach'd the tent,
There miserly her treasure she o'erbroods;
She lays it on her lap, and sings to it,
Now gazes as she thought even yet those eyes
Might open, those wan lips, their wonted sounds
Murmur, now almost sees a forming smile:
Now gaily carols on her broken songs,
Ever his favourite, most familiar tones,
And now breaks off, as fearful to disturb
His quiet slumbers, only speaks in smiles,
Language by him e'er understood, and once,

Pale, fluttering, fainting; upon Heaven she call'd,
Cruelly calm look'd on her the cool skies;

She call'd on Abisa, but only felt
More deeply that cold glassiness of face,
That dull, indifferent witness of her shame;
But in the stress and hurry of despair
Strange energies were hers, with frantic voice
She call'd on the Avenger-Lo, he comes,
Terrible in the silence of his arms,
And earth is dank with Offa's lustful blood.
But her first motion was a frantic kiss
On Abisa's cold lips, as though for him
Proud of the untainted treasure of her love;
Then turned to her preserver, but with looks
Of loathing more than thankfulness; he stood
In gentle majesty serene, yet proud
Of that light victory, of prevented crime
Severely joyful; bitter strife of heart
Spake in her language-" Had it been but death,
I yet had cursed thee! oh, look here, look here!
(And she withdrew the clust'ring curls that veil'd
The rigid deathfulness of that fair brow)
Oh, one sole feeling to this dead heart seem'd
A duty and delight, the hate of thee.
Cruel, even that thou enviest me, even that."
"That, British maiden! is a Saxon's face,
Yet mourns thy amorous heart in guilty tears?"
"Is there not beauty in a Saxon's cheek,
Is there not music on a Saxon's tongue,

Is there not tenderness in Saxon hearts?

Oh, he is kind and true, his love to me
Almost as deep and fond, as mine to him:
Wild that I am, he was-that fatal was
Makes agony my sacred thought of him."—
"Maiden, by Wye's transparent stream abode
An aged pair, and their declining day
One beauteous child enlighten'd, and dispensed
Soft moonlight o'er their darkening eve; they thought
The only pang of death from her to part.
But heavy was their sinking to the grave,

For that fair beam in unchaste darkness quench'd
Its virgin lustre, and its light withdrew,
Of their old limbs the life: alone they dwelt,
In discontent and cold distaste of all,
As her ingratitude had made them sick
Of the world's hollowness, and if she fail'd
All earthly things must needs be false and frail.
They ne'er reproach'd her, for so near the grave
They could not hate; but for her sake they loathed
Each old familiar face, that once they loved.
Where she was wont to wander, wander'd they;
The garden flowers she tended, they bound up
With woeful care; their chill and shaking hands
Made tremulous music with her lute: I shrunk
In hoary age to see such childish joys.
They felt one after-pleasure; the same hour
They glided from their woes, their parting breath,
Blended in languid blessings on her head,
For her went suppliant to the throne of God,
Their lost Myfanwy."-Trembling stood she there,
Like one that strives to weep, but the hard tears
Are frozen in their source. "Oh thou and I,
Sweet Abisa (to that cold head she spake),
We will go weep upon their graves, and win
Their spirits to forgiveness; when they hear
How fervent and how fatal were our loves,
Heaven will lend airs to waft their mercy down."
"Fond Maid, beware! repentance must be chaste
And spotless as the unsunn'd snow; wilt thou
Yet wanton with the memory of thy sin,
Bad thoughts at revel in thy heart, with vows
Lightly made up of guilty breath impure,
Pollute and sicken the clear air that dwells
About the holy dwellings of the dead;
Waver from God to Pagan paramour
With wandering loose affections?" "Hard and cold
Be thou content to have robb'd this widow'd heart
Of that most lovely breathing thing earth bore,
But spare, oh spare, the sinless, senseless dead!
Cruel, by yon bright stars I oft have sworn
Ne'er to forego him; shall I crown my sins
With perjury? I will weep, and fast, and pray,
And wear the rough stones with my tender knees,
So thou wilt leave me my sad thoughts of him.
Oh, God hath grace for all; my earliest prayer
Shall be for mercy on his perish'd soul,
The next for those who dying pray'd for me,
And for my sad and sinful self the last."

Most exquisite sorcery of womankind!
Even to the fall'n some cherish'd loveliness
Yet clings, with innocent hypocrisy
Tricking their failures in such tender hues,

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How measureless to erring human sight
Is glory! Glorious thy majestic state,
Hengist! with captive cities for thy thrones,
And captive nations thy pale satellites,
Britain, with all her beauty, power, and wealth,
Thy palace of dominion. Glorious thou,
Caswallon, in Caer Ebranc's stately courts,
By the slow waters of the wandering Ouse,
Bright-sceptred Renegade! Even in your crimes
Glitters a dazzling and meteorous pomp;
Though your wild voyage hath lain through waves
of blood,

Ye ride triumphant in your royal port.
But he, sad Pilgrim, outcast and forlorn,
How doth the midnight of his honour shame
Your broad meridian, his wild freedom pass
Your plenitude of sway, his nakedness

Transcend your sweeping purples, ray'd with gold!
Nor wanteth to his state its gorgeous pride,
And high peculiar majesty; the pomp

Of the conspiring elements sheds on him
Tumultuous grandeurs; o'er his midnight couch,
Amid the scathed oaks of the mountain moor,
On its broad wings of gloom the tempest stoops.
Around his head in crystal coronets

The lightning falls, as though thy fiery hand,
Almighty! through the rolling clouds put forth,
Did honour to the Freeman. Mighty winds
And the careering thunders spread around
Turbulent music; darkness rivals day,
And day with darkness vies in stateliest pride
The Avenger's lofty miseries to array.
When from the East forth leaps the warrior Sun
In panoply of golden light, dark cowers

His own proud eagle, marvelling what strong form,
Uprising to usurp his haughty right,
Drinks in the intense magnificence with brow
Undazzled and unshrinking; nor to him

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