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."-
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.
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,
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,
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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