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'Mid the rude waves of desolation, Star
Of Britain's gloomy night, so bafflest thou
My swift poetic vision! now the waves
Ride o'er thee, now the clouds devour thee up,
And thou art lost to sight, and dare I say
Lost to thy immortality of song?
Thee too anon I see emerging proud
From the dusk billows of calamity,

That swoln and haughty from the recent wreck
Of thy compatriot navy, thee assail
With their accumulated weight of surge.
Thon topst some high-brow'd wave, and shaking off
On either side their fury, brandishest

Thy solitary banner. Thee I see,

Within th' embosoming midnight of the land,
On gliding with smooth motion undisturb'd,
And through the glimpses of the breaking gloom,
Sometimes a solemn beauty sheddest forth
On the distemper'd face of human things.

Full in the centre of Caer Ebranc* stood
A temple, by the August Severus rear'd
To Mavors the Implacable; what time
That Cæsar stoop'd his eagles on the wreck
Of British freedom, when the mountaineer,
The King of Morven, if old songs be sooth,
Fingal, from Carun's bloody flashing waves t
Shook the fled Roman on his new-built wall;
And Ossian woke up on his hill of dreams,
And spread the glory of his song abroad,
To halo round his sceptred Hero's head.

But not the less his work of pride pursued
Th' imperial Roman; up the pillars rose,
Slow lengthening out their long unbroken lines;
In delicate solidity advanced,

And stately grace toward the sky, till met
By the light massiveness of roof, that sloped
Down on their flowery capitals. Nor knew
That man of purple and of diadem,
The Universal Architect at work,
Framing for him a narrow building dark,

The furrowing scourge with all herself, and hung
Over their backs half fury, and half joy,
As though to listen to their bruising hoofs,
That trampled the thick massacre. Erect
Behind, with shield drawn in and forward spear,
The coned helm finely shaped to th' arching brow,
The God stood up within the car, that seem'd
To rush whenever the fleet wind swept by.
His brow was glory, and his arm was power,
And a smooth immortality of youth,
Like freshness from Elysium newly left,
Th' embalming of celestial airs inhaled,
Touch'd with a beauty to be shudder'd at
His massy shape, a lightning-like fierce grace,
That makes itself admired, whilst it destroys.

There on a throne, fronting the morning sun, Caswallon sate; his sceptre a bright sword Unsheathed; with savage art had he broke up His helmet to the likeness of a crown, Thereon uncouthly set and clustering bright Rich jewels glitter'd; to his people ranged Upon the steps of marble sloping down, Barbaric justice minist'ring he sate, Expounding the absolute law of his own will, And from the abject at his feet received Homage that seem'd like worship: not alone From his wild people, but from lips baptized, Came titles that might make the patient Heavens Burst to the utterance of a laughing scorn; Might wake up from the bosom of the grave, A bitter and compassionate contempt, To hear the inheritance of her dull worms, Named in his dauntless and unblushing style, "Unconqu'rable! Omnipotent! Supreme!"

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Yet he, the Stranger, whom Prince Malwyn leads He bows not, those hymn'd flatteries seem to jar

The grave's lone building. Th' emperor and his bones Upon his sense, so high his head he bears

Into the blank of things forgot and past
Had moulder'd, but this proud and 'during pile,
By wild weeds overgrown, by yellow hues
Of age deep tinted, still a triumph wrought
O'er time, and Christian disregard, and stood
As though to mock its Maker's perishing.

Upon the eastern pediment stood out
A fierce relief, where the tumultuous stone
Was nobly touch'd into a fit device
For th' immortal Homicide within: it show'd
His coming on the earth; the God had burst
The gates of Janus, that fell shattering back
Behind him, from the wall the rearing steeds
Sprung forth, and with their stony hoofs the air
Insulted. Them Bellona urged, abroad
Her snaky locks from her bare wrinkled brow
Went scattering; forward the haggard charioteer
Lean'd, following to the coursers' reeking flanks
† Gibbon, ch. vi.

*York

Above them, like a man constrain'd to walk
Amid low tufts of poisonous herbs; he fronts
The monarch, and thus 'gins his taunting strain:
Unconqu'rable! whose conquering is the wolf's
That when the shifting battle rages yet,
Steals to some desert corner of the field,
And riots on the spoils. Omnipotent!
Ay, as a passive weapon, wielded now,
Now cast away contemptuous for the dust
To canker and to rust around. Supreme!
O'er whom is Ruin on its vulture wings,
Scoffing the bubble whereupon thou ridest,
And waiting Hengist's call to swoop and pierce
And dissipate its swoln and airy pride.
Whose diadem of glory, sword of power,
Yea, breath of life, at Hengist's wayward will,
Cling to thee, ready at his beck to fade,
And shiver and expire."-" At Hengist's call!
At Hengist's beck! at Hengist's!"-the word choked.
With eyes that dug into the Stranger's face,

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Against the living guilty."-And to earth,
Upleaping, Samor dash'd the crown; the gems
Lay starry on the pavement white. On high
Caswallon the rear'd sword of justice swung,
Heavy with death, above th' Avenger's head.
But he "Caswallon, hold thine hand, here, here
Thy warrant for my safety, by thy son
A poniard given, upon his heart to wreak
All evil done myself." With bosom bare
Stood Malwyn by th' Avenger's side. But he
Viewing that downy skin empurpled o'er
With youth's light colouring, and his constant mien,

(Pursued the unwondering Stranger) know'st thou not, Cast down the dagger, and "Fall what fall may,

There is a strength, that is not of the arm,

Nor standeth in the muscles' sinewy play?

It striketh, but its striking is unseen,

It wieldeth, what it wieldeth seeming yet
Sway'd by its own free motion. King, I say,
Thou stepp'st not, speak'st not, but obedient still
To Hengist's empire, thou 'rt a dog that hunts
But as thy master slips thee on his game,
A bridled steed that vaunteth as his own
His rider's prowess."-" Hah! I know thee now,
Insolent outcast, Samor?"-" And I thee,
Self-outcast, once a Briton-ob thou fall'n
When most thou seem'st exalted, oh most base
When most ennobled, a most pitiful slave
When bearing thee most lordly! Briton once,
Ay, every clod of earth that makes a part
Of this isle's round, each leaf of every tree,
And every wave of every streamlet brook,
Should look upon thee with a mother's glance,
And speak unto thee with a mother's voice.
But thou, most impious and unnatural son,
Hast sold thy mother to the shame and curse
Of foreign lust, hast knit a league to rend
And sever her, most proud if some torn limb
Be cast thee for thy lot."-Then rose again
Caswallon, from his brow the crown took off,
And placing it in Samor's hand—“I read
Thy purpose, and there's fire in 't, by my throne!
Now, Samor, place that crown upon my head,
Do me thy homage, kneeling, as thy king,
And thou and I, we 'll have a glorious tilt
At these proud Saxons. Turn not off; may boys
Gild their young javelins in Caswallon's blood,
And women pluck me by the beard, if e'er
On other terms I league with thee."-The crown
Samor received, and Samor look'd to heaven,
And Samor bow'd his knee," Almighty God,
If thine eternal thunderbolts are yet
Unweary of their function dire, if earth
Yet, yet have not exhausted and consumed
Thy flame-wing'd armoury of wrath, reserve
Some signal and particular revenge

For this man's head: so this foul earth shall learn,
Ere doomsday, that the sin, whose monstrous shape
Doth most offend thy nice and sensitive sight,
Is to bear arms against our native land.
Make thou of him a monumental ruin,
To publish in the ages long remote,
That sometimes is thy red right hand uplift

Excellent boy, my hand shall still be white
From blood of thine."-Like wild-boar in his rush
Baffled, or torrent-check'd, Caswallon paused-
"Now, Christian, where learnt thou the art to wrest
My vengeance from me? Go, go, I may strike
If the fit fire me.-By Andraste, boy,
Boy Malwyn, there's thy father in thy blood.
Ha! Samor, thou hast 'scaped me now, erewhile
I'll make a footstool of thy neck, to mount
On Britain's throne: alive or dead, I'll have
A knee as supple, and a front as low
From thee, as any of my milk-fed slaves:
Go, go."-And Malwyn led the Avenger forth
Along the dull and sleepy shore of Ouse,
Till all Caer Ebrane's sounds flagg'd on his ear,
And all its towers had dwindled from his sight.
Ere parting, Malwyn clasp'd his hand, and tears
Hung in his eyelids.-"Oh, thou know'st not yet
How Hengist sways my father's passive mind!
My sister, my sweet Lilian, she whose sight
Made mine eyes tremble, whom I've stolen to see,
Despite my father's stern command, asleep
With parted lips, and snowy breathing skin,
Scarce knew she me, her brother; her knew I
So only that my spirit yearn'd to mix
With hers in fondness, she, even she, the soft
The innocent, a wolf had loved her, she
Hath felt the drowning waters o'er her close,
Fair victim of a hellish sacrifice."

After a troubled silence, spake the Chief:
"Malwyn, my Christian pupil, God will give
The loved on earth another meeting-place;
Adieu, remember, Vengeance, Vigilance."—

The spring had made an early effort faint,
T'encroach upon the Winter's ancient reign,
And she had lured forth from the glittering earth
The snowdrop and pale cowslip, th' elder tree
And hawthorn their green buds shot out, yet fear'd
T'entrust the rude air with their dainty folds,
A fresh green sparkled where the snow had been,
And here and there a bird on the bare spray
Warbled a timorous welcome, and the stream
Of Eamont, as rejoicing to be free,
Went laughing down its sunny silvering course.

The only wintry thing on Eamont's shore Is human; powerless are the airs that touch To breathing and to kindling the dead earth, Powerless the dewy trembling of the sun,

To melt around the heart of Vortimer

The snow that flakes and curdles there-that bank,
That little bank of fair and cherish'd turf,
Whereon his head reclines, ah, doth not rest!
By its round swelling, likest were a grave,
Save that 't were brief and narrow for all else
But fairy, or those slender watery shapes

That dance beneath the stream. Yet there the spring
Hath dropp'd her first, her tenderest bloom; the airs
Find the first flowery odours on that spot;
Cowslip is there and primrose faint and pale,
The daisy and the violet's blue eyes,
Peeping from out the shaking grass. The step
Of Samor wakens the pale slumberer there,
He lifts his lean hands up, and parts away
The matting hair from o'er his eyes, which look
As though the painful sunlight wilder'd them,
With stony stare that saw not. Save that lay
A shepherd's wallet by his side, had seem'd
That foot of man ne'er ventured here; all sounds
Were strange and foreign, save the pendent arms
Swinging above with heavy knolling sound.
But Samor's presence made a sudden break
Upon his miserable flow of thought;
He motion'd first with bony arm, then spake.
"Away, away, thou 'rt fearful, thou 'It disturb,
Away with thy arm'd head and iron heel,
She will not venture, while thy aspect fierce
Haunts hereabout, she cannot brook a sound,
Nor any thing that's rude, and dark, and harsh,
Nor any voice, nor any look but mine;
She will not come up, if thou linger'st here;
Hard and discourteous man, why seek to keep
My own, my buried from me! why prevent
The smiling intercourse of those that love!"-

Oh, much abused! much injured, well, too well
Hath that fell man the deed of evil wrought."-
Man, man! then there is man, whose blood will flow,
Whose flesh will quiver under the keen steel,
Samor!"-And up he leap'd, as though he flung
Like a dead load the dreamy madness off.
"Samor! thou tranquil soul! that walk'st abroad
With thy calm reason, and thy cloudless face
Unchangeable, as a cold midnight star:
Thou scarce wilt credit, I have found a joy
In hurling stones down on that glassy tide,
And with an angry and quick-dashing foot,
Breaking the senseless smoothness, that methought
Smiled wickedly upon me, and rejoiced
At its own guilt and my calamity.

But oh, upon a thing that feels and bleeds,
And shrieks and shudders, with avenging arm
To spring! Where is 't and who? good Samor, tell.”—
And Samor told the tale, and thus-" Brave youth,
Not only from yon narrow turf, come up
From Britain's every hill, and glen, and plain,
Deep voices that invoke thee, Vortimer,
To waken from thy woeful rest. Thy arm
No selfish, close, and singular revenge
Must nerve and freshen; in thy country's cause,
Not in thy own, that fury must be wreak'd."

His answer was the brandishing his sword,
Which he had rent down from th' o'erhanging bough,
And the infuriate riot of his eye.

"Oh, perilous your hazard," still went on Samor, "ye foes of freedom, ye take off Heaven's bonds from all our fiercer part of man. Ye legalize forbidden thoughts, the thirst

"Sad man, what mean'st thou ?"-"Speak not, but Of blood ye make a glory, give the hue

begone,

I tell thee, she's beneath, I laid her there,
And she 'll come up to me, I know she will,
Trembling and slender, soft and rosy pale.

I know it, all things sound, and all things smile,
As when she wont to meet me."—" Woeful youth,
The dead shall never rise but once."-" And why?
The primrose that was dead, I saw it shed
Its leaves, and now again 't is fresh and fair;
The swallow, fled on gliding wing away,
Like a departing spirit, see it skims

The waters; the white dormouse, that went down
Into its cave, hath been abroad; the stream,
That was so silent, hark! its murmuring voice
Is round about us. Lilian too, to meet

Of honour and self-admiration proud

To passions murky, dark, unreconciled:
The stern and Pagan vengeance sanctify

To a Christian virtue, and our prayers, that mount
Unto the throne of God, though harshly toned
With imprecations, take their flight uncheck'd."

But Vortimer upon the grassy bank

Had fallen: "Not long, sweet spirit, oh not long, Shall violets be wanting on thy grave!"—

Yet unaccompanied the Avenger past,As though the wonted dark and solemn words, "Vengeance and Vigilance," had fix'd him there, Prince Vortimer remains by Eamont side.

Samor! the cities hear thy lonely voice Thy lonely tread is in the quiet vale,

The voices and the breathing things she loved,
Amid the sunshine and the springing joy
Will rise again."-"Kind Heaven, I should have Thy lonely arm, amid his deep trench'd camp,
known,

The Saxon hears upon some crashing helm

Though rust-embrown'd, yon breast-plate, and yon Breaking in thunder and in death. But thee

helm,

I should have known, though furrowy, sunk and wan,
That face, though wreek'd and broken that tall form;
Prince Vortimer! in maiden or in child,
Fancies so sick and wild had been most sad,
But in a martial and renowned chief,
Might teach a trick of pity to a fiend.

Why see I thee by Severn side! what soft
And indolent attraction wiles thee on,
Even on this cold and gusty April day,
To the sad desert of thy ancient home!
Why mingle for thyself the wormwood cup?
Why plunge into the fount of bitterness?
Or why, with sad indulgence, pamper up,

Wilful the moody sorrow, and relax

Thy high-strung spirit? Oh, so near, no power
Hath he to pass from those old scenes away,
He must go visit every spot beloved,
And think on joys, no more to be enjoy'd.

Ruin is there, but ruin slow and mild,
The spider's wandering web is thin and grey
On roof and wall, here clings the dusky bat,
And, where his infants' voices used to sound,
The owlet's sullen flutter and dull chirp
Come o'er him; on his hospitable hearth

The blind worm and slow beetle crawl their round.
Yet is no little, light, and trivial thing,
Without its tender memory; first with kiss,
Long and apparent sweet, the primrose bed
He visits, where that graceful girl is laid.
Then roves he every chamber; eye, and ear,
And soul, all full of her, that is not there:
Emeric haunts everywhere, there's not a door
Her thin form hath not glided through, no stone
Upon the chequer'd marble where her foot

Hath never glanced, no window whence her eyes
Have never gazed for him; the walls have heard
Her voice; her touch, now deathly cold, hath been
Warm on so many things; there hangs, even now,
The lute, from whence those harmonies she drew,
So sphere-like sweet, they seem'd to drop from heaven.
There, where the fox came starting out but now,
There, circled with her infants, did she sit;
And here the bridal couch, the couch of love,
A little while, and then the bed of death.
And lo that holy scroll of parchment, stamp'd
With many a sentence of the word of God,
Still open,
Samor could not choose but read
In large and brilliant characters emblazed,
The Preacher's "Vanity of vanities."

How like is grief to pleasure! here to stay
One day, one night, to see the eve sink down
Into the water, with its wonted fall,

"T is strange temptation-and to gather up
Sad relics. And the visionary night!
How will its airy forms come sliding down,
Here, where is old familiar footing all,
'Tis strange temptation.-But the White-horse flag
Past waving o'er his sight, at once he thought
Of that seal'd day of destiny, when his foot
Should trample on its neck, and burst away.

Oh secret traveller o'er a ruin'd land, Yet once more must I seek thee 'mid the drear. The desolate, the dead. On Ambri plain, On Murder's blasted place of pride. Might seem At distance, 't was a favour'd meadow, bright With richer herbage than the moorland brown Around it, the luxurious weeds look'd boon, And glanced their many-colours fleck'd with dew. Seen nearer, scatter'd all around appear'd Few relics of that sumptuous feast, the wrecks Of lifeless things, that gaily glitter'd still, While all the living had been dark so long. Fragments of banners, and pavilion shreds,

Or broken goblet here and there, or ring,
Or collar on that day how proudly worn!

A stolen and hurried burying had there been;
Here had the pious workman, as disturb'd
At his imperfect toil, left struggling out

A hand, whose bleach'd bones seem'd even yet to grasp

The earth, so early, so untimely left.

And here the grey flix of the wolf, here black
Lay feathers of the obscene raven's wing,
Showing, where they had marr'd the fruitless toil.
And uncouth stones bore here and there a name,
Haply the vaunted heritage of kings.

It was a sad and stricken place; though day
Was in the heaven, and the fresh grass look'd green,
The light was wither'd, nor was silence there
A soothing quiet; busy 't was, and chill
And piercing, rather absence of strong sound,
Than stillness, like the shivering interval
Between the pauses of a passing bell.

Oh Britain! what a narrow place confines
Thy powerful and thy princely! that grey earth
Was what adorn'd and made thee proud: the fair,
Whose beauty was the rapture of thy maids,
The treasure of thy mothers: and the brave,
Whose constant valour was thy wall of strength:
The wealthy, whose air-gilding palace towers
Made thee a realm of glory to detain

The noon-day sun in his career; thy wise,
Whose grave and solemn argument controll'd
Thy councils, and thy mighty, whose command
Was law in thy strong cities. Beauty, wealth,
Might, valour, wisdom, mingled and absorb'd
In one cold similarity of dust,

One layer of white and silent ashes all.
The air breathes of mortality; abroad

A spirit seems to hover, pouring in

Dim thoughts of Doomsday to the soul; steal up
Voiceless sensations of eternity

From the blank earth. Oh, is it there beneath
Th'invisible everlasting? or dispersed
Among its immaterial kindred free,
The elements? Oh man! man! fit compeer
Of worms and angels, trodden under foot,
Yet boundless by the infinite expanse
Of ether! mouldering and immutable!

But thou, Avenger, in that quiet glebe,
How many things are hid, once link'd to thee
By ties more gentle than the coupling silk,
That pairs two snowy doves! hands used to meet
In brotherly embrace with thine, and hearts
Wherein thy image dwelt, clear, changeless, full
As the Spring moon upon a crystal lake:
Faces in feast, in council, and in fight,
That took their colouring from thine. And thou
Alone art breathing, moving, speaking here,
Amid the cold, the motionless, the mute!

Among that solemn multitude of graves
One woman hath her dwelling, round and round

320

She wanders with a foot that seems to fear
That it is treading over one beloved.
She seems to seek what she despairs to find.
There's in her eye a wild inquiring roll,
Yet th' eye is stony. Oft she stops to hear,
Then, as in bitter disappointment, shakes
Her loose hair, and again goes wandering on.
She shriek'd at Samor's presence, and flung up
Her arms, and in her shriek was laughter. "Thou!
What dost thou with that face above the earth,

Concealing its felt presence. Ghostly night
Wafts her no dusk intelligence; the day
Shows nothing with its broad and glaring rays.

BOOK X.

BUT thou from North to South hast ranged the isle,

Thou shouldst be with the rest!"-" My friend's soft From Skiddaw to the Cornwall sea-beat rocks,

bride

The dainty Evelene!"-"That's it, the name
Wherewith the winds have mock'd me every morn,
And every dusky eve-or was it then?

Ay then it was, when I was wont to sleep
On a soft bed, and when no rough winds blew
About me, when I ever saw myself

Drest glitt'ringly, and there was something else
Then, which there is not now."—"Thy Elidure,
Sad houseless widow!"-" "Hah! thou cunning man,
"T was that, 't was that! and thou canst tell me too
Where they have laid him-well thou canst, I know
There's deep connexion 'twixt my grief and thee.
Thou, thou art he that wakest sleepers up,
And send'st them forth along the cold hare heath,
To seek the dark and disappearing. There
Sound howlings at the midnight bleak, and blasts
Shivering and fierce. And there come peasant boors
That bring the mourner bread, and weave the roof
Above her, of the brown and rustling fern;
But never sounds the voice, or comes the shape
She sought for. Oh, my wakings and my sleeps
How exquisite they were! upon his breast
I slept, and when I woke there smiled his face."

Even as the female pigeon to her nest,
All ruffled by rude winds and discomposed,
Returning, with full breast sits brooding down,
And all sinks smooth around her and beneath:
So when the image of departed joy
Revisited the heart of that sad wife,
Settled to peace its wayward and distraught,
Sweetly she spake, and unconfusedly heard,
Of him the low, the undistinguish'd laid,
Of Samor's friend, her bridegroom, Elidure.
And somewhat of her pale and tender bloom
With a faint flourishing enliven'd up
The wither'd and the sunken in her cheek;
But when again alone, o'er heart and brain

One icy face of desolation cold,

One level sheet of sorrow and dismay,
Avenger! thou hast traversed, hast but held
Companionship with mourners and with slaves.

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Upon the northern rocks of Cornwall meet

Th' Avenger and the Warrior; thus spake he:-
How name ye yon strong castle on the rock?"
"Tintagel, the prince Gorlois' towers."-" And whose
Yon soldiers cresting with their camp the shore,
And yon embattled navy on the sea,
Rounding their moony circle?" "Mine!"-" And
thou?"

"Methinks, most solemn questioner, the helm
Might well proclaim Pendragon."-" No, the front,
Whereon that scaly blazon used to glow,
Had ne'er been girding with unnatural siege
A British castle, while all Britain lay
In chains beneath the Stranger."-"What art thou,
That beardest in thy high and taunting vein

The Princes of the land?"-" A Prince !"-" Thus

arm'd

And thus attired!"-" Misjudging! must thou learn
The actions are the raiment of the man?
Better to serve my country in worn weeds
And dinted arms like mine, than 'gainst her sons
To lace a golden panoply. This rust,

"Tis Saxon blood, for thine, its only praise
Is its bright stainlessness. Look not, fierce Prince,
As from my veins its earliest spots should fall,
"Tis Britain barbs the arrows that I speak,
And makes thy heart its mark."—" What man or more
Thus fires and freezes, angers and controls
With the majestic valour of his tongue,
The never yet controll'd, and bears the name
Of Britain, like a shield before him, broad
And firm against my ripe and bursting wrath?
Samor! come, honour'd warrior, to my arms;
Oh shame to see, and seeing not to know
The noblest of our isle."-" No arms may fold

Flash'd back the wandering, recommenced the search Samor within them, but a Briton's; thou

Ever with broken questionings, and mute
Lip-parted listenings, pauses at each grave,
As though it were her right, where lay her lord,
That some inherent consciousness should start
Within her; though 't is nature's law, that one
Cold undistinguish'd silence palls the dead,
Yet, yet 't is hard and cruel not to grant
One low sound, even the likeness of a sound,
To tell her where to lay her down and die.
Sure there are spirits round her, yet all leagued
To abuse and lead astray, and his, even his,
Pitiless as the rest, with jealous care

By this apostate war disownst the name,
And leaguest dark alliance with her foes."

"Ah, then thou knowst not, in yon rock is mew'd
The crafty kite that hath my dove in thrall.
My dove, my bride, my sweet Igerna; her
That Gorlois with his privy talon swoop'd,
The gentle, the defenceless, and looks down
From his air-swinging eyrie on my wrath,
That like the sea against that rooted rock,
Lashes and roars in vain."-" Thy bride!"-" My
bride,

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