By holy words in saintly chapel spoke, "A darker and more precious theft has been: The stronger duty."- "Spare, Uther, spare thy taunting, she is safe; Briton or Saxon harm not her."-" "T is well, Fair tidings!-but thy shuddering brow looks white." "There's a cold safety, Uther, with the dead, There is where foes disturb no more, the grave." "Pardon me, friend-oh pardon-but my wife, She too will seek that undisturbed place. Ere yield to that pale craven's love; if false She dare not live, and yet, oh yet she lives!" Uprose the Avenger, and his way he took To where the rock broke off abrupt and sheer. Before him yawn'd the chasm, whose depth of gloom Sever'd the island Castle from the shore: The ocean waves, as though but newly rent That narrow channel, tumbled to and fro, Rush'd and recoil'd, and sullenly sent up An everlasting roar, deep echoed out From th' underworking caverns; the white gulls Were wandering in the dusk abyss, and shone Faint sunlight here and there on the moist siate. The Castle drawbridge hung aloof, arm'd men Paced the stern ramparts, javelins look'd out, From embrasure and loop-hole arbalist And bowstring loaded lay with weight of shaft Menacing. On the dizzy brink stood up Th' Avenger, like a Seraph when absolved His earthly mission, on some sunny peak He waits the gathering cloud, whereon he wont To charioteer along the azure space; In vain he waits not, under his plumed feet, Its grooves gives way; then up the jealous bridge Half wonder, and half fear, Pendragon shook The terrors of his crest, and gasping stood, As when a hunter is gone in to brave The bear within his shaggy den, down peers His fellow through the dusk, and fears to see What his keen eyes strain after. But elate Appear'd upon the rampart that tall Chief, Seeming on th' outpour'd garrison to cast Words potent as the fabled Wizard's oils, With the terrific smoothness of their fire Wide sheeting the hush'd ocean; th' arbalist Discharged its unaim'd bolt, the arrow fell From the slack bowstring; careless of his charge, The watchman from his turret lean'd, o'er all Bright'ning and stilling the high language spread, Giving a cast of pride to vulgar brows, Shedding o'er stupor and thick-breathing awe A solemn hue of glory: Far it spread Beyond the sphere of sound, th 'indignant brow, The stately waving of the arm discoursed, Flow'd argument from every comely limb And the whole man was eloquence. From cliff, From bark gazed Uther's soldiery, one voice Held in suspense the wild and busy war, And on the motion of his lips the fate Of two strong armies hung. Anon the gate Flew up, the bridge lay shuddering o'er the chasm. Forth Samor comes, a Lady by his side, And Gorlois in the garb of peace behind. Tremblingly she came gliding on, and smooth, As the west wind o'er beds of flowers, a child Was with her: the cool freshness of the air Seem'd o'er her marble cheek to flush unused To breathe, and human faces o'er her threw A modest, faint disturbance. Uther rush'd To meet her, ere he came her failing frame Seem'd as it sought some breast to sink upon, Though feebly resolute, that none but his Should be the chosen resting-place. But he Severe withheld her.-"Can the snowdrop bloom Untainted on the hemlock bank? near thee, Igerna, long hath trail'd a venomous plant, Hast thou the sullying influence 'scaped?"-She strove To work displeasure to her brow, the joy, The fondness would not give it place; she held Her boy on high, she pointed from the lines Of his soft face to Uther's, with appeal Half rapture, half reproach, and cast herself With timid boldness on her rightful couch, Her husband's bosom, that received her in, Even as the opening clouds an angel home Returning. But the joyous boy relax'd His features to a beautiful delight; To the fierce Dragon on his father's helm Mute lay the armies, the pale Gorlois wrought Not with rude rocks their footing, the cold airs Wherewith at times his soul mad dalliance held, Upon the silence burst a voice that cried The infant clapp'd his hands, Pendragon flung Good fortune on good fortune followeth fast; Oh go not to thy couch, thou bright-hair'd Sun! Now in their cloudy texture shift; and paved There meet they on the land's extremest verge "Not that I love not, whom all love, admire Spreads up the heavens with amethyst ceil'd, and hung But there's a dazzling in its jewel'd round With an enwoven tapestry of flame, With scutcheon and with shield, that now unfold, Might tempt a less self-mastering grasp. Who holds In vengeance of Tintagel, 't was a deed So one by one he wound his serpent coil In Samor's teeth flung fierce th' oppressive doubt. Touch'd by the wings of some faint breeze, nor shakes Of a departed hero in old time On some Ægean promontory rear'd, Or by the Black inhospitable Sea. The crown is on king Emrys' head, his hair "Hail, King of Britain!"-Samor cried, and “Hail!" Broke in with their hoarse murmur of applause. Air, earth, and waters, ye have play'd your part, There's yet another element,"-cried aloud Samor, and in the pyre he cast a brand. A moment, and uprush'd the giant fire, Piercing the dim heavens with its blazing brow, And on the still air shaking its red locks. There by its side the Vassals and their King, Motionless on their shadows huge and dun, Show'd like destroying Angels, round enwrapp'd In their careering pomp of flame; far flash'd The yellow midnight day o'er shore and sea: The waves now ruddy heaved, now darkly plunged, Upon the rocks, within the wavering light Strong featured faces fierce, and hard-lined forms Broke out and disappear'd; the anchor'd fleet Were laving their brown sides in rainbow spray. No sound was heard, but the devouring flame, And the thick plashing waters." Keep your faith, (Cried Samor) ye eternal hills, and ye Heaven-neighbouring mountains!"-Eastward far anon Another fire rose furious up, behind Another and another: all the hills Each behind each held up its crest of flame; Along the heavens the bright and crimson hue Widening and deepening travels on the range O'erleaps black Tamar, by whose ebon tide Cornwall is bounded, and on Heytor rock, Above the stony moorish source of Dart, It waves a sanguine standard; Haldon burns, And the red City* glows a deeper hue; And all the southern rocks, the moorland downs In those portentous characters of flame Discourse, and bear the glaring legend on, Even to the graves on Ambri plain, where woke That pallid woman, and rejoiced, and deem'd 'Twas sent to guide her to the tomb she sought. Fast flash they up, those altars of revenge, As the snake-tress'd Sister torch-bearers, Th' Eumenides, from the Tartarian depths Were leaping on from hill to hill, on each Leaving the tracks of their flame-dropping feet. or as the souls of the dead fathers, wrapt In bright meteorous grave-clothes, had arisen, And each sate crowning his accustom'd hill, Silent or radiant: or as th' isle devote Had wrought down by her bold and frequent guilt Th' Almighty's lightning shafts, now numberless Forth raining from the lurid reeking clouds, And smiting all the heights. On spreads the train, Northward it breaks upon the Quantock ridge, It reddens on the Mendip forests dark, It looks into the cavern'd Cheddar cliffs, The boatman on the Severn mouth awakes And sees the waters rippling round his keel In spots and streaks of purple light, each shore Ablaze with all its answering hills; the streams Run glittering down Plinlimmon's side, though thick And moonless the wan night: and Idris stands Like Stromboli or Etna, where 't was feign'd E'er at their flashing furnace wrought the Sons Of Vulcan, forging with eternal toil Jove's never idle thunderbolts. And thou, Snowdon, the king of mountains, art not dark Amid thy vassal brethren gleaming bright. Is it to welcome thy returning Seer, That thus above thy clouds, above thy snows Thou wear'st that wreathed diadem of fire, As to outshine the pale and winking stars? O'er Menai's waters blue the gleaming spreads, The Bard in Mona's secret grove beholds A glitter on his harp-strings, and looks out Upon the kindling cliffs of Penmanmawr. Is it a pile of martyrdom above Clwyd's green vale? beside the embers bright Stands holy Germain, as a saint new come From the pure mansions of beatitude, The centre of a glory, that spreads round Its film of thin pellucid gold. Nor there Pauses the restless Messenger, still on * Caer ruth, Exeter. 1 Vaults it from rock to rock, from peak to peak. Of Ingleborough, sees Helvellyn cast A meteor splendour on the mountain lakes, BOOK XI. MIGHTY in thy endurance, in revenge A nation from its wintry trance set loose, In all the isle was flat subjection tame, In all the isle, hath Freedom rear'd her, plumed With terror, sandal'd with relentlessness: Her march like brazen chariots, or the tramp Of horsemen in a rocky glen; and clouds Of javelins in her front, and in her rear Have those wild beacons rear'd their fires, thou Dead men in grisly heaps, dead Saxons strewn Alas, delicious Spring! God sends thee down A way! it is a yearly common joy, Upon their trampled White Horse banners: them War hath the garb of holiness, bear proof, Thou vale of Clwyd, to our cold late days, By the embalming of tradition named, Maes Garmon, of that saintly Bishop. He His grey thin locks unshaken, his slow port Calm as he trod a chapel's rush-strewn floor, Comes foremost of his Christian mountaineers, Against th' embattled Pagans' fierce array. By the green margin of the stream, the band Of Arngrim glitter in the morning light. Their shadowy lances line the marble stream With long and level rules of trembling shade; The sunshine falling in between in streaks Of brightness. They th' unwonted show of war Behold slow winding down the wooded hill. "Now by our Gods," cried Arngrim, "discontent To scare our midnight with their insolent fires, They break upon our calm and peaceful day." But silent as the travel of the clouds At breathless twilight, or a flock that winds, Dappling the brown cliff with its snowy specks, Foldward along the evening dews, a bell Now and then tinkling, faintly shrill, come on Outspreading on the meadow the stern band Of Britons with their mitred Captain; front Opposed to front they stand, and spear to spear. Then Germain clasp'd his hands and look'd to heaven Then Germain in a deep and solemn tone Cried "Alleluia!" answer was flung back: From cliff and cavern, "Alleluia," burst; "T was shaken from the shivering forest leaves, Was that one word, all sounds became that sound, On rush'd the Britons, but 'gainst flying foes, Oh, Suevian forests! Clwyd's vale beholds Works in the soul of man, the spirit sheathes And therefore he, whose wont it was to bear But in that dire and beacon-haunted night King Vortigern his wonted seat had ta'en Upon Caermerddhyn's topmost palace tower. There, the best privilege of greatness fall'n, He saw not, nor was seen: there wrapt in gloom, 'Twas his soul's treasured luxury and choice joy To frame out of himself and his drear state, Dark comfortable likenesses, and full And frequent throng'd they this wild midnight. All cloudy and indistinct lay round; the sole Dull glimmering like to light was what remain'd *Hollinshed, Book 5, Chap. 6. Of day, just not so utterly extinct And quench'd as yet to show splendour had been, Why should not human glory wane, since clouds Sate calling on its deaf and wandering mate. Sudden around 'gan spire the mountain tops Each with its intertwisted sheaf of flame, South, North and East and West, fire everywhere, Everywhere flashing and tumultuous light. Then gazed the unking'd, then cried out the fallen, "Now, by my soul, when comets gaze on kings Even from the far and vaulting heavens, 't is faith There's hollowness beneath their tottering thrones; But when they flash upon our earth, and stare Close in our faces, 'tis ripe time and full For palaces to quake and royal tombs Το ope their wide and all-receiving jaws. What is 't to me? ye menace at the great! Ye stoop not to be dangerous and dread, Oh haughty and mysterious lights! to thrones Low and despised like mine; in earlier days Vortigern would have quail'd, he mocks you now. Ye are not of the heavens, I know, I see, Discomfitures of darkness, Conquerors Of midnight, ye are of the earth. Why stands Caermerddhyn and the realm of Dyfed black Amid this restless multitude of flames? "Tis not for idle or for fruitless show That with such splendid violation, Man Infringeth on stern nature's laws, and rends From night her consecrate and ancient pall! Samor, thy hand is there! and Vortigern Hath not yet learnt the patience cold and tame To be outblazed and stifled thus."-Down past The Monarch from his seat; few minutes fled, |