And lo, within that Palace all look'd red,
And hurried with a deep confusing glare:
And over it a vaulting dome of smoke
Surging arose and vast, till roaring out
Columns of mounting fire sprung up, and all
Whelm'd in one broad envelopement of flame,
Stood; as when in heroic Pagan song
Apollo to his Clarian temple came;
At once the present Godhead kindled all
Th'elaborate architecture, glory-wreathed
The pillars rose, the sculptured architrave
Swam in the liquid gold, the worshipper
Within the vestibule of marble pure,
Held up his hand before his blinded eyes,
And so adored: but th' unconsuming fire
Innoxious ranged th' unparching edifice.

But ne'er was Palace or was Monarch seen
More in that City, one a smouldering heap
Lay in its ashes white; how went the King
And whither, no one knew, but He who knows
All things. "T was frequent in the vulgar tale,
None saw it, yet all knew them well that saw,*
At midnight manifest a huge arm came
Forth from the welkin; once it waved and twice,
And then it was not: but a bolt thrice fork'd,
Each fork a spike of flame, burst on the roof,
And all became a fire, and all fell down
And smoulder'd, even as now the shapeless walls
Lie in scorch'd heaps and black. At that same hour
A dark steed and a darker rider past.
With speed bemocking mortal steed, or man,
Down the steep hill precipitous: 't was like
In shape and hue black Favorin, on whose back
King Vortigern was wont to ride abroad;
Like, surely not the same, for fire came out
From under his quick hoofs, and in his breath,
And sulphurous the blasted foot-tracks smelt,
Some dinted deep in the hard rock, some sear'd
On meadow grass, where never since have dews
Lain glittering, never the fresh verdure sprung.

Now is the whole Isle war. But I must crave
Pardon from those in meaner conflict slain,
Or conquerors; Poesy's fair treasure-house
Contains not all the bright and rich, that gem
The course of humankind; in heaven alone
Preserves enroll'd th' imperishable brass,
In letters deep of amaranthine light,
All martyrs to their country and their God.
Oh that my spirit, holding the broad glass
Of its invention, might at once condense
All rays of glory from the kindling Isle
Full emanating, as of old 't is famed
The philosophic Syracusan caught
The wide diverging sunbeams, by the force
Of mind creating to himself a right
And property in nature's common gifts,
And domineering the free elements.

He that heaven-seized artillery pour'd forth
To sear the high beaks of the 'sieging fleet,

That burnt, unknowing whence, 'mid the wet waves.

*Henry Huntingdon, Hist.

So I the fine immortal light would pour
Abroad, in the long after-time to beam
A consecrate and vestal fire, to guide
Through danger's precipices wild, the slopes
Sleepy and smooth of luxury and false bliss,
All lovers of their country. They my song
Embosoming within their heart of heart,
Like mine own Samor should bear on, too strong
To perish, and too haughty to despair.
They happier, he uprearing on the sand
A Pharos, steady for a while to stem
The fierce assaulting waves, in after times
To fall; they building for eternity
Britain's rock-founded temple of renown.

In the Isle's centre is a champain broad,
Now broken into corn-field and smooth mead,
Near which a hill, now with the ruin'd towers
Of Coningsborough (from that fight of Kings
Named in old Saxon phrase), soars crested, Dune
Skirts with her azure belt the level plain.

Morn dawn'd with all her attributes, the slow
Impearling of the heavens, the sparkling white
On the webb'd grass, the fragrant mistiness,
The fresh airs with the twinkling leaves at sport,
And all the gradual and emerging light,
The crystalline distinctness settling clear,
And all the wakening and strengthening sound.

There dawn'd she on a battle-field superb.
The beauty that is war's embellishment,
The splendour under whose quick-glancing pall
Man proudly moves to slay and to be slain,
How wonderful! In semicircle huge,
Round that hill foot, the Saxon camps his strength,
A many-colour'd dazzling cirque, more rich
Than the autumnal woods, when the quick winds
Shake on them broken sunlight, than the skies
When thunder clouds are bursting into light,
And rainbow-skirted hangs each fold, or fringed
With liquid gold, so waved that crescent broad
With moving fire, bloom'd all the field with brass:
Making of dread voluptuousness, the sense
Of danger in deep admiration lost-
Oh beauteous if that morning had no eve!

The Eastern horn, his tall steeds to his car Harness'd, whose scythes shone newly burnish'd, held Caswallon; he his painted soldiery,

Their naked breasts blue-gleaming with uncouth
And savage portraitures of hideous things,
Human and monstrous terribly combined,
Array'd; himself no armour of defence
Cumber'd, as he were one Death dare not slay,
A being from man's vulgar lot exempt,
Commission'd to destroy, yet dangerless
Amid destruction, against whom war shower'd
All its stored terrors, but still baffled back
Recoil'd from his unwounded front serene.

The centre were the blue-eyed Germans, loose Their fierce hair, various each strong nation's arms A wild and terrible diversity

In the fell skill of slaughter, in the art

Of doing sacrifice to death. Some helm'd,
Whose visors like distended jaws appear'd
Of sylvan monster, some in brinded furs

Wrapt shaggy, on whose shoulders seem'd to ramp
Yet living the fix'd claws; with cross-bows some,
Some with long lances, some with falchions curved.
The Arian, wont to make the sable night
A pander to his terrors,* in swarth arms
He bursting from the forest, when the shades
Were deepest, like embodied gloom advanced,
Shaped for some dreadful purpose, now he moved
Unnatural 'mid the clear and golden day.
Here Hengist, Horsa there amid the troop
Wound their war-horses; he his weapon fell
Shook, a round ball of iron spikes chain'd loose
To a huge pike-stave, like a baleful star,
Aye gleaming devastation in its sweep;
Hengist begirt with that famed falchion call'd
The "Widower of Women;" over all
The fatal White Horse in the banner shone.
Round to the left Argantyr with the Jutes
And Anglians; these for Offa's slaughter wild
T'exact the usurious payment of revenge;
He sternly mindful of that broken fight

By Wye's clear stream, and his defrauded sword
Of its hope-promised banquet, Samor's blood.
Above the multitude of brass the heights
Were crowded with the wives and mothers,† they
With their known presence working shame of flight,
And the high fear of being thought to fear.
With them the spoils of Britain, vessels carved,
Statues, and vestments of the Tyrian dye,
Standards with antique legend scroll'd of deeds
Done in old times, and gorgeous arms, and cups
And lamps, and plate, or by fantastic art
Minister'd to fond luxury's wayward choice,
Or consecrate to th' altar use of God.

And there the Saxon Gods, the wood and stone
Whereto that people knelt and deified

Their own hands' work; the Father of the race,
Woden, all arm'd and crown'd; the tempest Lord,
The thunder-shaking Thor, twelve radiant stars
His coronet, and sceptred his right hand;
He on his stately couch reclining: fierce
In his mysterious multitude of signs,
Arminsul; and th' Unnameable, he fix'd
On his flint pedestal, his skeleton shape
Garmented scantly in a winding-sheet,
And in his hand a torch-blaze, meet to search
Earth's utmost, while in act to spring, one hand
Upon his head, upon his shoulder one,

*Ceterum Arii super vires, quibus enumeratos paullo ante populos antecedunt, truce insitæ feritati arte ac tempore lenocinantur; nigra scuta, tincta corpora: atras ad prælia noctes legunt: ipsaque formidine atque umbra feralis exercitus terrorem inferunt, nullo hostium sustinente novum ac velut infernum aspectum: nam primi in omnibus præliis oculi vincuntur.-TACIT. Germ. c. 43.

t-et in proximo pignora: unde feminarum ululatus audiri, unde vagitus infantium; hi cuique sanctissimi testes, hi maximi laudatores. Ad matres, ad conjuges vulnera ferunt: nec illa numerare, aut exigere plaens pavent. Cibosque et hortamina pugnantibus gestant.- TACIT. Germ.

* Verstegan.

Verstegan.

His faithful Lion ramp'd in sculptured ire.
Southward, with crescent its out-stretching horns
Circling the foe, lay stretch'd the British camp;
The centre held King Emrys, on the right
Pendragon, on the left th' Armoric King,
With all his tall steeds and brave riders; they
The fathers of that famed chivalric race
Of knights and ladies, glorious in old song,
White-handed Iseult, Launcelot of the Lake,
Chaste Perceval, that won the Sangreal quest
But everywhere and in all parts alike.
The Avenger held his post; all heard his voice,
All felt his presence, all obey'd his sway.
As western hurricane whirls up from earth,
And bears where'er it will, the loose-sheaf'd corn,
The fluttering leaves, the shatter'd forest boughs,
Even so his spirit seized and bore along,
And swept with it those proud brigades. Nor there
Was not young Malwyn, he his helmet wore
Light shadow'd by an eagle plume, so sued
His sire, lest in the wildering battle met

Their cars should clash in impious strife, nor sought
The father more obedience from the son,
For Britain and with Samor fix'd to war.
And in his brown and weather-beaten arms
Came Vortimer, a pine-tree steru Lis mace
That clove the air with desutíoy sweep.
But by the river browsed a single steed,
Sable as one of that poetic pair,

On the fair plain of Enna, in the yoke
Of Pluto, when Proserp. let fall

From her soft lap her flowers, and mourn'd their loss
Lavish, not for herself ¡eserved her tears.
The horseman, not unlike that ravisher,
Wore kingly aspect, and his step and mien
Were as his realm were in a gloomier cline,
Amid a drearier aknosphere, 'mid things
Sluggish and melancholy, slow and dead.

As though disclaim'd by each, and claiming none
He lay with cold impartial apathy

Eyeing both armies, as their fates to him
Were equal, and not worth the toil of hope.

But over either army silence hung,
Silence long, heavy, deep, as every heart
Were busied with eternity; all thoughts
Were bidding farewell to the Sun, whose rise
They saw, whose setting they might never see.
And all the heavens were thinly overdrawn
With light and golden clouds, as though to couch
The angels and the spirits floating there,
While heaven the lucid hierarchy pour'd forth
To view that solemn spectacle beneath,
A Battle waged for freedom and for faith.

First rose a clamour and a crowding rush
On the hill side, and a half-stifled cry,
"The Prophetess! the Prophetess! was heard.
Upon a wagon, 'mid her idol Gods,

She of the seal'd lip and the haunted heart,
The aged Virgin sate; her thin grey hair

Vetere apud Germanos more, quo plerasque feminarum fatidicas, et augescente superstitione, arbitrantur deas.-TAC. Hist. 4-61

And hollow eyes in a strange sparkling steep'd:
Twice in the memory of the oldest spake
Her voice, when Gothic Alaric had set
His northern ensign on Rome's shatter'd walls,
That day along the linden-shadow'd Elbe
She went, with bitter smile and broken song
That mock'd at grandeur fall'n and pride in dust.
Once more, when Vortigern in that famed feast
Crown'd the fierce Hengist; in the German woods
She roam'd with lofty and triumphal tone,
Shrieking of sceptres dancing in her sight,
And Woden's sons endiadem'd that rose

And swept and glitter'd past her. Now with eye
Restless, and churning lip, she sate, and thrice
She mutter'd-"Flight! Flight! Flight!" Then look'd
she out

Upon the orient Sun, and cried, "Down! down!"-
Then westward turn'd she, and withdrew her hand,
From dallying with her loose and hanging chin,
And beckon'd to the faint remaining haze
Of twilight. "Back, fair darkness, beauteous gloom,
Back!" Still the Sun came on, the shades dispell'd.
Then rose she up, then on the vacant space
Between both armies fix'd her eye; half laugh,
Half agony her cheek relax'd.-"I see,

I see ye, ye Invisible! I hear

Soundless, I hear ye! Choosers of the slain!

Ye of the white forms horsed on thunder clouds!
Ye of Valhalla! colourless as air,

As air impalpable! wind on and urge
Your sable and self-govern'd steeds: They come,
They whom your mantling hydromel awaits,
Whose cups are crown'd, the guests of this night's feast.
They come, they come, for whom the Gods shall leap
From their cloud thrones, and ask ye whom ye bring
In stern troops crowding to their secret joy."

She shook her low dropt lip, and thus went on:
"The bow is broken, and the shafts are snapt:
The lance is shiver'd, and the buckler rent;
The helm is cloven, and the plumes are shed;
The horse hath founder'd, and the rider fallen;
The Crown'd are crownless, kingdomless the Kings;
The Conquerors conquer'd, and the Slayers slain;
One falls not, but he shall not stand, the axe
Shall glean th' imperfect harvest of the sword;
The scaffold drinks the lees of battle's cup;
And one is woundless amid myriad wounds,
And one is wounded where there is but one.
Ho, for the broad-horn'd Elk that leads the herd.
Ho, for the Pine that tops the shattering wood!
Ho, for the Bark that admirals all the fleet!
The herd is scatter'd, and the Elk unscathed,
The wood is levell'd, upright is the Pine,
The fleet is wreck'd, the Admiral on the waves.
That Elk is in himself a sacrifice,

That Pine shall have a storm its own, that Bark
Shall perish in a solitary wreck.

A sacrifice of shame! a storm of dread!
A bitter ignominious solitude!"—

She had not ended, when a single steed
Burst furious from the British line, with flight
That had a tread of air, and not of earth.

Fierce and direct he whirl'd to the hot charge
His youthful Rider. Upright sate the Boy
Arthur, at first with half reverted look,
As to his mother to impart his joy,

His transport. Early, oh fame-destined Child,
Putst thou thy sickle in the field of fame.

Over his head a dome of fiery darts

And cross-bow bolts vault o'er th' encumber'd air.
Yet forward swept the child his rapid charge,
And all at once to rescue all the Chiefs
Rush'd onward: Uther's dragon seem'd to sear
The winds with its hot waving, Emrys struck
His courser's reeking flanks, his weapon huge
Rear'd Vortimer, and Malwyn's wheels 'gan whirl.
And on the other side Argantyr tall,
Hengist and Horsa, all the titled brave,
Burst from their tardy lines, that vast behind
Came rolling in tumultuous order on;
As when at spring-time under the cold pole
Two islands high of ice warp heavy and huge
Upon the contrary currents, first th' assault
The promontories break, till meet the whole
With one long crash, that wakes the silence, there
Seated since time was born, far off and wide
Rock'd by the conflict fierce old ocean boils.

Still th' upright Child seem'd only to rejoice In the curvetings of his wanton steed, And in the mingled dazzling of bright arms. But over him a shield is spread, before A sword is waved, on every side the shield Dashes rude death aside, whirls everywhere The rapid and unwearied sword; the rein Of the fleet steed hath Samor grasp'd, and guides Amid the turmoil. As when the eagle sire Up in the sunshine leads his daring young, Sometimes the dusk shade of his wing spreads o'er, And soft and broken in through the thick plumes Gleams the unblinding splendour. So secure Waged that fair Child his early war. But wild The wavering fray rock'd to and fro, and burnt Like one huge furnace the quick-flashing plain. Ever as 't were the same the Apostle saw In the Apocalypse, Death's own pale steed, Over the broad fight shook the White Horse, spread Where'er its gleaming lighten'd the dun gloom, Steamy and vast the curdling slaughter pools. And such confusion burst around of lines Mingling and interchanging, Valour found No space for proud selection, forced to strike What cumber'd and obstructed its free path, To hew out through a mass of vulgar life A passage to some princely foe; twice met Horsa and Vortimer, Argantyr twice Smote at Pendragon, but the whirlpool fierce Asunder swept them, and the deep of war Swallow'd them; many a broad and shapeless chasm Was rent in either battle, but new fronts Rush'd in, and made the shiver'd surface whole. The sun was shut out by a sphere of dust That wrapt the tumult, 't was no sight for Heaven That rending and defacing its prime work, That waste of man, its masterpiece. But far

Every sad moment since he went, my soul

Is sick of self-deception, will not trust
Again, to be again beguiled." She saw,
And forced a sportive look to her sad face
To lure him to her snowy arms. While he
Back to the battle, as a scene of joy,
Look'd waywardly, she clasp'd him to her breast
With a fond anger, and both smiled and wept.
A moment Samor gazed on her, and-" All,
All have their hopes, and all those hopes fulfill'd,
But I, this side the grave, no hope for me
And no fulfilment."-Fast as sight could track
The battle felt him in its thousand folds.

But the undistinguish'd and chance-mingled fight Brook'd not young Malwyn; he his virgin shield Disdain'd mean blood should stain: where Hengist fought

shone,

He swept, the Saxon saw the eagle plume
And turn'd aloof, and on some other head
Discharged the blow for him uprear'd. But he
Next plunged where Horsa's star-like weapon
Disastrous, shaking ruin, yet even that
Glanced aside from the eagle plume. The Boy
Utter'd a wrathful disappointed cry,

And 'gainst Argantyr drove his car. He paused,
And cried aloud, "The eagle plume," and plunged
Elsewhere for victims. That Pendragon heard,
Even as he toil'd the third time to make way
Amid the circling slain to the Anglian crest,
And taunting thus,-" Methinks the eagle plume
Hath some few feathers of the dove, so soft

Spreads its peace-breathing influence." But the Youth,
"Ha, Father! thus, thus guilest thou to a faint
And infamous security thy son?

Thus enviest thou a noble foe? thus guardst
With a base privilege from peril? Off.
Coward distinction! off, faint-hearted sign!"
And helm and plume away he rent, his hair
Curl'd down his shoulders. radiant on his brow
The beauty of his anger shone, the pride
Of winning thus a right to glorious death.
Then set he forth on his bold quest again
Impatient. Him Prince Vortimer beheld
Sweeping between himself and Horsa, met
Their sea-shore fight by Thanet to renew;
But something of his sister in his face,
Something of Lilian harden'd and grown fierce,
As that ungodly creed were true, and she
Familiar to rude deeds of blood had come
One of Valhalla's airy sisters hence

To summon him she loved. That gleam of her,

That though ungentle and unfeminine touch,
Exquisite, in mid-air his rugged mace
Suspended; but fierce Horsa on the Boy,
Just on his neck let fall the fatal spikes,
And him the affrighted steeds bore off. But then
Began a combat over which Death seem'd
To hover, as of one assured, in hope
Of both for victims at his godless shrine.

On Hengist his remaster'd steeds the scythe,
Then wounded and bareheaded Malwyn urged
Rased his majestic war-horse. But aside
He sprung, and flank'd the chariot; long the strife,
Long though unequal, like a serpent's tongue
Vibrated Malwyn's battle axe, twice bow'd
The Monarch to his saddle-bow.-'T was fame
More splendid, thus with Hengist to have fought
Than to have conquer'd hosts of meaner men.
Heavy at length and fatal glided in

The wily Chief's eluding falchion stroke;
Fast flew the steeds, the Master lay behind,
Dragging with his face downward, still the reins
Cling in his cold and failing fingers, trail
His neck and spread locks in the humid dust,
His sharp arms character the yielding sand.
On fly they, him at length deserting mute
And gasping on the bank, their hot hoofs plunge
Into the limpid Dune, and to the wond
Rove on.
It chanced erewhile that thither came
To freshen with the water his spent steeds,
And lave the clogging carnage from his wheels,
Caswallon, he his huge and weary length
Cast for brief rest upon the bank; a groan
Came from a helmless head that in the grass
Lay undistinguish'd. ""Tis a Briton," cried
Caswallon, "cast the carrion off to feed
The dogs and kites, that thus irreverent breaks
Upon its monarch's rest." Even as a flower,
Poppy or hyacinth, on its broken stem,
Languidly raises its encumber'd head,
And turns it to the gentle evening sun,
So feebly rose, so turn'd that Roy his face
Unto the well-known voice; twice raised his head,
Even at that moment from the dark wood came,
Twice it fell back in powerless heaviness;
Lured by their partners in the stall and field,
His chariot coursers, heavily behind
Dragging the vacant car, loose hung the reins,
And mournfulness, and dull disorder slack'd
The spirit of their tread. Caswallon knew,
And he leap'd up: the Roy his bloodless lips
With a long effort opened. Was it well,
Father, at this my first, my earliest fight
To mock me with a baffled hope of fame?
Well was it to defraud me of my right
To noble death?"—and speaking thus he died.

Above him his convulsed unconscious hands Horribly with his rough black beard at play, Wrenching and twisting off the rooted locks, Yet senseless of the pain, the Father lean'd. Then leap'd he up, with cool and jealous care Within his chariot placed the lifeless corpse. And with his lash fierce rent the half-unvoked

Half-harness'd steeds; disorderly and swift
As with their master's ire instinct they flew,
Making a wide road through the hurtling fray.
Briton or Saxon, friend or foe alike,
Kinsman or stranger, one wide enmity
'Gainst general humankind, one infinite
And undistinguishing lust of carnage fill'd
The Master and the Horses; so wild groans
Follow'd where'er he moved, 't was all to him,
So slaughter dripp'd and reek'd from the choked
scythes.

The low lay mow'd like the spring grass, down swept
On th' eminent, like lightning on the oaks,
His battle-axe, each time it fell, each time
A life was gone, each time a hideous laugh
Shone on the Slayer's cheek and writhing lip;
As in the Oriental wars where meet
Sultan and Omrah, under his broad tower
Moves stately the huge Elephant, a shaft
Haply casts down his friendly rider, wont

To lead him to the tank, whose children shared
With him their feast of fruits: awhile he droops
Affectionate his loose and moaning trunk;
Then in his grief and vengeance bursts, and bears
In his feet's trampling rout and disarray
To either army, ranks give way, and troops
Scatter, while, swaying on his heaving back
His tottering tower, he shakes the sandy plain.
Meanwhile had risen a conflict high and fierce
For Britain's royal banner; Hengist here,
Argantyr, the Vikinger, Hermingard,

And other Chiefs. But there th' Armoric King,
Emrys and Uther, with the Avenger stood,
An iron wall against their inroad; turn'd
Samor 'gainst him at distance heard and seen,
The car-borne Mountaineer, then Uther met
Argantyr, Hengist and King Emrys fought,
The rest o'erbore King Hoel; one had slain
The standard-bearer, and all arms at once
Seized as it fell, all foreign and all foes.
When lo, that sable Warrior, that retired
And careless had look'd on, upon his steed
And in the battle, like a thundercloud
He came, and like a thundercloud he burst,
Black, cold and sullen, conquering without pride
And slaying without triumph; three that grasp'd
The standard came at once to earth, while he
Over his head with kingly motion sway'd
The bright redeemed ensign, and as fell
The shaken sunlight radiant o'er his brow,
Pride came about him, and with voice like joy
He cried aloud, "Arles! Arles!"--and shook his sword,
"Thou 'st won me once a royal crown, and now
Shalt win a royal sepulchre."-The sword
Perform'd its fatal duty, down they fell

Before him, Jute and Saxon, nameless men

Stood from his wounded steed dismounted, stood Amid an area of dead men, himself

About to die, none daring an assault,

He powerless of assailing. But the crown
That on the flag-staff gleam'd, he wrench'd away,
And on his crest with calm solicitude

Placed it, then planting 'mid the high-heap'd slain
The standard, to o'ercanopy his sleep,
As one upon his nightly couch of down
Composes quietly his weary head,
So royally he laid him down to die.-

But now was every fight broke off, a pause
Seized all the battle, one vast silence quench'd
All tumult; slain and slayer, life and death
Possess'd one swoon of torpor, droop'd and fail'd
All passions, pride, wrath, vengeance, hate, dismay,
All was one wide astonishment: alone
Two undistracted on each other gazed,
Where helpless in their death-blood they lay steep'd,
The ebbing of each other's life, the stiff
Damp growing on of death; till in a groan
Horsa exhausted his fierce soul; then came
A momentary tinge, soft and subdued
As of affections busy at his heart,
On Vortimer's expiring brow, his lip

Wore something of the curl men's use, when names
Beloved are floating o'er the thought, the flowers
On that lone grave made fragrant his sick sense,
And Eamont murmur'd on his closing ear.

But he, whose coming cast this silence on
Before it, as the night its widening shade,
Curtaining nature in its soundless pall,
An atmosphere of dying breath where'er
He moved, his drear envelopment, his path
An element of blood: so fleet, so fast

The power to fly seem'd wither'd, ere he came,
Men laid them down and said their prayers and look'd
For the quick plunging hoofs and rushing scythes:
As when the palsied Universe aghast
Lay, all its tenants, even Man, restless Man,
In all his busy workings mute and still,
When drove, so poets sing, the Sun-born youth
Devious through heaven's affrighted signs, his Sire's
Ill-granted chariot, him the Thunderer hurl'd
From th' empyrean headlong to the gulf
Of the half-parch'd Eridanus, where weep
Even now the Sister Trees their amber tears
O'er Phaeton untimely dead. And now
Had the Avenger reach'd the path of death,
And stood in arms before the steeds, they came
Rearing their ireful hoofs to dash him down;
But with both hands he seized their foaming curbs,
Holding them in their spring with outstretch'd arm
Aloft, and made their lifted crests a shield
Against their driver. He with baffled lash

ward,

Nor seem'd to feel, shower'd on him, and his blood Oozed manifest, still he slew, still cried, "Arles! Arles!" Still in the splendour the waved standard spread Stood glorying the arm'd darkness of his form;

Held them above avoiding, their fore-hoofs
Beat th' unhurt air, and overspread his breast,
Like a thick snow-shower, the fast falling foam,
Then leap'd Caswallon down, back Samor hurl'd
Coursers and chariot, and, "Now," cried aloud,