The Dawn in Britain :: :: University of Virginia Library

Duneda's dream. Ithobal's words among the Iscan shipfolk. Tegid, waggoner. Miracle of this man's corn multiplied, at Joseph's word. The king sends for the strangers. In the king's hall, they see Aesgar sitting, the great Dumnonian druid. Aesgar, with bitter accusing words, burdeneth the shipwrecked strangers. Two men, eremites, disciples of Eryr, come in. Lords of Dumnonians, faring to war, take an oath together, in the hands of king Duneda.

Certain of the brethren, which went forth to pray, enter in a sacred wood. The madman Llys. Druids lead them on to Aesgar's hall. Shalum reproves Aesgar's malicious questioning. Departing thence, druids bring them forth, in a path, whereby are dens of some wild beasts; which are loosed out upon them! The saints behold the Lord's angel, standing, to save them. They return hastily to the king, in Isca. Aesgar publisheth the druids' ban. Duneda disposeth him, to send his stranger-guests, unto sanctuary Avalon.

At afternoon, approach, in shining chariots,
Lords of Duffreynt; whom called forth king Duneda,
Entreat of warfare, with his enemies.

They sit, in moot-hall, soon, round the high walls.
Tall be, long yellow-haired, these Duffreynt lords;
And shine, on all their necks, wreaths of red gold.
Each lord bears, in his hand, a silver cup;
And sits, by every one, his land's high druid.

Was king of fair Duffreynt, before Duneda,
Stout Kamloc; who, (his father's son,) in fight,
Fell slain, what day Silures, enemies,
Harried, to Isca walls! Not bearded, yet,
Duneda, riding in the royal chariot,
Covered him, with his body, as with a targe.
Wounded, to death, fell Kamloc, from his war-cart
Duneda leapt down, on the bloody grass,

With furious spear and glaive, great slaughter made;
And heaped, with slain chief foes, his brother dead.

Duneda hath no son, his brother's sons,
Are the king's heirs. His daughter, he espoused,
To the elder, Morag, come to manly years.
But Mormael, younger, that was nobler born,
Unto their father's royal seat, aspired.

Perfumed, unprofitable, the young prince,
Like as a gilded bowstring unto war;
Mormael enflamed, one eve, among his peers,
With treacherous mead, cried Tanist, truculent!
He would be, in spite were even of the gods.
Word which doth sound, (in speech of these West Britons,)
A king's companion; that, under him, hath
Power of the sword, and word of the king's mouth:
And should succeed, hereafter, to his room.
Heard gods, offended; and decreed his death!
And was that night the eve of the New Year.

Lo, in to-morrow's pomp, he foremost rides;
Which conveys Aesgar, chief Dumnonian druid,
To that cave's mouth, where, yearly, like one dead,
He, lapped in a beast's hide, mote enter in,
Offering himself his nation's sacrifice,
To die, before their god: whilst all the folk

Cry out, Another it might please the god!
Then, suddenly, all years, was wont some one decease.

But Mormael's startling steed, at that great voice,
Was taken with fury; and were it heaven's wrath,
Which him oppressed, there durst no man approach;
Nor his high kin, to save the prince's life:
(For Morag was, that moon, in Verulamion,
Which, for his germain, would his life have given;)
Whose steed is on him fallen. All bruised to death,
Fool-hardy Mormael lies! Whilst stood still Britons,
Amazed; was Kamloc's son laid, of priests, druids,
Yet warm, in that year's grave, already made!

Duneda called then Morag, from Caer Verulam;
Where he, in court of king Cunobelin,
Learns noble thews and martial discipline.
King of the royal tribe of Catuvelaunians,
Now is Cunobelin named, the Lord of Britain;
As, whilom, was his grandsire Cassiobellan:
And, lately, when, to Cæsar, sent Cunobelin,
An embassage; went stout Morag, with his son,
Prince Togodumnos, unto sovereign Rome;
For friendship was twixt the young noble men.

Soon fetched-in, the lord's servants, little boards,
They set-on meat, before Duneda's guests;

Unto each his portion; sheep's flesh in the broth,
Seethed chine of boar, and loaves, in bascads white.
The Master, eats, of that Armoric ship,
With them, in the king's hall and audience.
And, after meat, he tells, asked leave to speak;
How, to Gaul's shore, arrived new Roman army!

He saw Rome's legions ordered at sea strand,
In battle ray. He saw Caligula Cæsar;
With whom stood that Icenian Bericos,
King, whom expulsed his people; and Red Adminius,
Fugitive, which base son is to king Cunobelin.
The madding Roman emperor, then, commanded;
That sound loud clarions, onset of the legions,
And shout, to battle, soldiers; and with arms,
Of Rome, they smite sea-billows, insolent:
And sith, they gather cockles, longs the strand,
Spoils of Isle Britain! Then, Caligula, Cæsar,
Was rowed, in gilded barge, of hundred oars,
In triple ranks, some little from the land;
Where, standing on the poop, he cast in chains,
And cried; I bind thee captive, sea, to Rome!
And bade his lictors, smite salt waves, with rods.

In gold and purple, then, upstanding, clothed,
In all their audience, he oration made;
Lauding his legions, now victorious, arms;
Exceeding all before them. Sith, his steed,
Caligula, (having temple-priests ordained,
That should burn incense to his godhead!) steed,
Which wont him bear, a god, o'er land and seas;
He, emperor, aha! a Roman Consul made.

Mad Gaius turned, with dread of all, to shore;
That steed's proud crest, with whelky pearls, behanged:
And men, in his imperial name, with store,
Ride post; to consecrate, unto Rome's chief gods.
Wherefore, of all men, now is scorned, fell Cæsar:
And who, allies, marched with him, mock Rome's nan
And there be, mongst his captains, which conspire
Caligula's death. Moreo'er, left certain cohorts,
Mad Cæsar, in that place; he them commanded,
To build, in memory of his great conquest,
Unto all succeeding ages, tower, whose walls,
Framed, to similitude of high sieging engine,
Standing on neck of the vast ocean-stream,
Should threaten still sea-waves! And he, who Cæsar,
Now, Husband-of-the-moon! himself proclaims,
Wills, that new star thereon, to ships, should flame.

He Britain deems, another world subdued;
Because that Island's princes, fugitives;
In Rome, submit them. Is Caligula he,
Who, erewhile, bridged a sea-gulf, with strong argines;
And guised, like blue sea-god, thereover, rode,
In four-horsed chariot: and his soldiers bade,
Thrust down Rome's togate rabble, in salt billows!

The Duffreynt princes, silent, sit, good space;
Because none first would speak. All dread great Rome,
Which mastering now the arms of the whole world.
Whilst yet they sit, drinking brown dulcet mead;
Duneda's scouts come in, with word from Severn,
Silures marched; with whom joined neighbour tribes,
In arms; whose hostile spears them seemed a wood.
The king sends runners, then, to his allies,
Stout Durotriges, dwellers by sea-waves;
And Dobuni, bordering nigh great Severn flood;
To join, with him, gainst swart Silures' threat.
And day, and place, he sets where all should meet.
Then part Dumnonian lords, in shrill, bright, chariots.

The people of Dorset.

The people of Gloucestershire.

Bethought him, after supper, king Duneda,

Of those few shipwrecked strangers; and bade Kamlan,
Them call anew. That steward soon the brethren,
Brings in; and leads, to sit, in honoured place,
Before the sire: and should interpret Pistos.

Then Kamlan mingled mead, it bears to all,
Who, chief ones, sit on polished stools, the walls
Around. And, longs the midst of this moot-hall,
Burn hearthpits: hall, whose roof-tree stained and crowned,
Hath hospitable smoke of many days;
And shields thereon ben hanged, and helms and arms.

Bears king Duneda mantle royal, white,
Of wolf-whelps' skins; which fastened, with broad brooch,
Like to a golden keel, on his large breast,
With silver sail; for he is lord of ships.
The king's high stool, with ivory of whale's white tooth,
Is fair inlaid; whose arms be carven heads,
With eyes of pearl, of gaping strange sea-beasts.
The boards are graved, with many a quaint device,
Of panting hounds and flying harts and snakes.

At the king's hand, stand young men, seemly dight,
Champions of stature; whose long tawny glibs,
Ben, helm-like, knotted on their comely heads:

Are runners, which, with ready looks, await,
Leaning on long war-spears, their lord's behests.
Two great white alans couch, at the king's feet.

Duneda, with mild voice, asks of the strangers,
Lacked they aught, in their lodging, mead or meat?
What is their nation's name, their trade of life;
And what that far-off strand, whence they outsailed?

Stands Pistos, to interpret; and he spake,
Praise to the Father of all worlds and gods!
Whose servants ben these men. Their land, is Jewry,
Duneda, in East half of wide-lying Earth.
And with the Son of Righteousness, these conversed,
Therein, have, many days, as friends with Friend:
And breath is in them, of the holy gods.

Their shipfare he records; how hurled from land,
And covered of great waves: in winter season,
Through Midland-deep, their starless ship was driven;
And buffeted, sith, in windy Gulf of Gaul:
And how, in whelming waves, the storm-chaced vessel,
Had seemed go down the waterfloods, beneath;
And lie in deep sea-ground, midst fearful beasts,

Amongst the dead. Yet them their mighty God,
Thence, took; and saved forth, to Armoric haven:
But were they, soon, compelled, to sea, again.
Sith, came we, wafted to the island Sena;
Where weary were our hearts. To other isles,
Arrived, sea-currents cast us o'er to Britain.

Thus he; and whilst he spake, the king Duneda
Looks, kindly, on the strangers. Seems him, sit
They, in radiance, such as bards sing of the gods!
He bade then Pistos tell them, in their speech,
How might they alway, at their liking, dwell,
With him, in Isca: (and seeing, now, so far-off,
Their home lies.) Else, with hospitable gifts,
He would them send soon, to Gaul's Continent;
Whence Romans might translate them, to their Province.
Upspake that Master of Armoric ship;
And also we put in to Corbelo;
And heard, from point to point, these things rehearsed.

Then one stood forth, in the king's lower hall,
Among the people; man, by his smirched face,
Some smith seems, and come in that vessel was.
He wrought at Corbelo, and there mended pots,

What time, quoth he, the strangers' ship drave in,
Covered with salt; and lay aboard our staithe.
He saw those shipwrecked: and heard crying out,
Upon them druids: that, from the Bourne-of-Night,
Dread spirits, were those arrived unto their coast;
That banes should bring in on them, blights and death.
Loud spake that smith, then, for himself; he taught
Is, to smite arms, and every work of brass;
Would aught the king Duneda of metal work.

Questioned; that Master of the traffic ship,
Responds; In all ports of Armoric coast,
Is this opinion found; that certain spirits,
Wont beat on doors of fisher-folk, by night;
That needs must rise; and down, to strand, wend forth;
Where see they, deep-fraught, ready, their own barks;
And mote those, as compelled, them enter in;
And, else, they seeing right naught, with oars, row forth.
And this is Ferry-of-souls, to the Dead-isles;
And sitting, at their helms, ben gods of death.

Heavy are the waves, wherethrough, those swiftly pass,
Unto a Land-of-mist; where, toucht to shore,

Both names and voices of dead wights, they hear;
Which there, out of their loaden keels, disbark.
Did not they bear, thus, Death out from mainland,
Should Death, those deem, with them, alway, abide.
Yea, and certain have seen gods, stand on that strand!
Supposed the men of Corbelo; for their hew,
And uncouth keel of strange Phœnician vessel,
And reverend countenance; that those strangers were
(And seemed whose faces shine as the twilight,)
Some gods of death! Duneda bade, then, pour
Out mead, and call chief singer of the bards;
That, with some new thing, he might glad their hearts.

The king's young men bear mead round, and brown ale,
Unto all who will. Whilst yet these Britons drink,
Bard Bladyn, son of Rohan, is come in.

His locks, as flower of broom, raught low adown,
Unto his girdle-stead. His tunic lawn,
His rotchet gaudy green. Before him, bears,
A child, his shrill-stringed, trembling, instrument.
At the king's footstool, stays the royal bard;
Where, twixt two pillars, is the singer's seat;
And, turning to Duneda, Bladyn drinks
The proffered cup, of golden mead, full, out.

Tempering his well-taught hand, the dreaming wires,
Then Bladyn quoth, in the Dumnonians' ears,
Is meet, that kings, which, sprung of heavenly seed,
Mongst men bear rule, show bounty unto strangers;
Whom send, oft-time, just gods, to prove our hearts.
Yea, and somewhiles, lords, unwitting, at their hearths,
Have entertained, as guests, those blesséd ones.
He stayed, and on the shipwrecked strangers, looked!

Hath Bladyn heard of their long voyage; he toucht,
Anew, with cunning hands, his speaking wires,
Which thrill the hearers' ears! and dream their hearts.
He Sena sings, isle fleeting in Gaul's seas.
Which from old time is sacred to Night-god,
And the clear moon: whose steepling cliffs abode
Of mocking aery Spirits. To man who cries,
From sea; whereby his bark doth pass, Farewell!
Yell Farewell! hundred unto him again.

There ceased the bard; for many from without,
Noised that the king, for Bladyn, sent, to-night,
Throng in, to the mead-hall, with shoveling feet.
But seeing, would sing the vates of vain gods,
Pistos asked license, for the weary strangers;
Who risen, Duneda bade them, well to rest;
Good night! And Kamlan! give them, daily rate,
Of all things, which behoveful to king's guests.
And this hears, nothing loath, his lord's behests;
For, since the strangers entered in his house,
Him seemed, some blesséd gods healed his old griefs.

Took Bladyn then his crowth, anew, and toucht
The warbeling strings; and weaved them, with his hands.
He chants, of valiant Cloten, prince of Kent.
To see his royal kin, in Gaul's mainland,
And visit foreign nations, Cloten sailed,
With warlike navy. But the prince's keel,
Whose pilot, in thick mist, had lost his course,
Was parted from the rest. Howbe, was this
Suspect, of treachery; in that king of Kent,
His son, for grievous guilt, had judged to death.

Driving, at misadventure, they were met,
Of Frisic yawls, full of fierce weaponed wights;

And whose long weather-boards shingled with shields!
With these, that pirates were, they fight, for life;
Few, against many. And he, young valorous prince,
Hurt of a grapnel, which was hurled, inboard;
Being now his most men slain, was taken, uneath;
By might of many inthronging champions.

And when those all, in the king's ship, had spoiled;
They Cloten, did, on thwart row-bank, compel,
To drag an oar. But, displeased, the sea-gods
Loosed a main-tempest, on those pirate keels;
So that o'er-beat, the rugged risen waves,
Their boards. Nor labouring they, at sea, all night,
Might win to any haven. When gainst day, was;
They, fallen mongst breakers, split on some sharp skerries:
And every pirate soul drenched on their boards.
But Cloten, from the row-lock, who washt forth
Was, with his oar, whereto those bound him; rides,
It embraced, all that day, the windy surges,
(And he yet lives, by favour of some god!)
And the next night. Nigh noon, of second morrow,
Last cast the Cantion prince was, where, mongst rocks,
(That tempest ceased,) more gently runs the tide.

Young Cloten seemed, all swollen, some cold white corse,

Which ebbing waves, on that shole sand, depose.
There warms him summer's sun; and turns, with pain,
A flickering life, unto his deadly flesh.
Like worm, he creeps, then, on the steepy strand;
His cords sith frets, and severs, on sharp rocks;
So finds, where fallen, together, two cliff-craigs
Make a sea-cave. There, gathered much salt moss,
Now in that hold, lies Cloten warm and sleeps:
That day outsleeps; and yet the long night sleeps;
Till murmuring, at his feet, mongst pebble stones,
The rising tide affrays him, in the gloom.
But pitying, gods; to whom young Cloten prays,
Bade Sleep, anew, his heavy eyelids close.
He slumbers, till a new sun climbs in heaven.

Prince of the noble youth of warlike Kent,
He dreams, he walks, yet, in his father's court;
And sees there maiden, like to goddess bright,
Daughter of kings; for she, with gold, is crowned.
Him thought, he followed her, then, with long grief;
Because, how swift soe'er he moved his feet,
He might not her attain, through all the world!
He wakes, of all things, bare, and sighs; but joys,
That he is free, alwere on forlorn coast.
So went forth view, what this were for a shore:
And if, therein, that human kindness were.

Before the dawning ray, was Esla risen.
She, with sweet birds, hath sung her early lays,
To Sena's god; and beet his temple-fires.
By steepy headlands, thence, lo, she dismounts!
Like to a falcon gentle; so is light,
Or like sleep-walker, who none peril sees,
Adown the high-ribbed rocks, her virgin tread.
Would, after tempest, Esla, yet a child,
For a sweet incense, gather amber-stone,
And whelky shells; and play the strand along.

Esla is priestess, of the moon, in Sena;
And daughter to a king of Gaul's mainland.
Her garments, long, up-gathered, of white lawn;
Now, on this shore, sweet maiden, she paced down:
So skips, from stone, on her white feet, to stone;
And run salt waves, those gracious steps to kiss.
And, oft, in her disport, she, virgin, stoops,
On the white sand, to take up carnalines,
Or shells, like rosebuds, hid in coral moss.

Then, half-adawed, she stands, like hind, at gaze;
And looketh her about! She weens, she heard,
As moan; or the wind was, mongst fallen crags?
And for that sudden fear, she would have fled.
Like startled roe, yet listens! To her ears,
Then comes of plaint and song, as mingled voice;

Yet nothing like to her weird sisters' voice;
Though quake her tender joints, she nigher draws:
And spies some quick thing, like herself, in cave;
Save that, seems, this hath face of some sea-moss,
O'ergrown; and middle girt of tangle, hath;
For, in the sun, the prince had cast his cloth.
And, from a child, hath Esla seen no man.

Whilst marvelling yet, she shrinks, as fowl, from hawk;
Lifts Cloten suppliant hands, as to a goddess!
For, such, he deems her, of this unknown coast.
He, of grace, her prays, she tell him, where he is?
Makes answer Esla; This is island Sena:
Whereat he dreads the more; and, by the gods,
Bewray him not, conjures! whether she nymph
Were, of these shores; or, else, her nourisheth bread,
Which brings forth foster-bosom of earth's ground.
And saith, how hath he twice died, in these days:
Once, in salt-waves; once, by his enemies.

And, piteous, promised Esla. She, sweet child,
Abhors her insane sisters' murderous mood.
Nor this, as they, one wrinkled, hideous;
But fairest wight, which she hath seen, on ground:
Such as, records her thought, her father was!
Wherefore, she kissed him; and did melt their hearts.

The prince, then cheerfully beholding Esla,
Her heavenly aspect, knew to be the same,
Which him revealed was, in his long night vision.
Yet deems he her, surely, of some celestial seed.
Him Esla warns, keep close; lest startled mews,
With shrieks, and the wild terns, bewray his life;
To her weird sisters, peeping from the cliffs.

Like as sand-piper runs, at the salt brinks;
So dancing she, on her white nimble feet,
To gather, hies, as the weird sisters wont,
Some wild meat. Cometh then, soon, again, sweet Esla:
And, to him, brings, her lapfull, of sea-eggs,
Salads and samphires of the windy cliffs:
And now mote she return, lest she were missed.
But she, at even, will come unto this place,
With weed and meat. A little thing, then asked
Cloten, which came into his sudden thought:
(He óf some, here, cast timber, would knit float;
And night-time, scape from Sena, and this sea-death;)
Where might he any willow-withies find?

From him, by sharp wild crags, she lightly upclimbs.
And seemed, on those steep cliffs, some hovering bird,
That mounts! To sacred pool, is Esla went,
Round-grown of sallows, by their temple-path.

There, with sharp flint, she severs golden rods,
So, running, hurls her bundles, from the rocks.
Then certain her weird sisters chanced to pass;
Turning, towards noon, from Sena's sacred hearth.
They, seeing her do so, gan Esla call!
But she, a divine madness feigned anon;
Taught of some god, which her, to-day, bestraught,
Leaps mongst rough crags. As guileful lapwing lures,
Feet of crude fowler, from her fledgelings' nest;
So them she leads, so them misleads; as danced
She merry round, (whose murderous meaning is;
Seize on her tender limbs, and rend, and cast
Them, to sea's running waves, from these dread brinks!)
They hoary women, past now age and spent,
By cranks and windles, from those perilous rocks;
Aye crying, like to one wildered, were those wands,
Whence she a lattice to her bower would frame;
But that aye turn to serpents, in her hands;
Wherefore, for are they worms! she flings them forth,
Which eat the bramble-buds and whortle-berries!

Nor fears death Esla: she would die, to save,
Whom her soul loves. Have outstripped her light feet,

Their cold lean joints. And now this passion past,
There fell a blindness, on them, from the gods.

Wakes Esla, all day, so she impatient is,
To keep his life, which hid under these brinks.
When erst, from heaven, the molten stars look forth;
After the sunny rays, she ready is;
Nor fears, where, like to walls, downhangs the cliff,
Descend; and seemed, by day, none footing was.
She hastes, for marked she mount the tide, beneath.

She goeth down, by sharp scaurs, such force hath love;
And lightly oft she depends, by corded roots:
So that sea-gods, beholding, bate their breaths.
The chilling wind, her golden hairs outbloweth.
She, bound about her, long fringed-mantle bears;
That sea-cast One, to cover from the cold.

Like as who finds some fallen fledgeling bird,
Out of the nest; or weanling of hedge-beast,
Uplifts, and home, in pious hands, it bears,
And cherisheth: and aye, twixt doubt he is
And hope, to nourish up; that such not miss,
Of kindly life, whereto born on the earth:
Much more, thou child, thing goodliest having found,

On sea's waste strand, tremblest and durst, uneath,
To him thou lovest, now call, for uncouth dread.

O joy, when dimly, at last, beholds each one,
The other's semblant, in this doubtful gloom.
Then whispered speech, sweet knitting of true palms,
Already knit their hearts. Her mantle, warm,
Of wadmel, then she splayed about them both.
They creep together, in that fear and cold,
In dim sea-cave. Smiles out, in firmament,
The hoary girdled, infinite, night of stars,
Above them: like as when, in sweet spring-time,
With wind-flowers white, some glade is storied seen;
Whereas, from part to part, like silver stream,
Shine hemlocks, stichworts, sign of former path.

To her innocent bosom, she him gathers, warm;
And girded, each, of other's arms, they sleep.
But Cloten, waking, spread, to heaven, his palms,
Calling high gods, to witness of his truth;
His being, knit to this nymph, for life and death.
O'ermuch she travailled hath, to-day, and run;
Nor, child, wist, risen, she hath known a man:
Yet feels that new in her, as were unmeet,
She as tofore, on Sena's sacred hearth,
Wait; wherefore gan she weep; but fears him wake.

The moon's clear lamp shines, o'er wide silver deep;

When, kneeling, from first sleep, upon her knees,
On the pure sand, she purer Esla prays.
She morrow nigh sees, by these heavenly signs;
So, priestess, went, to bathe her gentle limbs.
Before her, fleeting, lo, in the dark tide,
Lies thing uncouth. She gathers then to her,
Her garments; and calls Cloten to the shore;
Upon whose eyelids sleep, sent from the gods,
Yet heavy lies. That timber float, it is,
Which waves uplift, the prince, at eve, gan knit,
On the shole strand: and now apparelled is,
With well-tressed bulwarks of those golden rods;
A work, the whilst they slept, for love of Esla,
Of the sea-nymphs; ready with helms and oars!

Come, from sea-cave; and standing by loved Esla,
Feels Cloten whole his hurt. In all these things,
The heavens show favour to his enterprise.
Though Esla do these justling waves affray,
Her liever were die, with him, in the sea,
Than live from him apart; she wots not why.

Then, embarked Cloten, in his manly arms,
His love, his spouse. Anon, the prince thrust out;
The whilst they pray, both, to the watery gods.
Quaked Sena's cliffs; for wakes the island-god.
Rose the weird sisters nine, in their 'lone bowers;

And to the everbrenning hearth, they run;
Where taking count, (low burns the sacred flame!)
There faileth none of them, but Esla, alone;
Whose name sounds, from the rumbling oracle.

Then course they all, with fearful yelling cries,
To the cliff-brow; where, turned to barking hounds,
Those, frantic, leap, upon the utmost crags,
Making, as would they cast them down, from thence.
But ever as they fall, from steepling cliffs;
To lapwinged plovers changed, they, wailing, rise;
Which tossed and buffeted are, in madding blasts,
O'er sea and soil. Kindled the island-god,
Himself, a flaming beacon on his rocks,
Gives Cloten light to sea! and Sena's spouse,
Clear goddess of the moon, hath Esla blessed.
Though toucht the prince, to Sena's sacred coast;
He was, mongst fallen crags, the sea-god's guest.

The same hour, spake the oracle, in isle Sena,
Weird nun interpreting; his priestess-choir
Be, henceforth, nine, should ten be told no more!
A king of Gaul offended hath, that gave
A changeling, to the god, for his own child.
Now lies, at point of death, that royal maid,
Guilt of her sire; but Esla did no wrong.

Like little cowering bird, in fowler's snare,

In every dainty limb, yet trembles Esla,
Mongst tumbling billows. Come forth, from the rocks;
Cloten rows strongly, on the silver flood.
This jeopardy past, smooth lies large watery path,
Under sheen moon; which comforts their cold voyage.

Their nimble withers undersetting, draw
Manloving dolphins, forth, their bark, in teams.
Whilst then, on the salt tide, twixt sleep, they swim,
And wake; a bridal lay, sing aery spirits,
Till morrow's break: then night-born dawning ray,
(Like to a bride, white-clad, glad eyed and mild,)
Mounts on sea-throne; and cometh forth soon the sun,
With rainbow, crowned; wherein, as would they grace,
From heaven, this marriage, set have holy gods,
The hew of every flower of the spring mead:
And rose the morning's wind, with a sweet breath,
On them that wake, of daisy-hills from land.

O, joy! before the opening eyes, appears,
Of Cloten, his own navy; (it late, dispersed;
Had gathered, under Gaul, a strong sea-god,)
Making their merry flight, with wingéd breasts!
Seven rushing prows, divide much sprinkling flood.
Is their approach like Cantion chariots.
Bowed down, they stride before a clear East wind.
In their foretops, flies dragon of his sire.

How vails her sails, the foremost keel, and luffs,
Now, among the billows wild, up, in the wind.
And surely, of those, is marked their little coque.
Her shipmen let down barge; which to them rows!
And is it Cloten, those behold alive?
Sailing with one, that goddess seems; and drawn,
Upon great water's face, of finny teams;
Whose ship, men weened, was lost, not come to land!

Then immense joy; then shouting very great!
Almost was, in strong tumult, over-set
Their bark, wherein they now ben taken up!
Prince Cloten is indeed, none other is;
Live Cantion's prince! And, to the royal ship,
Those hastily row. Now mount they, on her board!

When was this seen, in their next consort ships,
Come sailing with square yards and wind apoop;
Which loosed, last flood, from Gaul, with blackened sails,
For the lost prince; that Cloten founden is!
The air, with trumps, they rend, and mighty shout.
Lie-to Kent's fleet: and who had, in cold billows,
Leapt down, in this first joy, to swim to Cloten,
Were taken then up, in their ships' skiffs, uneath.

Loost now broad sails, again, to merry wind;
Kent's keels, like coursers, spurn the clodded waves.

So run they all day on, towards Cantion cliffs.
Cloten, Kent's royal prince, which lately thrall,
Was bounden, naked, lost; now, in tall poop,
Sits, noblest, mongst them all, with godlike looks;
Girt in white-shining lawn, garded with gold.

By Cloten, sits; wots no man what she is,
Some maid. Who look, fain, on her heavenly feature;
Deem they behold one of those blesséd ones!
For long gilt wounden locks, like sunny rays;
And purple-fringéd shining priestess-weed,
(White lawn, with ceint of gold,) Esla the bright,
Thing seemeth more fair than daughter of the earth,
Like goddess, clothed with grace. Who gaze, on her,
Think, that consent of music they do hear;
When sounds an harp, from heaven, of the sun-god!

Though she herself, be daughter to a king;
Her love, yet, took none thought of his estate.
Amazed she is, so many living wights,
To see; well pleased, see Cloten, who hers is,
Be in this chief regard! For many lords,
In boats, with long row-banks, arrived aboard;
Sit bowed before him, reverent, with bared heads.

Blows aye the wind, in their full sails, forthright;
Under their feet, rush on the winged sea-steeds.
They nigh to haven and wide sea-strand, at length,

Of Dubris; neath white-shining Cantion cliffs.
Much people hie down, soon, to salt wave-brinks;
On Kent's returning fleet to gaze! Ere days,
Word come was to their ears; how Cloten's vessel,
From hence outsailed, in that swart tempest, perished!

Run-in, with half-furled sails, they anchors shoot.
But when, who stand longs shore, see Cloten's barge,
(Wherein rowed forth, known by his shining weed,
The prince!) those cliffs wide-ring, with joyful shout.
Toucht to the chisel-banks, Cloten outleaps:
And bears his bride, to land, in his strong arms,
Esla, the bright; and gives his gods high thanks!

Now Britons all, in their best garments, trim,
With guirlands on their heads, of the green oaks;
With songs, bring Cloten forth to Dover gates:
Where, eftsoon, ready-made the royal chariots;
Unto their journey, lo, the princes mount.

Cloten, lest any messenger him outride,
Doth put on, till set of that happy sun;
And without pause, save often change of steeds.
The speedy wheels thus erst were to arrive,
In dim light of the moon, of happy Cloten,
Before Kent's royal dune, fair Durovernion.

Loudly of the porter, Cloten gan enquire;
What-ho! What means this wailing, that I hear,
From river meads? Answers the drowsy ward,
(Who drunken seems of ale, that he discerns
Nor horse nor chariot, at his city walls;
Nor more knows Cloten's, his own king's son's, voice!)
This town is all went forth to funerals,
Which makes the king, for the drowned prince, to-night.

With Cloten, Esla alights; she weary is,
To chariot-riding all unwont. He bids
Who followed fast with him, here, silent, wait;
Whilst they twain, only, to the meadow, pass.
Eftsoon, they, from green hill, to Cloten known,
Look down; (and issues, clear, the labouring moon,)
Over much people's confused multitude.
Hark, how the king loud calls, on his son Cloten!
Thrice calls the sorrowing sire, with choking voice.

Cloten, an empty pyre, sees, in that place!
Druids blow embers, on an altar's hearth.
Sees Cloten young men, his familiars, stand,
Of even years; and each one armed, his hands,
With a sharp bronze, to smite himself to death.
(For such, mongst weeping kin, their custom is.)

Behold, some father kiss his loved son's knees;
Nor can his stubborn will he bend, from death!

One cries; he heard now noise of trampling steeds!
Shout other; they heard more than mortal voice,
Saying, Cloten lives! Then moved is all the press.
Leaps Cloten's heart, with bitter sweetness pierced.
Left Esla, a moment, sitting on dim grass;
Prince Cloten, cleaved thick back-turned multitude;
Comes, straightway, where the mourning old king is!
Murmurs the sire, who now, with dust, defiled
His royal hairs; how wot the only gods,
Where his son's life became, in vast salt deep!
Tables were cast to strand, of his ship's wreck,
The royal father sobs. Sudden, young Cloten,
Kisseth, closed in his arms, his wintered cheeks!
So turns, that light might shine on him, his face,
Light of bleak moon, that goeth down soon, to rest.

Quakes the hoar sire; and feels his knees to sink:
And feels his heart, was shut up in distress,
With fearful joy, oppressed. As saw he a spirit,
His voice sticks in his throat; and he lost breath.
Last his old tears, with hollow groans, break forth.

How stand astonished all! But him, prince Cloten

Had withdrawn privily. And, soon, ah, the glad prince
Returns, now leading, happy, by the hand,
On, weary, gentle Esla, in clear moonlight!
Then kneeled down both, at king Cocidius' feet;
They kiss his hands, and feeble knees embrace:
And quoth the prince; This lady saved his life!
Who wept, for sorrow, erst, weep now, for gladness:
And went up a great joyous people's shout!

All follow then, the princes from the field;
With mirth, returning, thence, in mourning weed.
Men enter carolling, in the city's gates;
And throng, together, to their market place:
Where sacrifice shall be made, they hear, and feast.
Are soon great bonfires kindled, in their streets.
Heralds cry up and down; In the king's hall,
Is meat and mead, to-night, for all who will!

Canterbury.

But come, with immense joy, the princes home,
To the king's house: the sire Cocidius,
(Who chief of the four kings of noble Kent,)
His son and Esla, leading, by the hands;
To that derne bower, forlorn of hope, of late,
Declines, where Kerriduen, mother queen.

She, when went forth the king, with funeral train,

Was fallen, in a stupor, on the floor.
Then seemed those like some revellers of the night,
Which, full of mead and impious, towards the gods,
With their untimely cries, and glare of lights,
Trouble this house of mourning; and whose noise
Wakens, for now she slept, the sorrowing queen.

How silent is this inner house, and dim!
Where dying embers glimmer, on the hearth,
The women's bower; that all this day resounded,
With woeful shrieks and baleful funeral wailing:
Where, with long loost locks, sate the sorrowing queen,
By empty bier, in mourning stole, among
Her women; which, displayed their fruitful paps,
Them cruelly did wrong! She bereaved queen,
Continually, did outrage her blubbered face;
And rent, with nails, her royal cheeks alas.

Her risen, behold, all trembling cold and wan,
At the king's voice. But, kindled, round the walls,
Soon, many torches; she Cocidius sees,
Turned, jocund: and smiles Cloten, like a dream!
Aye, and, with them, one that nymph or goddess seems.
And yet her long shut-up and straitened heart,
Unfolds, uneath; and still is like to break;

Impatient, whilst tells of this happy case,
In few rapt words, the sire Cocidius.

She, to her mother's breast, her son embraced;
And, fixt, beholds! to her, returned, alive!
Whom weened she, journeying now, in sunless paths,
In swart hell-wagon of the dread death-goddess.
Almost, stood still her heart, and swoons her sense.

But come queen Kerriduen to herself,
As one long lost, in sun-beat wilderness,
Slakes, at some well, his burning infinite thirst,
Long kisses drinks her mouth of her child's flesh.
And, dearly, hath Esla, sith, this queen embraced.
But, when they see her heaviness gin to pace;
From women's bower, as meet to their estate,
The kings wend forth, to sit in audience.

Hastes Kerriduen, washt her tear-worn face,
To put-on queen's apparel: and her women,
She bids make ready, that they sup, anon.
Sith, when they sit, at board; she, come her spirits,
Mother, o'er this new daughter, smiles and weeps.
Yet, hollow-eyed, she sighs, as wanting breath;
Like one whom hellish fiends effrayed, of late;
And scaped, (which certain seemed,) from some dread death!

Yet, whilst men tarry, in the king's hall, and sup;

Dights Kerriduen, now, thrice-happy queen,
Unto her bridal bower, Esla, the bright.
Combing her locks of gold; she, on her story,
Museth; which, shortly, had rehearsed Cocidius:
And Cloten said, This lady saved his life!
She marvels, and oft Esla all-new embraced;
And looketh, oft, in the maiden's heavenly face.

Great wonder is, in Esla's gentle breast,
Who priestess, from an isle, in Gaulish seas,
Is scaped, with Cloten, now, all evil hap!
The queen, (unclothed her bosom, ivory white,)
Some birth-mark sees, neath this dear child's left pap
Much like to berry of holy misselden!
With trembling fingers, Kerriduen, queen,
Uprents her tunic, of fine lawn. Ah, gods!
She another token finds, which, there, she sought;
Twixt Esla's gracious shoulders and white neck,
Much like to bee! For Gaulish Gwenneth, then,
She shrilly shright; was whilom her own nurse.
That old wife cometh, soon, hipping, on her staff;
And Gwenneth wox dismayed, at this sweet sight!
So quoth, when she, again, had caught her breath;
Queen, and dear daughter, nursling of this breast,
Doubt not, thy sister's very child is this.

How is her image glassed, in this sweet face!
How yearns, beholding her, mine aged womb!

The tokens, thou seest, ben those, which I marked well,
What night, from twixt my lady's knees, in Gaul;
(My foster-child,) these hands, thy sister's babe,
Received. With amorous groans, then Esla embraced,
That ancient nurse, dear, to her withered paps,
With greedy great affect; and still she kissed.
Dear queen, she cries, our very child is this!

Strain Esla, an hundred sithes, both, to their breasts,
Those weeping women. Gins then Esla weep,
For ruth: and as Spring-sun shines, after rain;
She smiles, for love, between. Like snowdrop, pale,
Heavy, with dew, at dawn, be her bright locks.
And, haply, these had wept forth, the long night,
Forgetful of the spouse; but that hoarse trump
Souneth the watch! from Durovern's ancient walls.

Behold! in royal ray, the mother queen,
Changed that late winter sadness of her face,
To summer's smiling pride, and springing gladness,
Forth issues, from her bower, leading bride Esla;

Where train of noble maidens of the town,
With joyous chant, receiving her, around
Her, cluster, bearing firebrands their white hands:
So pass before, to the bride-chamber door.
There stand, with mystic boughs, of misselden,
The white-stoled druids; that sprinkle all the floor,
With holy water dew; the whiles they bless,
With many a murmured spell, this marriage.

Cocidius, king, there, his bride-daughter kissed.
The sire, that tiding, glad, tells forth, of her;
That, this is the queen's sister's daughter dear,
Which Cloten saved, beyond the seas, from death!

Lo, come is happy Cloten, mongst his peers;
Which (his soldurii, ) would have died, to-night,
To be, in death, companions of his spirit.
With mirth and minstrelsy, those him, now, forsake,
At the bride-chamber door; where, enranged, wait,
The maidens, which, around bright Esla, sing!
For gladness, shedding piteous tears between.

Oath-brethren; thus in Cæs. a Gaulish word, (which is still of difficult interpretation.)

Bladyn, then, chants; how, sister to the queen,
The lady Havisa, wedded Ligorix,

Lord of Armoric Curiosolitans.
Gainst Allorix fighting, then, Aulercan king,
Ligorix, in sally, from gates of his town,
Fell. At day's glooming, Havisa, the young queen,
Groped forth, to save his body. Stripped of harness,
She, ah! Ligorix, in the high-starred, ghastful, night;
Found, mongst slain corses, fallen all him around.
Was none there, with her, but a little maid.

Then, long, they, on her back, great poise, assayed,
To hoise; such power hath love! Aulercans' watch,
Heard stir, in field, which waited nigh the walls:
And flew a roving arrow, out of the night,
Of bow drawn at adventure; and Havisa it pierced!
She fell: were the swan-feathers wet, alas,
With her heart's blood; and fled that little maid.
Lay Havisa a corse, beside king Ligorix' corse:
Where Allorix found them, both, at morning light.

Next eve, when taken was Ligorix' burning dune,
Leapt, from amidst red flames, down, from high walls,
With Havisa's babe, her nurse! She, ah, bruised to death,
Lay still; and murmuring, soon, from her hurt flesh,
Her spirit flitted forth: from whose dead arms,
It rude Aulercan warrior taking up;
(That, from the woman's lips, heard, ere she passed,

Was this indeed the babe of Ligorix,
Wrapped in fine lawn, with precious needlework;)
Looking for meed, should help his needy life,
Bare to the royal booth of Allorix.

Unto whom, that innocent offspring, cast her arms,
Of his slain foe! and smiled the weeping child.
Then he, moved in his spirit, received the babe;
And, childless man, it cherished for his own,
And Esla named. Was Ligorix, in his youth,
His peer, sometime, among those princes' sons,
Clothed in white lawn, and dight with torques of gold,
Which learned the chanted discipline of pale druids,
At Genabon, in great dim Carnutian wood;
Which sacred is. A man may enter, there;
And eat of all wild fruits, before the gods;
But blood he shall not shed, of beast or bird.

Sith, wedded a new wife, king Allorix;
Unto him is born a daughter, the third year.
Thereafter being a nun deceased, in Sena;
When sacred lots were cast, of Gaul's chief druids,
Was taken that only child of Allorix:
Who, moved, by a father's pity, in her stead,
Supposed sweet Esla; and shorn were her bright locks.
But to deliver her, with joy and honour;

Conspired, had even the high immortal gods!
Now, on her father's knees, hath Allorix' child,
Slain the moon-goddess, with far-flying arrow!

Now Orleans.

There Bladyn ceased, to chant, in the king's hall.
The people praise him, with tumultuous voice;
Whose lay hath pierced, with pity, their rude hearts.
Men say, have breathed the gods, in Bladyn's breast,
A chant, that sweeter is than the brown mead.
The king, anon, him sends his own full cup;
Bidding him drink, and keep the silver bowl,
In guerdon of his song. And he charged Kamlan,
Give the bard a beast's burden of bread-corn;
And yearling of his rams, and certain mead;
That might make Bladyn merry, with his friends.

And joys the noble vates, to whom given,
Like to sweet birds, that chant in the sheen leaves,
With blissful voice, no substance of the gods.
Then, uprose king Duneda; uprose they all,
After the king; and draw them to their rests.

Duneda dreams, this night, he drave in chariot,
Whereas none stable soil; and none there was
Abode of any wight, nor grass nor woods:
But seemed his winged cart, on thick skies, to move;

And under him, was immense sound of waves!
Duneda called, then, on his saviour god;
But turned the day to murk, and sun was not.
He called on moon and stars; but they are hid:
Beheld then one; that fares, with him, in chariot;
Whose countenance like some of the blesséd gods;
And like that stranger Joseph. Lightning the heavens,
He cannot rule his team; that swerve aside.

Then king Duneda, cedes the reins, to him;
Who guides, by higher path, the royal steeds,
Full of disbodied spirits; which fly, from the earth,
Seeking themselves some starry new abodes:
Mongst whom, on mountain spire, sith, they hold fast.
Thence, like to rushing wind, dismount his steeds.
But Joseph putting, on his hands, his hands;
He skilled, by slow degrees, to rule them right.
Sith he beheld, dim Mona, end of land,
Beneath him; from whose cliffs, his team did leap,
Into a further isle. Duneda awakes;
And, lo, the sun upmounts: and knew the king,
This dream of sleep, him sent his father's gods.
So rose; and saie hastes, of fine lawn, do on,
Over his tunic, hemmed with needlework,
Of line; and girt to him, with royal belt.
Sith soles, the hammered hide, of a wild ox,

Bound on his feet; with buskins of the spoil
Of mountain broc. Then, took he, from the wall,
A polisht spear; so went the hero forth,
To sit in Isca's morning audience;
Before the Britons, in their market place.

This morrow, fair, by their account, is feast,
Of the full moon; which first they see, in Britain:
Wherefore, with holiday in their hearts, Christ's brethren
Now issue to the springing river's mead;
Praising Him, Who, out of vast deep, them saved.

They pass, before the haven of Isca's ships!
Where gather sea-folk to them, on the quay.
Mongst whom, by Pistos' mouth, gan Ithobal say:
Shipfare 's an image of our life; O men
And brethren, that wont trade forth, on the Main;
Seldwhile in lissom weather, smooth and still.
Ware, steady at the helms! aye ready to shift sail.
And where we furl, in haven, or lie in road;
Eftsoon, we must prepare us to depart.
But, shipferes, we have found, in our late voyage,

The true lodestar; whence, lightly, we account,
Of our ship's wreck, and all our charges' loss!

Come to the silver-streaming river's brinks,
Under bee-murmuring boughs of linden sweet;
In raiment clean, upon the daisy grass,
They sit; and cheerful hours spend, till high noon
Nigh draws. The saints, then, rise up, to turn home.

Yonder, mounts, from the ferry, some poor man;
Lo, is Tegid, teamster, to the brethren known;
Which lately drave their wain; from Amathon's dune.
And, as this wends, he weeps: was laid arrest
Now, in the water's ford, on those few beasts,
Whereof is all his children's livelihood.

Tell forth, who follow with the swonken wretch;
This morn, they his poor goods, saw strained, for debt;
His babes haled to the merchants, to be sold.
Lifted, this weary wight, his eyes; and seeing,
Where pass before him, by the river's brink,
Those strangers, to them runs; and panting asks,
Of help, (and they might aught,) in his distress;
With whom was power found of some healing god.

Is Tegid's caban this, without the walls;
Whereto they now arrive. Is there none voice,

Of wife or child, to welcome his come-home.
It empty is, from roof-tree, to the floor.
And Tegid, who, a little corn, not hath;
(Whereof, before men strangers and hearth-guests,
He might aught set, which his poor threshold pass,
As custom is,) amongst them stands confused!

When Joseph, voice of Britons, understood;
Moved with compassion, servant strong, in faith,
Of Christ; and lifting holy hands, towards Throne
Of heaven, he bade sweep forth the waggoner's cote.
Then charged he Tegid, pour, (his beasts' meat,) out;
What little rests of grain, in his poor wallet.

Falls forth the corn; nor ceaseth it yet to run,
From Tegid's hand! till that poor bower and hall,
Is full, like garner, to the very door.
Before the threshold, neighbour women sweep:
Then, joyous, spread their mantles on the street;
Whereon, eftsoon, outrun are new great heaps!

Then Joseph spake; Enough! go sell this good,
Which gives thee God. Parts running that poor man;
And with glad heart, the brethren saints wend home.
He, with blithe cheer, hies to their market street,
Under the hill; whom seemeth all, yet, a dream;
His wife and children small, to ransom home.

Try, who corn-masters, samples in their palms;
And it, in measure, hew and poise, appraise
Best grain of all; whereof each one some buys;
Numbering to Tegid silver rings and bronze,
Or tin. And whilst those merchants question still,
He gladly, and like to one beside his mind,
His wife and children small, for price, redeemed.
And very beautiful is his poor spouse;
Was evil his intent, which on them seized.

But noised this wonder, in the street, anon;
Came voice, from mouth to mouth, up from the town,
To the king's ears. Bethought him of his dream,
Duneda; and sent one of his guard, to call
Before him, Tegid in: who, come, eftsoon,
The sire requires, and, with that poor wight, questions;
What is that new thing, which of him, he hears?

The men, lord, that us seemed some ship-wrecked strangers,
Quoth Tegid, are come, surely, from the gods!
He, also, yester, saw, was their wain-path,
Whereby, from Amathon's dune, the strangers passed,
(Even as wont footsteps of the holy gods!)
In wide green field, grown fairer than the rest,

With new-sprung grass! Like gods, those came, unwist
From whence, Duneda, and they healed Kowain's wound.

The lord liked of the waggoner's bold speech.
He sends, call Amathon's son. His messenger, Kowain
Finds not: nor yet returned that prince; who ridden
Was, home, to gather wains and armament.
He sends, again, then, for those shipwrecked strangers.

All yield them room, when they come in, with Kamlan.
They see then sitting certain, in mead-hall,
Before Duneda, in rotchets of white lawn;
Men of dark looks, and much like Corbelo's druids;
Whose foreheads bound with the sheen leaves of holm.

The gravity sits, lo, on an equal throne,
Beside Duneda, of the high-druid Aesgar;
In the mid-bay; where burn, with rushen wicks,
And fat, two lamps, hight Con and Cran; whose bowls
Inlaid, (renowned smith's work,) of fretted bronze,
With gold. Them Camlogenos, king in Gaul,
Sent hither, with his son; ere Roman wars.

Hearers of Aesgar sit, round these high walls,

Mongst white-stoled druids; lords' sons, some of West march,
And Deheubarth; but are the most ones strangers,
Young noblemen of Llydaw; (which, Part-of-Gallia,
Comata, is now named, of all-conquering Rome!)
Their wont is tarry, in Isca, one year's space;
To learn the chanted arcane discipline,
Of Aesgar's druids; and are they, there, king's guests.
Wreaths shine of gold, on all their haughty necks.
Beyond them, sit, who chief ones of the town.

And now is eve; when kindled be long hearths,
In the hall's midst; and hanged round on these walls,
Be brands of cloven pine. The people husht;
From his high stall, erst Aesgar, slowly, speaks:
Touching a wonder hath, to-day, been seen;
Are we now come together. Shipwrecked strangers!
I you appose; by what power or strong spell,
Ye do these things? King of Duffreynt and druids!
Deathworthy adjudged are, by Dunwallon's laws,

Who bring in other gods. I ask of these
Strangers, what deem they, of Isle Britain's gods?

Before them all, stood up then Aristobulus,
Kinsman of Jesus; and by Pistos' mouth,
Spake; Princes, elders, people of this town,
Know that our God, He who upholds the world,
Whose Throne, yond starred high crystal firmament;
Who gives, to all men, kindly life and breath,
Hath wrought this sign, which ye, to-day, have seen.
Who being Himself invisible, yet All-seeing,
Is Everliving, Infinite, as the Sea;
Which closing-in the world, is closed of naught.
Before all-thing, (which He hath made,) He was;
The infinite, only, God. He Father is,
(He One,) of all: and is His Heavenly Voice,
That Whisper which is heard in every place,
And in all hearts! So, with an angel's face,
The saint sate down. Sith king Duneda spake;

Was Dawn divine named, Firstborn of the gods.
Thing incorruptible, also, undying is;
Whence, being, of one celestial fire, our spirits;
(I speak to druids,) they shall not, utterly, perish!
With the vile sloughy garment of this flesh.

But answered the dark gravity of Aesgar;
Who sits, at his right hand, with lowering looks:
Methought, Duneda, arrived, in evil hour,
These uncouth strangers, men that shipwrecked were.
Behold their swarty favour; such as wont
Be pirates' looks, and men of wicked life!
Expulsed, abhorred of all men, these have sailed;
And broken have gods, of this sea-deep, their ship,
(Gods, whom most worship the Dumnonians!)
Were such not, peradventure, homicides;
Whom angry heavens have ever since pursued?
Ben not there jugelours, men, whose whispered spells,

Have power even to compel the wavering winds;
Aye and even the stars of heaven wrest, from their courses?
Have not such made snow fall, in Summer season;
Other appearance shown, in the air, of ships;
Some, Summer fruits, in days of Winter-feast?
And yet I say; if those blasphemed our gods,
Should such not die? Wherefore my sentence is,
Be banned these men from borders of Duffreynt.

But answered Cadvan, grave and ancient lord;
Next him, who sits, with reverend beard and looks;
(Nigh kinsman, to Duneda, and Amathon's friend:)
Why proffer railing words, gainst the king's guests?
But, aye, thy wont was, Aesgar, to despise
The poor. And if heaven's lightning burned their vessel,
They hallowed are, according to our laws.
Ween'st thou, there ben none other gods, than ours?

But what and if, (which, these men's deeds, declare,)
A breath be in them, of the holy gods,
Which Eryr saw, in his prophetio vision.

At this word, rose displeasantly the high druid!
As smoke unto the eyes; and smell of corse,
Is in men's nostrils, such, is name of Eryr,
In Aesgar's ears; who, midst king's hall, goes forth.
Follow sourfaced disciples of these druids.
The people open lane for their proud steps;
And those, no man saluting, stately pass.

The king commands, Mix, and bear round sweet mead,
And barley-ale! And, whilst the Britons drink;
Was stir, at door, now in the lower hall:
Where two men, running-eremites, be come in;
Whose knees, kiss, reverent, and their lean hands Britons:
Men lean of flesh and blackened, in the sun,
And without garments, save some woollen cloth,
Wound round their loins; unkempt their long hair locks,
Their beards, like Autumn leaves. Upon a lace,
Depend, of silver, on their panting chests,
Bright crystal stones, from Avon's river strand:

Whereon, they looking, image of clear souls,
Recomfort still their hearts. And, on the stars,
They gaze, by night, and seldwhiles on dark earth.

Impelled their feet, as by some god, to-night;
The river, to Caer Isca gates, these passed.
Eremites, unwont, in any town, to tread:
They will not sit, nor eat bread, nor taste mead;
Though brought in crystal cup, to them, is mead.
But, gazing on the saints, anon, they ask;
What message bring these men, of heavens' light?

Then Pistos answered; they had heard God's Voice,
Saying, Love your enemies, Blessed be the pure
And lowly, in heart: be children of that Light.
An eremite spake, and bowed him to the hearth;
O thou that sittest on throne, lord of Duffreynt,
Son of high sires, descended from the gods!
Holy are their words; and like the words of Eryr,
The eagle-borne; who naked, without bower,
Lodged in sharp cliffs; where, brought him, each day, meat,

The fowls of heaven, wild berries, in their beaks;
And were all forest-beasts, to Eryr, meek.

Much Eryr spake of washings, which should purge
Our soul, from death: and, daily, in water-brooks,
He dipped his flesh; and prayed, bear down his guilt,
From God's remembrance. Dwells, he said, our spirit,
In darkness and disease, the body's guest.
But purged from the vile raiment of this corse,
It shall, to stars, of new, ascend from death.
Till then, our body should be like to lamp,
Wherein do shine our souls! His fellow, quoth;
How shall a man, born of man's unclean seed,
Attain, dread gods! to pure immortal stars?
Whose wretched days are strife, for weed and bread:
Whose perplext path is darkness; and whose end,

His fleshes death, and griesly rottenness!
He ceased; and those both turned them, to go forth.

Arose then, in moot-hall, new grave discourse,
Of war toward; and Duffreynt's power and chariots:
And what allies should, with Duneda, march;
And how would Hafren, soon, Silures pass.
Yet other make debate, of signs and omens;
Wherein men, of the blindness of their hearts,
Ween; should foreshow them, things to come, those gods;
Which their own thoughts imagined, and hands wrought!

Whilst long they sit by louver, of the thatch;
Where stars, in night's swart deep, erst, shining forth;
Pale light falls, on grey embers of their hearth.
Lo, dawning ray! and mingled sweet consent,
Already, of early birds, is heard, without.
The morrow brings new thoughts: uprose Duneda;
The king goes forth. Uprose, then, all the rest:
The brethren also; on whom Britons gaze,
Some kind, some with fell looks of adversaries!
Duneda beckons, friendly, with his hand.

Llyd-aw, (that which lies along the water;) now Bretagne, and part of Normandy.

When now this morrow's light is, well-nigh, wasted;
Chief lords and captains of Dumnonians;

With pomp and retinue of shrill painted chariots,
Come by the river's ford, again, to Isca:
Chanting old warlike deeds, as they fast ride.
Those enter, soon, in mead-hall to Duneda:
Kamlan them fills great horn of the wild bull,
Whose lip of beaten gold, with the best mead.
Those all then standing round the king Duneda;
Each, dipped therein his finger, he makes oath,
In words of the king's druid; to witness called,
(Whilst drink they all thereout,) the holy gods!

Early at morrow's day, depart those lords.
How shine their running wheels, against the sun,
That mounts! The third eve, with their bands of warriors,
They all shall gather armed, to king Duneda.

Nigh to the town; (above that river-field,
Where daily march, to warlike exercises,
Forth Isca's youth, the effort of their strength,
To prove; and learn skill of manslaying arms;)
Is grove, whereas no common foot may tread;
But druids, with Aesgar, have, therein abode.
Some all unwitting of the Syrian brethren,
Seeking, where might they pray, sequestered place;
Now enter, singing hymns, with a glad voice.

Saw them one Llys, a brain-sick sorcerer,

Of demon-gods; which, after them, aye crieth.
So that their hearts were straitened, in their breasts:
And gaze men after Llys, in Isca street;
Marvelling, so lewd a servant have the gods!
And yield him room, whereso this, muttering, goeth;
Most like an hound, without companion.
Foul is the wretch, and gore-stained, aye, his face:
For, where this cometh by shambles, he, with both
His hands, like to kite's claws, stuffs his fell chaps.
Durst none deny him, were he lief or loath.
And, as he goeth, Llys howls, to his dire gods.

Upon the awry shoulders of this wight,
A wolf's spoil hangs; and else he wears no cloth.
Through the wolf's gape, he looks, with grinning teeth.
Now hath this Llys, great adder found and tamed;
Which, on his arm, his scaly boughts upwreathes:
And threatens, still, the worm, with horrid crest,
Who nighs the loathly wight; that, with foul hands,
Smites whom he will, and buffets with his feet.
Thus him, dread mockery, his demon-gods have dight;
And egg, with dire outcries, to vex Christ's saints.
He foams, when they are seen; and his lewd tongue
Defiles the innocent air, with blasphemies.

The saints had little gone forth, in that grove;
When certain meet with them, men of the druids.

Then these invite them, with deceitful looks,
With them, to wend; making as, further, aught,
They would enquire, touching the strangers' gods.
So, led of those, they come to Aesgar's hall;
Whereas, but from the threshold, shines dim light.
Of good and human kindness, void; that place
Is full of demons, which their hearts oppress!
Young men sit, on the floor, with dangerous looks;
Chanting dark lays, lip-discipline of vain druids.

The saints salute them: none, again, them greet.
Who bring them in, (was froward their intent,)
Them lead, in murk, to sit, in place unmeet;
Where ashes of their hearth. So cometh-in Aesgar,
Hound-faced; who makes as though the saints he saw not.
Then he, on splayed ox-hide, under the wall,
From them, apart, sate down; with heinous cheer,
Of priest, in whose heart dwells no power of love;
But seems he prophet of some evil god!

He of those shipwrecked strangers, after pause;
Speaking, through an interpreter, requires
Name of their god; and touching the soul, both
What thing they deem; and of this body's death.

Then fell the Spirit, on Shalum; who, for burns
His heart, rose-up; and spake, by Pistos' mouth;

Allfather, to low circle of the earth,
His Son sent down, to save our souls from death:
Nor can they ever die, which, in Him, trust;
For, in them, liveth the everlasting Christ;
Though die and, even now, doth fade our flesh.
And Aesgar hear! Shall broken be, God saith,
Your idols vain, cast out in places waste;
Defouled, and trodden, under, of wild beasts!
But forasmuch as, in thy froward malice,
Thou askedst, the Lord's Name, of all the earth;
It may not uttered be of mortal breath!

Shine, in that gloom, the angry eyes, as snakes,
Of druids, men which would slay those saints of Christ!
Heard, then, hoarse clamour of mad Llys, without;
But even who druids abhor his loathly looks.
They thrust aback, they put him from their place!
When, after this, the brethren would depart;
By way, those lead them, from the druids' hall,
Where opens, namely, a little wicket gate;
So low, that uneath, creeping, might they pass.

Beyond, lo, a paved court, full of bees' hives;
Where, chest on chest, is all the air ahum,
Of the sweet honey-flies. Thence, to great gate,

An alley leads; wherethrough, they, needs, must pass,
By certain cabans; whence comes confused voice,
Unto their ears, as yowling of wild beasts.
Then, were they ware, of some climbed by the thatch;
Men of the druids, and of beasts' sties, beneath.
Straight, those draw hatches up! Wolves, hideous,
Outleap; ramp horrid bears, with open throat!
Yerning, with dreadful teeth, upon Christ's saints;
That lift to God, All-seeing, their troubled hearts!

Their eyes being opened, they, again, the Angel
Behold, which saved them, fleeting in vast deep;
Standing to save. Saw him the beasts: they crouch
And whine, for dread; they creep back to their dens!
Albion uplifts the gate, of immense bars,
From off his hinge; and beckoning to them, bade
His heavenly voice, (like multitude, that sounded,
Of waves!) they haste to Isca, on swift feet.

Touching those forest beasts, were wont tell druids,
Did Sarron take him whelps, of several kinds;
That might, by such, be known what man's kin was;
Ere tamed, by laws and worship of the gods!

So come those brethren, to the rest, in Isca:
And all-thing they, from point to point, rehearse.
Then Joseph deems, were meet they sought speech, erst,

Of king Duneda. Brings them Kamlan in,
Before the king; to whom they them submit.

Duneda sitteth long in doubt; nor spake
Yet word. Then cometh in one of his armed men;
Who tells, how Aesgar loosed the druids' ban,
Forbidding, to these shipwrecked, fire and meat,
Of any, to be given. And, should be none
So hardy; and that, on pain of the great curse,
Aid or abet them. The king sends for Kowain!
Who come; he gives him charge, with thirty spears,
To place of safety, to convey these strangers;
Knowing, that Aesgar now intends their deaths.

But sith, the after-morrow, he from Isca,
Himself should fare, unto Silures war;
To holms of Avalon, hath devised Duneda,
(Garden of apples named, in chants of druids,)
Those shipwrecked send. Isle Avalon, which named Alban,
A Sanctuary is, mongst all tribes of South Britons;
Where none may enter in, with weaponed hand.