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

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.