The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton ... Fifth Edition, Corrected and Enlarged. To which are now added Inscriptionum Romanarum Delectus, and An Inaugural Speech As Camden Professor of History, never before published. Together with Memoirs of his Life and Writings; and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Richard Mant |
I, II. |
The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton | ||
ODE XIII. THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR.
King Henry the Second, having undertaken an expedition into Ireland, to suppress a rebellion raised by Roderick King of Connaught, commonly called O'Connor Dun, or the brown monarch of Ireland, was entertained, in his passage through Wales, with the songs of the Welsh Bards. The subject of their poetry was King Arthur, whose history had been so disguised by fabulous inventions, that the place of his burial was in general scarcely known or remembered. But in one of these Welsh poems sung before Henry, it was recited, that King Arthur, after the battle of Camlan in Cornwall, was interred at Glastonbury Abbey, before the high altar, yet without any external mark or memorial. Afterwards Henry visited the abbey, and commanded the spot, described by the Bard, to be opened: when digging near twenty feet deep, they found the body, deposited under a large stone, inscribed with Arthur's name. This is the ground-work of the following Ode: but, for the better accommodation of the story to our present purpose, it is told with some slight variations from the Chronicle of Glastonbury. The castle of Cilgarran, where this discovery is supposed to have been made, now a romantic ruin, stands on a rock descending to the river Teivi in Pembrokeshire; and was built by Roger Montgomery, who led the van of the Normans at Hastings. W.
Girt with many an armed peer,
And canopied with golden pall,
Amid Cilgarran's castle hall,
And warlike splendour, Henry sate;
Prepar'd to stain the briny flood
Of Shannon's lakes with rebel blood.
A thousand torches flam'd aloof:
From massy cups, with golden gleam
Sparkled the red metheglin's stream:
Along the lofty-window'd hall,
The storied tapestry was hung:
With minstrelsy the rafters rung
From the proud gallery glitter'd bright:
While gifted bards, a rival throng,
(From distant Mona, nurse of song,
From Teivi, fring'd with umbrage brown,
From many a shaggy precipice
That shades Ierne's hoarse abyss,
Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude,)
To crown the banquet's solemn close,
Themes of British glory chose;
And to the strings of various chime
Attemper'd thus the fabling rime.
“High the screaming sea-mew soar'd;
“On Tintaggel's topmost tower
“Darksome fell the sleety shower;
“Round the rough castle shrilly sung
“The whirling blast, and wildly flung
“On each tall rampart's thundering side
“The surges of the tumbling tide:
“When Arthur rang'd his red-cross ranks
“On conscious Camlan's crimson'd banks:
“Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed!
“Yet in vain a paynim foe
“Arm'd with fate the mighty blow;
“For when he fell, an elfin queen,
“All in secret, and unseen,
“O'er the fainting hero threw
“Her mantle of ambrosial blue;
“In Merlin's agate-axled car,
“To her green isle's enamell'd steep,
“Far in the navel of the deep.
“O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew
“From flowers that in Arabia grew:
“She pillow'd his majestic head;
“O'er his brow, with whispers bland,
“And to soft music's airy sound,
“Her magic curtains clos'd around.
“There, renew'd the vital spring,
“Again he reigns a mighty king;
“And many a fair and fragrant clime,
“Blooming in immortal prime,
“Owns the monarch's high command:
“Thence to Britain shall return,
“(If right prophetic rolls I learn)
“Borne on Victory's spreading plume,
“His ancient sceptre to resume;
“Once more, in old heroic pride,
“His barbed courser to bestride;
“His knightly table to restore,
“And brave the tournaments of yore.”
Advanc'd a bard, of aspect sage;
To age a graceful reverence lent;
His beard, all white as spangles frore
That clothe Plinlimmon's forests hoar,
Down to his harp descending flow'd;
With Time's faint rose his features glow'd;
His eyes diffus'd a soften'd fire,
And thus he wak'd the warbling wire.
“Not from fairy realms I lead
“In forged colours Arthur's fate;
“Though much of old romantic lore
“On the high theme I keep in store:
“Where Truth the strain might best become.
“If thine ear may still be won
“With songs of Uther's glorious son,
“Henry, I a tale unfold,
“Never yet in rime enroll'd,
“Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bower;
“Which in my youth's full early flower,
“Who spoke of kings from old Locrine,
“Taught me to chaunt, one vernal dawn,
“Deep in a cliff-encircled lawn,
“What time the glistening vapours fled
“From cloud-envelop'd Clyder's head;
“And on its sides the torrents gray
“Shone to the morning's orient ray.
“No princess, veil'd in azure vest,
“In groves of golden bliss to dwell;
“Where, crown'd with wreaths of misletoe,
“Slaughter'd kings in glory go:
“But when he fell, with winged speed,
“His champions, on a milk-white steed,
“From the battle's hurricane,
“Bore him to Joseph's towered fane,
“There, with chaunted orison,
“And the long blaze of tapers clear,
“The stoled fathers met the bier;
“Of martial woe, the chief they led,
“And deep intomb'd in holy ground,
“Before the altar's solemn bound.
“Around no dusky banners wave,
“No mouldering trophies mark the grave:
“Away the ruthless Dane has torn
“Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn;
“Oblivion's veil its shade has thrown:
“The faded tomb, with honour due,
“'Tis thine, O Henry, to renew!
“Thither, when Conquest has restor'd
“Yon recreant isle, and sheath'd the sword,
“When Peace with palm has crown'd thy brows,
“Haste thee, to pay thy pilgrim vows.
“There, observant of my lore,
“The pavement's hallow'd depth explore;
“And thrice a fathom underneath
“Dive into the vaults of death.
“There shall thine eye, with wild amaze,
“On his gigantic stature gaze;
“All in warrior-weeds array'd;
“And weapons huge of old renown.
“Martial prince, 'tis thine to save
“From dark oblivion Arthur's grave!
“So may thy ships securely stem
“The western frith: thy diadem
“Shine victorious in the van,
“Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan:
“Thy Norman pike-men win their way
“Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay:
“Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare:
“So may thy bow's unerring yew
“Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrew.”
The spiced goblets mantled high;
With passions new the song impress'd
The listening king's impatient breast:
Flash the keen lightnings from his eyes;
He scorns awile his bold emprise;
The consecrated floor to trace,
And ope, from its tremendous gloom,
The treasure of the wondrous tomb:
From its dark bed, the ponderous spear,
Rough with the gore of Pictish kings:
E'en now fond hope his fancy wings,
To poise the monarch's massy blade,
Of magic-temper'd metal made;
And drag to day the dinted shield
That felt the storm of Camlan's field.
O'er the sepulchre profound
E'en now, with arching sculpture crown'd,
The daily dirge, and rites divine.
The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton | ||