 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
139
THE MASSACRE OF THE BRITONS.
Sad was the day for Britain's land,
A day of ruin to the free,
When Gorthyn stretched a friendly hand
To the dark dwellers of the sea.
A day of ruin to the free,
When Gorthyn stretched a friendly hand
To the dark dwellers of the sea.
But not in pride the Saxon trod,
Nor force nor fraud oppressed the brave,
Ere the grey stone and flowery sod
Closed o'er the blessed hero's grave.
Nor force nor fraud oppressed the brave,
Ere the grey stone and flowery sod
Closed o'er the blessed hero's grave.
The twice-raised monarch
drank the charm,
The love-draught of the ocean-maid:
Vain then the Briton's heart and arm,
Keen spear, strong shield, and burnished blade.
The love-draught of the ocean-maid:
Vain then the Briton's heart and arm,
Keen spear, strong shield, and burnished blade.
“Come to the feast of wine and mead,”
Spake the dark dweller of the sea:
“There shall the hours in mirth proceed;
There neither sword nor shield shall be.”
Spake the dark dweller of the sea:
“There shall the hours in mirth proceed;
There neither sword nor shield shall be.”
140
Hard by the sacred temple's site,
Soon as the shades of evening fall,
Resounds with song and glows with light
The ocean-dweller's rude-built hall.
Soon as the shades of evening fall,
Resounds with song and glows with light
The ocean-dweller's rude-built hall.
The sacred ground, where chiefs of yore
The everlasting fire adored,
The solemn pledge of safety bore,
And breathed not of the treacherous sword.
The everlasting fire adored,
The solemn pledge of safety bore,
And breathed not of the treacherous sword.
The amber wreath his temples bound;
His vest concealed the murderous blade;
As man to man, the board around,
The guileful chief his host arrayed.
His vest concealed the murderous blade;
As man to man, the board around,
The guileful chief his host arrayed.
None but the noblest of the land,
The flower of Britain's chiefs, were there:
Unarmed, amid the Saxon band,
They sate, the fatal feast to share.
The flower of Britain's chiefs, were there:
Unarmed, amid the Saxon band,
They sate, the fatal feast to share.
Three hundred chiefs, three score and three,
Went, where the festal torches burned
Before the dweller of the sea:
They went; and three alone returned.
Went, where the festal torches burned
Before the dweller of the sea:
They went; and three alone returned.
'Till dawn the pale sweet mead they quaffed:
The ocean-chief unclosed his vest;
His hand was on his dagger's haft,
And daggers glared at every breast.
The ocean-chief unclosed his vest;
His hand was on his dagger's haft,
And daggers glared at every breast.
But him, at Eidiol's
breast who aimed,
The mighty Briton's arm laid low:
His eyes with righteous anger flamed;
He wrenched the dagger from the foe;
The mighty Briton's arm laid low:
His eyes with righteous anger flamed;
He wrenched the dagger from the foe;
And through the throng he cleft his way,
And raised without his battle cry;
And hundreds hurried to the fray,
From towns, and vales, and mountains high.
And raised without his battle cry;
And hundreds hurried to the fray,
From towns, and vales, and mountains high.
141
But Briton's best blood dyed the floor
Within the treacherous Saxon's hall;
Of all, the golden chain who wore,
Two only answered Eidiol's call.
Within the treacherous Saxon's hall;
Of all, the golden chain who wore,
Two only answered Eidiol's call.
Then clashed the sword; then pierced the lance;
Then by the axe the shield was riven;
Then did the steed on Cattraeth prance,
And deep in blood his hoofs were driven.
Then by the axe the shield was riven;
Then did the steed on Cattraeth prance,
And deep in blood his hoofs were driven.
Even as the flame consumes the wood,
So Eidiol rushed along the field;
As sinks the snow-bank in the flood,
So did the ocean-rovers yield.
So Eidiol rushed along the field;
As sinks the snow-bank in the flood,
So did the ocean-rovers yield.
The spoilers from the fane he drove;
He hurried to the rock-built tower,
Where the base king, in mirth and love,
Sate with his Saxon paramour.
He hurried to the rock-built tower,
Where the base king, in mirth and love,
Sate with his Saxon paramour.
The storm of arms was on the gate,
The blaze of torches in the hall,
So swift, that ere they feared their fate,
The flames had scaled their chamber wall.
The blaze of torches in the hall,
So swift, that ere they feared their fate,
The flames had scaled their chamber wall.
They died: for them no Briton grieves;
No planted flower above them waves;
No hand removes the withered leaves
That strew their solitary graves.
No planted flower above them waves;
No hand removes the withered leaves
That strew their solitary graves.
And time the avenging day brought round
That saw the sea-chief vainly sue:
To make his false host bite the ground
Was all the hope our warrior knew.
That saw the sea-chief vainly sue:
To make his false host bite the ground
Was all the hope our warrior knew.
And evermore the strife he led,
Disdaining peace, with princely might,
Till, on a spear, the spoiler's head
Was reared on Caer-y-Cynan's height.
Disdaining peace, with princely might,
Till, on a spear, the spoiler's head
Was reared on Caer-y-Cynan's height.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |