The Poetical Works of the Rev: H. H. Milman :: :: University of Virginia Library

Scene. The Banks of Derwent Water. Lilian (the daughter of Caswallon). Prince Vortimer (the son of Vortigern). The seizure of Lilian. Caswallon. The Banks of the Eamont. The Sacrifice. Vortimer. Sailing of the Invading Fleet from the Tyne to the Isle of Thanet. The Landing. The Embassy. Terms of Peace. Opposition of Samor. Peace. Prodigies.

Sunk was the sun, and up the slope of heaven,
Like maiden on a lonely pilgrimage,
Moved the meek Star of Eve; the wandering air
Breathed odours; wood, and waveless lake, like man,
Slept, weary of the garish babbling day.

Dove of the wilderness, thy snowy wing
In slumber droops not; Lilian, thou alone,
'Mid the deep quiet, wakest! Dost thou rove,
Idolatrous of yon majestic moon,
That like a crystal-throned queen in Heaven,
Seems with her present deity to hush
To beauteous adoration all the earth?
The solemn silent mountain tops stand up

As though to worship; the translucent streams
Down th' hill sides glittering, cherish the pure light
Beneath the shadowy foliage o'er them flung
At intervals; the lake, so silver white,
Glistens, that indistinct the snowy swans
Bask in the radiance cool: doth Lilian muse
To that apparent Queen her vesper hymn?

Nursling of solitude, her infant couch
No mother watch'd, within th' untimely grave
She slept unwaking; scornful turn'd aloof
Caswallon, of those pure instinctive joys
By fathers felt, when playful infant grace,
Touch'd with a feminine softness, round the heart,
Winds its light maze of undefin'd delight,
Contemptuous; he with haughty joy beheld
His boy, fair Malwyn, him in bossy shield
Rock'd proudly, him upbore to mountain steep,
Fierce and undaunted, for their dangerous nest
To battle with the eagle's clamorous brood.

But she the while from human tenderness
Estranged, and gentler feelings that light up
The cheek of youth with rosy joyous smile,
Like a forgotten lute, play'd on alone
By chance-caressing airs, amid the wild
Beauteously pale, and sadly playful, grew,
A lonely child, by not one human heart
Belov'd and loving none; nor strange, if learnt
Her nature's fond affections to embrace

Things senseless and inanimate: she lov'd
All flow'rets that with rich embroidery fair
Enamel the green earth, the odorous thyme,
Wild rose, and roving eglantine, nor spar'd
To mourn their fading forms with childish tears.
Grey birch and aspen light she lov'd, that droop
Fringing the crystal stream; the sportive breeze
That wanton'd with her brown and glossy locks,
The sunbeam chequering the fresh bank. Ere dawn
Wandering, and wandering still at dewy eve,
By Glenderamakin's flower-empurpled marge,
Derwent's blue lake, or Greta's wildering glen.

Rare sound to her was human voice, scarce heard,
Save of her aged nurse, or shepherd maid
Soothing the child with simple tale or song.
Hence, all she knew of earthly hopes and fears,
Life's sins and sorrows; better known the voice
Belov'd of lark from misty morning cloud
Blithe carolling, and wild melodious notes
Heard mingling in the summer wood, or plaint,
By moonlight, of the lone night-warbling bird.
Nor they of love unconscious, all around
Fearless, familiar they their descants sweet
Tun'd emulous. For she was known by all
That tenant wood or rock, dun roe or deer,
Sunning his dappled side at noontide crouch'd,
Courting her fond caress, nor fled her gaze
The brooding dove, but murmur'd sounds of joy.

One summer noon, the silvery birchen shade,
Pendent above from dripping crag, her brow
Veil'd from the fiery sunbeam; gems of spray
Gleam'd cool around with watery rainbow-light,
From a pure streamlet down its rocky bed
Dashing sweet music; she on mossy couch
Sate listening to the thrush, whose blithesome notes
In amorous contention Echo caught
Responsive. Sudden droop'd its flagging wing
The timorous bird of song, and fluttering sought
Soft refuge in the maiden's snowy breast.
She o'er the nestling prisoner folding light
Her careless vest, stood gazing, where, awhile
Dark in a sun-illumin'd cloud, came down
A swooping falcon: at her sight it check'd;
Its keen eye bright with joy, th' admiring bird,
Fearfully beauteous, floated on the air,
Its silver wings, and glossy plumage grey,
Glanc'd in the sun light. Up the maiden gaz'd,
Smiling in pale and terrified delight,
And seem'd for that lov'd warbler in her breast
Beseeching mercy. 'Mid the green wood sank
Th' obedient bird; she, joyous at his flight,
Her bosom half reveal'd, with gentle hand
Caressing smooth'd her captive's ruffled plumes.
Anon a frighted thankful look around
She cast—and lo a human shape stood there,
Or more than human; stately on his arm

The falcon sate, and proudly flapp'd his wings.
She turn'd to fly, yet fled not, turn'd to gaze,
Yet dared not raise her downcast eye; she felt
Her warm cheek, why she knew not, blush, her hand
Unconscious closer drew her bosom's fold.
With accent mild the Stranger brief delay
Entreated; she, albeit his gentle words
Fell indistinct on her alarmed ear,
Listening delay'd, and still at fall of eve
Delay'd, e'en then with dim reverted eye,
Slow lingering on her winding homeward path.

No more in pomp of war, or vaulting steed,
Joyeth the Son of Vortigern, nor feast
With jocund harpings, and rich-jewell'd dames,
Outshining in their pride the starry heavens.

As fair the spring-flowers bloom, as graceful droops
The wild ash spray, as sweet the mountain bee
Murmurs, melodious breathes the twilight grove,
Unheard of her, unheeded, who erewhile
Visited, constant as the morning dew,
Those playmates and sweet sisters of her soul.
In one sole image sees the enamour'd maid
Concentrated all qualities of love,
All beauty, grace, and majesty. The step
Of tall stag prancing stately down the glen,
The keen bright fierceness of the eagle's glance,
And airy gentleness of timorous roe,
And, more than all, a voice more soothing soft

Than wild-bird's carol, or the murmuring brook,
With eloquence endued and melting words
So wondrous; though unheard since eve, the sounds
Come mingling with her midnight sleep, and make
The damask of her slumbering cheek grow warm.

And now she sits beneath the moonlight rock,
Chiding the rippling waters that efface
That image fancy-drawn on its pure breast,
Garb, form, and feature, Vortimer; though mute,
As prodigal of fondness, his bright face
Seems to look up to her with tenderer love,
Than wild-dove to its mate at earliest spring.

Oft hath that moonlight wax'd and wan'd, since last
He parted, all of him that could depart;
Save what no distance could remove, the words,
The look, the touch, that live within her still,
The promise of return sworn on her lips.

And hark it comes, his steed along the glen;
She o'er the lucid mirror stooping, braids
Hasty her dark-brown tresses; bashful smiles
Of virgin vanity flit o'er her cheek,
Tinging its settled paleness. Now 'tis near—
But ne'er did Vortimer with iron hoof
Bruise the green flowery sward that Lilian loves.
A gentle frown of winning fond reproach
Arch'd her dark eyelash, as her head she turn'd,
Ah! not on Vortimer. Her father stood
Before her, stern and dark, his trembling child

Cheer'd nor fond word, nor greeting kiss; his arm
Clasp'd round her, on his steed again he sprung.

And on through moonlight and through shade he spurr'd,
Like some rude hunter with a snow-white fawn
His midnight prey. And all his flinty road
Gleam'd like a meteor's track. Ere long the path
'Gan upward wind, the fiery courser paus'd
Breathless, she faintly raising up her form;
“Oh, whither bear ye me?” with panting voice,
Murmur'd. Caswallon spake unmov'd, “To death.”

“Death, father, death, ah didst thou say to death!
Aye me! when maiden dies, the smiling morn,
The wild birds singing on the twinkling spray,
Wake her no more; the summer wind breathes soft,
Waving the fresh grass o'er her narrow bed,
Gladdening to all but her. Senseless and cold
She lies; while all she lov'd, unheard, unseen,
Mourn round her.” There broke off her faltering voice.
Dimly her farewell glance she cast around.
Never before so beautiful the lake
Lay, like a sky, distinct with stars; the groves,
Green banks and shadowy dells, her haunts of bliss,
Smil'd, ne'er before so lovely, their last smile;
The fountains seem'd to wail, the twilight mists,
On the wet leaves were weeping all for her.
Had not her own tears blinded her, there too
She surely had beheld a youthful form

Wandering the solitary glen. But loud
The courser neigh'd, down bursting, wood and rock
Fly backward; the wide plain its weary length
Vainly outspreads; and now 'tis midnight deep.
Ends in a narrow glen their fleet career.
That narrow glen was pal'd with rude black rocks,
There slowly roll'd a brook its glassy depth;
Now in the moon-beams white, now dark in gloom.

She liv'd, she breath'd, she felt, to her denied
That sole sad happiness the wretched know,
Ev'n from excess of feeling, not to feel.
Behold her gentle, delicate, and frail,
Where all around, through rifted rock and wood,
Grim features glare, huge helmed forms obscure
People the living gloom, with dreary light
Glimmering, as of the moon from iron arms
Coldly reflected: lovely stands she there,
Like a blest Angel 'mid th' accurst of Hell.
A voice is heard.—“Lo, mighty Monarch, here
The stream of sacrifice; to man alone
Fits the proud privilege of bloody death
By shaft or mortal steel; to Hela's realm,
Unblooded, woundless, must the maid descend;
So in the bright Valhalla shall she crown
For Woden and his Peers the cup of bliss.”
Her white arms round her father's rugged neck
Winding with desperate fondness, she 'gan pour,
As to some dear, familiar, long-lov'd heart,

Most eloquent her inarticulate prayers.
Is the dew gleaming on his cheek? or weeps
The savage and the stern, yet still her sire?
But some rude arm of one, whose dreadful face
She dared not gaze on, seiz'd her. Gloomy stood,
Folding his wolf-skin mantle to conceal
The shuddering of his huge and mailed form,
Caswallon. Then again the voice came forth,
“Fast wanes the night, the Gods brook no delay,
Monarch of Britain, speed.” He, at that name
Shaking all human from his soul, flung back
The foldings of his robe, and stood elate,
As boastful of some glorious deed; nor knew
Barbarian blind as proud, who feels no more
The mercies and affections of his kind,
Casts off God's image from his darken'd soul.

A sound is heard amid the silent night,
A sound of broken waters; rings of light
Float o'er the dark stream, widening to the shore.
And lo, her re-appearing form, as soft

As fountain Nymph by weary hunter seen,
In the lone twilight glen; the moonlight gleam
Falls tenderly on her beseeching face,
Like th' halo of expiring Saint; she seems
Lingering to lie upon the water top,
As though to feel once more that light belov'd;
And tremulously mov'd her soundless lips
As syllabling the name of Vortimer.
Then deep she sank, and quiet the cold stream,
Unconscious of its guilt, went eddying on,
And look'd up lovely to the gazing moon.

What deepest thoughts, young Vortimer, have place
Within thy secret breast? thou slowly rid'st
By Eamont's alder brink, thy silver arms
Through the brown copse with moonshine glittering dim.
Is't that late fight by Thanet, when the fire
From thine and Horsa's steel, frequent and red,
Burnt the pale sea-spray? or thy kingly charge,
With show of British war, to curb and check
The threatening Caledonian? or what bathes
Youth's cheek in bitterest and most gall-like tears;
Thy father's shame, the curse that, unredeem'd
By thy young valour, his once kingly name
Devotes to everlasting infamy?

Or is't that gentle Maid by Derwent lake,
Her flower-wreath'd tresses and her pale sweet smile?
How pleasant, after war and journeying fleet
To Britain's Northern realm, from Kent's white cliffs,
Once more to see her early gliding foot
Skimming the morning dews, to hear her voice,
As artless, as melodious, melt on air,
Among the wood-birds' matins, to surprise
Thine own dear name upon her bashful lips!

What floats along the waters, a dead white
Amid the glittering moonshine! where the stream
Runs black beneath the thicket boughs, still white,
Still slowly drifting, like a dying swan,
In snowy beauty, on its watery bier?
Oh, were but Lilian here! perchance its neck
May struggle up, to the still waves to chant
Its own soft requiem, the most gentle breath,
Most fancifully, delicately sweet,
That ever soothes the midnight's dewy calm.

Near, and more near—it takes a human shape:
Some luckless maiden; haply her lov'd youth
Awaits her at the well-known place, upbraids
Her broken faith, as fond as Vortimer,
As full of love. 'Tis closer now; he leaps
From his high steed: he draws it to the shore.

Scarce time for fancy or for fear, the moon
Quench'd her broad light behind a rushing cloud,
And utter darkness settled round. He sate
In solitude, with that cold lifeless corpse;
He dared not leave it, for a hideous thought
Flash'd through his brain.—“Why is it like to thee,
My Lilian! be it any one but thou—
Cold, deathly, irremediably cold:
It cannot be, and yet 'twas like: her height,
Her slender waist like Lilian's, and her hair
As dainty soft, and trick'd with flowers; 'tis she,
And I will kiss her, pardon if I err,
If stranger lips—round, smooth like thine; but oh!
So coldly passive! when we parted, thine
Thwarted me with a struggling bashfulness,
And, won at length, with meek surrender swell'd.
Wild and delirious fancy! many a maid
Hath full round lips, to trick the hair with flowers
'Tis common vanity. If dead, even dead,
So chilly senseless Lilian could not be
To Vortimer's embrace. Oh, but for light,
Though dim and scanty as a glow-worm's fire,
To make me surely, hopelessly undone!
Aught but this racking ignorance. Dawn forth,
Thou envious sluggard, Morn! one beam, but one—
Thou pitiless cold Moon!”—Morn dawn'd not yet,
And pale and dusk remain'd the moonless sky.
Darkness around, the dead within his arms,

He sate, even as a poison'd man awaits,
Yet haunted by a miserable hope,
Death's manifest mortal sickness in his veins,
And yearns to live or die, scarce cares he which,
So one were certain. But when slow the dawn
Unveil'd its filmy light, he turn'd away
From that which might be Lilian's face, and pray'd
Even for the hateful, dun, uncertain gloom;
As though the doubtful, not quite desperate grief,
Were comfort, and not lightly to be lost.
It seem'd unconsciously he raised her up,
Unconsciously declined his heavy eye,
Where slowly brighten'd on that lifeless face
The unwelcome beauty; one tress lay across,
Permitting yet a miserable doubt;
Move it he dare not, but the officious wind
Cast it aside. As if the thought, the fear
Were new, were sudden, like the lightning flash
That sears the infant in its mother's arms,
Smote on him the dire certainty. He clasp'd
Her damp dead cheek to his.—“Thus, meet we thus,
Lilian! my Lilian! silent, strange, and cold?
I do not bid thee fondly gaze, nor ask
Long rapturous welcoming,—but speak, but move!
Lilian; ne'er thought I, I should live to loathe
Thy gentle presence.—Oh, for thee, for thee
Have I forsaken all my warrior trust,
Been truant to my country's cause for thee.

By the green Tees my murmuring camp upbraids
My soft unwarlike absence—aye, upbraids!
For I am past fate's utmost malice now.
Shall Fame with its vain pomp, and hollow clang
Of cymbal praise, allure me forth, a bland
And courteous parasite in her fond train?
No; hang thou there, my helm, and thou my shield
Rust on yon bank, my sword, one duty more,
To shape the smooth turf for my Lilian's grave;
Thy bridal bed, sweet Maid, it should have been,
Where thou and Vortimer had met. Thy grave
Shall be my field of honour, all my palms
The flowers the courteous spring shall lavish there;
And I'll have glory—in my depth of woe—
A wild and strange delight—in my despair—
Not yet, the cold earth must not part us yet,
Unfold, once, once again those dark-fringed eyes,
One throb, one tremor, though it be the last
In thy soft limbs—dead, senseless, icy dead!”—

Thus o'er his buried Love that wretched Prince,
Unknown the hell-born secret of her doom,
Arraign'd blind Chance for Man's most impious sin.

But southward far the savage fleet bore on.
On Flamborough-head the morning sun look'd dusk
Through their dim sails; where Scarborough's naked foot
Spurns back, and saith, “No further,” to the waves,
From cleft and cave the sullen sea-birds sprang,
Wheeling in air with dizzy flight, and shriek'd

Their dreary fears abroad. The Shepherd, wont
To view o'er level Lindesay the broad sea,
Blue trembling to the soft horizon's line,
Sees, like a baleful portent from the heavens,
That sable Navy warping slowly past.
Th' Icenian coast (that sceptred woman's realm,
Bonduca, who from her fair body wash'd
The stain of Roman lust in Roman blood)
Looks haggard, with distracted faces wan,
Of age and youth, the woman and the child,
From beach or steep cliff, gazing now to Heaven,
Now on that ocean army's watery march.

A brighter and more British battlement,
Than tender forms of women, trembling crowds
Of infants and decrepit age, from Thames
To Thanet crown the pale-brow'd cliffs of Kent.
As when from Aulis that immortal fleet
Swept the Ægean, all the hollow beach,
And every Phrygian promontory glow'd
With brazen battle; here the Morning's Son,
Swarth Memnon, here the invulnerable strength
Of Cycnus, here the beardless Troilus,
Unwounded yet by Cresseide's arrowy eyes;
Here Hector, seeking through the watery route
The tall Thessalian prow, with fatal thirst
Furious even then the silver-footed Queen

To orphan of her heaven-soul'd boy. So bold,
In bright-arm'd splendour tower'd the rampart brave
Of British Warriors on that pallid shore.

On Thanet are the Sea-King Brethren met.
Their greeting in that fiercely sportive strain
That, elevate with imminent success,
Scoffs at past ill.—“On Thanet's marge well met,
Erle Horsa; now methinks our spacious realm
Is somewhat waste and shrunken, since we last
View'd its fair confines; for such noble guests
And numerous as attend our royal march,
Our kingdom's harbours seem too close, our land
Narrow and brief for such free spirits' range.
Ill husbandry! our fertile province wide
To barter for this spare and meagre isle.
Horsa, for anchorage and breathing space
Our weary mariners must e'en go sue
Their gentle Briton neighbours; haply they,
Knowing our native courtesy, may cede
From their abundance some fair leagues of earth.”

“Ingrate and blind (cried Horsa), they forswear
Our mild dominion; to their King's behest
Rebellious, they proclaim the British earth
The undivided, indivisible right
Of their old British sires, nor may't descend
Sever'd and mutilate to their British sons.—
‘They shook not off the Roman's gentle sway,
To slave it to Barbarians.’—Specious terms,

But with such cogent arguments enforc'd,
We could but shroud us in this narrow isle
From such fierce disputants; a desperate spirit
Was that old Cæsar, who first planted here
The tree of conquest.”—“Holds the King his faith?”—
“Oh, thy fair daughter hath a soft-link'd chain
For the old royal Lion; he obeys,
Like a slim greyhound in a silken leash,
Her eye-won empire. But there walks abroad
A youngling of the brood; no blood but mine
Might flesh the ravening of his dainty jaws,
This Vortimer, this bright-ey'd, beardless boy.
Aye, front to front I met him, but their bands
Rent us asunder, and my crest-lopp'd helm,
My scatter'd blood, pass'd unaveng'd. Now earth
Swallow me in my wrath, Heaven's bolt sear up
My constant heart, if I forget thee, Boy,
Nor shear the gay sprouts of thy budding fame!”—
“A child their mightiest!”—“Scornful Hengist, no;
A manlier spirit rides the furious storm,
One in whom bravery and counsel vie
For excellence: wild battle wears the shape
His will ordains; and if the rebel swerve,
He forces it with his strong sword t' obey
His high behest, and take the fate he gives.”—
“His name—his name!”—“The Chieftain of the Vales,
So sounds his title.”—Then a bitter groan,
'Twere hard to tell from what bad passion, hate

Or dread, or savage hope, from Hengist's breast
Burst forth; with his mail'd hand he clasp'd his head,
As though to mould the discord of his thoughts
To one strong mass; then, as though all resolv'd,
A light and laughing carelessness relax'd
Those knitted furrows, while his eager soul
Clasp'd the dim future with a fearless joy.

But on the mainland, in sad council, meet
The Baronage of Britain, timorous hearts
In hollow unsubstantial valour trick'd,
While those who dare show fear, fear undisguis'd.
Their first fierce rush of courage pass'd, like flame
The mountain heath devouring, with fleet blaze,
But transitory! they of generous thoughts,
Of appetites whose sole rich draught is fame,
Wanting the steadfast strength, the impulse bold
Wanting of love devotional, heart-deep
To their own native land; they hence, but now
With power in fierce and gallant charge to sweep
From Kent's fair valleys Horsa's Saxon train,
Downcast in mien and mind, with prospect sad
Now count that countless navy's gathering sails.

Not now the rapture and the restlessness,
The riding and the racing, burst and shock,
And sudden triumph, or as sudden death;
Now long, long wasting of the limbs and life,
The circumspect cold strife, drear march, damp watch,
Forepining day, and vigilant sleepless night,

Eternal and interminable war,
Before them spreads its wide and endless tract.
Gone all soft joys, all courtly luxuries gone:
The languor of the bath, the harp, the song
By twilight in the lady's sleepless porch,
The loitering in the sunny colonnade,
The circus, and the theatre, the feast
Usurping the mild midnight's solemn hours;
From holier hearts, the chapel and the prayer,
The matins, and melodious vesper hymn,
The bridal with its gay and jocund route,
The baptism with its revel, gone—all gone.
The burial on cold battle field, unhymn'd,
Unmourn'd, untomb'd; nor taper, tear, nor rite:
Even pious commerce between God and man
Broke off, save hasty prayer ere battle morn,
Cold orison upon the midnight watch.

Sole pillar of the quaking temple, firm,
Inflexible, on the foundation deep
Of his stern spirit, Samor bears the weight
Of imminent danger; and his magic voice
With shame, with praise, with soothing, and with scorn,
Scatters the languid mists from off their souls,
And from their blanch'd cheeks drives the faint dismay.

What ho! a trumpet from the Thanet shore,
Truce for the Saxon's embassage! His hand
Outholding the white wand of peace, came on
Old Cerdic, and address'd the assemblage proud.

“Britons, most strange 'twill sound, while our vast fleet
Affronts your pale cliffs with fierce show of war,
Yet would we peace with Britain. Deem not this,
In the vain arrogance of brief success,
The enforc'd concession of faint fear; look round
Your narrow camp, then gaze abroad, our sails
Outnumber your few helms, and fear ye know
No wonted tenant in the German breast.
This know ye further, what we Saxons dare,
That dare we nobly, openly. Far south
A rich and wanton land its champaign green
Spreads to the sun, there all the basking hills
Glow with the red wine, there the fresh air floats
So fragrant, that 'tis pleasure but to breathe,
Where endless summer paints the cloudless skies;
And our old Bards have legends, how of yore
From that soft land bright eagles, fledged with gold,
Danube or Rhine o'erflew, their Cæsars fired
Our holy groves with insolent flames, and girt
Our fierce free foresters with slavish chains,
That scarce bold Herman rent their massive links.
Not to despoil a mild and gentle isle,

For full fierce vengeance on Imperial Rome,
Embattled Germany pours forth. Then hear,
Brave islanders! our Saxon terms of peace:
Ransom this province, ours by royal boon
Of Vortigern, your King, at liberal price;
And for your gold we cede, what deepest wounds
Our German souls to part with, our revenge.
With most unwonted patience will we bear
Erle Horsa's camp with fierce assault o'erborne,
And British wolves full-gorged with Saxon gore.
Then not as foes, but friends, we disembark
Our sea-worn crews; ourselves, the Chiefs of war,
In solemn festival to your high Lords,
Pledge on the compact our unwavering faith.
But if ye still with lavish thirst desire
War's crimson goblets, freely let them flow!
If the fierce pastime of the fire and sword
Be jocund to you, then let slip the game!
Your city walls are not so tall and high,
But our fleet flames may climb their dizzy towers,
And revel on their pinnacles of pride;
Your breast-plate not so adamantine proof,
But our keen falchions to your hearts may find
A mortal passage. And not we alone,
Caswallon, at our call, o'er the wide North
Wakes the hoarse music of his rushing cars;
Then choose your bride, oh Britons, lo, each courts
Your arms with rival beauties, Peace and War.”

Thus half in courtesy, defiant half,
To wait their answer he withdrew. Ere died
His voice, ere from a single lip assent
Had parted, Samor rose, and cried aloud:—

“Britons! oh Britons! hinds fear fawning wolves,
The peasant flies the snake that smoothly coils
Round his numb foot its gay enamell'd rings;
I dread a peaceful Saxon. Was't for this,
Round Vortigern's tame soul that proud-ey'd Queen
Wound her voluptuous trammels? did the meek,
The hermit Constans, bleed for this? Oh, Peace
Is like the rain from heaven, the clouds must burst,
Ere earth smile lovely with its lucid dews.
Peace must be won by war; swords, swords alone
Work the strong treaty. Shall our slaves, who sold
Their blood, their lives to Britain for base hire,
On our fair provinces set now their price?
Give gold! as wisely might the miser lead
The robber to his treasury, and then cry,
‘Go hence, and plunder;’ 'twere to tempt, to bribe
The undream'd perjury, and spread a lure,
To bring the parted spoiler swiftly back.
Outnumber us! and are we sunk so low
To count our valour by our helmet crests?—
Oh, every soul that loves his native land,
It is a legion; oh what fire shall sear
The hydra heads of liberty? Our earth
Shall burst to bearing of as boon a crop

Of sworded soldiers, as of bladed grass,
And all our hills branch out in groves of steel.
So thought our fathers, so they bravely strove
For the bleak freedom of their steamy moors,
Their black oak's fruitage coarse, and rites uncouth
Of Druid, by the beal-fire's lurid flame.
But we whose land refin'd and civilised,
Spreads golden plenty round her marble towns;
Where handmaid arts anticipate our wants,
Where bloodless altars to the Lord of Hosts
Arise, and his Incarnate Son. Shall we
Our gifted Britain yield, our hallow'd isle
To godless rude Barbarians? 'Tis not now
Merely to 'scape the heaven-branded name of slaves,
For licence to breathe where we choose, and wield
At our own wayward will unfetter'd limbs.
Oh, if we fail, free Christians must sink down
To Heathen slaves, our gilded palace roofs
Echo the riot of new Lords, our wives
Be like base plunder, vilely bought and sold;
Worse shame! worse sin! the murky Heathen groves
O'er our fallen Churches their pale gloom advance;
Our holy air go dim and reeking up
With impious incense to blood-beverag'd Gods;
The deep damnation of a Pagan creed
Rot in our children's souls! Then be our peace
Not hasty, as of timorous souls that snatch
At every feeble reed, but stoop we to it

As with a conqueror's pride, with steel-glov'd hand
Seal our stern treaty. So if they depart,
And with their spread sails seek their mad emprize.
But while one prow dash menace on our shore,
Our earth is patient of one armed hoof,
Tame treaty, temporizing truce, avaunt!
The foreign banner that usurps our winds,
Be it a foe! strange steel that doth divert
One ray of sunlight from our shores, be that
The scope and centre of all British swords!
So build we up our peace on the strong rock
Of brave defiance, cement it with scorn,
Set bright-arm'd Valour in its jealous porch
Bold Warden; from our own intrinsic strength,
Not from the mercy of our foes, be free.”

Oh the soul's fire, of that swift element
Th' intensest, spreads around, and mounts on high
With unrestrain'd contagion; it hath caught
In all that kingly conclave, it hath blazed.
But then rose Elidure, with bashful mien,
Into himself half shrinking, from his lips
The dewy words persuasive dropt, and smooth,
And crept into the chambers of the soul,
Like the bee's liquid honey:—“And thou too,
Enamour'd of this gaudy murderer, War!
Samor, in hunger's meagre hour who scorns
A fair-skinn'd fruit, because its inward pulp
May be or black or hollow? gentle Peace

May be a rich-rob'd evil; war, stern war,
Wears manifest its hideousness, and bares
Deformities the Sun shrinks to behold.
Because 'tis in the wanton roll of chance
That he may die, who desperately leaps
Into the pit, with mad untimely arms
To clasp annihilation? Were no path
But through the grim and haunted wilds of strife
To the mild shrine of peace, maids would not wear
Their bridal chaplets with more joy, than I
Th' oppressive morion: then th' old vaunt were wise,
To live in freedom, or for freedom die.
Then would I too dissemble, with vain boast,
Our island's weakness; wear an iron front,
Though all within were silken, soft, and smooth.
For what are we, slight sunshine birds, thin plum'd
For dalliance with the mild, luxurious airs,
To grapple with these vultures, whose broad vans,
Braced by their icy tempests, with the wind
Of their strong flight would dash us down to earth.
Then, Samor, eminent in strength and power,
It were most proud for thee alone to break
The hot assault, with single arm t' arrest
The o'erwhelming ruin—ruin, ah! too sure.
It were most proud; to us sad comfort; sunk,
Amerc'd of all our fair, luxurious hours,
Our rich abodes the wandering war-flame's feast.
Samor, our fathers fear'd not death; cast off

Most careless their coarse lives; with nought to lose,
They fear'd no loss; too blest this state of ours,
Its joyances, affections, hopes, desires,
For such rash venture. Oh, then, be we not
Most wretched from the fear of wretchedness?
If war must be, in God's name let war be:
But, oh, with clinging hand, with lingering love,
Clasp we our mistress, Peace. Gold! what is gold?
My fair and wealthy palace set to sale,
Cast me a beggar to the elements' scorn;
But leave me peace, oh, leave my country peace,
And I will call it mercy, bounty, love!”—

So spake he, with vain show of public zeal
Blazoning his weak intent; and so prevail'd
His soft and languid eloquence. Each rent
The golden frontlet from his helm, cast down
His breastplate's golden scales, in liberal strife
Prodigal rivals at rich price to buy
That baleful merchandise, their country's shame.

Oh, where the royal Brethren now? the pride
Serene of Emrys? where thy Dragon crest,
Prince Uther? for thy voice, young Vortimer!
Seal, Samor, thy prophetic lips; in vain
Thou warnest, threatenest, as if heaven-inspired.
Will the winds hear thee? will the rocks obey?
Or hearts than wind more light, than rocks more cold?

Grey Cerdic hath their faint award; they part
Jocund, and light of hope; but Samor grasp'd

The hand of Elidure:—“My childhood's friend,
I sue thee by all joys we two have shared,
Our interchange of souls, communion free
Of every thought and motion of our hearts,
Our infant pastimes, and our graver joys,
Go not thou to this feast.”—“Doth Samor go?”—
“Britain must have no danger, gentle friend,
That Samor shares not; thou art noted well
To hate the riotous and brawling feast.
With thy fond bride, thy Evelene, await
Silent the knowledge whether thou or I
Have err'd in this day's council.”—“No, best friend,
Samor must have no danger Elidure
Shares not; oh, why this cold and gloomy dread?
In the deep centre of our isle be held
This dreaded banquet. Samor, ne'er thought I,
While my mild blood ran constant, thine would flag,
And curdle with the pallid frost of fear.”

'Tis famed, that then, albeit amid the rush
Of clamorous joy unmark'd, in drearier days
Remember'd, signs on earth, and signs in heaven,
With loud and solemn interdict arraign'd
That hasty treaty; maniacs kindled up
With horrible intelligence the orbs
Of their deep hollow eyes, and meaning strange
Gave order to their wandering utterance: stream'd
Amid the dusky woods broad sheeted flames;
The blue fires on the fen at noon-day danc'd

Their wavering morrice, and the bold ey'd wolves
Howl'd on the sun. Life ominous and uncouth
Seiz'd upon ancient and forgotten things;
The Cromlechs rock'd, the Druid circles wept
Cold ruddy dews; as of that neighbouring feast
Conscious, the tall Stone Henge did shrilly shriek
As with a whirlwind, though no cloud was mov'd
In the still skies. A wailing, as of harps,
Sad with no mortal sorrow, sail'd abroad
Through the black oaks of Mona. Old deep graves
Were restless, and arm'd bones of buried men
Lay clattering in their stony cells. 'Twas faith,
White women upon sable steeds were seen
In fleet career 'neath the rank air; the earth
Gave up no echo to their noiseless feet,
And on them look'd the moon with leprous light
Prodigious; haply like those slender shapes
In the ice desert by Caswallon seen.
From Mona to the snowy Dover cliffs,
From Skiddaw to St. Michael's vision'd mount,
Unknown from heaven, or earth, or nether pit,
Unknown or from the living or the dead,
From being of this world, or nature higher,
Pass'd one long shriek, whereat old Merlin leap'd
From his hoar haunt by Snowdon, and in dusk
And mystic descant mutter'd all abroad,
What the thin air grew cold and dim to hear.

'Tis said, rude portents in the Church of God,

With insolent noises, brake the holy calm,
The grey owl hooted at the noontide chaunt,
The young owl clamour'd at the matin song,
The pies and ravens, from the steeple top,
To the priest's Benedicite moan'd back
A sullen hoarse Amen; and obscene bats
Around the altar candlesticks did flap
Their leathern wings. Yea, from his stricken hand
The white stol'd Bishop to the earth let fall
The consecrated chalice; the Lord's blood
Flow'd, and was mingled with th' unhallow'd dust.

Homo autem quem sors immolandum obtulerat, in fontem qui ad locum sacrificiorum scaturiebat, vivus immergebatur: qui si facile efflaret animam, faustum renunciabant sacerdotes votum: moxque inde ereptum in vicinum nemus, quod sacrum credebant, suspendentes, inter Deos translatum affirmabant. Quo factum erat, ut beatum se crederet, qui eo immolatione e vivis excederet. Accidit nonnunquam reges ipsos simili sorte delectos victimari. Quod quia faustissimum regno libamen æstimabatur, totius populi multitudo cum summâ congratulatione tam insignes victimas prosequebantur. Enimvero sic defunctos non omnino mori, sed tam illos quam se ipsos immortales esse. Olaus Magnus, book iii. cap. 6.

Vortimer, or Guortemir, according to Nennius, the son of Vortigern, did keep up a brave and successful warfare against the Saxons, until the return of Hengist with an overpowering force. See Nennius and Mr. Turner's Anglo-Saxon History, vol. i. p. 243, The death of Horsa I reserved for a later part of the poem.

I fear that I have, not very correctly, introduced a classical vulgar error about the beauty of the notes of the dying swan, where it was not likely to prevail.

Norfolk and Suffolk, the kingdom of the Iceni, of which Boadicea was Queen.

The remains of Roman cities, villas, and baths, so frequently discovered, show that Britain, under the Romans, had attained to a high state of civilization; in some parts, no doubt, to luxury.

The German popular name for Arminius.