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" To her green isle’s enamel'd steep,
“ Far in the navel of the deep.
“ O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew
“ From flowers that in Arabia grew :
« On a rich enchanted bed,
“ She pillow'd his majestic head;
“ O'er his brow, with whispers bland,
“ Thrice she wav'd an opiate wand;
“ 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,
“ By gales of Eden ever fann'd,
“ Owns the monarch's high command :
" Thence to Britain shall return,
“(If right prophetic rolls I learn)
“ Borne on Victory's spreading plume,
" His antient sceptre to resume;
“ Once more in old heroic pride,
“ His barbed courser to bestride;
“ His knightly table to restore,
" And the brave tournaments of yore."

They ceas'd: when on the tuneful stage
Advanc'd a bard, of aspect sage;
His silver tresses, thin besprent,
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:

“ Listen, Henry, to my read! “ Not from fairy realms I lead “ Bright-rob’d Tradition, to relate “ In forged colours Arthur's fate; “ Though much of old romantic lore “ On the high theme I keep in store : • But boastful Fiction should be dumb, “ 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 rhyme enrollid, “ Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bower; 6. Which in my youth's full early flower, “ A minstrel, sprung of Cornish line, Who spoke of kings from old Locrine, Taught me to chant, one vernal dawn, “ Deep in a cliff-encircled lawn, “What time the glistening vapours fled “ From claud-envelop'd Clyder's head ; “ And on its sides the torrents grey “ Shone to the morning's orient ray.

" When Arthur bow'd his haughty crest, “ No princess, veil'd in azure vest, “ Snatcht him, by Merlin's potent spell, “ 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, “ In the fair vale of Avalon : “ There, with chanted orison, “ And the long blaze of tapers clear, “ The stoled fathers met the bier ; “ Through the dim iles, in order dread “ 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; “ And long, o'er the neglected stone, “ 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; “ There shalt thou find the monarch laid, " All in warrior-weeds array'd; “ Wearing in death his helmet-crown, “ 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 Harold's bay : « And from the steeps of rough Kildare “ Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare: “ So may thy brow's unerring yew “ Its shæfts in Roderick's heart imbrew."

Amid the peeling symphony 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 awhile his bold emprise ; Ev'n now he seems, with eager pace, The consecrated floor to trace ; And ope, from its tremendous gloom, The treasure of the wondrous tomb : Ev’n now, he burns in thought to rear, From its dark bed, the ponderous spear,

Rough with the gore of Pictish kings:
Ev'n 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
Ev'n now, with arching sculpture crown'd,
He plans the chantry's choral shrine,
The daily dirge, and rites divine.

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