So stood the Christian Prince in Odin's hall,178Gathering in one, Renown's converging rays;But, in the hour of triumph, turn, from allWar's victor pomp, his memory and his gaze;Miss that last boon the mission should achieve,And rest where droops the dove-like Genevieve.Now at the sight of Mercia's haughty lord,179A loftier grandeur calms yet more his brow;And leaning lightly on his sheathless sword,Listening he stood, while spoke the Earl:—"I bowNot to war's fortune, but the victor's fame;Thine is so large, it shields thy foes from shame."Prepared for battle, proffering peace I come;180On yonder hills eno' of Saxon steelRemains, to match the Cymrian Christendom;Not slaves with masters, men with men would deal.We cannot leave your land, our chiefs in gyves,—While chains gall Saxons, Saxon war survives."Our kings, our women, and our priests release,181And in their name I pledge (no mean return)A ransom worthy of both nations—Peace;Peace with the Teuton! On your hills shall burnNo more the beacon; on your fields no moreThe steed of Hengist plunge its hoofs in gore."Peace while this race remains—(our sons, alas,182We cannot bind!) Peace with the Mercian men:This is the ransom. Take it, and we passFriends from a foeman's soil: reject it,—thenFirm to this land we cling, as if our own,Till the last Saxon falls, or Cymri's throne!"Abrupt upon the audience dies the voice,183And varying passions stir the murmurous groups;Here, to the wiser; there, the haughtier choice:Youth rears its crest; but age foreboding droops;Chiefs yearn for fame; the crowds to safety cling;The murmurs hush, and thus replies the King:—"Foe, thy proud speech offends no manly ear.184So would I speak, could our conditions change.Peace gives no shame, where war has brought no fear;We fought for freedom,—we disdain revenge;The freedom won, no cause for war remains,And loyal Honour binds more fast than chains."The Peace thus proffer'd, with accustom'd rites,185Hostage and oath, confirm, ye Teuton kings,And ye are free! Where we, the Christians, fight,Our Valkyrs sail with healing on their wings;We shed no blood but for our fatherland!—And so, frank soldier, take this soldier's hand!"Low o'er that conquering hand, the high-soul'd foe186Bow'd the war plumed upon his raven crest;Caught from those kingly words, one generous glowChased Hate's last twilight from each Cymrian breast;Humbled, the captives hear the fetters fall,Power's tranquil shadow—mercy, awes them all!Dark scowl the Priests;—with vengeance priestcraft dies!187Slow looks, where Pride yet struggles, Crida rears;On Crida's child rest Arthur's soft'ning eyes,And Crida's child is weeping happy tears;And Lancelot, closer at Genevra's side,Pales at the compact that may lose the bride.When from the altar by the holy rood,188Come the deep accents of the Cymrian Mage,Sublimely bending o'er the multitudeThought's Atlas temples crown'd with Titan age,O'er Druid robes the beard's broad silver streams,As when the vision rose on virgin dreams."Hearken, ye Scythia's and Cimmeria's sons,189Whose sires alike by golden rivers dwelt,When sate the Asas on their hunter thrones;When Orient vales rejoiced the shepherd Celt;WhileEve'syoung races towards each other drawn,Roved lingering round the Eden gates of dawn."Still the old brother-bond in these new homes,190After long woes shall bind your kindred races;Here, the same God shall find the sacred domes;And the same landmarks bound your resting-places,What time, o'er realms to Heus and Thor unknown,Both Celt and Saxon rear their common throne."Meanwhile, revere the Word the viewless Hand191Writes on the leaves of kingdom-dooming stars;Through Prydain's Isle of Pines, from sea to land,Where yet Rome's eagle leaves the thunder scars,The sceptre sword of Saxon kings shall reach,And new-born nations speak the Teuton's speech;"All save thy mountain empire, Dragon King!192All save the Cymrian's Ararat—Wild Wales![11]Here Cymrian bards to fame and God shall sing—Here Cymrian freemen breathe the hardy gales,And the same race that Heus the Guardian led,Rise from these graves—when God awakes the dead!"The Prophet paused, and all that pomp of plumes193Bow'd as the harvest which the south wind heaves,When, while the breeze disturbs, the beam illumes,And blessings gladden in the trembling sheaves.He paused, and thus renew'd: "Thrice happy, yeFounders of shrines and sires of kings to be!"Hear, Harold, type of the strong Saxon soul,194Supple to truth, untameable by force,Thy dauntless blood through Gwynedd's chiefs shall roll,[12]Through Scotland's monarchs take its fiery course,And flow with Arthur's, in the later days,Through Ocean-Cæsars, either zone obeys."Man of the manly heart, reward the foe195Who braved thy sword, and yet forbore thy breast,Who loved thy child, yet could the love foregoAnd give the sire;—thy looks supply the rest,I read thine answer in thy generous glance!Stand forth—bold child of Christian Chevisaunce!"Then might ye see a sight for smiles and tears,196Young Lancelot's hand in Harold's cordial grasp,While from his breast the frank-eyed father rearsThe cheek that glows beneath the arms that clasp;"Shrink'st thou," he said, "from bonds by fate reveal'd?—Go—rock my grandson in the Cymrian's shield!""And ye," the solemn voice resumed, "O kings!197Hearken, Pendragon, son of Odin, hear!There is a mystery in the heart of things,Which Truth and Falsehood seek alike with fear,To Truth from heaven, to Falsehood, breathed from hell,Comes yet to both the unquiet oracle."Not vainly, Crida, priest, and rune, and dream,198Warn'd thee of fates commingling into oneThe silver river and the mountain stream;From Odin's daughter and Pendragon's son,Shall rise the royalties of farthest yearsBorn to the birthright of the Saxon spears."The bright decree that seem'd a curse to hate,199Blesses both races when fulfill'd by love;From Cymri's Dragon England's power shall date,And peace be born to Cymri from the Dove.[13]Eternal links let nuptial garlands weave,And Cymri's queen be Saxon Genevieve!"Perplex'd, reluctant with the pangs of pride,200And shadowy doubts from dark religion thrown,Stern Crida, lingering, turn'd his face aside;Then rise the elders from the idle stone;From fallen chains the kindred Teutons spring,Low murmurs rustle round the moody king;On priest and warrior, while they whisper, dwells201The searching light of that imperious eye;Warrior and priest, the prophet word compels;And overmasters like a destiny—When towards the maid the radiant conqueror drew,And said, "Enslaver, it is mine to sue!"To Crida, then, "Proud chief, I do confess202The loftier attribute 'tis thine to boast.The pride of kings is in the power to bless,The kingliest hand is that which gives the most;Priceless the gift I ask thee to bestow,—But doubly royal is a generous foe!"Then forth—subdued, yet stately, Crida came,203And the last hold in that rude heart was won:"Hero, thy conquest makes no more my shame,He shares thy glory who can call thee 'Son!'So may this love-knot bind and bless the lands!"Faltering he spoke—and join'd the plighted hands.There flock the hosts as to a holy ground,204There, where the dove at last may fold the wing!His mission ended, and his labours crown'd,Fair as in fable stands the Dragon King—Below the Cross, and by his prophet's side,With Carduel's knighthood kneeling round his bride.What gallant deeds in gentle lists were done,205What lutes made joyaunce sweet in jasmine bowers,Let others tell:—Slow sets the summer sun;Slow fall the mists, and closing, droop the flowers;Faint in the gloaming dies the vesper bell,—And Dream-land sleeps round golden Carduel.
So stood the Christian Prince in Odin's hall,178Gathering in one, Renown's converging rays;But, in the hour of triumph, turn, from allWar's victor pomp, his memory and his gaze;Miss that last boon the mission should achieve,And rest where droops the dove-like Genevieve.
Now at the sight of Mercia's haughty lord,179A loftier grandeur calms yet more his brow;And leaning lightly on his sheathless sword,Listening he stood, while spoke the Earl:—"I bowNot to war's fortune, but the victor's fame;Thine is so large, it shields thy foes from shame.
"Prepared for battle, proffering peace I come;180On yonder hills eno' of Saxon steelRemains, to match the Cymrian Christendom;Not slaves with masters, men with men would deal.We cannot leave your land, our chiefs in gyves,—While chains gall Saxons, Saxon war survives.
"Our kings, our women, and our priests release,181And in their name I pledge (no mean return)A ransom worthy of both nations—Peace;Peace with the Teuton! On your hills shall burnNo more the beacon; on your fields no moreThe steed of Hengist plunge its hoofs in gore.
"Peace while this race remains—(our sons, alas,182We cannot bind!) Peace with the Mercian men:This is the ransom. Take it, and we passFriends from a foeman's soil: reject it,—thenFirm to this land we cling, as if our own,Till the last Saxon falls, or Cymri's throne!"
Abrupt upon the audience dies the voice,183And varying passions stir the murmurous groups;Here, to the wiser; there, the haughtier choice:Youth rears its crest; but age foreboding droops;Chiefs yearn for fame; the crowds to safety cling;The murmurs hush, and thus replies the King:—
"Foe, thy proud speech offends no manly ear.184So would I speak, could our conditions change.Peace gives no shame, where war has brought no fear;We fought for freedom,—we disdain revenge;The freedom won, no cause for war remains,And loyal Honour binds more fast than chains.
"The Peace thus proffer'd, with accustom'd rites,185Hostage and oath, confirm, ye Teuton kings,And ye are free! Where we, the Christians, fight,Our Valkyrs sail with healing on their wings;We shed no blood but for our fatherland!—And so, frank soldier, take this soldier's hand!"
Low o'er that conquering hand, the high-soul'd foe186Bow'd the war plumed upon his raven crest;Caught from those kingly words, one generous glowChased Hate's last twilight from each Cymrian breast;Humbled, the captives hear the fetters fall,Power's tranquil shadow—mercy, awes them all!
Dark scowl the Priests;—with vengeance priestcraft dies!187Slow looks, where Pride yet struggles, Crida rears;On Crida's child rest Arthur's soft'ning eyes,And Crida's child is weeping happy tears;And Lancelot, closer at Genevra's side,Pales at the compact that may lose the bride.
When from the altar by the holy rood,188Come the deep accents of the Cymrian Mage,Sublimely bending o'er the multitudeThought's Atlas temples crown'd with Titan age,O'er Druid robes the beard's broad silver streams,As when the vision rose on virgin dreams.
"Hearken, ye Scythia's and Cimmeria's sons,189Whose sires alike by golden rivers dwelt,When sate the Asas on their hunter thrones;When Orient vales rejoiced the shepherd Celt;WhileEve'syoung races towards each other drawn,Roved lingering round the Eden gates of dawn.
"Still the old brother-bond in these new homes,190After long woes shall bind your kindred races;Here, the same God shall find the sacred domes;And the same landmarks bound your resting-places,What time, o'er realms to Heus and Thor unknown,Both Celt and Saxon rear their common throne.
"Meanwhile, revere the Word the viewless Hand191Writes on the leaves of kingdom-dooming stars;Through Prydain's Isle of Pines, from sea to land,Where yet Rome's eagle leaves the thunder scars,The sceptre sword of Saxon kings shall reach,And new-born nations speak the Teuton's speech;
"All save thy mountain empire, Dragon King!192All save the Cymrian's Ararat—Wild Wales![11]Here Cymrian bards to fame and God shall sing—Here Cymrian freemen breathe the hardy gales,And the same race that Heus the Guardian led,Rise from these graves—when God awakes the dead!"
The Prophet paused, and all that pomp of plumes193Bow'd as the harvest which the south wind heaves,When, while the breeze disturbs, the beam illumes,And blessings gladden in the trembling sheaves.He paused, and thus renew'd: "Thrice happy, yeFounders of shrines and sires of kings to be!
"Hear, Harold, type of the strong Saxon soul,194Supple to truth, untameable by force,Thy dauntless blood through Gwynedd's chiefs shall roll,[12]Through Scotland's monarchs take its fiery course,And flow with Arthur's, in the later days,Through Ocean-Cæsars, either zone obeys.
"Man of the manly heart, reward the foe195Who braved thy sword, and yet forbore thy breast,Who loved thy child, yet could the love foregoAnd give the sire;—thy looks supply the rest,I read thine answer in thy generous glance!Stand forth—bold child of Christian Chevisaunce!"
Then might ye see a sight for smiles and tears,196Young Lancelot's hand in Harold's cordial grasp,While from his breast the frank-eyed father rearsThe cheek that glows beneath the arms that clasp;"Shrink'st thou," he said, "from bonds by fate reveal'd?—Go—rock my grandson in the Cymrian's shield!"
"And ye," the solemn voice resumed, "O kings!197Hearken, Pendragon, son of Odin, hear!There is a mystery in the heart of things,Which Truth and Falsehood seek alike with fear,To Truth from heaven, to Falsehood, breathed from hell,Comes yet to both the unquiet oracle.
"Not vainly, Crida, priest, and rune, and dream,198Warn'd thee of fates commingling into oneThe silver river and the mountain stream;From Odin's daughter and Pendragon's son,Shall rise the royalties of farthest yearsBorn to the birthright of the Saxon spears.
"The bright decree that seem'd a curse to hate,199Blesses both races when fulfill'd by love;From Cymri's Dragon England's power shall date,And peace be born to Cymri from the Dove.[13]Eternal links let nuptial garlands weave,And Cymri's queen be Saxon Genevieve!"
Perplex'd, reluctant with the pangs of pride,200And shadowy doubts from dark religion thrown,Stern Crida, lingering, turn'd his face aside;Then rise the elders from the idle stone;From fallen chains the kindred Teutons spring,Low murmurs rustle round the moody king;
On priest and warrior, while they whisper, dwells201The searching light of that imperious eye;Warrior and priest, the prophet word compels;And overmasters like a destiny—When towards the maid the radiant conqueror drew,And said, "Enslaver, it is mine to sue!"
To Crida, then, "Proud chief, I do confess202The loftier attribute 'tis thine to boast.The pride of kings is in the power to bless,The kingliest hand is that which gives the most;Priceless the gift I ask thee to bestow,—But doubly royal is a generous foe!"
Then forth—subdued, yet stately, Crida came,203And the last hold in that rude heart was won:"Hero, thy conquest makes no more my shame,He shares thy glory who can call thee 'Son!'So may this love-knot bind and bless the lands!"Faltering he spoke—and join'd the plighted hands.
There flock the hosts as to a holy ground,204There, where the dove at last may fold the wing!His mission ended, and his labours crown'd,Fair as in fable stands the Dragon King—Below the Cross, and by his prophet's side,With Carduel's knighthood kneeling round his bride.
What gallant deeds in gentle lists were done,205What lutes made joyaunce sweet in jasmine bowers,Let others tell:—Slow sets the summer sun;Slow fall the mists, and closing, droop the flowers;Faint in the gloaming dies the vesper bell,—And Dream-land sleeps round golden Carduel.