Beloved of lark from misty morning cloud
Blithe caroling 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
Tuned emulous. Her knew all living shapes
That tenant wood or rock, dun roe or deer,
Sunning his dappled side at noontide crouch'd,
Courting her fond caress, nor fied her gaze
The brooding dove, but murmur'd sounds of joy."

The chances of the chace bring Vortimer, the son of Vortigern, to the solitary haunts of Lilian, for whom he becomes inspired with a pure and ardent affection, which is returned by the beautiful maiden with equal warmth and chasteness.

"As fair the spring-flower's bloom, as grace-
ful 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.

Gleam'd like a meteor's track his flinty road, Like some rude hunter with a snow-white fawn, His midnight prey. Anon, the mountain path 'Gan upward wind, the fiery courser paused Breathless, and faintly raising her thin form; 'Oh, whither bear ye me?' with panting voice, Murmur'd. Caswallon spake unmoved, 'to death.'

soft,

'Death, Father, death is comfortless and cold? Ah me! when maiden dies, the smiling morn, The wild birds singing on the twinkling spray, Wake her no more; the summer wind breathes Waving the fresh grass o'er her narrow bed, Gladdening to all but her. Senseless and cold She lies; while all she loved, unheard, unsecu, Mourn round her.' There broke off her faltering voice

Dimly, with farewell glance, she roved around, Never before so beautiful the lake

Like a new sky, distinet with stars, the groves, Green banks and shadowy dells, her haunts of bliss,

Smiled 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 at 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 lived 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-loved 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, seized 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 clate, As haughty of some glorious deed, nor knew

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 to enjoy once more that light beloved;
And tremulously moved 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.'

As the corpse floats down the stream, it is descried by Vortimer, now on his return to Lilian. He draws it to shore, but the darkness of the night prevents his discovering that it is the lifeless form of Lilian that he holds in his arms-the resemblance, however, that even death could not entirely destroy, nor the gloom altogether conceal, raises the most dreadful suspicions.-Morn at length breaks--and with the confirmation of his fears, the happiness of Vortimer is for ever blasted.

In the meanwhile the Saxon fleet arrives on the shores of Kent, and Hengist dispatches Cerdic to the assembled nobility of Britain with fair offers of peace and friendship. Samor, with earnest eloquence, advises their instant rejection.

"But then rose Elidure, with bashful mien,
Into himself half shrinking, from his lips
The dewy words dropt, delicate and round,
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? this bland Peace
May be a rich-robed 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 the 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-
plumed,

For dalliance with the mild, luxurious airs,
To grapple with these vultures, whose broad
vans,

Then, Samor, eminent in strength and power,
It were most proud for thee alone to break
The hot assault, with single arm t'arrest

Oh, 'twere most proud; to us sad comfort; sunk,
Amerc'd of all our fair, smooth sliding 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; our breathing is too rich,
Too precious this our sensitive warm mould,
Its joyances, affections, hopes, desires,
For such light 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 mcrey, bounty, love!"

The ill-omened treaty is concluded, and the poet gives a striking description of the prodigies that attended its ratifica

tion.

""Tis famed, that then, albeit amid the rush Of clamorous joy unmark'd in drearier days Remember'd, signs on earth, and signs in hea ven,

With loud and solemn interdict arraign'd
That hasty treaty: maniacs kindled up
With horrible intelligence the pits
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 Merlia
leap'd

From his hoar haunt by Snowdon, and in dusk
And dreary descant mutter'd all abroad
What the thin air grew cold and dim to hear."

He enters his palace, and the absence of his family-his household-and the air of desertion spread over the whole mansion, tell that the Saxons have been there before him. From the palace window he beholds their flag waving over the city. He rushes forth in agony.

"Beneath a primrose bed, Half veil'd, and branching alder that o'erdroop'd

Its dark green canopy, a slumbering child—
If slumber might be call'd, that but o'erspread
A wan disquiet o'er the wither'd cheek,
Chok'd the thin breath that through the pallid
lip

Scarce struggled, clos'd not the soft sunken eye.
Well Samor knew her, of his love first pledge,
First, playfullest, and gentlest: he bnt late
Luxurious in the fulness of his wo,
Clings to this 'lorn hope, like a drowning man,
Not yet, not yet in this rude world alone.
Lavish of fond officious zeal, he bathes
With water from the stream her marble brow,
Chafes her; and with his own warm breath re-
calls

The wandering life, that like a waning lamp
Glimmer'd anon, then faded: but when slow
Unfix'd her cold unmeaning eye regain'd
Brief consciousness, powerless her languid arm
Down fell again, half lifted in his hair
To wreathe as it was wont, with effort faint
Strove her hard features for a woful smile:
And the vague murmurs of her lips 'gan fall
Intelligible to his ear alone."

The expiring child relates to her father the surprise of his castle-and the massacre of his consort and family-by the Saxons, in verses conspicuous at once for their simplicity and beauty. During the confusion she had concealed herself, and did not venture forth till she heard them quitting the palace.

Then all was silent, all except the dash Of distant oars; I cried aloud, and heard But my own voice, I search'd yet found I none; Not one in all these wide and lofty halls, My mother, my sweet brothers gone, all gone. Almost I wish'd those fierce men might return To bear me too in their dread arms away. Hither I wander'd, for the river's sound Was joyous to the silence that came cold Over my bosom, since the Sun hath shone, Yet it seem'd dark-but oh, 'tis darker now, Darker, my Father, all within cold, cold. The soft warmth of thy lips no more can reach This shuddering in my breast-yet kiss me still. Vain, all in vain; that languid neck no more Rises to meet his fondness, that pale hand Drops from his shoulder, that wooed voice hath spent

Its last of sweetness."

"A voice, o'er all the waste and prostrate Wandereth a valiant voice; the hill, the dale, isle

Forest and mountain, heath and ocean shore Treasure its mystic murmurs; all the winds From the bleak moody East to that soft gale That wantons with the summer's dewy flowers, Familiar its dark burthen waft abroad.

Is it an utterance of the earth? a sound
From the green barrows of the ancient dead?
Doth fierce Cassivelan's cold sleep disdain
That less than Caesar with a master's step
Walk his free Britain? Doth thy restless grave,
Bonduca, to the slavish air burst ope,

And thou, amid the laggard cars of war,
Cry Harness and away?' But far and wide,
As when from marish dank, or quaking fen,
Venomous and vast the clouds uproll, and spread
Pale pestilence along the withering land,
So sweeps o'er all the isle his wasting bands
The conqueror Saxon; he, far worse, far worse
His drear contagion, that the body's strength
Wastes, and with feverish pallor overlays
The heaven-shap'd features; this the nobler soul,
With slavery's base sickliness attaints,
Making man's life more hideous than his death.
Thames rolls a Saxon tide; in vain delays
Deep Severn on Plinlimmon's summits rude
His narrow freedom, tame anon endures
Saxon dominion: high with arms uplift,
As he had march'd o'er necks of prostrate kings,
Caswallon on the southern shore of Trent
Drives onward, he nought deeming won, while
aught

Remains unwon. But still that wondrous voice,
Like vulture in the grisly wake of war,
Hovers, and flings on air his descant strange,
"Vengeance and Vigilance!'-in van, in rear,
Around, above, beneath the clouds of Heaven
Enshroud it in their misty folds; earth speaks
From all her caves, Vengeance and Vigi-
lance!'

Aye, at that sound the Briton crest assumes
High courage and heroic shame, he wears
With such bold mien his slavery, he might seem
Lord over fortune, and with calm disdain
He locks his fetters, like proud battle arms.
Without a foe o'er this wide land of foes
Marcheth the Saxon. City, tower, and fort
On their harsh hinge roll back their summon'd
gates,

With such a sullen and reluctant jar,
Submission seems defiance. Though to fear
Impassive, scarce the Victor dare unfurl
Banner of conquest on the jealous air.
Less perilous were frantic strife, were wrath
Desperate of life, and blind to death, wild hate
Of being struck all heedless so it strike,
Than this high haughty misery, that fierce wo
Baffles by brave endurance, and confronts
With cold and stern contentedness all ill,
Outrage, and insult, ravage, rape, and wreck,
That dog barbaric Conquerors march of war.
'Tis like the sultry silence, ushering forth
The thunder's cloudy chariot, rather like
The murky smothering of volcanic fire
Within its rocky prison; forth anon
Burst the red captive, to the lurid heaven
Upleaps, and with its surging dome of smoke
Shuts from the pale world the meridian Sun.”

The remainder of the book relates the heroic deeds of the "Avenger" previous to the assembly of the British forces. He is uniformly successful. Nothing resists his arin. Saxon after Saxon falls beneath his sword, and the fame of his prowess at once impresses the enemy with mysterious dread, and inspires his countrymen with hope. We would willingly lay before our readers the beautiful episode of Abisa and Myfanwy, but the extent to which this article has already grown will not permit us.

Book the seventh opens with the following grand and glowing eulogium on the patriotic and lofty-minded but suffering Samor :

"How measureless to erring human sight
Is glory! Glorious thy majestic state,
Hengist with captive cities for thy thrones,
And captive nations thy pale satellites,
Britain, with all her beauty, power and wealth,
Thy palace of dominion. Glorious thou,
Caswallon, in Caer Ebranc's stately courts,
By the slow waters of the wandering Ouse,
Bright-sceptred Renegade! Even in your crimes
Glitters a dazzling and meteorous pomp,
Though your wild voyage hath laid through
waves of blood.

Ye ride triumphant in your royal port;
But be, sad Pilgrim, outcast and forlorn,
How doth the midnight of his honour shame
Your broad meridian, his wild freedom pass
Your plenitude of sway, his nakedness
Transcend your sweeping purples, rayed with
gold!

Nor wanteth to his state its gorgeous pride,
And high peculiar majesty; the pomp
Of the conspiring elements sheds on him
Tumultuous grandeurs; o'er his midnight couch,
Amid the scath'd oaks of the mountain moor,
On its broad wings of gloom the tempest stoops.
Around his head in crystal coronets

The lightning falls, as though thy fiery hand,
Almighty through the rolling clouds put forth,
Did honour to the Freeman. Mighty winds
And the careering thunders spread around
Turbulent music; darkness rivals day,
And day with darkness vies in stateliest pride
The Avenger's lofty miseries to array.
When from the East forth leaps the warrior Sun,
In panoply of golden light, dark cowers
His own proud eagle, marvelling what strong
form,

Uprising to usurp his haughty right,
Drinks in the intense magnificence with brow
Undazzled and unshrinking; nor to him
Fails homage from the living shapes of earth;
On him the savage, fierce and monstrous, fawn
Tame adoration; from his rugged sleep
The wild boar, sleek his bristling wrath, aloof
Shrinks; the grim wolf no more his rest disturbs,
Than the calm motion of the moon she bays."

The all-enduring chief continues his labours in the cause to which he has devoted his whole efforts. He visits every part of the island in succession, and rouses the inhabitants against their cruel and treacherous invaders.

The year is in its waning autumn glow,
But the warm Sun, with all his summer love,
Hangs o'er this gentle valley, loath to part
From the blue stream that to his amorous beams
Now her cool bosom spreads, now coyer slides
Under her alder shade, whose umbrage green,
Glancing and breaking the fantastic rays,
The deep dark mirror frets with mazy light.
A day that seems in its rich moon to blend
All seasons choice deliciousness, high hung
On Dinevaur and Carreg Cennon rude,
And on bold Drusslyn gleam'd the woods their
hues,
Changeful and brilliant, as their leaves had drank
The sun's empyreal fountains; not more bright
The groves of those Atlantic Isles, where rove
(Dream'd elder Poesy such fancies sweet)
The spirits of the brave, stern Peleus' son,
And Diomede, through bowers that the blue air
Arch'd with immortal spring of fragrant gold.
The merry birds, as though they had o'erdream'd
The churlish winter, spring tide virelays
Carolling, pruned their all-forgotten plumes.
Upon the sunny shallow lay the trout
Kindling the soft gems of its skin; the snake
As fresh and wanton in its green attire
Wound its gay rings along the flowery sward."

For awhile he surrenders himself to the beauty of the scene; his meditations are interrupted by the gentle dashing of oars-a vessel appears gliding up the

stream:

"Slow up the tide the gaudy bark comes on,
Her oars scarce startling the unruffled air;
The waters to her swan-like prow give place,
Along the oar-blades leap up to the sun

In lucid flakes, and dance, as 'twere their sport
To waft that beauteous freight. And exquisite
As that voluptuous Memphian on the stream
Of Cydnus, leading with bliss-breathing smijes
Her throngs of rash beholders, glided down
To welcome to his soft imprisonment
The Lord of half the world, so wond'rous fair
Under an awning cool of fluttering silk
The Lady of that graceful galley sate.
But not in her instinct the melting form
With passion, the smooth limbs in dazzling glow
Translucent through the thin lascivious veil,
Skilful with careless blandishments to fire
The loose imaginations, she herein
Least like that Oriental harlot Queen.
Of all her shape, of all her soul, was pride
The sustenance, the luxury, the life.
The innate scorn of her full eye repaid
With lofty thanklessness the homage fawn'd
By her fair handmaids, and her oarmen gay,
Who seem'd to wanton in their servile toil.
Around she gaz'd, as in her haughtiness
She thought that God had form'd this living