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independent kingdoms. Two kings of Ireland, Dermod and Roderick O'Connor, had a desperate war, and the former came over to England to solicit the interference of Henry II. in his behalf, and Henry availed himself of this strife to include Ireland in his dominions. He first obtained the gift of that island in a bull from the Pope, who in that age claimed the right to dispose of kingdoms ; and when Henry went over to Ireland with the Pope's bull, and an army to enforce it, the country was partially surrendered to him.

Henry's army was, as appears by the poem, attended by a company of bards, who entertained the king with their songs. Just before the embarkation for Ireland, one of the bards is represented as celebrating Prince Arthur, and declaring that the hero had been carried away by the enchanter Merlin, and was destined to reappear at a future time in Britain; but another of the tuneful brethren asserts that no enchanter bore him off the field of battle, and demands of the king to repair to his tomb, and, by some religious services in honour of him, pay homage to his departed glory.

"It was," says Mr. Gray, "the common belief of the Welsh nation, that king Arthur was still alive in Fairyland, and would return and reign again over Britain."

THE GRAVE OF PRINCE ARTHUR.

Stately the feast, and high the cheer:
Girt with many an armed peer,
And canopied with golden pall,
Amid Cilgarran's castle hall,
Sublime in formidable state,

And warlike splendour, Henry sate;
Prepar'd to stain the briny flood
Of Shannon's lakes with rebel blood.
Illumining the vaulted roof,

A thousand torches flamed aloof:
From massy cups, with golden gleam
Sparkled the red metheglin's stream:

To grace the gorgeous festival,
Along the lofty window'd hall,
The storied tapestry was hung:
With minstrelsy the rafters rung
Of harps, that with reflected light
From the proud gallery glitter'd bright:
While gifted bards, a rival throng,
To crown the banquet's solemn close,
Themes of British glory chose ;
And to the strings of various chime
Attemper'd thus the fabling rhyme.

"O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roar'd,
High the screaming sea-mew soar'd;
On Tintaggel's topmost tower
Darksome fell the sleety shower;
Round the rough castle shrilly sung
The whirling blast, and wildly flung
On each tall rampart's thundering side
The surges of the tumbling tide :
When Arthur rang'd his red-cross ranks
On conscious Camlan's crimson'd banks:
By Mordred's faithless guile decreed
Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed!
Yet in vain a paynim foe

Arm'd with fate the mighty blow;
For when he fell, an elfin queen,
All in secret, and unseen,
O'er the fainting hero threw
Her mantle of ambrosial blue;
And bade her spirits bear him far,
In Merlin's agate-axled car,
To her green isle's enamell'd steep,
Far in the bosom 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 ancient sceptre to resume;
Once more, in old heroic pride,
His barbed courser to bestride;
His knightly table to restore,
And brave the 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 softened 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 enroll'd,

Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bower;
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.

"When Arthur bow'd his haughty crest,
No princess, veil'd in azure vest,
Snatch'd 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 aisles, in order dread
Of martial wo, the chief they led,
And deep entomb'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 pikemen win their way
Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay:
And from the steeps of rough Kildare
Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare :
So may thy bow's unerring yew
Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrue."
Amid the pealing 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 ;
E'en now he seems, with eager pace,
The consecrated floor to trace,

And ope, from its tremendous gloom,
The treasure of the wondrous tomb:
E'en now he burns in thought to rear,
From its dark bed, the ponderous spear,
Rough with the gore of Pictish kings:
E'en 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.

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