ce:
The Mercian king, her brother, heard her tale
With blackening brow. The shrill voice stayed at last,
Doubly incensed the monarch made reply:
'Sister, I never loved you;--who could love?
But him who spurned you from his realm I hate:
Fear nought! your feast of vengeance shall be full!'
He spake; then cried, 'To arms!'
In either land,
Like thunders low and far, or windless plunge
Of waves on coasts long silent that proclaim,
Though calm the sea for leagues, tempest far off
That shoreward swells, thus day by day was heard
The direful preparation for a war
Destined no gladsome tournament to prove,
But battle meet for ancient foes resolved
To clear old debts; make needless wars to come.
Not long that strife endured; on either side
Valour was equal; but on one, conjoined,
The skill most practised, and the heavier bones:
The many fought the few. On that last field
'Twas but the fury of a fell despair,
Not hope, that held the balance straight so long:
Ere sunset all was over. From the field
A wounded remnant dragged their king, half dead:
The Mercian host pursued not.
Many a week
Low lay the broken giant nigh to death:
At last, like creeping plant down-dragged, not crushed,
That, washed by rains, and sunshine-warmed, once more
Its length uplifting, feels along the air,
And gradual finds its 'customed prop, so he,
Strengthening each day, with dubious eyes at first
Around him peered, but raised at length his head,
And, later, question made. His health restored,
He sought East Anglia, where King Anna reigned,
His chief of friends in boyhood. Day by day
A spirit more buoyant to the exile came
And winged him on his way: his country's bound
Once passed, his darker memories with it sank:
Through Essex hastening, stronger grew his step;
East Anglian breezes from the morning sea
Fanned him to livelier pulse: wild April growths
Gladdened his spirit with glittering green. More fresh
He walked because the sun outfaced him not,
Veiled, though not far. That shrouded sun had ta'en
Its passion from the wild-bird's song, but left
Quiet felicities of notes low-toned
That kept in tune with streams too amply brimmed
To chatter o'er their pebbles. Kenwalk's soul
Par