ts camp'd, and held the Pict at bay.

6

Imperious Empire! Thrice-majestic Rome!
No later age, as earth's slow centuries glide,
Can raze the footprints stamp'd where thou hast come,
The ne'er-repeated grandeur of thy stride!
--Though now so dense a darkness takes the land,
Law, peace, wealth, letters, faith,--all lights are quench'd
By violent heathen hand:--
Vague warrior kings; names writ in fire and wrong;
Aurelius, Urien, Ida;--shades of ancient song.

7

And Thou--O whether born of flame and wave,
Or Gorlois' son, or Uther's, blameless lord,
True knight, who died for those thou couldst not save
When the Round Table brake their plighted word,--
The lord of song hath set thee in thy grace
And glory, rescued from the phantom world,
Before us face to face;
No more Avilion bowers the King detain;
The mystic child returns; the Arthur reigns again!

8

--Now, as some cloud that hides a mountain bulk
Thins to white smoke, and mounts in lighten'd air,
And through the veil the gray enormous hulk
Burns, and the summit, last, is keen and bare,--
From wasted Britain so the gloaming clears;
Another birth of time breaks eager out,
And England fair appears:--
Imperial youth sign'd on her golden brow,
While the prophetic eyes with hope and promise glow.

9

Then from the wasted places of the land,
Charr'd skeletons of cities, circling walls
Of Roman might, and towers that shatter'd stand
Of that lost world survivors, forth she calls
Her new creation:--O'er the land is wrought
The happy villagedom by English tribes
From Elbe and Baltic brought;
Red kine light up with life the ravaged plain;
The forest glooms are pierced; the plough-land laughs again.

10

Each from its little croft the homesteads peep,
Green apple-garths around, and hedgeless meads,
Smooth-shaven lawns of ever-shifting sheep,
Wolds where his dappled crew the swineherd feeds:--
Pale gold round pure pale foreheads, and their eyes
More dewy blue than speedwell by the brook
When Spring's fresh current flies,
The free fair maids come barefoot to the fount,
Or poppy-crown'd with fire, the car of harvest mount.

11

On the salt stream that rings us, ness and bay,
The nation's old sea-soul beats blithe and strong;
The black foam-breasters taste Biscayan spray,
And where 'neath Polar dawns the narwha