Part 23

O MIGHT I load my arms with thee, Like that young lover of Romance Who loved and gained so gloriously The fair Princess of France!

Because he dared to love so high, He, bearing her dear weight, shall speed To where the mountain touched on sky: So the proud king decreed.

Unhalting he must bear her on, Nor pause a space to gather breath, And on the height she will be won; And she was won in death!

Red the far summit flames with morn, While in the plain a glistening Court Surrounds the king who practised scorn Through such a mask of sport.

She leans into his arms; she lets Her lovely shape be clasped: he fares. God speed him whole! The knights make bets: The ladies lift soft prayers.

O have you seen the deer at chase? O have you seen the wounded kite? So boundingly he runs the race, So wavering grows his flight.

—My lover! linger here, and slake Thy thirst, or me thou wilt not win. —See’st thou the tumbled heavens? they break! They beckon us up and in.

—Ah, hero-love! unloose thy hold: O drop me like a curséd thing. —See’st thou the crowded swards of gold? They wave to us Rose and Ring.

—O death-white mouth! O cast me down! Thou diest? Then with thee I die. —See’st thou the angels with their Crown? We twain have reached the sky.

THE HEAD OF BRAN THE BLEST

WHEN the Head of Bran Was firm on British shoulders, God made a man! Cried all beholders.

Steel could not resist The weight his arm would rattle; He, with naked fist, Has brain’d a knight in battle.

He marched on the foe, And never counted numbers; Foreign widows know The hosts he sent to slumbers.

As a street you scan, That’s towered by the steeple, So the Head of Bran Rose o’er his people.

‘Death’s my neighbour,’ Quoth Bran the Blest; ‘Christian labour Brings Christian rest. From the trunk sever The Head of Bran, That which never Has bent to man!

‘That which never To men has bowed Shall live ever To shame the shroud: Shall live ever To face the foe; Sever it, sever, And with one blow.

‘Be it written, That all I wrought Was for Britain, In deed and thought: Be it written, That while I die, Glory to Britain! Is my last cry.

‘Glory to Britain! Death echoes me round. Glory to Britain! The world shall resound. Glory to Britain! In ruin and fall, Glory to Britain! Is heard over all.’

III

Burn, Sun, down the sea! Bran lies low with thee.

Burst, Morn, from the main! Bran so shall rise again.

Blow, Wind, from the field! Bran’s Head is the Briton’s shield.

Beam, Star, in the West! Bright burns the Head of Bran the Blest.

Crimson-footed, like the stork, From great ruts of slaughter, Warriors of the Golden Torque Cross the lifting water. Princes seven, enchaining hands, Bear the live head homeward. Lo! it speaks, and still commands: Gazing out far foamward.

Fiery words of lightning sense Down the hollows thunder; Forest hostels know not whence Comes the speech, and wonder. City-Castles, on the steep, Where the faithful Seven House at midnight, hear, in sleep, Laughter under heaven.

Lilies, swimming on the mere, In the castle shadow, Under draw their heads, and Fear Walks the misty meadow. Tremble not! it is not Death Pledging dark espousal: ’Tis the Head of endless breath, Challenging carousal!

Brim the horn! a health is drunk, Now, that shall keep going: Life is but the pebble sunk; Deeds, the circle growing! Fill, and pledge the Head of Bran! While his lead they follow, Long shall heads in Britain plan Speech Death cannot swallow!

THE MEETING