Such things have been of yore,
In the gay regions where the citrons blow,
And purple summers all their sleepy glow,
On the grape-clusters pour;
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving
Along clear seas of melted sapphire, laving,
As with a flow of light, their Southern shore.
Turn we to other climes!
Far in the Druid-isle a feast was spread,
Midst the rock-altars of the warrior-dead*[1],
And ancient battle-rhymes
Were chaunted to the harp; and yellow mead
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed,
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time.
But ere the giant-fane
Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even,
Hush'd were the bards, and in the face of heaven,
O’er that old burial-plain
Flash'd the keen Saxon daggers!—Blood was streaming.
Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming,
And Britain's hearths were heap'd that night in vain,
For they return’d no more,
They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart,
In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part;
And on the rushy floor,
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls,
The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls;
But not for them—they slept—their feast was o'er!
Fear ye the festal hour!
Aye, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows!
Tame down the swelling heart—the bridal rose,
And the rich myrtle's flow'r,
Have veil'd the sword!—Red wines have sparkled fast
From venom'd goblets, and soft breezes pass'd
With fatal perfume through the revel's bow'r,
Twine the young glowing wreath!
But pour not all your spirit in the song,
Which through the sky’s deep azure floats along,
Like summer's quickening breath!
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth,
Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth,
So darkly press'd and girdled in by death!
- ↑ * Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erected to the memory of Ambrosius, an early British king; and by others, mentioned as a monumental record of the massacre of British chiefs here alluded to.
