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"In the fair isle 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 woe, 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 i
"The faded tomb, with honour due,
"'Tis thine, O Henry, to renew!
"Thither, when conquest has restored
"Yon recreant isle, and sheathed the sword,
"When peace with palm has crowned thy brows,
"Haste thee, to pay thy pilgrim vows.
"There observant of my lore,
'* The pavement's hallow'd depth explore;
* Glastonbury-abbey, said to be founded by Joseph of Arimathea, in a spot anciently called, the island, or valley of Avalonia.
"And thrice a fathom underneath
"Dive into the vaults of death.
"There shall thine eyes with wild amaze,
"On his giganttck stature gaze;
"There shall 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 pike-men win their way
"Upjhe dun rocks of Harald's bay*:
"And from the steps of rough Kildare
"Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare:
"So may thy bow's unerring yew
»* Its hafts in Roderick's heart imbrew" f.
* 1 he bay of Dublin; Harald, or Har-Fager, the fair, haired, King of Norway, is said, in the life of Gryffudh ap Conan, Prince of North-Wales, to have conquered Ireland, and to have founded Dublin.
+ Henry is supposed to have succeeded in this enterprise, chiefly by the use of the long-bow, With which the Irish, were entirely unacquainted.
Amid the pealing symphony
When late the trees were stripp'd by winter pale,
Ah, what a weary race my feet have run
Since first I trod thy banks, wita alders crown'd,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Nor with the Muse's laurel vinbe.tow'd.