Iv

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!