And from Cwichelm's Hlawe the curious ill-assorted couple we have portrayed beheld the war beacons' blaze.
She lost all her self-possession, she became entranced; her hair streamed behind her in the wind; she stretched out her aged arms to the south and sang—did that crone of ninety years—
"Come hither, fatal cloud of death,
O'er England breathe thy hateful breath;
Breathe o'er castles, churches, towns,
Brood o'er flat plain, and cloud-flecked downs,
Until the streams run red with gore,
From eastern sea to western shore.
Let mercy frighted haste away,
Let peace and love no longer stay,