"Ocean!—I greet thee, and this strong right hand88
Place in thine own to pledge myself thy man.
Choose as thou wilt for thee and for thy band,
Amongst the sea-steeds in the stalls of Ran.
Need'st thou our arms against the Saxon foe?
Our flag shall fly where'er thy trumpets blow!"
"Men to be free must free themselves," the King89
Replied, proud-smiling. "Every father-land
Spurns from its breast the recreant sons that cling
For hope to standards winds not theirs have fann'd.
Thankful through thee our foe we reach;—and then
Cymri hath steel eno' for Cymrian men!"
While these converse, Sir Gawaine, with his hound,90
Lured by a fragrant and delightsome smell
From roasts—not meant for Freya,—makes his round,
Shakes hands with all, and hopes their wives are well.
From spit to spit with easy grace he walks,
And chines astounded vanish while he talks.
At earliest morn the bark to bear the King,91
His sage discernment delicately stores,
Rejects the blubber and disdains the ling
For hams of rein-deers and for heads of boars,
Connives at seal, to satisfy his men,
But childless leaves each loud-lamenting hen.
And now the bark the Cymrian prince ascends,92
The large oars chiming to the chanting crew,
(His leal Norwegian band) the new-found friends
From brazen trumpets blare their loud adieu.
Forth bounds the ship, and Gawaine, while it quickens,
The wind propitiates—with three virgin chickens.
Led by the Dove, more brightly day by day,93
The vernal azure deepens in the sky;
Far from the Polar threshold smiles the way—
And lo, white Albion shimmers on the eye,
Nurse of all nations, who to breasts severe
Takes the rude children, the calm men to rear.
Doubt and amaze with joy perplex the King:94
Not yet the task achieved, the mission done,
Why homeward steers the angel pilot's wing?
Of the three labours rests the crowning one;
Unreach'd the Iron Gates—Death's sullen hold—
Where waits the Child-guide with the locks of gold.
Yet still the Dove cleaves homeward through the air;95
Glides o'er the entrance of an inland stream;
And rests at last on bowers of foliage, where
Thick forests close their ramparts on the beam,
And clasp with dipping boughs a grassy creek,
Whose marge slopes level with the brazen beak.
Around his neck the shield the Adventurer slung;96
And girt the enchanted sword. Then, kneeling, said
The young Ulysses of the golden tongue,
"Not now to phantom foes the dove hath led:
For, if I err not, this a Mercian haven,
And from the dove peeps forth at last the raven!
"Not lone, nor reckless, in these glooms profound,97
Tempt the sure ambush of some Saxon host;
If out of sight, at least in reach of sound,
Let our stout Northmen follow up the coast;
Then if thou wilt, from each suspicious tree
Shake laurels down, but share them, Sire, with me!"