Were chanted 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 dagger!—blood was streaming
Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming,
And Britain’s hearths were heap’d that night in vain—