The last strophe, which is of later date than the preceding ones, may in some measure have contributed to save from oblivion the March of Arthur. It is always sung three times over, and with the greatest enthusiasm.
Some of the strophes, breathing the savage vengeance of pagan times, have been omitted in the English translation. They retain in the original so much of the Cambrian dialect and idiom as to be scarcely in the least understood by the Bretons who sing them.
The March Of Arthur.
I.
Haste, haste to the combat! Come kinsman, come brother,
Come father, come son, to the battle speed forth!
The brave and the dauntless, come, speed one another!
Come all! there is work for the warriors of worth.
II.
Said to his father, at day-dawn, the son of the warrior,
"Horsemen I see, on the far mountain summits, who gather.
"Horsemen all mounted on war-steeds of gray, like the mist-wreaths;
Coursers that snort with the cold on the heights of the mountains.
"Close ranks of six by six: three by three: thousands of lances
Flash in the beams of the sun, to our vale yet unrisen.
"Double ranks follow the banners that wave in the death-wind,
Measuring nine casts of a sling from the van to the rearward."
"Pendragon's army! I know it! Great Arthur Pendragon
Leading his warriors, marches 'mid clouds of the mountain.
"If it be Arthur, then quick to our bows and swift arrows!
Forward, and follow him. Set the keen death-winged dart flying!"
E'en as he spake rang the fierce cry of war through the mountains:
"Heart for eye: head for arm; death for wound!" through hill and valley.
If in such manner we die as befits Breton Christians,
Too soon we cannot sink down on the field of our conflict!
If our readers are not yet wearied with details of the ancient poetry of this exceptional part of France, we hope to present them in our next number with further specimens; including the death of Lord Nann from the spells of a malignant Korrigan, or Breton fairy, and the argument by which a Breton maiden persisted in choosing the cloister against all the persuasions of a suitor to her hand. Both these poems date at least from the sixth century of Christianity.
Indian Summer.
Upon the hills the autumn sun
His radiance pours like golden wine;
And low, sweet music seems to run
Among the tassels of the pine;
Around us rings the wild bird's scream;
Above, an arch of dark-blue sky;
While, like a maiden's summer dream,
The mists upon the meadows lie.
O peerless Indian Summer hours,
With bracing morn and slumbrous noon!
How pale are June's bright, flaunting flowers
Amid thy wealth of gorgeous bloom.
The river ripples softly on,
With purple hills upon its breast;
And soft cloud-shadows, floating down,
Have found a scene of perfect rest.
The evening darkens; from the hills
The glory fades, so proudly worn;
And in the west serenely fills
The fair young moon her silver horn;
While from the deep'ning blue above
The stars steal slowly, singly forth;
And night-winds, like the breath of love,
Come floating o'er the silent earth.
Veronica.
Cornwall Landing.