Volume I Part 17 (1/2)

I

When the Head of Bran Was firm on British shoulders, G.o.d made a man!

Cried all beholders.

Steel could not resist The weight his arm would rattle; He, with naked fist, Has brain'd a knight in battle.

He marched on the foe, And never counted numbers; Foreign widows know The hosts he sent to slumbers.

As a street you scan, That's towered by the steeple, So the Head of Bran Rose o'er his people.

II

'Death's my neighbour,'

Quoth Bran the Blest; 'Christian labour Brings Christian rest.

From the trunk sever The Head of Bran, That which never Has bent to man!

'That which never To men has bowed Shall live ever To shame the shroud: Shall live ever To face the foe; Sever it, sever, And with one blow.

'Be it written, That all I wrought Was for Britain, In deed and thought: Be it written, That while I die, Glory to Britain!

Is my last cry.

'Glory to Britain!

Death echoes me round.

Glory to Britain!

The world shall resound.

Glory to Britain!

In ruin and fall, Glory to Britain!

Is heard over all.'

IIII

Burn, Sun, down the sea!

Bran lies low with thee.

Burst, Morn, from the main!

Bran so shall rise again.

Blow, Wind, from the field!

Bran's Head is the Briton's s.h.i.+eld.

Beam, Star, in the West!

Bright burns the Head of Bran the Blest.

IV

Crimson-footed, like the stork, From great ruts of slaughter, Warriors of the Golden Torque Cross the lifting water.