Penda then, 'Live, since my son is yet a living man! A Christian, say'st thou? Let him serve his Christ! That man whom ever most I scorned is he Who vows him to the service of some god, Yet breaks his laws; for that man walks, a lie. My son shall live, and after me shall reign: Northumbrian realm shall die!' Thus Penda spake And sent command from tower and town to blow Instant the trumpet of his last of wars, Fanning from Odin's hall with airs ice-cold Of doom the foes of Odin. 'Man nor child,' He sware,'henceforth shall tread Northumbrian soil, Nor hart nor hind: I spare the creeping worm: My scavenger is he,' The Mercian realm Rose at his call, innumerable mass Of warriors iron-armed. East Anglia sent Her hosts in aid. Apostate Ethelwald, Though Oswy's nephew, joined the hostile league, And thirty chiefs beside that ruled by right Princedom or province. Mightier far than these Old Cambria, brooding o'er the ancestral wrong, The Saxon's sin original, met his call, And vowed her to the vengeance. Bravest hearts Hate most the needless slaughter. Oswy mused: 'Long since too much of blood is on this hand: Shall I for pride or passion risk once more Northumbria, my mother;--rudely stain Her pretty babes with blood?' To Penda then, Camped on the confines of the adverse realms, He sent an embassage of reverend men, Warriors and priests. Before them, staff in hand, Peaceful, with hoary brows and measured tread, Twelve heralds paced. Twelve caskets bare they heaped With gems and gold, and thus addressed the King: 'Lord of the Mercian realm, renowned in arms! Our lord, Northumbria's monarch, bids thee hail: He never yet in little thing or great Hath wronged thy kingdom; yet thy peace he woos: Accept the gifts he sends thee, and, thus crowned, Depart content.' Penda with backward hand Waved them far from him, and vouchsafed no word. In sadness they returned: but Oswy smiled Hearing their tale, and said: 'My part is done: Let God decide the event,' He spake, and took The caskets twelve, and placed them, side by side, Before the altar of his chiefest church, And vowed to raise to God twelve monasteries, In honour of our Lord's Apostles Twelve, On greenest upland, or in sylvan glade Where purest stream kisses the richest mead. His vow recorded, sudden through the church Ran with fleet foot a lady mazed with joy, Crying, 'A maiden babe! and lo, the queen Late dying lives and thrives!' That eve the king Bestowed on God the new-born maiden babe, Laying her cradled 'mid those caskets twelve, Six at each side; and said: 'For her nor throne Nor marriage bower! She in some holy house Shall dwell the Bride of Christ. But thou, just God,