Long on this glowing theme enlarged the sage, 85 And turn'd, return'd, and turn'd it o'er again; Thus when a mercer would your greed engage In some fair silk, or cloth of comely grain, He spreads it out--upholds it to the day, Then sighs "So cheap, too!"--and your soul gives way. He show'd the Saxon, hungering to devour 86 The last unconquer'd realm the Cymrian boasts; He dwelt at length on Mercia's gathering power, Swell'd, year by year, from Elbe's unfailing hosts. Then proved how Mercia scarcely could retain Beneath the sceptre what the sword might gain. "For Mercia's vales from Cymri's hills are far, 87 And Mercian warriors hard to keep afield; And men fresh conquer'd stormy subjects are; What can't be held 'tis no great loss to yield; And still the Saxon might secure his end, If where the foe had reign'd he left the friend. "Nay, what so politic in Mercia's king 88 As on that throne a son-in-law to place?" While thus they saw their birds upon the wing Ere hatched the egg,--as is the common case With large capacious minds, the natural heirs Of that vast property--the things not theirs! In comes a herald--comes with startling news: 89 "A Saxon chief has anchor'd in the bay, From Mercia's king ambassador, and sues The royal audience ere the close of day." The wise old men upon each other stare, "While monarchs counsel, thus the saints prepare," Astutio murmur'd, with a pious smile. 90 "Admit the noble Saxon," quoth the King. The two laugh out, and rub their palms, the while The herald speeds the ambassador to bring; And soon a chief, fair-hair'd, erect, and tall, With train and trumpet, strides along the hall. Upon his wrist a falcon, bell'd, he bore; 91 Leash'd at his heels six bloodhounds grimly stalk'd; A broad round shield was slung his breast before; The floors reclang'd with armour as he walk'd; He gained the dais; his standard-bearer spread Broadly the banner o'er his helmed head, And thrice the tromp his blazon'd herald woke, 92 And hail'd Earl Harold from the Mercian king. Full on the Vandal gazed the earl, and spoke: "Greeting from Crida, Woden's heir, I bring, And these plain words:--'The Saxon's steel is bare, Red harvests wait it--will the Vandal share? "'Hengist first chased the Briton from the vale; 93 Crida would hound the Briton from the hill; Stern hands have loosed the Pale Horse on the gale; The Horse shall halt not till the winds are still. Be ours your foemen,--be your foemen shown, And we in turn will smite them as our own.