Next Aron see--not rash, yet gaily bold, 6 With the frank polish of chivalric courts; Him from the right, no fear of wrong controll'd; And toil he deem'd the sprightliest of his sports; O'er War's dry chart, or Wisdom's mystic page, Alike as smiling, and alike as sage; With the warm instincts of the knightly heart, 7 That rose at once if insult touch'd the realm, He spurn'd each state-craft, each deceiving art, And rode to war, no vizor to his helm; This proved his worth, this line his tomb may boast-- "Who hated Cymri, hated Aron most!" But who with eastern hues and haughty brow, 8 Stern with dark beauty sits apart from all? Ah, couldst thou shun thy friends, Elidir!--thou Scorning all foes, before no foe shalt fall! On thy wrong'd grave one hand appeasing lays The humble flower--oh, could it yield the bays! Courts may have known than thou a readier tool, 9 States may have found than thine a subtler brain, But states shall honour many a formal fool, And many a tawdry fawner courts may gain, Ere King or People in their need shall see A soul so grand as that which fled with thee! For thou wert more than true; thou wert a Truth! 10 Open as Truth, and yet as Truth profound; Thy fault was genius--that eternal youth Whose weeds but prove the richness of the ground-- And dull men envied thee, and false men fear'd, And where soar'd genius, there convention sneer'd. Ah, happy hadst thou fallen, foe to foe, 11 The bright race run--the laurel o'er thy grave! But hands perfidious strung the ambush bow, And the friend's shaft the rankling torture gave-- The last proud wish its agony to hide, The stricken deer to covert crept and died. Next came the Warrior Three.[2] Of glory's charms 12 (Glory, the bride of heroes) nobly vain, Dark Mona's Owaine[3] shines with golden arms, The Roland of the Cymrian Charlemain, Scath'd by the storm the holy chief survives, For Fame makes holy all its lightning rives. Beside, with simplest garb and sober mien, 13 Solid as iron, not yet wrought to steel, In his plain manhood Cornwall's chief[4] is seen, Who (if wild tales some glimpse of truth reveal) Gave Northern standards to the Indian sun-- And wreaths from palms that shaded Evian won. Lo, he whose Fame outshines the Fabulous! 14 Sublime with eagle front, and that grey crown Which Age, the arch-priest, sets on laurell'd brows; Lo, Geraint, bending with a world's renown! Yet those grey hairs _one_ ribald scoffer found;-- The moon sways ocean and provokes the hound.