WHERE Venta’s Norman castle still uprears
Its raftered hall, that o’er the grassy foss
And scattered flinty fragments clad in moss
On yonder steep in naked strength appears,
High hung remains, the pride of warlike years,
Old Arthur’s board;—on the capacious round
Some British pen has sketched the names renowned,
In marks obscure, of his immortal peers.
Though joined by magic skill with many a rhyme
The Druid frame, unhonored, falls a prey
To the slow vengeance of the wizard time,
And fade the British characters away;
Yet Spenser’s page, that chants in verse sublime
Those chiefs, shall live, unconscious of decay.