(Thomas Warton)

King Arthurs Funeral

WHEN Arthur bowed his haughty crest,
No princess, veiled in azure vest,
Snatched him, by Merlins potent spell,
In groves of golden bliss to dwell,
Where, crowned with wreaths of mistletoe,
Slaughtered kings in glory go:
But when he fell, with wingéd speed,
His champions, on a milk-white steed,
From the battles hurricane,
Bore him to Josephs towered fane,
In the fair vale of Avalon:
There, with chanted orison,
And the long blaze of tapers clear,
The stoléd fathers met the bier:
Through the dim aisles, in order dread
Of martial woe, the chief they led,
And deep intombed in holy ground,
Before the altars solemn bound.
Around no dusky banners wave,
No mouldering trophies mark the grave:
Away the ruthless Dane has torn
Each trace that Times slow touch had worn;
And long oer the neglected stone
Oblivions veil its shade has thrown.

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