O might I load my arms with thee,
     Like that young lover of Romance
     Who loved and gained so gloriously
     The fair Princess of France!

     Because he dared to love so high,
     He, bearing her dear weight, shall speed
     To where the mountain touched on sky: 
     So the proud king decreed.

     Unhalting he must bear her on,
     Nor pause a space to gather breath,
     And on the height she will be won;
     And she was won in death!

     Red the far summit flames with morn,
     While in the plain a glistening Court
     Surrounds the king who practised scorn
     Through such a mask of sport.

     She leans into his arms; she lets
     Her lovely shape be clasped:  he fares. 
     God speed him whole!  The knights make bets: 
     The ladies lift soft prayers.

     O have you seen the deer at chase? 
     O have you seen the wounded kite? 
     So boundingly he runs the race,
     So wavering grows his flight.

— My lover! linger here, and slake Thy thirst, or me thou wilt not win. — See’st thou the tumbled heavens? they break!  They beckon us up and in.

— Ah, hero-love! unloose thy hold:  O drop me like a cursed thing. — See’st thou the crowded swards of gold?  They wave to us Rose and Ring.

— O death-white mouth!  O cast me down!  Thou diest?  Then with thee I die. — See’st thou the angels with their Crown?  We twain have reached the sky.

     The head of Bran the blest

     I

     When the Head of Bran
     Was firm on British shoulders,
     God made a man! 
     Cried all beholders.

     Steel could not resist
     The weight his arm would rattle;
     He, with naked fist,
     Has brain’d a knight in battle.

     He marched on the foe,
     And never counted numbers;
     Foreign widows know
     The hosts he sent to slumbers.

     As a street you scan,
     That’s towered by the steeple,
     So the Head of Bran
     Rose o’er his people.

     II

     ‘Death’s my neighbour,’
     Quoth Bran the Blest;
     ’Christian labour
     Brings Christian rest. 
     From the trunk sever
     The Head of Bran,
     That which never
     Has bent to man! 
     ’That which never
     To men has bowed
     Shall live ever
     To shame the shroud: 
     Shall live ever
     To face the foe;
     Sever it, sever,
     And with one blow.

     ’Be it written,
     That all I wrought
     Was for Britain,
     In deed and thought: 
     Be it written,
     That while I die,
     Glory to Britain! 
     Is my last cry.

     ’Glory to Britain! 
     Death echoes me round. 
     Glory to Britain! 
     The world shall resound. 
     Glory to Britain! 
     In ruin and fall,
     Glory to Britain! 
     Is heard over all.’