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It's cloudy top, majestic and enlarged,
Towering aloft, as distant as before.

Alwy. Patience, brave Ethwald; ere thy locks are grey,
Thy helmed head shall yet in battle tower,
And fair occasion shape thee fair reward.

Ethw. Ere that my locks are grey! the world ere now
Hath crouch'd beneath a beardless youth. But I—
I am as one who mounts to th' azure sky
On the rude billow's back, soon sunk again:
Like the loud thunder of th' upbreaking cloud,
The terror of a moment. Fate perverse!
War's frowning spirit was wont till now, when rous'd,
To urge with whirling lash his sable steeds,
Nor slack his furious speed till the wide land
From bound to bound beneath his axle shook;
But soon as in my hand the virgin spear
Had flesh'd its ruddy point, then is he turn'd
Like a tired braggard to his caves of sloth.
(stamping on the ground.)
Peace! cursed peace! Who will again unchain
The grizly dog of war?

Alwy. Mean'st thou the British prince?

Ethw. (eagerly) What say'st thou, Alwy?

Alwy. I said not aught.

Ethw. Nay, marry! but thou didst!
And it has rais'd a thought within my mind.
The British prince releas'd, would he not prove
A dog of war, wose yell would soon be follow'd?