Where Venta's Norman castle still uprears Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the grassy foss, And scatter'd flinty fragments, clad in moss, On yonder steep in naked state appears; High hung remains, the pride of warlike years, Old Arthur's Board: on the capacious round Some British pen has sketch'd the names renown'd, In marks obscure, of his immortal peers. Though join'd by magic skill, with many a rime, The Druid frame, unhonour'd, falls a prey To the slow vengeance of the wisard Time, And fade the British characters away; Yet Spenser's page, that chants in verse sublime Those Chiefs, shall live, unconscious of decay.
