Keep of the Norman, old to flood and cloud!
Thou dost reproach me with thy sunset look,
That in our common menace, I forsook
Hope, the last fear, and stood impartial proud:
Almost, almost, while ether spake aloud,
Death, from the smoking stones, my spirit shook
Into thy hollow as leaves into a brook,
No more than they by heaven’s assassins cowed.
But now thy thousand-scarrèd steep is flecked
With the calm kisses of the light delayed,
Breathe on me better valour: to subject
My soul to greed of life, and grow afraid
Lest, ere her fight’s full term, the Architect
See downfall of the stronghold that He made.