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 war-like 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 rhyme,
 The Druid frame, unhonour'd, falls a prey
 To the slow vengeance of the wizard Time,
 And fade the British characters away;
 Yet Spenser's page, that chants in verse sublime
 Those chiefs, shall live, unconscious of decay.