This poem centres around the legend of King Arthur, and puts it into a historical context. Although it is somewhat likely that he did not exist (before Geoffrey of Monmouth, historical reference to him is scant, however some reports of him as a dominant warlord do survive) many people in the Medieval and Early Modern period believed that he would rise up from his burial spot in a time of crisis within the British Isles to liberate the kingdom from whatever it was being oppressed by.
Come rise from your ancient earthen mound.
I pray your sword still rests in your hand.
Now we need the bright isles to be found.
for the white light won’t reach our land.
We are plagued and rotted to the bone
from the abominable scourge in your home.
From the sweeping valleys to lucid glades;
a stark contrast to our barren wastes.
Ravaged by pestilence and divided with blades,
this land has become a vacuum for grace.
The stagnant air swathes us in death,
inhaling the decay upon our every breath.
Unshackle us, he of the cordial court
and burst through the levels that coldly encase.
When bathed in black bile, time is short,
ensconce us within your healing embrace.
We’re not to see with our minds, but our eyes,
maybe our lionheart wasn’t chosen to rise?
Flesh and farmstead are decaying alike,
nothing to sustain those who survived.
Blessed are not those who remain alive,
they are the ones who could not be revived.