Queen Theodolind has builtIn the earth a furnace-bed:There the Traitor Nail that spiltBlood of the anointed Head,Red of heat, resolves in shame:White of heat, awakes to flame.Beat, beat! white of heat,Red of heat, beat, beat!
Mark the skeleton of fireLightening from its thunder-roof:So comes this that saw expireHim we love, for our behoof!Red of heat, O white of heat,This from off the Cross we greet.
Brown-cowled hammermen aroundNerve their naked arms to strikeDeath with Resurrection crowned,Each upon that cruel spike.Red of heat the furnace leaps,White of heat transfigured sleeps.
Hard against the furnace coreHolds the Queen her streaming eyes:Lo! that thing of piteous goreIn the lap of radiance lies,Red of heat, as when He takes,White of heat, whom earth forsakes.
Forth with it, and crushing ringIron hymns, for men to hearEchoes of the deeds that stingEarth into its graves, and fear!Red of heat, He maketh thus,White of heat, a crown of us.
This that killed Thee, kissed Thee, Lord!Touched Thee, and we touch it: dear,Dark it is; adored, abhorred:Vilest, yet most sainted here.Red of heat, O white of heat,In it hell and heaven meet.
I behold our morning dayWhen they chased Him out with rodsUp to where this traitor layThirsting; and the blood was God's!Red of heat, it shall be pressed,White of heat, once on my breast!
Quick! the reptile in me shrieks,Not the soul. Again; the CrossBurn there. Oh! this pain it wreaksRapture is: pain is not loss.Red of heat, the tooth of Death,White of heat, has caught my breath.
Brand me, bite me, bitter thing!Thus He felt, and thus I amOne with Him in suffering,One with Him in bliss, the Lamb.Red of heat, O white of heat,Thus is bitterness made sweet.
Now am I, who bear that stampScorched in me, the living signSole on earth—the lighted lampOf the dreadful Day divine.White of heat, beat on it fast!Red of heat, its shape has passed.
Out in angry sparks they fly,They that sentenced Him to bleed:Pontius and his troop: they die,Damned for ever for the deed!White of heat in vain they soar:Red of heat they strew the floor.
Fury on it! have its debt!Thunder on the Hill accurst,Golgotha, be ye! and sweatBlood, and thirst the Passion's thirst.Red of heat and white of heat,Champ it like fierce teeth that eat.
Strike it as the ages crushTowers! for while a shape is seenI am rivalled. Quench its blush,Devil! But it crowns me Queen,Red of heat, as none before,White of heat, the circlet wore.
Lowly I will be, and quail,Crawling, with a beggar's hand:On my breast the branded Nail,On my head the iron band.Red of heat, are none so base!White of heat, none know such grace!
In their heaven the sainted hosts,Robed in violet unflecked,Gaze on humankind as ghosts:I draw down a ray direct.Red of heat, across my brow,White of heat, I touch Him now.
Robed in violet, robed in gold,Robed in pearl, they make our dawn.What am I to them? BeholdWhat ye are to me, and fawn.Red of heat, be humble, ye!White of heat, O teach it me!
Martyrs! hungry peaks in air,Rent with lightnings, clad with snow,Crowned with stars! you strip me bare,Pierce me, shame me, stretch me low,Red of heat, but it may be,White of heat, some envy me!
O poor enviers! God's own giftsHave a devil for the weak.Yea, the very force that liftsFinds the vessel's secret leak.Red of heat, I rise o'er all:White of heat, I faint, I fall.
Those old Martyrs sloughed their pride,Taking humbleness like mirth.I am to His Glory tied,I that witness Him on earth!Red of heat, my pride of dust,White of heat, feeds fire in trust.
Kindle me to constant fire,Lest the nail be but a nail!Give me wings of great desire,Lest I look within, and fail!Red of heat, the furnace light,White of heat, fix on my sight.
Never for the Chosen peace!Know, by me tormented know,Never shall the wrestling ceaseTill with our outlasting Foe,Red of heat to white of heat,Roll we to the Godhead's feet!Beat, beat! white of heat,Red of heat, beat, beat!
Ladies who in chains of wedlockChafe at an unequal yoke,Not to nightingales give hearing;Better this, the raven's croak.
Down the Prado strolled my seigneur,Arm at lordly bow on hip,Fingers trimming his moustachios,Eyes for pirate fellowship.
Home sat she that owned him master;Like the flower bent to groundRain-surcharged and sun-forsaken;Heedless of her hair unbound.
Sudden at her feet a loverPalpitating knelt and wooed;Seemed a very gift from heavenTo the starved of common food.
Love me? she his vows repeated:Fiery vows oft sung and thrummed:Wondered, as on earth a stranger;Thirsted, trusted, and succumbed.
O beloved youth! my lover!Mine! my lover! take my lifeWholly: thine in soul and body,By this oath of more than wife!
Know me for no helpless woman;Nay, nor coward, though I sinkAwed beside thee, like an infantLearning shame ere it can think.
Swing me hence to do thee service,Be thy succour, prove thy shield;Heaven will hear!—in house thy handmaid,Squire upon the battlefield.
At my breasts I cool thy footsoles;Wine I pour, I dress thy meats;Humbly, when my lord it pleaseth,Lie with him on perfumed sheets:
Pray for him, my blood's dear fountain,While he sleeps, and watch his yawnIn that wakening babelike moment,Sweeter to my thought than dawn! -
Thundered then her lord of thunders;Burst the door, and, flashing sword,Loud disgorged the woman's title:Condemnation in one word.
Grand by righteous wrath transfigured,Towers the husband who providesIn his person judge and witness,Death's black doorkeeper besides!
Round his head the ancient terrors,Conjured of the stronger's law,Circle, to abash the creatureDaring twist beneath his paw.
How though he hath squandered HonourHigh of Honour let him scold:Gilding of the man's possession,'Tis the woman's coin of gold.
She inheriting from manyBleeding mothers bleeding senseFeels 'twixt her and sharp-fanged natureHonour first did plant the fence.
Nature, that so shrieks for justice;Honour's thirst, that blood will slake;These are women's riddles, roughlyMixed to write them saint or snake.
Never nature cherished woman:She throughout the sexes' warServes as temptress and betrayer,Favouring man, the muscular.
Lureful is she, bent for folly;Doating on the child which crows:Yours to teach him grace in fealty,What the bloom is, what the rose.
Hard the task: your prison-chamberWidens not for lifted latchTill the giant thews and sinewsMeet their Godlike overmatch.
Read that riddle, scorning pity'sTears, of cockatrices shed:When the heart is vowed for freedom,Captaincy it yields to head.
Meanwhile you, freaked nature's martyrs,Honour's army, flower and weed,Gentle ladies, wedded ladies,See for you this fair one bleed.
Sole stood her offence, she faltered;Prayed her lord the youth to spare;Prayed that in the orange gardenShe might lie, and ceased her prayer.
Then commanding to all womenChastity, her breasts she laidBare unto the self-avenger.Man in metal was the blade.
When the South sang like a nightingaleAbove a bower in May,The training of Love's vine of flameWas writ in laws, for lord and dameTo say their yea and nay.
When the South sang like a nightingaleAcross the flowering night,And lord and dame held gentle sport,There came a young princess to Court,A frost of beauty white.
The South sang like a nightingaleTo thaw her glittering dream:No vine of Love her bosom gave,She drank no wine of Love, but graveShe held them to Love's theme.
The South grew all a nightingaleBeneath a moon unmoved:Like the banner of war she led them on;She left them to lie, like the light that has goneFrom wine-cups overproved.
When the South was a fervid nightingale,And she a chilling moon,'Twas pity to see on the garden swards,Against Love's laws, those rival lordsAs willow-wands lie strewn.
The South had throat of a nightingaleFor her, the young princess:She gave no vine of Love to rear,Love's wine drank not, yet bent her earTo themes of Love no less.
The lords of the Court they sighed heart-sick,Heart-free Lord Dusiote laughed:I prize her no more than a fling o' the dice,But, or shame to my manhood, a lady of ice,We master her by craft!
Heart-sick the lords of joyance yawned,Lord Dusiote laughed heart-free:I count her as much as a crack o' my thumb,But, or shame of my manhood, to me she shall comeLike the bird to roost in the tree!
At dead of night when the palace-guardHad passed the measured rounds,The young princess awoke to feelA shudder of blood at the crackle of steelWithin the garden-bounds.
It ceased, and she thought of whom was need,The friar or the leech;When lo, stood her tirewoman breathless by:Lord Dusiote, madam, to death is nigh,Of you he would have speech.
He prays you of your gentleness,To light him to his dark end.The princess rose, and forth she went,For charity was her intent,Devoutly to befriend.
Lord Dusiote hung on his good squire's arm,The priest beside him knelt:A weeping handkerchief was pressedTo stay the red flood at his breast,And bid cold ladies melt.
O lady, though you are ice to men,All pure to heaven as lightWithin the dew within the flower,Of you 'tis whispered that love has powerWhen secret is the night.
I have silenced the slanderers, peace to their souls!Save one was too cunning for me.I die, whose love is late avowed,He lives, who boasts the lily has bowedTo the oath of a bended knee.
Lord Dusiote drew breath with pain,And she with pain drew breath:On him she looked, on his like above;She flew in the folds of a marvel of loveRevealed to pass to death.
You are dying, O great-hearted lord,You are dying for me, she cried;O take my hand, O take my kiss,And take of your right for love like this,The vow that plights me bride.
She bade the priest recite his wordsWhile hand in hand were they,Lord Dusiote's soul to waft to bliss;He had her hand, her vow, her kiss,And his body was borne away.
Lord Dusiote sprang from priest and squire;He gazed at her lighted room:The laughter in his heart grew slack;He knew not the force that pushed him backFrom her and the morn in bloom.
Like a drowned man's length on the strong flood-tide,Like the shade of a bird in the sun,He fled from his lady whom he might claimAs ghost, and who made the daybeams flameTo scare what he had done.
There was grief at Court for one so gay,Though he was a lord less keenFor training the vine than at vintage-press;But in her soul the young princessBelieved that love had been.
Lord Dusiote fled the Court and land,He crossed the woeful seas,Till his traitorous doing seemed clearer to burn,And the lady beloved drew his heart for return,Like the banner of war in the breeze.
He neared the palace, he spied the Court,And music he heard, and they toldOf foreign lords arrived to bringThe nuptial gifts of a bridegroom kingTo the princess grave and cold.
The masque and the dance were cloud on wave,And down the masque and the danceLord Dusiote stepped from dame to dame,And to the young princess he came,With a bow and a burning glance.
Do you take a new husband to-morrow, lady?She shrank as at prick of steel.Must the first yield place to the second, he sighed.Her eyes were like the grave that is wideFor the corpse from head to heel.
My lady, my love, that little handHas mine ringed fast in plight:I bear for your lips a lawful thirst,And as justly the second should follow the first,I come to your door this night.
If a ghost should come a ghost will go:No more the lady said,Save that ever when he in wrath beganTo swear by the faith of a living man,She answered him, You are dead.
The soft night-wind went laden to deathWith smell of the orange in flower;The light leaves prattled to neighbour ears;The bird of the passion sang over his tears;The night named hour by hour.
Sang loud, sang low the rapturous birdTill the yellow hour was nigh,Behind the folds of a darker cloud:He chuckled, he sobbed, alow, aloud;The voice between earth and sky.
O will you, will you, women are weak;The proudest are yielding matesFor a forward foot and a tongue of fire:So thought Lord Dusiote's trusty squire,At watch by the palace-gates.
The song of the bird was wine in his blood,And woman the odorous bloom:His master's great adventure stirredWithin him to mingle the bloom and bird,And morn ere its coming illume.
Beside him strangely a piece of the darkHad moved, and the undertonesOf a priest in prayer, like a cavernous wave,He heard, as were there a soul to saveFor urgency now in the groans.
No priest was hired for the play this night:And the squire tossed head like a deerAt sniff of the tainted wind; he gazedWhere cresset-lamps in a door were raised,Belike on a passing bier.
All cloaked and masked, with naked blades,That flashed of a judgement done,The lords of the Court, from the palace-door,Came issuing silently, bearers four,And flat on their shoulders one.
They marched the body to squire and priest,They lowered it sad to earth:The priest they gave the burial dole,Bade wrestle hourly for his soul,Who was a lord of worth.
One said, farewell to a gallant knight!And one, but a restless ghost!'Tis a year and a day since in this placeHe died, sped high by a lady of graceTo join the blissful host.
Not vainly on us she charged her cause,The lady whom we revereFor faith in the mask of a love untrueTo the Love we honour, the Love her due,The Love we have vowed to rear.
A trap for the sweet tooth, lures for the light,For the fortress defiant a mine:Right well! But not in the South, princess,Shall the lady snared of her noblenessEver shamed or a captive pine.
When the South had voice of a nightingaleAbove a Maying bower,On the heights of Love walked radiant peers;The bird of the passion sang over his tearsTo the breeze and the orange-flower.
Sword in length a reaping-hook amainHarald sheared his field, blood up to shank:'Mid the swathes of slain,First at moonrise drank.
Thereof hunger, as for meats the knife,Pricked his ribs, in one sharp spur to reachHome and his young wife,Nigh the sea-ford beach.
After battle keen to feed was he:Smoking flesh the thresher washed down fast,Like an angry seaShips from keel to mast.
Name us glory, singer, name us prideMatching Harald's in his deeds of strength;Chiefs, wife, sword by side,Foemen stretched their length!
Half a winter night the toasts hurrahed,Crowned him, clothed him, trumpeted him high,Till awink he badeWife to chamber fly.
Twice the sun had mounted, twice had sunk,Ere his ears took sound; he lay for dead;Mountain on his trunk,Ocean on his head.
Clamped to couch, his fiery hearing suckedWhispers that at heart made iron-clang:Here fool-women clucked,There men held harangue.
Burial to fit their lord of warThey decreed him: hailed the kingling: ha!Hateful! but this ThorFailed a weak lamb's baa.
King they hailed a branchlet, shaped to fare,Weighted so, like quaking shingle spume,When his blood's own heirRipened in the womb!
Still he heard, and doglike, hoglike, ranNose of hearing till his blind sight saw:Woman stood with manMouthing low, at paw.
Woman, man, they mouthed; they spake a thingArmed to split a mountain, sunder seas:Still the frozen kingLay and felt him freeze.
Doglike, hoglike, horselike now he raced,Riderless, in ghost across a groundFlint of breast, blank-faced,Past the fleshly bound.
Smell of brine his nostrils filled with might:Nostrils quickened eyelids, eyelids hand:Hand for sword at rightGroped, the great haft spanned.
Wonder struck to ice his people's eyes:Him they saw, the prone upon the bier,Sheer from backbone rise,Sword uplifting peer.
Sitting did he breathe against the blade,Standing kiss it for that proof of life:Strode, as netters wade,Straightway to his wife.
Her he eyed: his judgement was one word,Foulbed! and she fell: the blow clove two.Fearful for the third,All their breath indrew.
Morning danced along the waves to beach;Dumb his chiefs fetched breath for what might hap:Glassily on eachStared the iron cap.
Sudden, as it were a monster oakSplit to yield a limb by stress of heat,Strained he, staggered, brokeDoubled at their feet.
Hawk or shrike has done this deedOf downy feathers: rueful sight!Sweet sentimentalist, inviteYour bosom's Power to intercede.
So hard it seems that one must bleedBecause another needs will bite!All round we find cold Nature slightThe feelings of the totter-knee'd.
O it were pleasant with youTo fly from this tussle of foes,The shambles, the charnel, the wrinkle!To dwell in yon dribble of dewOn the cheek of your sovereign rose,And live the young life of a twinkle.
Gracefullest leaper, the dappled fox-cubCurves over brambles with berries and buds,Light as a bubble that flies from the tub,Whisked by the laundry-wife out of her suds.Wavy he comes, woolly, all at his ease,Elegant, fashioned to foot with the deuce;Nature's own prince of the dance: then he seesMe, and retires as if making excuse.
Never closed minuet courtlier! SoonCub-hunting troops were abroad, and a yelpTold of sure scent: ere the stroke upon noonReynard the younger lay far beyond help.Wild, my poor friend, has the fate to be chased;Civil will conquer: were 't other 'twere worse;Fair, by the flushed early morning embraced,Haply you live a day longer in verse.
Projected from the bilious Childe,This clatterjaw his foot could setOn Alps, without a breast beguiledTo glow in shedding rascal sweat.Somewhere about his grinder teeth,He mouthed of thoughts that grilled beneath,And summoned Nature to her feudWith bile and buskin Attitude.
Considerably was the worldOf spinsterdom and clergy rackedWhile he his hinted horrors hurled,And she pictorially attacked.A duel hugeous. Tragic? Ho!The cities, not the mountains, blowSuch bladders; in their shapes confessedAn after-dinner's indigest.
Cistercians might crack their sidesWith laughter, and exemption get,At sight of heroes clasping brides,And hearing—O the horn! the horn!The horn of their obstructive debt!
But quit the stage, that note appliesFor sermons cosmopolitan,Hernani. Have we filched our prize,Forgetting . . .? O the horn! the horn!The horn of the Old Gentleman!
Flat as to an eagle's eye,Earth hung under Attila.Sign for carnage gave he none.In the peace of his disdain,Sun and rain, and rain and sun,Cherished men to wax again,Crawl, and in their manner die.On his people stood a frost.Like the charger cut in stone,Rearing stiff, the warrior host,Which had life from him alone,Craved the trumpet's eager note,As the bridled earth the Spring.Rusty was the trumpet's throat.He let chief and prophet rave;Venturous earth around him stringThreads of grass and slender rye,Wave them, and untrampled wave.O for the time when God did cry,Eye and have, my Attila!
Scorn of conquest filled like sleepHim that drank of havoc deepWhen the Green Cat pawed the globe:When the horsemen from his bowShot in sheaves and made the foeCrimson fringes of a robe,Trailed o'er towns and fields in woe;When they streaked the rivers red,When the saddle was the bed.Attila, my Attila!
He breathed peace and pulled a flower.Eye and have, my Attila!This was the damsel Ildico,Rich in bloom until that hour:Shyer than the forest doeTwinkling slim through branches green.Yet the shyest shall be seen.Make the bed for Attila!
Seen of Attila, desired,She was led to him straightway:Radiantly was she attired;Rifled lands were her array,Jewels bled from weeping crowns,Gold of woeful fields and towns.She stood pallid in the light.How she walked, how withered white,From the blessing to the board,She who would have proudly blushed,Women whispered, asking why,Hinting of a youth, and hushed.Was it terror of her lord?Was she childish? was she sly?Was it the bright mantle's dyeDrained her blood to hues of griefLike the ash that shoots the spark?See the green tree all in leaf:See the green tree stripped of bark! -Make the bed for Attila!
Round the banquet-table's loadScores of iron horsemen rode;Chosen warriors, keen and hard;Grain of threshing battle-dints;Attila's fierce body-guard,Smelling war like fire in flints.Grant them peace be fugitive!Iron-capped and iron-heeled,Each against his fellow's shieldSmote the spear-head, shouting, Live,Attila! my Attila!Eagle, eagle of our breed,Eagle, beak the lamb, and feed!Have her, and unleash us! live,Attila! my Attila!
He was of the blood to shineBronze in joy, like skies that scorch.Beaming with the goblet wineIn the wavering of the torch,Looked he backward on his bride.Eye and have, my Attila!Fair in her wide robe was she:Where the robe and vest divide,Fair she seemed surpassingly:Soft, yet vivid as the streamDanube rolls in the moonbeamThrough rock-barriers: but she smiledNever, she sat cold as salt:Open-mouthed as a young childWondering with a mind at fault.Make the bed for Attila!
Under the thin hoop of goldWhence in waves her hair outrolled,'Twixt her brows the women sawShadows of a vulture's clawGript in flight: strange knots that spedClosing and dissolving aye:Such as wicked dreams betrayWhen pale dawn creeps o'er the bed.They might show the common pangKnown to virgins, in whom dreadHunts their bliss like famished hounds;While the chiefs with roaring roundsTossed her to her lord, and sangPraise of him whose hand was large,Cheers for beauty brought to yield,Chirrups of the trot afield,Hurrahs of the battle-charge.
Those rock-faces hung with weedReddened: their great days of speed,Slaughter, triumph, flood and flame,Like a jealous frenzy wrought,Scoffed at them and did them shame,Quaffing idle, conquering nought.O for the time when God decreedEarth the prey of Attila!God called on thee in his wrath,Trample it to mire! 'Twas done.Swift as Danube clove our pathDown from East to Western sun.Huns! behold your pasture, gaze,Take, our king said: heel to flank(Whisper it, the war-horse neighs!)Forth we drove, and blood we drankFresh as dawn-dew: earth was ours:Men were flocks we lashed and spurned:Fast as windy flame devours,Flame along the wind, we burned.Arrow javelin, spear, and sword!Here the snows and there the plains;On! our signal: onward pouredTorrents of the tightened reins,Foaming over vine and cornHot against the city-wall.Whisper it, you sound a hornTo the grey beast in the stall!Yea, he whinnies at a nod.O for sound of the trumpet-notes!O for the time when thunder-shod,He that scarce can munch his oats,Hung on the peaks, brooded aloof,Champed the grain of the wrath of God,Pressed a cloud on the cowering roof,Snorted out of the blackness fire!Scarlet broke the sky, and down,Hammering West with print of his hoof,He burst out of the bosom of ireSharp as eyelight under thy frown,Attila, my Attila!
Ravaged cities rolling smokeThick on cornfields dry and black,Wave his banners, bear his yoke.Track the lightning, and you trackAttila. They moan: 'tis he!Bleed: 'tis he! Beneath his footLeagues are deserts charred and mute;Where he passed, there passed a sea.Attila, my Attila!
- Who breathed on the king cold breath?Said a voice amid the host,He is Death that weds a ghost,Else a ghost that weds with Death?Ildico's chill little handShuddering he beheld: austereStared, as one who would commandSight of what has filled his ear:Plucked his thin beard, laughed disdain.Feast, ye Huns! His arm be raised,Like the warrior, battle-dazed,Joining to the fight amain.Make the bed for Attila!
Silent Ildico stood up.King and chief to pledge her well,Shocked sword sword and cup on cup,Clamouring like a brazen bell.Silent stepped the queenly slave.Fair, by heaven! she was to meetOn a midnight, near a grave,Flapping wide the winding-sheet.
Death and she walked through the crowd,Out beyond the flush of light.Ceremonious women bowedFollowing her: 'twas middle night.Then the warriors each on eachSpied, nor overloudly laughed;Like the victims of the leech,Who have drunk of a strange draught.
Attila remained. Even soFrowned he when he struck the blow,Brained his horse, that stumbled twice,On a bloody day in Gaul,Bellowing, Perish omens! AllMarvelled at the sacrifice,But the battle, swinging dim,Rang off that axe-blow for him.Attila, my Attila!
Brightening over Danube wheeledStar by star; and she, most fair,Sweet as victory half-revealed,Seized to make him glad and young;She, O sweet as the dark signGiven him oft in battles gone,When the voice within said, Dare!And the trumpet-notes were sprungRapturous for the charge in line:She lay waiting: fair as dawnWrapped in folds of night she lay;Secret, lustrous; flaglike there,Waiting him to stream and ray,With one loosening blush outflung,Colours of his hordes of horseRanked for combat; still he hungLike the fever dreading air,Cursed of heat; and as a corseGathers vultures, in his brainImages of her eyes and kissPlucked at the limbs that could remainLoitering nigh the doors of bliss.Make the bed for Attila!
Passion on one hand, on one,Destiny led forth the Hun.Heard ye outcries of affright,Voices that through many a fray,In the press of flag and spear,Warned the king of peril near?Men were dumb, they gave him way,Eager heads to left and right,Like the bearded standard, thrust,As in battle, for a nodFrom their lord of battle-dust.Attila, my Attila!Slow between the lines he trod.Saw ye not the sun drop slowOn this nuptial day, ere evePierced him on the couch aglow?Attila, my Attila!Here and there his heart would cleaveClotted memory for a space:Some stout chief's familiar face,Choicest of his fighting brood,Touched him, as 'twere one to knowEre he met his bride's embrace.Attila, my Attila!Twisting fingers in a beardScant as winter underwood,With a narrowed eye he peered;Like the sunset's graver redUp old pine-stems. Grave he stoodEyeing them on whom was shedBurning light from him alone.Attila, my Attila!Red were they whose mouths recalledWhere the slaughter mounted high,High on it, o'er earth appalled,He; heaven's finger in their sightRaising him on waves of dead,Up to heaven his trumpets blown.O for the time when God's delightCrowned the head of Attila!Hungry river of the cragStretching hands for earth he came:Force and Speed astride his namePointed back to spear and flag.He came out of miracle cloud,Lightning-swift and spectre-lean.Now those days are in a shroud:Have him to his ghostly queen.Make the bed for Attila!
One, with winecups overstrung,Cried him farewell in Rome's tongue.Who? for the great king turned as thoughWrath to the shaft's head strained the bow.Nay, not wrath the king possessed,But a radiance of the breast.In that sound he had the keyOf his cunning malady.Lo, where gleamed the sapphire lake,Leo, with his Rome at stake,Drew blank air to hues and forms;Whereof Two that shone distinct,Linked as orbed stars are linked,Clear among the myriad swarms,In a constellation, dashedFull on horse and rider's eyesSunless light, but light it was -Light that blinded and abashed,Froze his members, bade him pause,Caught him mid-gallop, blazed him home.Attila, my Attila!What are streams that cease to flow?What was Attila, rolled thence,Cheated by a juggler's show?Like that lake of blue intense,Under tempest lashed to foam,Lurid radiance, as he passed,Filled him, and around was glassed,When deep-voiced he uttered, Rome!
Rome! the word was: and like meatFlung to dogs the word was torn.Soon Rome's magic priests shall bleatRound their magic Pope forlorn!Loud they swore the king had swornVengeance on the Roman cheat,Ere he passed, as, grave and still,Danube through the shouting hill:Sworn it by his naked life!Eagle, snakes these women are:Take them on the wing! but war,Smoking war's the warrior's wife!Then for plunder! then for bridesWon without a winking priest! -Danube whirled his train of tidesBlack toward the yellow East.Make the bed for Attila!
Chirrups of the trot afield,Hurrahs of the battle-charge,How they answered, how they pealed,When the morning rose and drewBow and javelin, lance and targe,In the nuptial casement's view!Attila, my Attila!Down the hillspurs, out of tentsGlimmering in mid-forest, throughMists of the cool morning scents,Forth from city-alley, court,Arch, the bounding horsemen flew,Joined along the plains of dew,Raced and gave the rein to sport,Closed and streamed like curtain-rentsFluttered by a wind, and flowedInto squadrons: trumpets blew,Chargers neighed, and trappings glowedBrave as the bright Orient's.Look on the seas that run to greetSunrise: look on the leagues of wheat:Look on the lines and squares that fretLeaping to level the lance blood-wet.Tens of thousands, man and steed,Tossing like field-flowers in Spring;Ready to be hurled at needWhither their great lord may sling.Finger Romeward, Romeward, King!Attila, my Attila!Still the woman holds him fastAs a night-flag round the mast.
Nigh upon the fiery noon,Out of ranks a roaring burst.'Ware white women like the moon!They are poison: they have thirstFirst for love, and next for rule.Jealous of the army, she?Ho, the little wanton fool!We were his before she squealedBlind for mother's milk, and heeledKicking on her mother's knee.His in life and death are we:She but one flower of a field.We have given him bliss tenfoldIn an hour to match her night:Attila, my Attila!Still her arms the master hold,As on wounds the scarf winds tight.
Over Danube day no more,Like the warrior's planted spear,Stood to hail the King: in fearWestern day knocked at his door.Attila, my Attila!Sudden in the army's eyesRolled a blast of lights and cries:Flashing through them: Dead are ye!Dead, ye Huns, and torn piecemeal!See the ordered army reelStricken through the ribs: and see,Wild for speed to cheat despair,Horsemen, clutching knee to chin,Crouch and dart they know not where.Attila, my Attila!Faces covered, faces bare,Light the palace-front like jetsOf a dreadful fire within.Beating hands and driving hairStart on roof and parapets.Dust rolls up; the slaughter din.- Death to them who call him dead!Death to them who doubt the tale!Choking in his dusty veil,Sank the sun on his death-bed.Make the bed for Attila!
'Tis the room where thunder sleeps.Frenzy, as a wave to shoreSurging, burst the silent door,And drew back to awful deepsBreath beaten out, foam-white. AnewHowled and pressed the ghastly crew,Like storm-waters over rocks.Attila, my Attila!One long shaft of sunset redLaid a finger on the bed.Horror, with the snaky locks,Shocked the surge to stiffened heaps,Hoary as the glacier's headFaced to the moon. Insane they look.God it is in heaven who weepsFallen from his hand the Scourge he shook.Make the bed for Attila!
Square along the couch, and stark,Like the sea-rejected thingSea-sucked white, behold their King.Attila, my Attila!Beams that panted black and bright,Scornful lightnings danced their sight:Him they see an oak in bud,Him an oaklog stripped of bark:Him, their lord of day and night,White, and lifting up his bloodDumb for vengeance. Name us that,Huddled in the corner darkHumped and grinning like a cat,Teeth for lips!—'tis she! she stares,Glittering through her bristled hairs.Rend her! Pierce her to the hilt!She is Murder: have her out!What! this little fist, as bigAs the southern summer fig!She is Madness, none may doubt.Death, who dares deny her guilt!Death, who says his blood she spilt!Make the bed for Attila!
Torch and lamp and sunset-redFell three-fingered on the bed.In the torch the beard-hair scantWith the great breast seemed to pant:In the yellow lamp the limbsWavered, as the lake-flower swims:In the sunset red the deadDead avowed him, dry blood-red.
Hatred of that abject slave,Earth, was in each chieftain's heart.Earth has got him, whom God gave,Earth may sing, and earth shall smart!Attila, my Attila!
Thus their prayer was raved and ceased.Then had Vengeance of her feastScent in their quick pang to smiteWhich they knew not, but huge painUrged them for some victim slainSwift, and blotted from the sight.Each at each, a crouching beast,Glared, and quivered for the word.Each at each, and all on that,Humped and grinning like a cat,Head-bound with its bridal-wreath.Then the bitter chamber heardVengeance in a cauldron seethe.Hurried counsel rage and craftYelped to hungry men, whose teethHard the grey lip-ringlet gnawed,Gleaming till their fury laughed.With the steel-hilt in the clutch,Eyes were shot on her that frozeIn their blood-thirst overawed;Burned to rend, yet feared to touch.She that was his nuptial rose,She was of his heart's blood clad:Oh! the last of him she had! -Could a little fist as bigAs the southern summer fig,Push a dagger's point to pierceRibs like those? Who else! They glaredEach at each. Suspicion fierceMany a black remembrance bared.Attila, my Attila!Death, who dares deny her guilt!Death, who says his blood she spilt!Traitor he, who stands between!Swift to hell, who harms the Queen!She, the wild contention's cause,Combed her hair with quiet paws.Make the bed for Attila!
Night was on the host in arms.Night, as never night before,Hearkened to an army's roarBreaking up in snaky swarms:Torch and steel and snorting steed,Hunted by the cry of blood,Cursed with blindness, mad for day.Where the torches ran a flood,Tales of him and of the deedShowered like a torrent spray.Fear of silence made them striveLoud in warrior-hymns that grewHoarse for slaughter yet unwreaked.Ghostly Night across the hive,With a crimson finger drewLetters on her breast and shrieked.Night was on them like the mouldOn the buried half alive.Night, their bloody Queen, her foldWound on them and struck them through.Make the bed for Attila!
Earth has got him whom God gave,Earth may sing, and earth shall smart!None of earth shall know his grave.They that dig with Death depart.Attila, my Attila!
Thus their prayer was raved and passed:Passed in peace their red sunset:Hewn and earthed those men of sweatWho had housed him in the vast,Where no mortal might declare,There lies he—his end was there!Attila, my Attila!
Kingless was the army left:Of its head the race bereft.Every fury of the pitTortured and dismembered it.Lo, upon a silent hour,When the pitch of frost subsides,Danube with a shout of powerLoosens his imprisoned tides:Wide around the frighted plainsShake to hear his riven chains,Dreadfuller than heaven in wrath,As he makes himself a path:High leap the ice-cracks, towering pileFloes to bergs, and giant peersWrestle on a drifted isle;Island on ice-island rears;Dissolution battles fast:Big the senseless Titans loom,Through a mist of common doomStriving which shall die the last:Till a gentle-breathing mornFrees the stream from bank to bank.So the Empire built of scornAgonized, dissolved and sank.Of the Queen no more was toldThan of leaf on Danube rolled.Make the bed for Attila!
Prince of Bards was old Aneurin;He the grand Gododin sang;All his numbers threw such fire in,Struck his harp so wild a twang; -Still the wakeful Briton borrowsWisdom from its ancient heat:Still it haunts our source of sorrows,Deep excess of liquor sweet!
Here the Briton, there the Saxon,Face to face, three fields apart,Thirst for light to lay their thwacks onEach the other with good heart.Dry the Saxon sits, 'mid dinfulNoise of iron knits his steel:Fresh and roaring with a skinful,Britons round the hirlas reel.
Yellow flamed the meady sunset;Red runs up the flag of morn.Signal for the British onsetHiccups through the British horn.Down these hillmen pour like cattleSniffing pasture: grim below,Showing eager teeth of battle,In his spear-heads lies the foe.
- Monster of the sea! we drive himBack into his hungry brine.- You shall lodge him, feed him, wive him,Look on us; we stand in line.- Pale sea-monster! foul the watersCast him; foul he leaves our land.- You shall yield us land and daughters:Stay the tongue, and try the hand.
Swift as torrent-streams our warriors,Tossing torrent lights, find way;Burst the ridges, crowd the barriers,Pierce them where the spear-heads play;Turn them as the clods in furrow,Top them like the leaping foam;Sorrow to the mother, sorrow,Sorrow to the wife at home!
Stags, they butted; bulls, they bellowed;Hounds, we baited them; oh, brave!Every second man, unfellowed,Took the strokes of two, and gave.Bare as hop-stakes in November'sMists they met our battle-flood:Hoary-red as Winter's embersLay their dead lines done in blood.
Thou, my Bard, didst hang thy lyre inOak-leaves, and with crimson brandRhythmic fury spent, Aneurin;Songs the churls could understand:Thrumming on their Saxon sconcesStraight, the invariable blow,Till they snorted true responses.Ever thus the Bard they know!
But ere nightfall, harper lusty!When the sun was like a ballDropping on the battle dusty,What was yon discordant call?Cambria's old metheglin demonBreathed against our rushing tide;Clove us midst the threshing seamen:-Gashed, we saw our ranks divide!
Britain then with valedictoryShriek veiled off her face and knelt.Full of liquor, full of victory,Chief on chief old vengeance dealt.Backward swung their hurly-burly;None but dead men kept the fight.They that drink their cup too early,Darkness they shall see ere night.
Loud we heard the yellow roverLaugh to sleep, while we raged thick,Thick as ants the ant-hill over,Asking who has thrust the stick.Lo, as frogs that Winter cumbersMeet the Spring with stiffen'd yawn,We from our hard night of slumbersMarched into the bloody dawn.
Day on day we fought, though shattered:Pushed and met repulses sharp,Till our Raven's plumes were scattered:All, save old Aneurin's harp.Hear it wailing like a motherO'er the strings of children slain!He in one tongue, in another,Alien, I; one blood, yet twain.
Old Aneurin! droop no longer.That squat ocean-scum, we own,Had fine stoutness, made us stronger,Brought us much-required backbone:Claimed of Power their dues, and grantedDues to Power in turn, when roseMightier rovers; they that plantedSovereign here the Norman nose.
Glorious men, with heads of eagles,Chopping arms, and cupboard lips;Warriors, hunters, keen as beagles,Mounted aye on horse or ships.Active, being hungry creatures;Silent, having nought to say:High they raised the lord of features,Saxon-worshipped to this day.
Hear its deeds, the great recital!Stout as bergs of Arctic iceOnce it led, and lived; a titleNow it is, and names its price.This our Saxon brothers cherish:This, when by the worth of witsLands are reared aloft, or perish,Sole illumes their lucre-pits.
Know we not our wrongs, unwrittenThough they be, Aneurin? Sword,Song, and subtle mind, the BritonBrings to market, all ignored.'Gainst the Saxon's bone impinging,Still is our Gododin played;Shamed we see him humbly cringingIn a shadowy nose's shade.
Bitter is the weight that crushesLow, my Bard, thy race of fire.Here no fair young future blushesBridal to a man's desire.Neither chief, nor aim, nor splendourDressing distance, we perceive.Neither honour, nor the tenderBloom of promise, morn or eve.
Joined we are; a tide of racesRolled to meet a common fate;England clasps in her embracesMany: what is England's state?England her distended middleThumps with pride as Mammon's wife;Says that thus she reads thy riddle,Heaven! 'tis heaven to plump her life.
O my Bard! a yellow liquor,Like to that we drank of old -Gold is her metheglin beaker,She destruction drinks in gold.Warn her, Bard, that Power is pressingHotly for his dues this hour;Tell her that no drunken blessingStops the onward march of Power.
Has she ears to take forewarningsShe will cleanse her of her stains,Feed and speed for braver morningsValorously the growth of brains.Power, the hard man knit for action,Reads each nation on the brow.Cripple, fool, and petrifactionFall to him—are falling now!