Arthur still sleeps—The sounds that break his rest—The war between the beast and the man—How ended—The Christian foe and the heathen—The narrative returns to the Saxons in pursuit of Arthur—Their chase is stayed by the caverns described in the preceding book, the tides having now advanced up the gorge through which Arthur passed, and blocked that pathway—The hunt is resumed at dawn—The tides have receded from the gorge—One of the hounds finds scent—The riders are on the track—Harold heads the pursuit—The beech-tree—The man by the water spring—The wood is left—The knight on the brow of the hill—Parley between the earl and the knight—The encounter—Harold's address to his men, and his foe—His foe's reply—The dove and the falcon—The unexpected succour—And conclusion of the fray—The narrative passes on to the description of the Happy Valley—in which the dwellers await the coming of a stranger—History of the Happy Valley—a colony founded by Etrurians from Fiesolè, forewarned of the destined growth of the Roman dominion—Its strange seclusion and safety from the changes of the ancient world—The law that forbade the daughters of the Lartian or ruling family to marry into other clans—Only one daughter (the queen) is left now, and the male line in the whole Lartian clan is extinct—The contrivance of the Augur for the continuance of the royal house, sanctioned by two former precedents—A stranger is to be lured into the valley—The simple dwellers therein to be deceived into believing him a god—He is to be married to the queen, and then, on the birth of a son, to vanish again amongst the gods (i.e.to be secretly made away with)—Two temples at the opposite ends of the valley give the only gates to the place—By the first, dedicated to Tina (the Etrurian Jove), the stranger is to be admitted—In the second, dedicated to Mantu (the god of the shades), he is destined to vanish—Such a stranger is now expected in the Happy Valley—He emerges, led by the Augur, from the temple of Tina—Ægle, the queen, described—Her stranger-bridegroom is led to her bower.
Arthur still sleeps—The sounds that break his rest—The war between the beast and the man—How ended—The Christian foe and the heathen—The narrative returns to the Saxons in pursuit of Arthur—Their chase is stayed by the caverns described in the preceding book, the tides having now advanced up the gorge through which Arthur passed, and blocked that pathway—The hunt is resumed at dawn—The tides have receded from the gorge—One of the hounds finds scent—The riders are on the track—Harold heads the pursuit—The beech-tree—The man by the water spring—The wood is left—The knight on the brow of the hill—Parley between the earl and the knight—The encounter—Harold's address to his men, and his foe—His foe's reply—The dove and the falcon—The unexpected succour—And conclusion of the fray—The narrative passes on to the description of the Happy Valley—in which the dwellers await the coming of a stranger—History of the Happy Valley—a colony founded by Etrurians from Fiesolè, forewarned of the destined growth of the Roman dominion—Its strange seclusion and safety from the changes of the ancient world—The law that forbade the daughters of the Lartian or ruling family to marry into other clans—Only one daughter (the queen) is left now, and the male line in the whole Lartian clan is extinct—The contrivance of the Augur for the continuance of the royal house, sanctioned by two former precedents—A stranger is to be lured into the valley—The simple dwellers therein to be deceived into believing him a god—He is to be married to the queen, and then, on the birth of a son, to vanish again amongst the gods (i.e.to be secretly made away with)—Two temples at the opposite ends of the valley give the only gates to the place—By the first, dedicated to Tina (the Etrurian Jove), the stranger is to be admitted—In the second, dedicated to Mantu (the god of the shades), he is destined to vanish—Such a stranger is now expected in the Happy Valley—He emerges, led by the Augur, from the temple of Tina—Ægle, the queen, described—Her stranger-bridegroom is led to her bower.
We raise the curtain where the unconscious king1Beneath the beech his fearless couch had made;Here, the fierce fangs prepared their deadly spring;There, in the hand of Murder gleam'd the blade;And not a sound to warn him from above;Where, still unsleeping, watch'd the guardian dove!Hark, a dull crash!—a howling, ravenous yell!2Opening fell symphony of ghastly sound,Jarring, yet blent, as if the dismal hellSent its strange anguish from the rent Profound:Through all its scale the horrible discord ran,Now mock'd the beast, now took the groan of man;Wrath, and the grind of gnashing teeth; the growl3Of famine routed from its red repast;Sharp shrilling pain; and fury from some soulThat fronts despair, and wrestles to the last.Up sprang the King—the moon's uncertain rayThrough the still leaves just wins its glimmering way.And lo, before him, close, yet wanly faint,4Forms that seem shadows, strife that seems the sportOf things that oft some holy hermit saintLone in Egyptian plains (the dread resortOf Nile's dethronèd demon gods) hath view'd;The grisly tempters, born of Solitude:—Coil'd in the strong death-grapple, through the dim5And haggard air, before the Cymrian layWrithing and interlaced with fang and limb,As if one shape, what seem'd a beast of preyAnd the grand form of Man!—The bird of HeavenWisely no note to warn the sleep had given;The sleep protected;—as the Savage sprang,6Sprang the wild beast;—before the dreamer's breastDefeated Murder found the hungry fang,The wolf the steel:—so, starting from his rest,The saved man woke to save! Nor time was hereFor pause or caution; for the sword or spear;Clasp'd round the wolf, swift arms of iron draw7From their fierce hold the buried fangs;—on highUp-borne, the baffled terrors of its jawGnash vain;—one yell howls, hollow, through the sky;And dies abruptly, stifled to a gasp,As the grim heart pants crushing in the grasp.Fit for a nation's bulwark, that strong breast8To which the strong arms lock'd the powerless foe!—Nor oped the vice till breath's last anguish ceast;'Tis done; and dumb the dull weight drops below.The kindred form, which now the King surveys,Those arms, all gentle as a woman's, raise.Leaning the pale cheek on his pitying heart,9He wipes the blood from face, and breast, and limb,And joyful sees (for no humaner artWhich Christian knighthood knows, unknown to him)That the fell fangs the nobler parts forbore,And, thanks, sweet Virgin! life returns once more.The savage stared around: from dizzy eyes10Toss'd the loose shaggy hair; and to his knee,—His reeling feet—up stagger'd—Lo, where liesThe dead wild beast!—lo, in his saviour, seeThe fellow-man, whom—with a feeble boundHe leapt, and snatch'd the dagger from the ground;And, faithful to his gods, he sprang to slay;11The weak limb fail'd him; gleam'd and dropp'd the blade;The arm hung nerveless;—by the beast of preyMurder, still baffled, fell:—Then, soothing, saidThe gentle King—"Behold no foe in me!"And knelt by Hate like pitying Charity.In suffering man he could not find a foe,12And the mild hand clasp'd that which yearn'd to kill!"Ha," gasp'd the gazing savage, "dost thou knowThat I had doom'd thee in thy sleep?—that stillMy soul would doom thee, could my hand obey?—Wake thou, stern goddess—seize thyself the prey!""Serv'st thou a goddess," said the wondering King,13"Whose rites ask innocent blood?—O brother, learnIn heaven, in earth, in each created thing,One God, whom all call 'Father' to discern!""Can thy God suffer thy God's foe to live?"—"God once had foes, and said to man, 'Forgive!'"The Christian answer'd. Dream-like the mild words14Fell on the ear, as sense again gave wayTo swooning sleep; which woke but with the birdsIn the cold clearness of the dawning day.—Strung by that sleep, the savage scowl'd around;Why droops his head? Kind hands his wounds have bound.Lonely he stood, and miss'd that tender foe15The wolf's glazed eye-ball mutely met his own;Beyond, the pine-brand sent its sullen glow,Circling blood-red the awful altar-stone;Blood-red, as sinks the sun, from land afar,Ere tempests wreck the Amalfian mariner;Or as, when Mars sits in the House of Death16For doom'd Aleppo, on the hopeless MoorGlares the fierce orb from skies without a breath,While the chalk'd signal on the abhorrèd doorTells that the Pestilence is come!—the pineUnheeded wastes upon the hideous shrine;The priest returns not;—from its giant throne,17The idol calls in vain:—its realm is o'er;The Dire Religion flies the altar-stone,For love has breathed on what was hate before.Lured by man's heart, by man's kind deeds subdued,Him who had pardon'd, he who wrong'd pursued.Meanwhile speeds on the Saxon chase, behind;—18Baffled at first, and doubling to and fro,At last, the war-dogs, snorting, seize the wind,Burst on the scent, which gathers as they go;Day wanes, night comes; the star succeeds the sun,To light the hunt until the quarry's won.At the first grey of dawn, they halt before19The fretted arches of the giant caves;For here the tides rush full upon the shore.The failing scent is snatch'd amidst the waves,—Waves block the entrance of the gorge unseen;And roar, hoarse-surging, up the pent ravine.And worn, and spent, and panting, flag the steeds,20With mail and man bow'd down; nor meet to breastThe hell of waters, whence no pathway leads,And which no plummet sounds;—Reluctant restChecks the pursuit, till sullenly and slowBack, threatening still, the hosts of Ocean go,—And the bright clouds that circled the fair sun21Melt in the azure of the mellowing sky;Then hark again the human hunt begun,The ringing hoof, the hunter's cheering cry;Round and around by sand, and cave, and steep,The doubtful ban-dogs, undulating, sweep:At length, one windeth where the wave hath left22The unguarded portals of the gorge, and thereFar-wandering halts; and from a rocky cleftSpreads his keen nostril to the whispering air;Then, with trail'd ears, moves cowering o'er the ground,The deep bay booming breaks:—the scent is found.Hound answers hound—along the dank ravine23Pours the fresh wave of spears and tossing plumes;On—on; and now the idol-shrine obsceneThe dying pine-brand flickeringly illumes;The dogs go glancing through the the shafts of stone,Trample the altar, hurtle round the throne:Where the lone priest had watch'd, they pause awhile;24Then forth, hard breathing, down the gorge they swoop;Soon the swart woods that close the far defileGleam with the shimmer of the steel-clad troop:Glinting through leaves—now bright'ning through the glade,Now lost, dispersed amidst the matted shade.Foremost rode Harold, on a matchless steed,25Whose sire from Afric's coast a sea-king bore,And gave the Mercian, as his noblest meed,When (beardless yet) to Norway's Runic shore,Against a common foe, the Saxon ThaneLed three tall ships, and loosed them on the Dane:Foremost he rode, and on his mailèd breast26Cranch'd the strong branches of the groaning oak.Hark, with full peal, as suddenly supprest,Behind, the ban-dog's choral joy-cry broke!Led by the note, he turns him back, to reach,Near the wood's marge, a solitary beech.Clear space spreads round it for a rood or more;27Where o'er the space the feathering branches bend,The dogs, wedg'd close, with jaws that drip with gore,Growl o'er the carcass of the wolf they rend.Shamed at their lord's rebuke, they leave the feast—Scent the fresh foot-track of the idol-priest;And, track by track, deep, deeper through the maze,28Slowly they go—the watchful earl behind.Here the soft earth a recent hoof betrays;And still a footstep near the hoof they find;—So on, so on—the pathway spreads more large,And daylight rushes on the forest marge.The dogs bound emulous; but, snarling, shrink29Back at the anger of the earl's quick cry;—Near a small water spring, had paused to drinkA man half clad, who now, with kindling eyeAnd lifted knife, roused by the hostile sounds,Plants his firm foot, and fronts the glaring hounds."Fear not, rude stranger," quoth the earl in scorn;30"Not thee I seek; my dogs chase nobler prey.Speak, thou hast seen (if wandering here since morn)A lonely horseman;—whither wends his way?""Track'st thou his step in love or hate?"—"Why, soAs hawk his quarry, or as man his foe.""Thou dost not serve his God," the heathen said;31And sullen turn'd to quench his thirst again,The fierce earl chafed, but longer not delay'd;For what he sought the earth itself made plainIn the clear hoof-prints; to the hounds he show'dThe clue, and, cheering as they track'd, he rode.But thrice, to guide his comrades from the maze,32Rings through the echoing wood his lusty horn.Now, o'er waste pastures where the wild bulls graze,Now labouring up slow-lengthening headlands borne,The steadfast hounds outstrip the horseman's flight,And on the hill's dim summit fade from sight.But scarcely fade, before, though faint and far,33Fierce wrathful yells the foe at bay reveal.On spurs the Saxon, till, like some pale star,Gleams on the hill a lance—a helm of steel.The brow is gain'd; a space of level land,Bare to the sun—a grove at either hand;And in the middle of the space a mound;34And on the mound a knight upon his barb.No need for herald there his tromp to sound!—No need for diadem and ermine garb!Nature herself has crown'd that lion mien;And in the man the king of men is seen.Upon his helmet sits a snow-white dove,35Its plumage blending with the plumèd crest.Below the mount, recoiling, circling, moveThe ban-dogs, awed by the majestic restOf the great foe; and, yet with fangs that grin,And eyes that redden, raves the madding din.Still stands the steed; still, shining in the sun,36Sits on the steed the rider, statue-like:One stately hand upon his haunch, while oneLifts the tall lance, disdainful ev'n to strike;Calm from the roar obscene looks forth his gaze,Calm as the moon at which the watch-dog bays.The Saxon rein'd his war-horse on the brow37Of the broad hill; and if his inmost heartEver confest to fear, fear touch'd it now;—Not that chill pang which strife and death impartTo meaner men, but such religious aweAs from brave souls a foe admired can draw:Behind a quick and anxious glance he threw,38And pleased beheld spur midway up the hillHis knights and squires: again his horn he blew,Then hush'd the hounds, and near'd the slope where stillThe might of Arthur rested, as in cloudRests thunder; there his haughty crest he bow'd,And lower'd his lance, and said—"Dread foe and lord,39Pardon the Saxon Harold, nor disdainTo yield to warrior hand a kingly sword.Behold my numbers! to resist were vain,And flight——" Said Arthur, "Saxon, is a wordWarrior should speak not, nor a King have heard."And, sooth to say, when Cymri's knights shall ride40To chase a Saxon monarch from the plain,More knightly sport shall Cymri's king provide,And Cymrian tromps shall ring a nobler strain.Warrior, forsooth! when first went warrior, say,With hound and horn—God's image for the prey?"Gall'd to the quick, the fiery earl erect41Rose in his stirrups, shook his iron hand,And cried—"Alfader! but for the respectArm'd numbers owe to one, my Saxon brandShould—but why words? Ho, Mercia to the field!Lance to the rest!—yield, scornful Cymrian, yield!"For answer, Arthur closed his bassinet.42Then down it broke, the thunder from that cloud!And, ev'n as thunder by the thunder met,O'er his spurr'd steed broad-breasted Harold bow'd;Swift through the air the rushing armour flash'd,And tempests in the shock commingling clash'd!The Cymrian's lance smote on the Mercian's breast,43Through the pierced shield,—there, shivering in the hand,The dove had stirr'd not on the Prince's crest,And on his destrier bore him to the band,Which, moving not, but in a steadfast ring,With levell'd lances front the coming King.His shiver'd lance thrown by, high o'er his head,44Pluck'd from the selle, his battle-axe he shook—Paused for an instant—breathed his foaming steed,And chose his pathway with one lightning look:On either side, behind the Saxon foes,Cimmerian woods with welcome gloom arose;These gain'd, to conflict numbers less avail.45He paused, and every voice cried—"Yield, brave King!"Scarce died the word ere through the wall of steelFlashes the breach, and backward reels the ring,Plumes shorn, shields cloven, man and horse o'erthrown,As the arm'd meteor flames and rushes on.Till then, the danger shared, upon his crest,46Unmoved and calm, had sate the faithful dove,Serene as, braved for some beloved breast,All peril finds the gentle hero,—Love;But rising now, towards the dexter sideWhere darkest droop the woods, the pinions guide.Near the green marge the Cymrian checks the rein,47And, ev'n forgetful of the dove, wheels round,To front the foe that follows up the plain:So when the lion, with a single bound,Breaks through Numidian spears,—he halts beforeHis den,—and roots dread feet that fly no more.Their riven ranks reform'd, the Saxons move48In curving crescent, close, compact, and slowBehind the earl; who feels a hero's loveFill his large heart for that great hero foe:Murmuring, "May Harold, thus confronting all,Pass from the spear-storm to The Golden Hall!"[1]Then to his band—"If prophecy and sign49Paling men's cheeks, and read by wizard seers,Had not declared that Odin's threatened line,And the large birthright of the Saxon spears,Were cross'd bySkulda,[2]in the baleful skeinOf him who dares 'The Choosers of the Slain.'[3]"If not forbid against his single arm50Singly to try the even-sworded strife,Since his new gods, or Merlin's mighty charm,Hath made a host, the were-geld of his life—Not ours this shame!—here one, and there a field,But men are waxen when the Fates are steel'd."Seize we our captive, so the gods command—51But ye are men, let manhood guide the blow;Spare life, or but with life-defending handStrike—and Walhalla take that noble foe!Sound trump, speed truce."—Sedately from the restRode out the earl, and Cymri thus address'd:—"Our steels have cross'd: hate shivers on the shield;52If the speech gall'd, the lance atones the word;Yield, for thy valour wins the right to yield;Unstain'd the scutcheon, though resign'd the sword.Grant us the grace, which chance (not arms) hath wonWhy strike the many who would save the one?""Fair foe, and courteous," answered Arthur, moved53By that chivalric speech, "too well the mightOf Mercia's famous Harold have I proved,To deem it shame to yield as knight to knight;But a king's sword is by a nation given;Who guards a people holds his post from heaven."This freedom which thou ask'st me to resign54Than life is dearer; were it but to showThat with my people thinks their King!—divineThrough me all Cymri!—Streams shall cease to flow,Yon sun to shine, before to Saxon strifeOne Cymrian yields his freedom save with life."And so the saints assoil ye of my blood;55Return;—the rest we leave unto our causeAnd the just Heavens!" All silent, Harold stoodAnd his heart smote him. Now, amidst that pause,Arthur look'd up, and in the calm aboveBehold a falcon wheeling round the dove!For thus it chanced; the bird which Harold bore56(As was the Saxon wont), whate'er his way,Had, in the woodland, slipp'd the hood it wore,Unmark'd; and, when the bloodhounds bark'd at bay,Lured by the sound, had risen on the wing,Over the conflict vaguely hovering—Till when the dove had left, to guide, her lord,57It caught the white plumes glancing where they went;High in large circles to its height it soar'd,Swoop'd;—the light pinion foil'd the fierce descent;The falcon rose rebounding to the prey;And closed escape—confronting still the way.In vain the dove to Arthur seeks to flee;58Round her and round, with every sweep more near,The swift destroyer circles rapidly,Fixing keen eyes that fascinate with fear,A moment—and a shaft, than wing more fleet,Hurls the pierced falcon at the Saxon's feet.Down heavily it fell;—a moment stirr'd59Its fluttering plumes, and roll'd its glazing eye;But ev'n before the breath forsook the bird,Ev'n while the arrow whistled through the sky,Rush'd from the grove which screen'd the marksman's hand,With yell and whoop, a wild barbarian band—Half clad, with hides of beast, and shields of horn,60And huge clubs cloven from the knotted pine;And spears like those by Thor's great children borne,When Cæsar bridged with marching[4]steel the Rhine,Countless they start, as if from every treeHad sprung the uncouth defending deity;They pass the King, low bending as they pass;61Bear back the startled Harold on their way;And roaring onward, mass succeeding mass,Snatch the hemm'd Saxons from the King's survey.On Arthur's crest the dove refolds its wing;On Arthur's ear a voice comes murmuring,—"Man, have I served thy God?" and Arthur saw62The priest beside him, leaning on his bow;"Not till, in all, thou hast fulfill'd the law—Thou hast saved the friend—now aid to shield the foe;"And as a ship, cleaving the sever'd tides,Right through the sea of spears the hero rides.The wild troop part submissive as he goes;63Where, like an islet in that stormy main,Gleam'd Mercia's steel; and like a rock arose,Breasting the breakers, the undaunted Thane;He doff'd his helmet, look'd majestic round;And dropp'd the murderous weapon on the ground;And with a meek and brotherly embrace64Twined round the Saxon's neck the peaceful arm.Strife stood arrested—the mild kingly face,The loving gesture, like a holy charm,Thrill'd through the ranks: you might have heard a breath!So did soft Silence seem to bury Death.On the fair locks, and on the noble brow,65Fell the full splendour of the heavenly ray;The dove, dislodged, flew up—and rested now,Poised in the tranquil and translucent day.The calm wings seem'd to canopy the head;And from each plume a parting glory spread.So leave we that still picture on the eye;66And turn, reluctant, where the wand of SongPoints to the walls of Time's long gallery:And the dim Beautiful of Eld—too longMouldering unheeded in these later days,Starts from the canvass, bright'ning as we gaze.O lovely scene which smiles upon my view,67As sure it smiled on sweet Albano's dreams;He to whom Amor gave the roseate hueAnd that harmonious colour-wand which seemsPluck'd from the god's own wing!—Arcades and bowers,Mellifluous waters, lapsing amidst flowers,Or springing up, in multiform disport,68From murmurous founts, delightedly at play;As if the Naiad held her joyous courtTo greet the goddess whom the flowers obey;And all her nymphs took varying shapes in glee,Bell'd like the blossom—branching like the tree.Adown the cedarn alleys glanced the wings69Of all the painted populace of air,Whatever lulls the noonday while it singsOr mocks the iris with its plumes,—is there—Music and air so interfused and blent,That music seems life's breathing element.And every alley's stately vista closed70With some fair statue, on whose gleaming baseBeauty, not earth's, benignantly reposed,As if the gods were native to the place;And fair indeed the mortal forms, I ween,Whose presence brings no discord to the scene!Oh, fair they are, if mortal forms they be!71Mine eye the lovely error must beguile;So bloom'd the Hours, when from the heaving sea[5]Came Aphroditè to the rosy isle.What time they left Olympian halls above,To greet on earth their best beguiler—Love?Are they the Oreads from the Delphian steep72Waiting their goddess of the silver bow?Or shy Napææ,[6]startled from their sleep,Where blue Cithæron guards sweet vales below,Watching as home, from vanquished Ind afar,Comes their loved Evian in the panther-car?Why stream ye thus from yonder arching bowers?73Whom wait, whom watch ye for, O lovely band,With spears that, thyrsus-like, glance, wreath'd with flowers,And garland-fetters, linking hand to hand,And locks, from which drop blossoms on your way,Like starry buds from the loose crown of May?Behold how Alp on Alp shuts out the scene74From all the ruder world that lies afar;Deep, fathom-deep, the valley which they screen;Deep, as in chasms of cloud a happy star!What pass admits the stranger to your land?Whom wait, whom watch ye for, O lovely band?Ages ago, what time the barbarous horde,75From whose rough bosoms sprang Imperial Rome,Drew the slow-widening circle of the swordTill kingdoms vanish'd in a robber's home,A wise Etrurian chief, forewarn'd ('twas said)By his dark Cære,[7]from the danger fled:He left the vines of fruitful Fiesolè,76Left, with his household gods and chosen clan,Intent beyond the Ausonian bounds to flee,And Rome's dark shadow on the world of man.So came the exiles to the rocky wallWhich, centuries after, frown'd on HannibalHere, it so chanced, that down the deep profound77Of some huge Alp—a stray'd Etrurian fell;The pious rites ordain'd to explore the ground,And give the ashes to the funeral cell;Slowly they gain'd the gulf, to scare awayA vulture ravening on the mangled clay;Smit by a javelin from the leader's hand,78The bird crept fluttering down a deep defile,Through whose far end faint glimpses of a land,Sunn'd by a softer daylight, sent a smile;The Augur hail'd an omen in the sight,And led the wanderers towards the glimmering light.What seem'd a gorge was but a vista'd cave,79Long-drawn and hollow'd through primæval stone;Rude was the path, but as, beyond the graveElysium shines, the glorious landscape shone,Broadening and brightening—till their wonder seesBloom through the Alps the lost Hesperides.There, the sweet sunlight, from the heights debarr'd,80Gather'd its pomp to lavish on the vale;A wealth of wild sweets glitter'd on the sward,Screen'd by the very snow-rocks from the gale;Murmur'd clear waters, murmur'd joyous birds,And o'er soft pastures roved the fearless herds.His rod the Augur waves above the ground,81And cries, "In Tina's name I bless the soil."[8]With veilèd brows the exiles circle round;Along the rod propitious lightnings coil;The gods approve; rejoicing hands combine,Swift springs a sylvan city from the pine.What charm yet fails them in the lovely place?82Childhood's gay laugh—and woman's tender smile.A chosen few the venturous steps retrace;Love lightens toil for those who rest the while;And, ere the winter stills the sadden'd bird,The sweeter music of glad homes is heard;And with the objects of the dearer care,83The parting gifts of the old soil are home;Soon Tusca's grape hangs flushing in the air,And the glebe ripples with the golden corn;Gleams on grey slopes the olive's silvery tree,In her lone Alpine child,—far FiesolèRevives—reblooms, but under happier stars!84Age rolls on age,—upon the antique worldFull many a storm hath graved its thunder scars;Tombs only speak the Etrurian's language;[9]—hurl'dTo dust the shrines of Naith;[10]—the serpents hissOn Asia's throne in lorn Persepolis;The seaweed rots upon the ports of Tyre:85On Delphi's steep the Pythian's voice is dumb;Sad Athens leans upon her broken lyre;From the doom'd East the Bethlem Star hath come;But Rome an empire from an empire's lossGains in the god Rome yielded to the Cross!And here, as in a crypt, the miser Time,86Hoards, from all else, embedded in the stone,One eldest treasure—fresh as when, sublimeO'er gods and men, Jove thunder'd from his throne—The garb, the arts, the creed, the tongue, the sameAs when to Tarquin Cuma's sibyl came.The soil's first fathers, with elaborate hands,87Had closed the rocky portals of the place;No egress opens to unhappier lands:As tree on tree, so race succeeds to race,From sleep the passions no temptations draw,And strife bows childlike to the patriarch's law;Lull'd was ambition; each soft lot was cast;88Gold had no use; with war expired renown;From priest to priest mysterious reverence past;From king to king the mild Saturnian crown:Like dews, the rest came harmless into birth;Like dews exhaling—after gladd'ning earth.Not wholly dead, indeed, the love of praise—89When can that warmth from heaven forsake the heart?The Hister's[11]lyre still thrill'd with Camsee's lays,Still urn and statue caught the Arretian art,And hands, least skill'd, found leisure still to cullSome flowers, in offering to the Beautiful.Hence the whole vale one garden of delight;90Hence every home a temple for the Grace:Who worships Nature finds in Art the rite;And Beauty grows the Genius of the Place.Enough this record of the happy land:Whom watch, whom wait ye for, O lovely band?Listen awhile!—The strength of that soft state,91The arch's key-stones, are the priest and king;To guard all power inviolate from debate,To curb all impulse, or direct its wing,In antique forms to mould from childhood all;—Thisguards more strongly than the Alpine wall.The regal chief might wed as choice inclined,92Not so the daughters sprung from his embrace,Law, strong as caste, their nuptial rite confinedTo the pure circle of the Lartian race;Hence with more awe the kingly house was view'd,Hence nipp'd ambition bore no rival feud.But now, as on some eldest oak, decay93In the proud topmost boughs is serely shown;While life yet shoots from every humbler spray—So, of the royal tribe one branch aloneRemains; and all the honours of the raceLend their last bloom to smile in Ægle's face.[12]The great arch-priest (to whom the laws assign94The charge of this sweet blossom from the bud),Consults the annals archived in the shrine,And, twice before, when fail'd the Lartian blood,And no male heir was found, the guiding pageRecords the expedient of the elder age.Rather than yield to rival tribes the hope95That wakes aspiring thought and tempts to strife;And (lowering awful reverence) rashly opeThe pales that mark the set degrees of life,The priest (to whom the secret only known)Unlock'd the artful portals of the stone;And watch'd and lured some wanderer, o'er the steep,96Into the vale, return for ever o'er;The gate, like Death's, reclosed upon the keep—Earth left its ghost as on the Funeral shore.And what more envied lot could earth provideThan calm Elysium—with a living bride?A priestly tale the simple flock deceived:97The gods had care of their Tagetian child![13]The nuptial garlands for a god they weaved;A god himself upon the maid had smiled,A god himself renew'd the race divine,And gave new monarchs to the Lartian line.Yet short, alas! the incense of delight98That lull'd the new-found Ammon of the Hour;Like love's own star, upon the verge of night,Trembled the torch that lit the bridal bower;Soon as a son was born—his mission o'er—The stranger vanish'd to his gods once more.Two temples closed the boundaries of the place,99One (vow'd to Tina) in its walls conceal'dThe granite portals, by the former raceSo deftly fashion'd,—not a chink reveal'dWhere (twice unbarr'd in all the ages flown)The stony donjon mask'd the door of stone.The fane of Mantu[14]form'd the opposing bound100Of the long valley; where the surplus waveOf the main stream a gloomy outlet found,Split on sharp rocks beneath a night of cave,And there, in torrents, down some lost ravineWhere Alps took root—fell heard, but never seen.Right o'er this cave the Death-Power's temple rose;101The cave's dark vault was curtain'd by the shrine;Here by the priest (the sacred scrolls depose)Was led the bridegroom when renew'd the line;At night, that shrine his steps unprescient trod—And morning came, and earth had lost the god!Nine days had now the Augur to the flock102Announced the coming of the heavenly spouse;Nine days his steps had wander'd through the rock,And his eye watch'd through unfamiliar boughs,And not a foot-fall in those rugged ways!The lone Alps wearied on his lonely gaze—But now this day (the tenth) the signal torch103Streams from the temple; the mysterious swellOf long-drawn music peals from aisle to porch:—He leaves the bright hall where the Æsars[15]dwell,He comes, o'er flowers and fountains to preside,He comes, the god-spouse to the mortal bride—He comes, for whom ye watch'd, O lovely band,104Scatter your flowers before his welcome feet!Lo, where the temple's holy gates expand,Haste, O ye nymphs, the bright'ning steps to meetWhy start ye back?—What though the blaze of steelThe form of Mars, the expanding gates reveal—The face, no helmet crowns with war, displays105Not that fierce god from whom Etruria fled;Cull from far softer legends while ye gaze,Not there the aspect mortal maid should dread!Have ye no songs from kindred CastalyOf that bright Wanderer from the Olympian[16]sky,Who, in Arcadian dells, with silver lute106Hush'd in delight the nymph and breathless faun?Or are your cold Etrurian minstrels muteOf him whom Syria worshipp'd as the DawnAnd Greece as fair Adonis? Hail, O hail!Scatter your flowers, and welcome to the vale!Wondering the stranger moves! That fairy land,107Those forms of dark yet lustrous loveliness,[17]That solemn seer who leads him by the hand;The tongue unknown, the joy he cannot guess,Blend in one marvel every sound and sight;And in the strangeness doubles the delight.Young Ægle sits within her palace bower,108She hears the cymbals clashing from afar—So Ormuzd's music welcomed in the hourWhen the sun hasten'd to his morning-star.Smile, Star of Morn—he cometh from above!And twilight melts around the steps of Love.Save the grey Augur (since the unconscious child109Sprang to the last kiss of her dying sire)Those eyes by man's rude presence undefiled,Had deepen'd into woman's. As a lyreHung on unwitness'd boughs, amidst the shade,And but to air her soul its music made.Fair was her prison, wall'd with woven flowers,110In a soft isle embraced by softest waters,Linnet and lark the sentries to the towers,And for the guard Etruria's infant daughters;But stronger far than walls, the antique law,And more than hosts, religion's shadowy awe.Thus lone, thus reverenced, the young virgin grew111Into the age, when on the heart's calm waveThe light winds tremble, and emotions newSteal to the peace departing childhood gave;When for the vague Beyond the captive pines,And the soul misses—what it scarce divines.Lo where she sits—(and blossoms arch the dome)112Girt by young handmaids!—Near and nearer swellingThe cymbals sound before the steps that comeO'er rose and hyacinth to the bridal dwelling;And clear and loud the summer air alongFrom virgin voices floats the choral song.Lo where the sacred talismans diffuse113Their fragrant charms against the Evil Powers;Lo where young hands the consecrated dewsFrom cuspèd vervain sprinkle round the flowers,And o'er the robe, with broider'd palm-leaves sown,That decks the daughter of the peaceful throne!Lo, on those locks of night the myrtle crown,114Lo, where the heart beats quick beneath the veil;Lo, where the lids, cast tremulously down,Cloud stars which Eros as his own might hail;Oh, lovelier than Endymion's loveliest dream,Joy to the heart on which those eyes shall beam!The bark comes bounding to the islet shore,115The trellised gates fly back: the footsteps fallThrough jasmined galleries on the threshold floor;And, in the Heart-Enchainer's golden thrall,There, spell-bound halt;—So, first since youth beganHer eyes meet youth in the charm'd eyes of man!And there Art's two opposed Ideals rest;116There the twin flowers of the old world bloom forth;The classic symbol of the gentle West,And the bold type of the chivalric North.What trial waits thee, Cymrian, sharper hereThan the wolf's death-fang or the Saxon's spear?But would ye learn how he we left afar,117Girt by the stormy people of the wild,Came to the confines of the Hesperus Star,And the soft gardens of the Etrurian child;Would ye, yet lingering in the wondrous vale,Learn what time spares if sorrow can assail;What there, forgetful of the vanish'd dove,118(Lost at these portals) did the king befall;Pause till the hand has tuned the harp to love,And notes that bring young listeners to the hall;And he, whose sires in Cymri reign'd, shall singHow Tusca's daughter loved the Cymrian King.
We raise the curtain where the unconscious king1Beneath the beech his fearless couch had made;Here, the fierce fangs prepared their deadly spring;There, in the hand of Murder gleam'd the blade;And not a sound to warn him from above;Where, still unsleeping, watch'd the guardian dove!
Hark, a dull crash!—a howling, ravenous yell!2Opening fell symphony of ghastly sound,Jarring, yet blent, as if the dismal hellSent its strange anguish from the rent Profound:Through all its scale the horrible discord ran,Now mock'd the beast, now took the groan of man;
Wrath, and the grind of gnashing teeth; the growl3Of famine routed from its red repast;Sharp shrilling pain; and fury from some soulThat fronts despair, and wrestles to the last.Up sprang the King—the moon's uncertain rayThrough the still leaves just wins its glimmering way.
And lo, before him, close, yet wanly faint,4Forms that seem shadows, strife that seems the sportOf things that oft some holy hermit saintLone in Egyptian plains (the dread resortOf Nile's dethronèd demon gods) hath view'd;The grisly tempters, born of Solitude:—
Coil'd in the strong death-grapple, through the dim5And haggard air, before the Cymrian layWrithing and interlaced with fang and limb,As if one shape, what seem'd a beast of preyAnd the grand form of Man!—The bird of HeavenWisely no note to warn the sleep had given;
The sleep protected;—as the Savage sprang,6Sprang the wild beast;—before the dreamer's breastDefeated Murder found the hungry fang,The wolf the steel:—so, starting from his rest,The saved man woke to save! Nor time was hereFor pause or caution; for the sword or spear;
Clasp'd round the wolf, swift arms of iron draw7From their fierce hold the buried fangs;—on highUp-borne, the baffled terrors of its jawGnash vain;—one yell howls, hollow, through the sky;And dies abruptly, stifled to a gasp,As the grim heart pants crushing in the grasp.
Fit for a nation's bulwark, that strong breast8To which the strong arms lock'd the powerless foe!—Nor oped the vice till breath's last anguish ceast;'Tis done; and dumb the dull weight drops below.The kindred form, which now the King surveys,Those arms, all gentle as a woman's, raise.
Leaning the pale cheek on his pitying heart,9He wipes the blood from face, and breast, and limb,And joyful sees (for no humaner artWhich Christian knighthood knows, unknown to him)That the fell fangs the nobler parts forbore,And, thanks, sweet Virgin! life returns once more.
The savage stared around: from dizzy eyes10Toss'd the loose shaggy hair; and to his knee,—His reeling feet—up stagger'd—Lo, where liesThe dead wild beast!—lo, in his saviour, seeThe fellow-man, whom—with a feeble boundHe leapt, and snatch'd the dagger from the ground;
And, faithful to his gods, he sprang to slay;11The weak limb fail'd him; gleam'd and dropp'd the blade;The arm hung nerveless;—by the beast of preyMurder, still baffled, fell:—Then, soothing, saidThe gentle King—"Behold no foe in me!"And knelt by Hate like pitying Charity.
In suffering man he could not find a foe,12And the mild hand clasp'd that which yearn'd to kill!"Ha," gasp'd the gazing savage, "dost thou knowThat I had doom'd thee in thy sleep?—that stillMy soul would doom thee, could my hand obey?—Wake thou, stern goddess—seize thyself the prey!"
"Serv'st thou a goddess," said the wondering King,13"Whose rites ask innocent blood?—O brother, learnIn heaven, in earth, in each created thing,One God, whom all call 'Father' to discern!""Can thy God suffer thy God's foe to live?"—"God once had foes, and said to man, 'Forgive!'"
The Christian answer'd. Dream-like the mild words14Fell on the ear, as sense again gave wayTo swooning sleep; which woke but with the birdsIn the cold clearness of the dawning day.—Strung by that sleep, the savage scowl'd around;Why droops his head? Kind hands his wounds have bound.
Lonely he stood, and miss'd that tender foe15The wolf's glazed eye-ball mutely met his own;Beyond, the pine-brand sent its sullen glow,Circling blood-red the awful altar-stone;Blood-red, as sinks the sun, from land afar,Ere tempests wreck the Amalfian mariner;
Or as, when Mars sits in the House of Death16For doom'd Aleppo, on the hopeless MoorGlares the fierce orb from skies without a breath,While the chalk'd signal on the abhorrèd doorTells that the Pestilence is come!—the pineUnheeded wastes upon the hideous shrine;
The priest returns not;—from its giant throne,17The idol calls in vain:—its realm is o'er;The Dire Religion flies the altar-stone,For love has breathed on what was hate before.Lured by man's heart, by man's kind deeds subdued,Him who had pardon'd, he who wrong'd pursued.
Meanwhile speeds on the Saxon chase, behind;—18Baffled at first, and doubling to and fro,At last, the war-dogs, snorting, seize the wind,Burst on the scent, which gathers as they go;Day wanes, night comes; the star succeeds the sun,To light the hunt until the quarry's won.
At the first grey of dawn, they halt before19The fretted arches of the giant caves;For here the tides rush full upon the shore.The failing scent is snatch'd amidst the waves,—Waves block the entrance of the gorge unseen;And roar, hoarse-surging, up the pent ravine.
And worn, and spent, and panting, flag the steeds,20With mail and man bow'd down; nor meet to breastThe hell of waters, whence no pathway leads,And which no plummet sounds;—Reluctant restChecks the pursuit, till sullenly and slowBack, threatening still, the hosts of Ocean go,—
And the bright clouds that circled the fair sun21Melt in the azure of the mellowing sky;Then hark again the human hunt begun,The ringing hoof, the hunter's cheering cry;Round and around by sand, and cave, and steep,The doubtful ban-dogs, undulating, sweep:
At length, one windeth where the wave hath left22The unguarded portals of the gorge, and thereFar-wandering halts; and from a rocky cleftSpreads his keen nostril to the whispering air;Then, with trail'd ears, moves cowering o'er the ground,The deep bay booming breaks:—the scent is found.
Hound answers hound—along the dank ravine23Pours the fresh wave of spears and tossing plumes;On—on; and now the idol-shrine obsceneThe dying pine-brand flickeringly illumes;The dogs go glancing through the the shafts of stone,Trample the altar, hurtle round the throne:
Where the lone priest had watch'd, they pause awhile;24Then forth, hard breathing, down the gorge they swoop;Soon the swart woods that close the far defileGleam with the shimmer of the steel-clad troop:Glinting through leaves—now bright'ning through the glade,Now lost, dispersed amidst the matted shade.
Foremost rode Harold, on a matchless steed,25Whose sire from Afric's coast a sea-king bore,And gave the Mercian, as his noblest meed,When (beardless yet) to Norway's Runic shore,Against a common foe, the Saxon ThaneLed three tall ships, and loosed them on the Dane:
Foremost he rode, and on his mailèd breast26Cranch'd the strong branches of the groaning oak.Hark, with full peal, as suddenly supprest,Behind, the ban-dog's choral joy-cry broke!Led by the note, he turns him back, to reach,Near the wood's marge, a solitary beech.
Clear space spreads round it for a rood or more;27Where o'er the space the feathering branches bend,The dogs, wedg'd close, with jaws that drip with gore,Growl o'er the carcass of the wolf they rend.Shamed at their lord's rebuke, they leave the feast—Scent the fresh foot-track of the idol-priest;
And, track by track, deep, deeper through the maze,28Slowly they go—the watchful earl behind.Here the soft earth a recent hoof betrays;And still a footstep near the hoof they find;—So on, so on—the pathway spreads more large,And daylight rushes on the forest marge.
The dogs bound emulous; but, snarling, shrink29Back at the anger of the earl's quick cry;—Near a small water spring, had paused to drinkA man half clad, who now, with kindling eyeAnd lifted knife, roused by the hostile sounds,Plants his firm foot, and fronts the glaring hounds.
"Fear not, rude stranger," quoth the earl in scorn;30"Not thee I seek; my dogs chase nobler prey.Speak, thou hast seen (if wandering here since morn)A lonely horseman;—whither wends his way?""Track'st thou his step in love or hate?"—"Why, soAs hawk his quarry, or as man his foe."
"Thou dost not serve his God," the heathen said;31And sullen turn'd to quench his thirst again,The fierce earl chafed, but longer not delay'd;For what he sought the earth itself made plainIn the clear hoof-prints; to the hounds he show'dThe clue, and, cheering as they track'd, he rode.
But thrice, to guide his comrades from the maze,32Rings through the echoing wood his lusty horn.Now, o'er waste pastures where the wild bulls graze,Now labouring up slow-lengthening headlands borne,The steadfast hounds outstrip the horseman's flight,And on the hill's dim summit fade from sight.
But scarcely fade, before, though faint and far,33Fierce wrathful yells the foe at bay reveal.On spurs the Saxon, till, like some pale star,Gleams on the hill a lance—a helm of steel.The brow is gain'd; a space of level land,Bare to the sun—a grove at either hand;
And in the middle of the space a mound;34And on the mound a knight upon his barb.No need for herald there his tromp to sound!—No need for diadem and ermine garb!Nature herself has crown'd that lion mien;And in the man the king of men is seen.
Upon his helmet sits a snow-white dove,35Its plumage blending with the plumèd crest.Below the mount, recoiling, circling, moveThe ban-dogs, awed by the majestic restOf the great foe; and, yet with fangs that grin,And eyes that redden, raves the madding din.
Still stands the steed; still, shining in the sun,36Sits on the steed the rider, statue-like:One stately hand upon his haunch, while oneLifts the tall lance, disdainful ev'n to strike;Calm from the roar obscene looks forth his gaze,Calm as the moon at which the watch-dog bays.
The Saxon rein'd his war-horse on the brow37Of the broad hill; and if his inmost heartEver confest to fear, fear touch'd it now;—Not that chill pang which strife and death impartTo meaner men, but such religious aweAs from brave souls a foe admired can draw:
Behind a quick and anxious glance he threw,38And pleased beheld spur midway up the hillHis knights and squires: again his horn he blew,Then hush'd the hounds, and near'd the slope where stillThe might of Arthur rested, as in cloudRests thunder; there his haughty crest he bow'd,
And lower'd his lance, and said—"Dread foe and lord,39Pardon the Saxon Harold, nor disdainTo yield to warrior hand a kingly sword.Behold my numbers! to resist were vain,And flight——" Said Arthur, "Saxon, is a wordWarrior should speak not, nor a King have heard.
"And, sooth to say, when Cymri's knights shall ride40To chase a Saxon monarch from the plain,More knightly sport shall Cymri's king provide,And Cymrian tromps shall ring a nobler strain.Warrior, forsooth! when first went warrior, say,With hound and horn—God's image for the prey?"
Gall'd to the quick, the fiery earl erect41Rose in his stirrups, shook his iron hand,And cried—"Alfader! but for the respectArm'd numbers owe to one, my Saxon brandShould—but why words? Ho, Mercia to the field!Lance to the rest!—yield, scornful Cymrian, yield!"
For answer, Arthur closed his bassinet.42Then down it broke, the thunder from that cloud!And, ev'n as thunder by the thunder met,O'er his spurr'd steed broad-breasted Harold bow'd;Swift through the air the rushing armour flash'd,And tempests in the shock commingling clash'd!
The Cymrian's lance smote on the Mercian's breast,43Through the pierced shield,—there, shivering in the hand,The dove had stirr'd not on the Prince's crest,And on his destrier bore him to the band,Which, moving not, but in a steadfast ring,With levell'd lances front the coming King.
His shiver'd lance thrown by, high o'er his head,44Pluck'd from the selle, his battle-axe he shook—Paused for an instant—breathed his foaming steed,And chose his pathway with one lightning look:On either side, behind the Saxon foes,Cimmerian woods with welcome gloom arose;
These gain'd, to conflict numbers less avail.45He paused, and every voice cried—"Yield, brave King!"Scarce died the word ere through the wall of steelFlashes the breach, and backward reels the ring,Plumes shorn, shields cloven, man and horse o'erthrown,As the arm'd meteor flames and rushes on.
Till then, the danger shared, upon his crest,46Unmoved and calm, had sate the faithful dove,Serene as, braved for some beloved breast,All peril finds the gentle hero,—Love;But rising now, towards the dexter sideWhere darkest droop the woods, the pinions guide.
Near the green marge the Cymrian checks the rein,47And, ev'n forgetful of the dove, wheels round,To front the foe that follows up the plain:So when the lion, with a single bound,Breaks through Numidian spears,—he halts beforeHis den,—and roots dread feet that fly no more.
Their riven ranks reform'd, the Saxons move48In curving crescent, close, compact, and slowBehind the earl; who feels a hero's loveFill his large heart for that great hero foe:Murmuring, "May Harold, thus confronting all,Pass from the spear-storm to The Golden Hall!"[1]
Then to his band—"If prophecy and sign49Paling men's cheeks, and read by wizard seers,Had not declared that Odin's threatened line,And the large birthright of the Saxon spears,Were cross'd bySkulda,[2]in the baleful skeinOf him who dares 'The Choosers of the Slain.'[3]
"If not forbid against his single arm50Singly to try the even-sworded strife,Since his new gods, or Merlin's mighty charm,Hath made a host, the were-geld of his life—Not ours this shame!—here one, and there a field,But men are waxen when the Fates are steel'd.
"Seize we our captive, so the gods command—51But ye are men, let manhood guide the blow;Spare life, or but with life-defending handStrike—and Walhalla take that noble foe!Sound trump, speed truce."—Sedately from the restRode out the earl, and Cymri thus address'd:—
"Our steels have cross'd: hate shivers on the shield;52If the speech gall'd, the lance atones the word;Yield, for thy valour wins the right to yield;Unstain'd the scutcheon, though resign'd the sword.Grant us the grace, which chance (not arms) hath wonWhy strike the many who would save the one?"
"Fair foe, and courteous," answered Arthur, moved53By that chivalric speech, "too well the mightOf Mercia's famous Harold have I proved,To deem it shame to yield as knight to knight;But a king's sword is by a nation given;Who guards a people holds his post from heaven.
"This freedom which thou ask'st me to resign54Than life is dearer; were it but to showThat with my people thinks their King!—divineThrough me all Cymri!—Streams shall cease to flow,Yon sun to shine, before to Saxon strifeOne Cymrian yields his freedom save with life.
"And so the saints assoil ye of my blood;55Return;—the rest we leave unto our causeAnd the just Heavens!" All silent, Harold stoodAnd his heart smote him. Now, amidst that pause,Arthur look'd up, and in the calm aboveBehold a falcon wheeling round the dove!
For thus it chanced; the bird which Harold bore56(As was the Saxon wont), whate'er his way,Had, in the woodland, slipp'd the hood it wore,Unmark'd; and, when the bloodhounds bark'd at bay,Lured by the sound, had risen on the wing,Over the conflict vaguely hovering—
Till when the dove had left, to guide, her lord,57It caught the white plumes glancing where they went;High in large circles to its height it soar'd,Swoop'd;—the light pinion foil'd the fierce descent;The falcon rose rebounding to the prey;And closed escape—confronting still the way.
In vain the dove to Arthur seeks to flee;58Round her and round, with every sweep more near,The swift destroyer circles rapidly,Fixing keen eyes that fascinate with fear,A moment—and a shaft, than wing more fleet,Hurls the pierced falcon at the Saxon's feet.
Down heavily it fell;—a moment stirr'd59Its fluttering plumes, and roll'd its glazing eye;But ev'n before the breath forsook the bird,Ev'n while the arrow whistled through the sky,Rush'd from the grove which screen'd the marksman's hand,With yell and whoop, a wild barbarian band—
Half clad, with hides of beast, and shields of horn,60And huge clubs cloven from the knotted pine;And spears like those by Thor's great children borne,When Cæsar bridged with marching[4]steel the Rhine,Countless they start, as if from every treeHad sprung the uncouth defending deity;
They pass the King, low bending as they pass;61Bear back the startled Harold on their way;And roaring onward, mass succeeding mass,Snatch the hemm'd Saxons from the King's survey.On Arthur's crest the dove refolds its wing;On Arthur's ear a voice comes murmuring,—
"Man, have I served thy God?" and Arthur saw62The priest beside him, leaning on his bow;"Not till, in all, thou hast fulfill'd the law—Thou hast saved the friend—now aid to shield the foe;"And as a ship, cleaving the sever'd tides,Right through the sea of spears the hero rides.
The wild troop part submissive as he goes;63Where, like an islet in that stormy main,Gleam'd Mercia's steel; and like a rock arose,Breasting the breakers, the undaunted Thane;He doff'd his helmet, look'd majestic round;And dropp'd the murderous weapon on the ground;
And with a meek and brotherly embrace64Twined round the Saxon's neck the peaceful arm.Strife stood arrested—the mild kingly face,The loving gesture, like a holy charm,Thrill'd through the ranks: you might have heard a breath!So did soft Silence seem to bury Death.
On the fair locks, and on the noble brow,65Fell the full splendour of the heavenly ray;The dove, dislodged, flew up—and rested now,Poised in the tranquil and translucent day.The calm wings seem'd to canopy the head;And from each plume a parting glory spread.
So leave we that still picture on the eye;66And turn, reluctant, where the wand of SongPoints to the walls of Time's long gallery:And the dim Beautiful of Eld—too longMouldering unheeded in these later days,Starts from the canvass, bright'ning as we gaze.
O lovely scene which smiles upon my view,67As sure it smiled on sweet Albano's dreams;He to whom Amor gave the roseate hueAnd that harmonious colour-wand which seemsPluck'd from the god's own wing!—Arcades and bowers,Mellifluous waters, lapsing amidst flowers,
Or springing up, in multiform disport,68From murmurous founts, delightedly at play;As if the Naiad held her joyous courtTo greet the goddess whom the flowers obey;And all her nymphs took varying shapes in glee,Bell'd like the blossom—branching like the tree.
Adown the cedarn alleys glanced the wings69Of all the painted populace of air,Whatever lulls the noonday while it singsOr mocks the iris with its plumes,—is there—Music and air so interfused and blent,That music seems life's breathing element.
And every alley's stately vista closed70With some fair statue, on whose gleaming baseBeauty, not earth's, benignantly reposed,As if the gods were native to the place;And fair indeed the mortal forms, I ween,Whose presence brings no discord to the scene!
Oh, fair they are, if mortal forms they be!71Mine eye the lovely error must beguile;So bloom'd the Hours, when from the heaving sea[5]Came Aphroditè to the rosy isle.What time they left Olympian halls above,To greet on earth their best beguiler—Love?
Are they the Oreads from the Delphian steep72Waiting their goddess of the silver bow?Or shy Napææ,[6]startled from their sleep,Where blue Cithæron guards sweet vales below,Watching as home, from vanquished Ind afar,Comes their loved Evian in the panther-car?
Why stream ye thus from yonder arching bowers?73Whom wait, whom watch ye for, O lovely band,With spears that, thyrsus-like, glance, wreath'd with flowers,And garland-fetters, linking hand to hand,And locks, from which drop blossoms on your way,Like starry buds from the loose crown of May?
Behold how Alp on Alp shuts out the scene74From all the ruder world that lies afar;Deep, fathom-deep, the valley which they screen;Deep, as in chasms of cloud a happy star!What pass admits the stranger to your land?Whom wait, whom watch ye for, O lovely band?
Ages ago, what time the barbarous horde,75From whose rough bosoms sprang Imperial Rome,Drew the slow-widening circle of the swordTill kingdoms vanish'd in a robber's home,A wise Etrurian chief, forewarn'd ('twas said)By his dark Cære,[7]from the danger fled:
He left the vines of fruitful Fiesolè,76Left, with his household gods and chosen clan,Intent beyond the Ausonian bounds to flee,And Rome's dark shadow on the world of man.So came the exiles to the rocky wallWhich, centuries after, frown'd on Hannibal
Here, it so chanced, that down the deep profound77Of some huge Alp—a stray'd Etrurian fell;The pious rites ordain'd to explore the ground,And give the ashes to the funeral cell;Slowly they gain'd the gulf, to scare awayA vulture ravening on the mangled clay;
Smit by a javelin from the leader's hand,78The bird crept fluttering down a deep defile,Through whose far end faint glimpses of a land,Sunn'd by a softer daylight, sent a smile;The Augur hail'd an omen in the sight,And led the wanderers towards the glimmering light.
What seem'd a gorge was but a vista'd cave,79Long-drawn and hollow'd through primæval stone;Rude was the path, but as, beyond the graveElysium shines, the glorious landscape shone,Broadening and brightening—till their wonder seesBloom through the Alps the lost Hesperides.
There, the sweet sunlight, from the heights debarr'd,80Gather'd its pomp to lavish on the vale;A wealth of wild sweets glitter'd on the sward,Screen'd by the very snow-rocks from the gale;Murmur'd clear waters, murmur'd joyous birds,And o'er soft pastures roved the fearless herds.
His rod the Augur waves above the ground,81And cries, "In Tina's name I bless the soil."[8]With veilèd brows the exiles circle round;Along the rod propitious lightnings coil;The gods approve; rejoicing hands combine,Swift springs a sylvan city from the pine.
What charm yet fails them in the lovely place?82Childhood's gay laugh—and woman's tender smile.A chosen few the venturous steps retrace;Love lightens toil for those who rest the while;And, ere the winter stills the sadden'd bird,The sweeter music of glad homes is heard;
And with the objects of the dearer care,83The parting gifts of the old soil are home;Soon Tusca's grape hangs flushing in the air,And the glebe ripples with the golden corn;Gleams on grey slopes the olive's silvery tree,In her lone Alpine child,—far Fiesolè
Revives—reblooms, but under happier stars!84Age rolls on age,—upon the antique worldFull many a storm hath graved its thunder scars;Tombs only speak the Etrurian's language;[9]—hurl'dTo dust the shrines of Naith;[10]—the serpents hissOn Asia's throne in lorn Persepolis;
The seaweed rots upon the ports of Tyre:85On Delphi's steep the Pythian's voice is dumb;Sad Athens leans upon her broken lyre;From the doom'd East the Bethlem Star hath come;But Rome an empire from an empire's lossGains in the god Rome yielded to the Cross!
And here, as in a crypt, the miser Time,86Hoards, from all else, embedded in the stone,One eldest treasure—fresh as when, sublimeO'er gods and men, Jove thunder'd from his throne—The garb, the arts, the creed, the tongue, the sameAs when to Tarquin Cuma's sibyl came.
The soil's first fathers, with elaborate hands,87Had closed the rocky portals of the place;No egress opens to unhappier lands:As tree on tree, so race succeeds to race,From sleep the passions no temptations draw,And strife bows childlike to the patriarch's law;
Lull'd was ambition; each soft lot was cast;88Gold had no use; with war expired renown;From priest to priest mysterious reverence past;From king to king the mild Saturnian crown:Like dews, the rest came harmless into birth;Like dews exhaling—after gladd'ning earth.
Not wholly dead, indeed, the love of praise—89When can that warmth from heaven forsake the heart?The Hister's[11]lyre still thrill'd with Camsee's lays,Still urn and statue caught the Arretian art,And hands, least skill'd, found leisure still to cullSome flowers, in offering to the Beautiful.
Hence the whole vale one garden of delight;90Hence every home a temple for the Grace:Who worships Nature finds in Art the rite;And Beauty grows the Genius of the Place.Enough this record of the happy land:Whom watch, whom wait ye for, O lovely band?
Listen awhile!—The strength of that soft state,91The arch's key-stones, are the priest and king;To guard all power inviolate from debate,To curb all impulse, or direct its wing,In antique forms to mould from childhood all;—Thisguards more strongly than the Alpine wall.
The regal chief might wed as choice inclined,92Not so the daughters sprung from his embrace,Law, strong as caste, their nuptial rite confinedTo the pure circle of the Lartian race;Hence with more awe the kingly house was view'd,Hence nipp'd ambition bore no rival feud.
But now, as on some eldest oak, decay93In the proud topmost boughs is serely shown;While life yet shoots from every humbler spray—So, of the royal tribe one branch aloneRemains; and all the honours of the raceLend their last bloom to smile in Ægle's face.[12]
The great arch-priest (to whom the laws assign94The charge of this sweet blossom from the bud),Consults the annals archived in the shrine,And, twice before, when fail'd the Lartian blood,And no male heir was found, the guiding pageRecords the expedient of the elder age.
Rather than yield to rival tribes the hope95That wakes aspiring thought and tempts to strife;And (lowering awful reverence) rashly opeThe pales that mark the set degrees of life,The priest (to whom the secret only known)Unlock'd the artful portals of the stone;
And watch'd and lured some wanderer, o'er the steep,96Into the vale, return for ever o'er;The gate, like Death's, reclosed upon the keep—Earth left its ghost as on the Funeral shore.And what more envied lot could earth provideThan calm Elysium—with a living bride?
A priestly tale the simple flock deceived:97The gods had care of their Tagetian child![13]The nuptial garlands for a god they weaved;A god himself upon the maid had smiled,A god himself renew'd the race divine,And gave new monarchs to the Lartian line.
Yet short, alas! the incense of delight98That lull'd the new-found Ammon of the Hour;Like love's own star, upon the verge of night,Trembled the torch that lit the bridal bower;Soon as a son was born—his mission o'er—The stranger vanish'd to his gods once more.
Two temples closed the boundaries of the place,99One (vow'd to Tina) in its walls conceal'dThe granite portals, by the former raceSo deftly fashion'd,—not a chink reveal'dWhere (twice unbarr'd in all the ages flown)The stony donjon mask'd the door of stone.
The fane of Mantu[14]form'd the opposing bound100Of the long valley; where the surplus waveOf the main stream a gloomy outlet found,Split on sharp rocks beneath a night of cave,And there, in torrents, down some lost ravineWhere Alps took root—fell heard, but never seen.
Right o'er this cave the Death-Power's temple rose;101The cave's dark vault was curtain'd by the shrine;Here by the priest (the sacred scrolls depose)Was led the bridegroom when renew'd the line;At night, that shrine his steps unprescient trod—And morning came, and earth had lost the god!
Nine days had now the Augur to the flock102Announced the coming of the heavenly spouse;Nine days his steps had wander'd through the rock,And his eye watch'd through unfamiliar boughs,And not a foot-fall in those rugged ways!The lone Alps wearied on his lonely gaze—
But now this day (the tenth) the signal torch103Streams from the temple; the mysterious swellOf long-drawn music peals from aisle to porch:—He leaves the bright hall where the Æsars[15]dwell,He comes, o'er flowers and fountains to preside,He comes, the god-spouse to the mortal bride—
He comes, for whom ye watch'd, O lovely band,104Scatter your flowers before his welcome feet!Lo, where the temple's holy gates expand,Haste, O ye nymphs, the bright'ning steps to meetWhy start ye back?—What though the blaze of steelThe form of Mars, the expanding gates reveal—
The face, no helmet crowns with war, displays105Not that fierce god from whom Etruria fled;Cull from far softer legends while ye gaze,Not there the aspect mortal maid should dread!Have ye no songs from kindred CastalyOf that bright Wanderer from the Olympian[16]sky,
Who, in Arcadian dells, with silver lute106Hush'd in delight the nymph and breathless faun?Or are your cold Etrurian minstrels muteOf him whom Syria worshipp'd as the DawnAnd Greece as fair Adonis? Hail, O hail!Scatter your flowers, and welcome to the vale!
Wondering the stranger moves! That fairy land,107Those forms of dark yet lustrous loveliness,[17]That solemn seer who leads him by the hand;The tongue unknown, the joy he cannot guess,Blend in one marvel every sound and sight;And in the strangeness doubles the delight.
Young Ægle sits within her palace bower,108She hears the cymbals clashing from afar—So Ormuzd's music welcomed in the hourWhen the sun hasten'd to his morning-star.Smile, Star of Morn—he cometh from above!And twilight melts around the steps of Love.
Save the grey Augur (since the unconscious child109Sprang to the last kiss of her dying sire)Those eyes by man's rude presence undefiled,Had deepen'd into woman's. As a lyreHung on unwitness'd boughs, amidst the shade,And but to air her soul its music made.
Fair was her prison, wall'd with woven flowers,110In a soft isle embraced by softest waters,Linnet and lark the sentries to the towers,And for the guard Etruria's infant daughters;But stronger far than walls, the antique law,And more than hosts, religion's shadowy awe.
Thus lone, thus reverenced, the young virgin grew111Into the age, when on the heart's calm waveThe light winds tremble, and emotions newSteal to the peace departing childhood gave;When for the vague Beyond the captive pines,And the soul misses—what it scarce divines.
Lo where she sits—(and blossoms arch the dome)112Girt by young handmaids!—Near and nearer swellingThe cymbals sound before the steps that comeO'er rose and hyacinth to the bridal dwelling;And clear and loud the summer air alongFrom virgin voices floats the choral song.
Lo where the sacred talismans diffuse113Their fragrant charms against the Evil Powers;Lo where young hands the consecrated dewsFrom cuspèd vervain sprinkle round the flowers,And o'er the robe, with broider'd palm-leaves sown,That decks the daughter of the peaceful throne!
Lo, on those locks of night the myrtle crown,114Lo, where the heart beats quick beneath the veil;Lo, where the lids, cast tremulously down,Cloud stars which Eros as his own might hail;Oh, lovelier than Endymion's loveliest dream,Joy to the heart on which those eyes shall beam!
The bark comes bounding to the islet shore,115The trellised gates fly back: the footsteps fallThrough jasmined galleries on the threshold floor;And, in the Heart-Enchainer's golden thrall,There, spell-bound halt;—So, first since youth beganHer eyes meet youth in the charm'd eyes of man!
And there Art's two opposed Ideals rest;116There the twin flowers of the old world bloom forth;The classic symbol of the gentle West,And the bold type of the chivalric North.What trial waits thee, Cymrian, sharper hereThan the wolf's death-fang or the Saxon's spear?
But would ye learn how he we left afar,117Girt by the stormy people of the wild,Came to the confines of the Hesperus Star,And the soft gardens of the Etrurian child;Would ye, yet lingering in the wondrous vale,Learn what time spares if sorrow can assail;
What there, forgetful of the vanish'd dove,118(Lost at these portals) did the king befall;Pause till the hand has tuned the harp to love,And notes that bring young listeners to the hall;And he, whose sires in Cymri reign'd, shall singHow Tusca's daughter loved the Cymrian King.