The Council-hall in Carduel—The twelve Knights of the Round Table described, viz., the three Knights of Council, the three Knights of Battle, the three Knights of Eloquence, and the three Lovers—Merlin warns the chiefs of the coming Saxons, and enjoins the beacon-fires to be lighted—The story returns to Arthur—The dove has not been absent, though unseen—It comes back to Arthur—The Priest leads the King through the sepulchral valley into the temple of the Death-god—Description of the entrance of the temple, with the walls on which is depicted the progress of the guilty soul through the realms below—The cave, the raft, and the stream which conducts to the cataract—Arthur enters the boat, and the dove goes before him—Ægle awakes from her swoon, and follows the King to the temple—Her dialogue with the Augur—She disappears in the stream—Meanwhile Lancelot wanders in the valleys on the other side of the Alps, and is led to the cataract by the magic ring—The apparition of the dove—He follows the bird up the skirts of the cataract—He finds Arthur and Ægle, and conveys them to the convent—The Christian hymn, and the Etrurian dirge—Arthur and Lancelot seated by the lake—The Lady of the Lake appears in her pinnace to Lancelot—The King's sight is purged from its film by the bitter herb, and he enters the magic bark.
The Council-hall in Carduel—The twelve Knights of the Round Table described, viz., the three Knights of Council, the three Knights of Battle, the three Knights of Eloquence, and the three Lovers—Merlin warns the chiefs of the coming Saxons, and enjoins the beacon-fires to be lighted—The story returns to Arthur—The dove has not been absent, though unseen—It comes back to Arthur—The Priest leads the King through the sepulchral valley into the temple of the Death-god—Description of the entrance of the temple, with the walls on which is depicted the progress of the guilty soul through the realms below—The cave, the raft, and the stream which conducts to the cataract—Arthur enters the boat, and the dove goes before him—Ægle awakes from her swoon, and follows the King to the temple—Her dialogue with the Augur—She disappears in the stream—Meanwhile Lancelot wanders in the valleys on the other side of the Alps, and is led to the cataract by the magic ring—The apparition of the dove—He follows the bird up the skirts of the cataract—He finds Arthur and Ægle, and conveys them to the convent—The Christian hymn, and the Etrurian dirge—Arthur and Lancelot seated by the lake—The Lady of the Lake appears in her pinnace to Lancelot—The King's sight is purged from its film by the bitter herb, and he enters the magic bark.
In the high Council Hall of Carduel,1Beside the absent Arthur's ivory throne(What time the earlier shades of evening fell),Wan-silvering through the hush, the cresset shoneO'er the arch-seer,—as, 'mid the magnates there,Rose his large front, august with prophet care;Rose his large front above the luminous guests,2The deathlessTwelveof that heroic Ring,Which, as the belt wherein Orion rests,Girded with subject stars the starry king;Without, strong towers guard Rome's elaborate wall;Within is Manhood!—strongest tower of all.First, Muse of Cymri, name the Council three[1]3Who, of maturer years and graver mien,Wise in the past, conceived the things to be,And temper'd impulse quick with thought serene;Nor young, nor old—no dupes to rushing Hope,Nor narrowing to tame Fear th' ignoble scope.Of these was Cynon of the highborn race,4A cold but dauntless—calm but earnest man;With deep eyes shining from a thoughtful face,And spare slight form, for ever in the vanWhen ripening victories crown'd laborious deeds;Reaper of harvest—sower not of seeds;For scarcely his the quick far-darting soul5Which, like Apollo's shaft, strikes lifeless thingsInto divine creation; but, the wholeOnce rife, the skill which into concord bringsThe jarring parts; shapes out the rudely wrought,And calls the action living from the thought.Next Aron see—not rash, yet gaily bold,6With the frank polish of chivalric courts;Him from the right, no fear of wrong controll'd;And toil he deem'd the sprightliest of his sports;O'er War's dry chart, or Wisdom's mystic page,Alike as smiling, and alike as sage;With the warm instincts of the knightly heart,7That rose at once if insult touch'd the realm,He spurn'd each state-craft, each deceiving art,And rode to war, no vizor to his helm;This proved his worth, this line his tomb may boast—"Who hated Cymri, hated Aron most!"But who with eastern hues and haughty brow,8Stern with dark beauty sits apart from all?Ah, couldst thou shun thy friends, Elidir!—thouScorning all foes, before no foe shalt fall!On thy wrong'd grave one hand appeasing laysThe humble flower—oh, could it yield the bays!Courts may have known than thou a readier tool,9States may have found than thine a subtler brain,But states shall honour many a formal fool,And many a tawdry fawner courts may gain,Ere King or People in their need shall seeA soul so grand as that which fled with thee!For thou wert more than true; thou wert a Truth!10Open as Truth, and yet as Truth profound;Thy fault was genius—that eternal youthWhose weeds but prove the richness of the ground—And dull men envied thee, and false men fear'd,And where soar'd genius, there convention sneer'd.Ah, happy hadst thou fallen, foe to foe,11The bright race run—the laurel o'er thy grave!But hands perfidious strung the ambush bow,And the friend's shaft the rankling torture gave—The last proud wish its agony to hide,The stricken deer to covert crept and died.Next came the Warrior Three.[2]Of glory's charms12(Glory, the bride of heroes) nobly vain,Dark Mona's Owaine[3]shines with golden arms,The Roland of the Cymrian Charlemain,Scath'd by the storm the holy chief survives,For Fame makes holy all its lightning rives.Beside, with simplest garb and sober mien,13Solid as iron, not yet wrought to steel,In his plain manhood Cornwall's chief[4]is seen,Who (if wild tales some glimpse of truth reveal)Gave Northern standards to the Indian sun—And wreaths from palms that shaded Evian won.Lo, he whose Fame outshines the Fabulous!14Sublime with eagle front, and that grey crownWhich Age, the arch-priest, sets on laurell'd brows;Lo, Geraint, bending with a world's renown!Yet those grey hairsoneribald scoffer found;—The moon sways ocean and provokes the hound.Next the three Chiefs of Eloquence;[5]the kings15Whose hosts are thoughts, whose realm the human mind,Who out of words evoke the souls of things,And shape the lofty drama of mankind;Wit charms the fancy, wisdom guides the sense;To make men nobler—thatis Eloquence!As from the Mount of Gold, auriferous flows16The Lydian wave, thy pomp of period shines,Resplendent Drudwas—glittering as it goesHigh from the mount, but labouring through the mines,And thence the tides, enriching while they run,Glass every fruit that ripens to the sun.But, like the vigour of a Celtic stream,17Eliwlod's rush of manly sense along,Fresh with the sparkles of a healthful beam,And quick with impulse like a poet's song.How listening crowds that knightly voice delights—If from those crowds are banish'd all but knights!The third, though young, well worthy of his place,18Was Gawaine, courteous, blithe, and debonnair,Arch Mercury's wit, with careless Cupid's face;Frank as the sun, but searching as the air,Who with bland parlance prefaced doughtiest blows,And mildly arguing—arguing brain'd his foes.Next came the three—in mystic Triads hight19"TheKnights of Love;"[6]some type, the name conveys,For where no lover, there methinks no knight;All knights were lovers in King Arthur's days:Caswallawn; Trystan of the lion rock;[7]And, leaning on his harp, calm Caradoc!Thus class'd, distinct in peace,—let war dismay,20Straight in one bond the divers natures blend—So varying tints in tranquil sunshine play,But form one iris if the rains descend;And, fused in light against the clouds that lower,Forbid the deluge while they own the shower!On the bright group the Prophet rests his gaze,21Then the deep voice sonorous thrills aloud—"In Carduel's vale the steers unheeded graze,To jocund winds the yellowing corn is bow'd,By hearths of mirth the waves of Isca flow,And Heaven above smiles down on peace below."But far looks forth the warder from the tower,22And to the halls of Cymri's antique kingsA soul that sees the future in the hourThe desolation of its burthen brings;Hollow sounds earth beneath the clanging tread:Yon fields shall yield no harvest but the Dead!"And waves shall rush in crimson to the deep,23The Meteor Horse shall pale autumnal skies—FromRauran'slairs the joyous wolves shall leap—FromEifle'scrags the screaming eagles rise—Yea! while I speak, these halls the havoc nears!Red sets the sun behind the storm of spears!"The Sons of Woden sound no tromp before24Their march! No herald comes their war to tell!No plea for slaughter, dress'd in clerkly lore,Makes death seem justice! As the rain-clouds swell,When air is stillest, inBâl Huan'shalls;The herbage waves not till the tempest falls!"Of old ye know them; ye the elect remains25Of perish'd races—rock-saved; anchoring hereThe ark of empire!For your latest fanes,For your last hearths, for all to freemen dear,And to God sacred; take the shield and brand!Accurst each Cymrian who survives hisland!""Accursed each Cymrian who survives his land!"26Echo'd deep tones, hollow as blasts escapedFrom Boreal caverns, and in every handThe hilts of swords to sainted croziers shapedWere grimly griped—as by that symbol signHallowing the human wrath to war divine.The Prophet mark'd the deep unclamorous vow27Of the pent passion; and the morning lightOf young Humanity flash'd o'er the browDark with that wisdom which, like Nature's night,Communes with stars and dreams; it flash'd and waned,And the vast front its awful hush regain'd."Princes, I am but as a voice; be you28As deeds! The wind comes through the hollow oak,And stirs the green woods that it wanders through,Now wafts the seeds, now wings the levin-stroke,Now kindles, now destroys:—that Wind am I,Homeless on earth; the mystery of the sky!"But when the wind in noiseless air hath sunk,29Behold the sower tends and rears the seeds;Behold the woodman shapes the fallen trunk;The viewless voice hath waked the human deeds;Born of the germs, flowers bloom and harvests spring;The pine uprooted speeds the Ocean King."Warriors, since absent (not from wanton lust30Of errant emprize, but by Fate ordain'd,For all lone labouring, worthy of his trust)He whose young lips in thirst of glory drain'dAll that of arts Mavortian elder RomeTaught, to assail the foe, or guard the home;"Be ye his delegates, and oft with prayer31Bring angels round his wild and venturous way;As one great orb gives life and light to air,So times there are when all a people's dayShines from a single life! This known, revereThe exile; mourn not—let his soul be here."Yours then, high chiefs, the conduct of the war,32But heed this counsel (won or wrung from Fate),Strong rolls the tide when curb'd its channels are,Strong flows a force that but defends a state;In Carduel's walls concentre Cymri's power,And chain the Dragon to this charmèd tower."This night the moon should see the beacon brand33Link fire to fire from Beli's Druid pile;Rock call on rock, till blazes all the landFrom Sabra's wave to Mona's parent isle!Let Fredom write in characters of fire,'Who climbs my throne ascends his funeral pyre!'"The Prophet ceased; and rose with stern accord34The warrior senate. Sudden every shieldLeapt into lightning from the clashing sword;And choral voices consentaneous peal'd—"Hail to our guests! the wine of war is red;Fire fight the banquet—steel prepare the bed!"While thus the peril threat'ning land and throne,35Unharm'd, unheeding, dreaming goes the King,Where from the brief Elysium, AcheronAwaits the victim whom its priest shall bring.And where art thou, meek guardian of the brave?Though fails the eagle, still the dove may save!When, lured by signs that seem'd his aid to implore,36From his good steed the lord of knighthood sprung,[And left it wistful by the dismal door,Since the cragg'd roof too low descending hungFor the great war-horse in its barb'd array;And little dream'd he of the long delay,—]His path the dove nor favour'd nor forbade;37Motionless, folding on sharp rocks its wing,With its soft eyes it watch'd, resign'd and sad,Where fates, ordain'd for sorrow, led the King;Nor did he miss (till earth regain'd the day)The plumèd angel vanish'd from his way.Then oft, in truth, and oft in blissful hours,38Miss'd was that faithful guide through stormier life.Ah common lot! how oft, mid summer flowers,We miss the soother of the winter strife;How oft we mourn in Fortune's sunlit valeSome silenced heart with which we shared the gale!But absentnotthe dove, albeit unseen;39In some still foliage it had found its nest:At night it hover'd where his steps had been,Pale through the moonbeams in the air of rest;By the lull'd wave and shadowy banks it pass'd,Lingering where love with Ægle linger'd last.And when with chiller dawn resought the lone40And leafy gloom in which it shunn'd the day,Beneath those boughs you might have heard it moan,Low-wailing to itself its plaintive lay;Till with the sun rose all the songs that fillMorn with delight; andthenthe dove was still.But now, as towards the Temple of the Shades41The King went heavily—a gleam of lightShot through the gloaming of the cedarn glades,And the dove glided to his breast: the sightCame like a smile from Heaven upon the King,And his heart warm'd beneath the brooding wing.Strange was the thrill of joy, beyond belief,42Sent from the soft touch of those plumes of down!He was not all deserted in his grief,The brows of Fate relax'd their iron frown;And his soul quicken'd to that glorious powerWhich fronts the future and subdues the hour;The joy it brought, the dove refused to share;43As it it felt the tempest in the sky,Trembling, it nestled to its shelter there,Nor lifted to the light its drooping eye.Not, as its wont, to guide it came; but braveWith him the ills from which it could not save.Now lost the lovelier features of the land,44Dull waves replace the fount, dark pines the bowers,Grey-streeted tombs, far stretch'd on either hand,Rear the dumb city of the Funeral Powers.Massive and huge, behold the dome of dread,Where the stern Death-god frowns above the dead.Hewn from a rock, stand the great columns square,45With triglyphs wrought and ponderous pediment;Such as yet greet the musing wanderer, where,Near the old Fane to which Etruria sentHer sovereign twelve, the thick-sown violet blooms,In Castel d'Asso's vale of hero-tombs.[8]Passing a bridge that spann'd the barrier wave,46They reach'd the Thebes-like porch;—the Augur here,First entering, leaves the King. Within the naveNow swell the flutes (which went before the bierWhat time the funeral chaunt of Pagan RomeKnell'd some throne-shatterer to his six-feet home).Jar back the portals—long, in measured line,47There stand within the mute Auruspices,In each pale hand a torch; and near the shrineSit on still thrones, the guardian deities;HereSethlans,[9]sovereign of life's fix'd domains—There fatalNorthiawith the iron chains.Between the two the Death-god broods sublime;48On his pale brow the inexorable peaceWhich speaks of power beyond the shores of time;Calm, not benign like the sweet gods of Greece,—Calm as the mystery which in Memphian skiesFroze life's warm current from a sphinx's eyes.With many a grausame shape unutterable,49Limn'd were the cavernous sepulchral walls;Life-like they stalk'd, the Populace of Hell,Through the pale pomp of Acherontian halls;Distinct as when the Trojan's living breathVex'd the wide silence in the wastes of death.Shown was the Progress of the guilty Soul50From earth's warm threshold to the throne of doom;Here the black genius to the dismal goalDragg'd the wan spectre from the unshelt'ring tomb;While from the side it never more may warnThe better angel, sorrowing, fled forlorn.Hideous with horrent looks and goading steel51The fiend drives on the abject cowering ghostWhere (closed the eighth) sev'n yawning gates revealThe sev'nfold anguish that awaits the Lost;By each the gryphon flaps his ravening wings,And dire Chimæra whets her hungry stings.Here, ev'n that God, of all the kindliest one,52Life of all life (in Tusca's later creedBlent with the orient worship of the Sun,Or His who loves the madding nymphs to leadOn the Fork'd Hill), abjures his genial smile,[10]And, scowls transform'd, the Typhon of the Nile.Closed the eighth gate—forthere, the happy dwell!53No glimpse of joy beyond makes horror less.But that closed gate upon the exiled hellSets hell's last seal of misery—Hopelessness!Nathless, despite the Dæmon's chasing thong,Here, as if hoping still, the hopeless throng.Before the northern knight each nightmare dream54Of Theban soothsayer or Chaldean mage,Thus kindling in the torches' breathless beam,As if incarnate with resistless rage,And hell's true malice, starts from wall to wall;He signs the cross, and looks unmoved on all.Before the inmost Penetralian doors,55Holding a cypress-branch, the Augur stands;The King's firm foot strides echoless the floors,And with dull groan the temple veil expands;Slow-moving on the brandish'd torches shineRed o'er the wave that yawns behind the shrine;Red o'er the wave, as, under vaulted rock,56Dark as Cocytus, the false smoothness flows;But where the light fades—there is heard the shockAs hurrying down the headlong torrent goes;With mocking oars, a raft sways, moor'd beside—What keel save Charon's ploughs that dismal tide?Proud Arthur smiled upon the guileful host,57As welcome danger roused him and restored.—"Friend," quoth the King, "methinks your streams might boastA gentler margin and a fairer ford!""As birth to man," replied the priest, "the cave,O guest, to thee! as death to man the wave."Doth it appal thee? thou canst yet return!58There love, there sunny life;—and yonder"—"Fame,Cymri, and God!" said Arthur. "Paynim, learnDeath has two victors, deathless both—THE NAME,The soul; to each a realm eternal given,This rules the earth, and that achieves the heaven."He said, and seized a torch with scornful hand;59The frail raft rock'd to his descending tread;Upon the prow he fix'd the glowing brand,And the raft drifted down the waves of dread.So with his fortunes went confiding forthThe knightly Cæsar of the Christian North.Then, from its shelter on his breast, the dove60Rose, and sail'd slow before with doubtful wing;The dun mists rolling round the vaults above,Below, the gulf with torch-fires crimsoning;Wan through the glare, or white amidst the gloom,Glanced Heaven's mute daughter with the silver plume.Meanwhile to Ægle: from the happier trance,61And from the stun of the first human illLabouring returns her soul!—As lightnings glanceO'er battle-fields, with sated slaughter still,The fitful reason flickering comes and goesO'er the past struggle—o'er the blank repose.At length with one long, eager, searching look,62She gazed around, and all the living spaceWith one great loss seem'd lifeless!—then she strookHer clench'd hand on her heart; and o'er her faceSettled ineffable that icy gloom,Which only falls when hope abandons doom.Why breaks the smile—why waves the exulting hand?63Why to the threshold moves that step serene?The brow superb awes back the maiden band,From the roused woman towers sublime the queen.She pass'd the isle—and beam'd upon the crowd,Bright as the May-moon when it bursts the cloud.Brief and imperious rings her question; quick64A hundred hands point, answering, to the fane.As on she sweeps, behind her, fast and thick,Gather the groups far following in her train.Behind some bird unknown, of glorious dyes,So swarm the meaner people of the skies.Oh, the great force, that sleeps in woman's heart!65She will, at least, behold that form once more;See its last vestige from her world depart,And mark the spot to haunt and wander o'er,Rased in that impulse of the human breastAll the cold lessons on its leaves impress'd;—Snapp'd in the strength of the divine desire66All the vain swathes with which convention thralls;—Nature breaks forth, and at her breath of fireThe elaborate snow-pile's molten temple falls;And meaner priestcrafts fly before that Truth,Whose name is Passion, and whose altar, Youth!Unknown the egress, dreamless of the snare,67Sole aim to look the last on the adored:She gains the fane—she treads the aisle—and thereThe deathlights guide her to the bridal lord;On, through pale groups around the yawning cave,She comes—and looks upon the livid wave.She comes—she sees afar amidst the dark,68That fair, serene, undaunted, godlike brow—Sees on the lurid deep the lonely barkDrift through the circling horror;—sees, and nowOn light's far verge it hovers, wanes, and fades,As roars the hungering cataract up the shades.Voiceless she look'd, and voiceless look'd and smiled69On her the priest: strange though the marvel seem,The old man, childless, loved her more than child;She link'd each thought—she colour'd every dream;But Love, the varying Genius, guides, in turn,The soft to pity, to revenge the stern.Not his the sympathy which soothes the woe,70But that which, wrathful, feels, and shares, the wrong.He in the faithless view'd alone the foe;The weak he righted when he smote the strong:In one dread crime a twofold virtue seen,Here saved the land, and there avenged the queen.So through the hush his hissing murmur stole—71"Ay, Ægle, blossom on the stem of kings,Not to fresh altars glides the perjurer's soul,Not to new maids the vows still thine he brings!No rival mocks thee from the bloodless shore,The dead, at least, are faithful evermore."As when around the demigod of love,72Whom men Prometheus call, relentless fellThe flashing fires of Zeus, and Heaven aboveOpen'd in flame, in flame expanded Hell;While gazing dauntless on the Thunderer's frown,Sunk from the Earth, the Earth's Light-bringer down;So, while both worlds before its sight lay bare,73And o'er one ruin burst the lightning shook,Love, the Arch-Titan, in sublime despair,Faced the rent Hades from the shatter'd rock;And saw in Heaven, the future Heaven foreshown,When Love shall reign where Force usurps the throne.The Woman heard, and gathering majesty74Beam'd on her front, and crown'd it with command;The pale priest shrunk before her tranquil eye,And the light touch of her untrembling hand—"Enjoy," she said, with voice as clear as low,"Enjoy thy hate; where love survives I go."Sweetly thou smilest—sweetly, gentle Death,75Kinder than life;—that severs, thou unitest!To realms He spoke of goes this living breath,A living soul, wherever space is brightest—Fair Love—I trusted, now I claim, thy troth!Blest be thy couch, for it hath room for both!"She said, and from each hand that would restrain76Broke, in the strength of her sublime despair;Swift as the meteor on the northern mainFades from the ice-lock'd sea-kings' livid stare—She sprang; the robe a sudden glimmer gave,And o'er the vision swept the closing wave.Return, wild Song, to Lancelot! Behold77Our Lord's lone house beside the placid mere!There pipes the careless shepherd to his fold,Or from the crags the shy capellæ peerThrough the green rents of many a hanging brake,Which sends its quivering shadow to the lake.And by the pastoral margins mournfully78Wanders from dawn to eve the earnest knight;And ever to the ring he turns his eye,And ever does the ring perplex the sight;The fairy hand that knew no rest before,Rests now as fix'd as if its task were o'er.Towards the far head of the calm water turn'd79The unmoving finger; yet, when gain'd the place,No path for human foot the knight discern'd—Abrupt and huge, the rocks enclosed the space.His scath'd front veil'd in everlasting snows,High above eagles Alpine Atlas rose.No cleft! save that a giant torrent clove,80For its fierce hurry to the lake it fed;Check'd for a while in chasms conceal'd above,Thence all its pomp the dazzling horror spread,And from the beetling ridges, smooth and sheer,Flash'd in one mass, down-roaring to the mere.Still to that spot the fairy hand inclined,81And daily there with wistful searching eyesWander'd the knight; each day no path to find.What step can scale that ladder to the skies?What portals yawn in those relentless walls?—Still the hand points where still the cataract falls.One noon, as thus he gazed in stern despair82On rock and torrent;—from the tortured spray,And through the mists, into cerulean air,A dove descending rush'd its arrowy way;Swift as a falling star, which, falling, bringsWoe on the helmet-crown of Dorian kings![11]Straight to the wanderer's hand bore down the bird,83With plumage crisp'd with fear, and piercing plaint;Oft had he heedful, in his wanderings, heardOf the great Wrong-Redresser, whom a saintIn the dove's guise directed—"Hail," he cried,"I greet the token—I accept the guide!"And sudden as he spoke, arose the wing,84(Warily veering towards the dexter flankOf the huge chasm, through which leapt thunderingFrom Nature's heart her savage); on the bankOf that fell stream, in root, and jag, and stone,It traced the ladder to the glacier's throne.Slow sail'd the dove, and paused, and look'd behind,85As labouring after, crag on crag, the knight(Close on the deafening roar, and whirling windLash'd from the surges), through the vaporous nightOf the grey mists, loom'd up the howling wild;Strong in the charm the fairy gave the child.With bleeding hands, that leave a moment's red86On stone and stem wash'd by the mighty spray,He gains at length the inter-alpine bed,Whose lock'd Charybdis checks the torrent's way,And forms a basin o'er abysmal caves,For the grim respite of the headlong waves.Torrents below—the torrents still above!87Above less awful—as precipitous peakAnd splinter'd ledge, and many a curve and coveIn the compress'd, indented margins, breakThat crushing sense of power, in which we seeWhat, without Nature's God, would Nature be!Before him stretch'd the maëlstrom of the abyss;88And, in the central torrent, giant pines,Uprooted from the bordering wildernessBy some gone winter's blast—in flashing linesShot through the whirl—then, pluck'd to the profound,Vanish'd and rose, swift eddying round and round.But on the marge as on the wave thou art,89O conquering Death!—what human, hueless faceRests pillow'd on a silenced human heart?What arm still clasps in more than love's embraceThat form for which yon vulture flaps its wing?Kneel, Lancelot, kneel, thine eyes behold thy King!Alas! in vain—still in the Death-god's cave,90Ere yet the torrent snatch'd the hurrying stream,Beside a crag grey-shimmering from the wave,And near the brink by which the pallid beamShow'd one pent path along the rugged verge,By which to leave the raft and 'scape the surge,—Alas! in vain, that haven to the ark91The dove had given!—just won the refuge-place,When, thrice emerging from the sheeted dark,White glanced a robe, and livid rose a face!He saw, he sprang, he near'd, he grasp'd the vest!Andboththe torrent grappled to its breast.Yet in the immense and superhuman force,92Love and despair bestow upon the bold,The strong man battled with the Titan's course,Grip'd rock and layer, and ledge, with snatching hold,Bruised, bleeding, broken, onwards, downwards driven,No wave his treasure from his grasp had rivenSaved, saved—at last before his reeling eyes93(Into the pool, that check'd the Fury, hurl'd)Shone, as he rose, through all the hurtling skies,The dove's white wing; and ere the maëlstrom whirl'dThe madden'd waters to the central shock,Show'd the gnarl'd roots of the redeeming rock.Less sense than instinct caught the wing that shone,94The crags that shelter'd;—the wild billows gaveThe failing limbs a force no more their own,And as he turn'd and sunk, the swerving waveSwoop'd round, dash'd on, and to the isthmus sped,Still breast to breast, the living and the dead!Long vain were Lancelot's cares and knightly skill,95Ere, through slow veins congeal'd, pulsed back the blood;The very wounds, the valour of the will,The peaks that broke the fury of the floodHad help'd to save; alas,the strongto save!For Strength to toil, till Love re-opes the grave.Twice down the dismal path (the dove his guide)96The fairy nursling bore his helpless load;A chamois-hunter, in the vale descried,Aided the convoy to the house of God.Dark—wroth—convulsed, the earth-bound spirit lay;Calm from the bier beside it, smiled the clay!O Song—for Lydian elegy too stern,97Song, cradled in the Celt's rough battle-shield;Rather from thee should man, the soldier, learnTo hide the wounds—heroic while conceal'd;From foes without the mean the palm may win,What tries the noble is the war within!Let the King's woe its muse in Silence claim,98When sense return'd, and solitary lifeSate in the Shadow!—shade or sun the same,Toil hath brief respite; man is made for strife,Woman for rest!—rest, bright with dreams, is given,Child of the heathen, in the Christian heaven!And to the Christian prince's plighted bride,99The simple monks the Christian's grave accord,With lifted cross and swinging censer, glideTo passing bells—the hermits of the Lord;And at that hour, in her own native vale,Her own soft race their mystic loss bewail.Methinks I see the Tuscan Genius yet,100Lured, lingering by the clay it loved so well,And listening to the two-fold dirge that metIn upper air;—here Nazarene anthems swellTriumphal pæans!—there, the Alps behind,Etrurian Næniæ,[12]load the lagging wind.Pauses the startled genius to compare101The notes that mourn the life, at best so brief,With those that welcome to empyreal airThe bright escaper from a world of grief?Marvelling what creed, beyond the happy vale,Can teach the soul the loathèd Styx to hail!
In the high Council Hall of Carduel,1Beside the absent Arthur's ivory throne(What time the earlier shades of evening fell),Wan-silvering through the hush, the cresset shoneO'er the arch-seer,—as, 'mid the magnates there,Rose his large front, august with prophet care;
Rose his large front above the luminous guests,2The deathlessTwelveof that heroic Ring,Which, as the belt wherein Orion rests,Girded with subject stars the starry king;Without, strong towers guard Rome's elaborate wall;Within is Manhood!—strongest tower of all.
First, Muse of Cymri, name the Council three[1]3Who, of maturer years and graver mien,Wise in the past, conceived the things to be,And temper'd impulse quick with thought serene;Nor young, nor old—no dupes to rushing Hope,Nor narrowing to tame Fear th' ignoble scope.
Of these was Cynon of the highborn race,4A cold but dauntless—calm but earnest man;With deep eyes shining from a thoughtful face,And spare slight form, for ever in the vanWhen ripening victories crown'd laborious deeds;Reaper of harvest—sower not of seeds;
For scarcely his the quick far-darting soul5Which, like Apollo's shaft, strikes lifeless thingsInto divine creation; but, the wholeOnce rife, the skill which into concord bringsThe jarring parts; shapes out the rudely wrought,And calls the action living from the thought.
Next Aron see—not rash, yet gaily bold,6With the frank polish of chivalric courts;Him from the right, no fear of wrong controll'd;And toil he deem'd the sprightliest of his sports;O'er War's dry chart, or Wisdom's mystic page,Alike as smiling, and alike as sage;
With the warm instincts of the knightly heart,7That rose at once if insult touch'd the realm,He spurn'd each state-craft, each deceiving art,And rode to war, no vizor to his helm;This proved his worth, this line his tomb may boast—"Who hated Cymri, hated Aron most!"
But who with eastern hues and haughty brow,8Stern with dark beauty sits apart from all?Ah, couldst thou shun thy friends, Elidir!—thouScorning all foes, before no foe shalt fall!On thy wrong'd grave one hand appeasing laysThe humble flower—oh, could it yield the bays!
Courts may have known than thou a readier tool,9States may have found than thine a subtler brain,But states shall honour many a formal fool,And many a tawdry fawner courts may gain,Ere King or People in their need shall seeA soul so grand as that which fled with thee!
For thou wert more than true; thou wert a Truth!10Open as Truth, and yet as Truth profound;Thy fault was genius—that eternal youthWhose weeds but prove the richness of the ground—And dull men envied thee, and false men fear'd,And where soar'd genius, there convention sneer'd.
Ah, happy hadst thou fallen, foe to foe,11The bright race run—the laurel o'er thy grave!But hands perfidious strung the ambush bow,And the friend's shaft the rankling torture gave—The last proud wish its agony to hide,The stricken deer to covert crept and died.
Next came the Warrior Three.[2]Of glory's charms12(Glory, the bride of heroes) nobly vain,Dark Mona's Owaine[3]shines with golden arms,The Roland of the Cymrian Charlemain,Scath'd by the storm the holy chief survives,For Fame makes holy all its lightning rives.
Beside, with simplest garb and sober mien,13Solid as iron, not yet wrought to steel,In his plain manhood Cornwall's chief[4]is seen,Who (if wild tales some glimpse of truth reveal)Gave Northern standards to the Indian sun—And wreaths from palms that shaded Evian won.
Lo, he whose Fame outshines the Fabulous!14Sublime with eagle front, and that grey crownWhich Age, the arch-priest, sets on laurell'd brows;Lo, Geraint, bending with a world's renown!Yet those grey hairsoneribald scoffer found;—The moon sways ocean and provokes the hound.
Next the three Chiefs of Eloquence;[5]the kings15Whose hosts are thoughts, whose realm the human mind,Who out of words evoke the souls of things,And shape the lofty drama of mankind;Wit charms the fancy, wisdom guides the sense;To make men nobler—thatis Eloquence!
As from the Mount of Gold, auriferous flows16The Lydian wave, thy pomp of period shines,Resplendent Drudwas—glittering as it goesHigh from the mount, but labouring through the mines,And thence the tides, enriching while they run,Glass every fruit that ripens to the sun.
But, like the vigour of a Celtic stream,17Eliwlod's rush of manly sense along,Fresh with the sparkles of a healthful beam,And quick with impulse like a poet's song.How listening crowds that knightly voice delights—If from those crowds are banish'd all but knights!
The third, though young, well worthy of his place,18Was Gawaine, courteous, blithe, and debonnair,Arch Mercury's wit, with careless Cupid's face;Frank as the sun, but searching as the air,Who with bland parlance prefaced doughtiest blows,And mildly arguing—arguing brain'd his foes.
Next came the three—in mystic Triads hight19"TheKnights of Love;"[6]some type, the name conveys,For where no lover, there methinks no knight;All knights were lovers in King Arthur's days:Caswallawn; Trystan of the lion rock;[7]And, leaning on his harp, calm Caradoc!
Thus class'd, distinct in peace,—let war dismay,20Straight in one bond the divers natures blend—So varying tints in tranquil sunshine play,But form one iris if the rains descend;And, fused in light against the clouds that lower,Forbid the deluge while they own the shower!
On the bright group the Prophet rests his gaze,21Then the deep voice sonorous thrills aloud—"In Carduel's vale the steers unheeded graze,To jocund winds the yellowing corn is bow'd,By hearths of mirth the waves of Isca flow,And Heaven above smiles down on peace below.
"But far looks forth the warder from the tower,22And to the halls of Cymri's antique kingsA soul that sees the future in the hourThe desolation of its burthen brings;Hollow sounds earth beneath the clanging tread:Yon fields shall yield no harvest but the Dead!
"And waves shall rush in crimson to the deep,23The Meteor Horse shall pale autumnal skies—FromRauran'slairs the joyous wolves shall leap—FromEifle'scrags the screaming eagles rise—Yea! while I speak, these halls the havoc nears!Red sets the sun behind the storm of spears!
"The Sons of Woden sound no tromp before24Their march! No herald comes their war to tell!No plea for slaughter, dress'd in clerkly lore,Makes death seem justice! As the rain-clouds swell,When air is stillest, inBâl Huan'shalls;The herbage waves not till the tempest falls!
"Of old ye know them; ye the elect remains25Of perish'd races—rock-saved; anchoring hereThe ark of empire!For your latest fanes,For your last hearths, for all to freemen dear,And to God sacred; take the shield and brand!Accurst each Cymrian who survives hisland!"
"Accursed each Cymrian who survives his land!"26Echo'd deep tones, hollow as blasts escapedFrom Boreal caverns, and in every handThe hilts of swords to sainted croziers shapedWere grimly griped—as by that symbol signHallowing the human wrath to war divine.
The Prophet mark'd the deep unclamorous vow27Of the pent passion; and the morning lightOf young Humanity flash'd o'er the browDark with that wisdom which, like Nature's night,Communes with stars and dreams; it flash'd and waned,And the vast front its awful hush regain'd.
"Princes, I am but as a voice; be you28As deeds! The wind comes through the hollow oak,And stirs the green woods that it wanders through,Now wafts the seeds, now wings the levin-stroke,Now kindles, now destroys:—that Wind am I,Homeless on earth; the mystery of the sky!
"But when the wind in noiseless air hath sunk,29Behold the sower tends and rears the seeds;Behold the woodman shapes the fallen trunk;The viewless voice hath waked the human deeds;Born of the germs, flowers bloom and harvests spring;The pine uprooted speeds the Ocean King.
"Warriors, since absent (not from wanton lust30Of errant emprize, but by Fate ordain'd,For all lone labouring, worthy of his trust)He whose young lips in thirst of glory drain'dAll that of arts Mavortian elder RomeTaught, to assail the foe, or guard the home;
"Be ye his delegates, and oft with prayer31Bring angels round his wild and venturous way;As one great orb gives life and light to air,So times there are when all a people's dayShines from a single life! This known, revereThe exile; mourn not—let his soul be here.
"Yours then, high chiefs, the conduct of the war,32But heed this counsel (won or wrung from Fate),Strong rolls the tide when curb'd its channels are,Strong flows a force that but defends a state;In Carduel's walls concentre Cymri's power,And chain the Dragon to this charmèd tower.
"This night the moon should see the beacon brand33Link fire to fire from Beli's Druid pile;Rock call on rock, till blazes all the landFrom Sabra's wave to Mona's parent isle!Let Fredom write in characters of fire,'Who climbs my throne ascends his funeral pyre!'"
The Prophet ceased; and rose with stern accord34The warrior senate. Sudden every shieldLeapt into lightning from the clashing sword;And choral voices consentaneous peal'd—"Hail to our guests! the wine of war is red;Fire fight the banquet—steel prepare the bed!"
While thus the peril threat'ning land and throne,35Unharm'd, unheeding, dreaming goes the King,Where from the brief Elysium, AcheronAwaits the victim whom its priest shall bring.And where art thou, meek guardian of the brave?Though fails the eagle, still the dove may save!
When, lured by signs that seem'd his aid to implore,36From his good steed the lord of knighthood sprung,[And left it wistful by the dismal door,Since the cragg'd roof too low descending hungFor the great war-horse in its barb'd array;And little dream'd he of the long delay,—]
His path the dove nor favour'd nor forbade;37Motionless, folding on sharp rocks its wing,With its soft eyes it watch'd, resign'd and sad,Where fates, ordain'd for sorrow, led the King;Nor did he miss (till earth regain'd the day)The plumèd angel vanish'd from his way.
Then oft, in truth, and oft in blissful hours,38Miss'd was that faithful guide through stormier life.Ah common lot! how oft, mid summer flowers,We miss the soother of the winter strife;How oft we mourn in Fortune's sunlit valeSome silenced heart with which we shared the gale!
But absentnotthe dove, albeit unseen;39In some still foliage it had found its nest:At night it hover'd where his steps had been,Pale through the moonbeams in the air of rest;By the lull'd wave and shadowy banks it pass'd,Lingering where love with Ægle linger'd last.
And when with chiller dawn resought the lone40And leafy gloom in which it shunn'd the day,Beneath those boughs you might have heard it moan,Low-wailing to itself its plaintive lay;Till with the sun rose all the songs that fillMorn with delight; andthenthe dove was still.
But now, as towards the Temple of the Shades41The King went heavily—a gleam of lightShot through the gloaming of the cedarn glades,And the dove glided to his breast: the sightCame like a smile from Heaven upon the King,And his heart warm'd beneath the brooding wing.
Strange was the thrill of joy, beyond belief,42Sent from the soft touch of those plumes of down!He was not all deserted in his grief,The brows of Fate relax'd their iron frown;And his soul quicken'd to that glorious powerWhich fronts the future and subdues the hour;
The joy it brought, the dove refused to share;43As it it felt the tempest in the sky,Trembling, it nestled to its shelter there,Nor lifted to the light its drooping eye.Not, as its wont, to guide it came; but braveWith him the ills from which it could not save.
Now lost the lovelier features of the land,44Dull waves replace the fount, dark pines the bowers,Grey-streeted tombs, far stretch'd on either hand,Rear the dumb city of the Funeral Powers.Massive and huge, behold the dome of dread,Where the stern Death-god frowns above the dead.
Hewn from a rock, stand the great columns square,45With triglyphs wrought and ponderous pediment;Such as yet greet the musing wanderer, where,Near the old Fane to which Etruria sentHer sovereign twelve, the thick-sown violet blooms,In Castel d'Asso's vale of hero-tombs.[8]
Passing a bridge that spann'd the barrier wave,46They reach'd the Thebes-like porch;—the Augur here,First entering, leaves the King. Within the naveNow swell the flutes (which went before the bierWhat time the funeral chaunt of Pagan RomeKnell'd some throne-shatterer to his six-feet home).
Jar back the portals—long, in measured line,47There stand within the mute Auruspices,In each pale hand a torch; and near the shrineSit on still thrones, the guardian deities;HereSethlans,[9]sovereign of life's fix'd domains—There fatalNorthiawith the iron chains.
Between the two the Death-god broods sublime;48On his pale brow the inexorable peaceWhich speaks of power beyond the shores of time;Calm, not benign like the sweet gods of Greece,—Calm as the mystery which in Memphian skiesFroze life's warm current from a sphinx's eyes.
With many a grausame shape unutterable,49Limn'd were the cavernous sepulchral walls;Life-like they stalk'd, the Populace of Hell,Through the pale pomp of Acherontian halls;Distinct as when the Trojan's living breathVex'd the wide silence in the wastes of death.
Shown was the Progress of the guilty Soul50From earth's warm threshold to the throne of doom;Here the black genius to the dismal goalDragg'd the wan spectre from the unshelt'ring tomb;While from the side it never more may warnThe better angel, sorrowing, fled forlorn.
Hideous with horrent looks and goading steel51The fiend drives on the abject cowering ghostWhere (closed the eighth) sev'n yawning gates revealThe sev'nfold anguish that awaits the Lost;By each the gryphon flaps his ravening wings,And dire Chimæra whets her hungry stings.
Here, ev'n that God, of all the kindliest one,52Life of all life (in Tusca's later creedBlent with the orient worship of the Sun,Or His who loves the madding nymphs to leadOn the Fork'd Hill), abjures his genial smile,[10]And, scowls transform'd, the Typhon of the Nile.
Closed the eighth gate—forthere, the happy dwell!53No glimpse of joy beyond makes horror less.But that closed gate upon the exiled hellSets hell's last seal of misery—Hopelessness!Nathless, despite the Dæmon's chasing thong,Here, as if hoping still, the hopeless throng.
Before the northern knight each nightmare dream54Of Theban soothsayer or Chaldean mage,Thus kindling in the torches' breathless beam,As if incarnate with resistless rage,And hell's true malice, starts from wall to wall;He signs the cross, and looks unmoved on all.
Before the inmost Penetralian doors,55Holding a cypress-branch, the Augur stands;The King's firm foot strides echoless the floors,And with dull groan the temple veil expands;Slow-moving on the brandish'd torches shineRed o'er the wave that yawns behind the shrine;
Red o'er the wave, as, under vaulted rock,56Dark as Cocytus, the false smoothness flows;But where the light fades—there is heard the shockAs hurrying down the headlong torrent goes;With mocking oars, a raft sways, moor'd beside—What keel save Charon's ploughs that dismal tide?
Proud Arthur smiled upon the guileful host,57As welcome danger roused him and restored.—"Friend," quoth the King, "methinks your streams might boastA gentler margin and a fairer ford!""As birth to man," replied the priest, "the cave,O guest, to thee! as death to man the wave.
"Doth it appal thee? thou canst yet return!58There love, there sunny life;—and yonder"—"Fame,Cymri, and God!" said Arthur. "Paynim, learnDeath has two victors, deathless both—THE NAME,The soul; to each a realm eternal given,This rules the earth, and that achieves the heaven."
He said, and seized a torch with scornful hand;59The frail raft rock'd to his descending tread;Upon the prow he fix'd the glowing brand,And the raft drifted down the waves of dread.So with his fortunes went confiding forthThe knightly Cæsar of the Christian North.
Then, from its shelter on his breast, the dove60Rose, and sail'd slow before with doubtful wing;The dun mists rolling round the vaults above,Below, the gulf with torch-fires crimsoning;Wan through the glare, or white amidst the gloom,Glanced Heaven's mute daughter with the silver plume.
Meanwhile to Ægle: from the happier trance,61And from the stun of the first human illLabouring returns her soul!—As lightnings glanceO'er battle-fields, with sated slaughter still,The fitful reason flickering comes and goesO'er the past struggle—o'er the blank repose.
At length with one long, eager, searching look,62She gazed around, and all the living spaceWith one great loss seem'd lifeless!—then she strookHer clench'd hand on her heart; and o'er her faceSettled ineffable that icy gloom,Which only falls when hope abandons doom.
Why breaks the smile—why waves the exulting hand?63Why to the threshold moves that step serene?The brow superb awes back the maiden band,From the roused woman towers sublime the queen.She pass'd the isle—and beam'd upon the crowd,Bright as the May-moon when it bursts the cloud.
Brief and imperious rings her question; quick64A hundred hands point, answering, to the fane.As on she sweeps, behind her, fast and thick,Gather the groups far following in her train.Behind some bird unknown, of glorious dyes,So swarm the meaner people of the skies.
Oh, the great force, that sleeps in woman's heart!65She will, at least, behold that form once more;See its last vestige from her world depart,And mark the spot to haunt and wander o'er,Rased in that impulse of the human breastAll the cold lessons on its leaves impress'd;—
Snapp'd in the strength of the divine desire66All the vain swathes with which convention thralls;—Nature breaks forth, and at her breath of fireThe elaborate snow-pile's molten temple falls;And meaner priestcrafts fly before that Truth,Whose name is Passion, and whose altar, Youth!
Unknown the egress, dreamless of the snare,67Sole aim to look the last on the adored:She gains the fane—she treads the aisle—and thereThe deathlights guide her to the bridal lord;On, through pale groups around the yawning cave,She comes—and looks upon the livid wave.
She comes—she sees afar amidst the dark,68That fair, serene, undaunted, godlike brow—Sees on the lurid deep the lonely barkDrift through the circling horror;—sees, and nowOn light's far verge it hovers, wanes, and fades,As roars the hungering cataract up the shades.
Voiceless she look'd, and voiceless look'd and smiled69On her the priest: strange though the marvel seem,The old man, childless, loved her more than child;She link'd each thought—she colour'd every dream;But Love, the varying Genius, guides, in turn,The soft to pity, to revenge the stern.
Not his the sympathy which soothes the woe,70But that which, wrathful, feels, and shares, the wrong.He in the faithless view'd alone the foe;The weak he righted when he smote the strong:In one dread crime a twofold virtue seen,Here saved the land, and there avenged the queen.
So through the hush his hissing murmur stole—71"Ay, Ægle, blossom on the stem of kings,Not to fresh altars glides the perjurer's soul,Not to new maids the vows still thine he brings!No rival mocks thee from the bloodless shore,The dead, at least, are faithful evermore."
As when around the demigod of love,72Whom men Prometheus call, relentless fellThe flashing fires of Zeus, and Heaven aboveOpen'd in flame, in flame expanded Hell;While gazing dauntless on the Thunderer's frown,Sunk from the Earth, the Earth's Light-bringer down;
So, while both worlds before its sight lay bare,73And o'er one ruin burst the lightning shook,Love, the Arch-Titan, in sublime despair,Faced the rent Hades from the shatter'd rock;And saw in Heaven, the future Heaven foreshown,When Love shall reign where Force usurps the throne.
The Woman heard, and gathering majesty74Beam'd on her front, and crown'd it with command;The pale priest shrunk before her tranquil eye,And the light touch of her untrembling hand—"Enjoy," she said, with voice as clear as low,"Enjoy thy hate; where love survives I go.
"Sweetly thou smilest—sweetly, gentle Death,75Kinder than life;—that severs, thou unitest!To realms He spoke of goes this living breath,A living soul, wherever space is brightest—Fair Love—I trusted, now I claim, thy troth!Blest be thy couch, for it hath room for both!"
She said, and from each hand that would restrain76Broke, in the strength of her sublime despair;Swift as the meteor on the northern mainFades from the ice-lock'd sea-kings' livid stare—She sprang; the robe a sudden glimmer gave,And o'er the vision swept the closing wave.
Return, wild Song, to Lancelot! Behold77Our Lord's lone house beside the placid mere!There pipes the careless shepherd to his fold,Or from the crags the shy capellæ peerThrough the green rents of many a hanging brake,Which sends its quivering shadow to the lake.
And by the pastoral margins mournfully78Wanders from dawn to eve the earnest knight;And ever to the ring he turns his eye,And ever does the ring perplex the sight;The fairy hand that knew no rest before,Rests now as fix'd as if its task were o'er.
Towards the far head of the calm water turn'd79The unmoving finger; yet, when gain'd the place,No path for human foot the knight discern'd—Abrupt and huge, the rocks enclosed the space.His scath'd front veil'd in everlasting snows,High above eagles Alpine Atlas rose.
No cleft! save that a giant torrent clove,80For its fierce hurry to the lake it fed;Check'd for a while in chasms conceal'd above,Thence all its pomp the dazzling horror spread,And from the beetling ridges, smooth and sheer,Flash'd in one mass, down-roaring to the mere.
Still to that spot the fairy hand inclined,81And daily there with wistful searching eyesWander'd the knight; each day no path to find.What step can scale that ladder to the skies?What portals yawn in those relentless walls?—Still the hand points where still the cataract falls.
One noon, as thus he gazed in stern despair82On rock and torrent;—from the tortured spray,And through the mists, into cerulean air,A dove descending rush'd its arrowy way;Swift as a falling star, which, falling, bringsWoe on the helmet-crown of Dorian kings![11]
Straight to the wanderer's hand bore down the bird,83With plumage crisp'd with fear, and piercing plaint;Oft had he heedful, in his wanderings, heardOf the great Wrong-Redresser, whom a saintIn the dove's guise directed—"Hail," he cried,"I greet the token—I accept the guide!"
And sudden as he spoke, arose the wing,84(Warily veering towards the dexter flankOf the huge chasm, through which leapt thunderingFrom Nature's heart her savage); on the bankOf that fell stream, in root, and jag, and stone,It traced the ladder to the glacier's throne.
Slow sail'd the dove, and paused, and look'd behind,85As labouring after, crag on crag, the knight(Close on the deafening roar, and whirling windLash'd from the surges), through the vaporous nightOf the grey mists, loom'd up the howling wild;Strong in the charm the fairy gave the child.
With bleeding hands, that leave a moment's red86On stone and stem wash'd by the mighty spray,He gains at length the inter-alpine bed,Whose lock'd Charybdis checks the torrent's way,And forms a basin o'er abysmal caves,For the grim respite of the headlong waves.
Torrents below—the torrents still above!87Above less awful—as precipitous peakAnd splinter'd ledge, and many a curve and coveIn the compress'd, indented margins, breakThat crushing sense of power, in which we seeWhat, without Nature's God, would Nature be!
Before him stretch'd the maëlstrom of the abyss;88And, in the central torrent, giant pines,Uprooted from the bordering wildernessBy some gone winter's blast—in flashing linesShot through the whirl—then, pluck'd to the profound,Vanish'd and rose, swift eddying round and round.
But on the marge as on the wave thou art,89O conquering Death!—what human, hueless faceRests pillow'd on a silenced human heart?What arm still clasps in more than love's embraceThat form for which yon vulture flaps its wing?Kneel, Lancelot, kneel, thine eyes behold thy King!
Alas! in vain—still in the Death-god's cave,90Ere yet the torrent snatch'd the hurrying stream,Beside a crag grey-shimmering from the wave,And near the brink by which the pallid beamShow'd one pent path along the rugged verge,By which to leave the raft and 'scape the surge,—
Alas! in vain, that haven to the ark91The dove had given!—just won the refuge-place,When, thrice emerging from the sheeted dark,White glanced a robe, and livid rose a face!He saw, he sprang, he near'd, he grasp'd the vest!Andboththe torrent grappled to its breast.
Yet in the immense and superhuman force,92Love and despair bestow upon the bold,The strong man battled with the Titan's course,Grip'd rock and layer, and ledge, with snatching hold,Bruised, bleeding, broken, onwards, downwards driven,No wave his treasure from his grasp had riven
Saved, saved—at last before his reeling eyes93(Into the pool, that check'd the Fury, hurl'd)Shone, as he rose, through all the hurtling skies,The dove's white wing; and ere the maëlstrom whirl'dThe madden'd waters to the central shock,Show'd the gnarl'd roots of the redeeming rock.
Less sense than instinct caught the wing that shone,94The crags that shelter'd;—the wild billows gaveThe failing limbs a force no more their own,And as he turn'd and sunk, the swerving waveSwoop'd round, dash'd on, and to the isthmus sped,Still breast to breast, the living and the dead!
Long vain were Lancelot's cares and knightly skill,95Ere, through slow veins congeal'd, pulsed back the blood;The very wounds, the valour of the will,The peaks that broke the fury of the floodHad help'd to save; alas,the strongto save!For Strength to toil, till Love re-opes the grave.
Twice down the dismal path (the dove his guide)96The fairy nursling bore his helpless load;A chamois-hunter, in the vale descried,Aided the convoy to the house of God.Dark—wroth—convulsed, the earth-bound spirit lay;Calm from the bier beside it, smiled the clay!
O Song—for Lydian elegy too stern,97Song, cradled in the Celt's rough battle-shield;Rather from thee should man, the soldier, learnTo hide the wounds—heroic while conceal'd;From foes without the mean the palm may win,What tries the noble is the war within!
Let the King's woe its muse in Silence claim,98When sense return'd, and solitary lifeSate in the Shadow!—shade or sun the same,Toil hath brief respite; man is made for strife,Woman for rest!—rest, bright with dreams, is given,Child of the heathen, in the Christian heaven!
And to the Christian prince's plighted bride,99The simple monks the Christian's grave accord,With lifted cross and swinging censer, glideTo passing bells—the hermits of the Lord;And at that hour, in her own native vale,Her own soft race their mystic loss bewail.
Methinks I see the Tuscan Genius yet,100Lured, lingering by the clay it loved so well,And listening to the two-fold dirge that metIn upper air;—here Nazarene anthems swellTriumphal pæans!—there, the Alps behind,Etrurian Næniæ,[12]load the lagging wind.
Pauses the startled genius to compare101The notes that mourn the life, at best so brief,With those that welcome to empyreal airThe bright escaper from a world of grief?Marvelling what creed, beyond the happy vale,Can teach the soul the loathèd Styx to hail!