CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.Joy to him who fairy treasuresWith a fairy's eye can see;Woe to him who counts and measuresWhat the worth in coin may be.Gems from wither'd leaves we fashionFor the spirit pure from stain;Grasp them with a sordid passionAnd they turn to leaves again.CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.Here and there, and everywhere,Tramp and cramp him inch by inch;Fair is fair,—to each his shareYou shall preach, and we will pinch.CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.Fairy treasures are not ratedBy their value in the mart;In thy bosom, Earth, createdFor the coffers of the heart.Dost thou covet fairy money?Rifle but the blossom bells—Like the wild bee, shape the honeyInto golden cloister-cells.CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.Spirit hear it, flesh revere it!Stamp the lesson inch by inch!Rightly merit, flesh and spirit,This the preaching, that the pinch!CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.Wretched mortal, once invited,Fairy land was thine at will;Every little star had lightedRevels when the world was still.Every bank a gate had granted.To the topaz-paven halls—Every wave had roll'd enchanted,Chiming from our music-falls.CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.Round him winging, sharp and stinging,Clip him, nip him, inch by inch,Sermons singing, wisdom bringing,Point the moral with a pinch.CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.Now the spell is lost for ever,And the common earth is thine;Count the traffic on the river,Weigh the ingots in the mine;Look around, aloft, and under,With an eye upon the cost;Gone the happy world of wonder!Woe, thy fairy land is lost!CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.Nature bare is, where thine air is,Custom cramps thee inch by inch,And when care is, human fairiesPreach and—vanish, at a pinch!
CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.Joy to him who fairy treasuresWith a fairy's eye can see;Woe to him who counts and measuresWhat the worth in coin may be.Gems from wither'd leaves we fashionFor the spirit pure from stain;Grasp them with a sordid passionAnd they turn to leaves again.CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.Here and there, and everywhere,Tramp and cramp him inch by inch;Fair is fair,—to each his shareYou shall preach, and we will pinch.CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.Fairy treasures are not ratedBy their value in the mart;In thy bosom, Earth, createdFor the coffers of the heart.Dost thou covet fairy money?Rifle but the blossom bells—Like the wild bee, shape the honeyInto golden cloister-cells.CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.Spirit hear it, flesh revere it!Stamp the lesson inch by inch!Rightly merit, flesh and spirit,This the preaching, that the pinch!CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.Wretched mortal, once invited,Fairy land was thine at will;Every little star had lightedRevels when the world was still.Every bank a gate had granted.To the topaz-paven halls—Every wave had roll'd enchanted,Chiming from our music-falls.CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.Round him winging, sharp and stinging,Clip him, nip him, inch by inch,Sermons singing, wisdom bringing,Point the moral with a pinch.CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.Now the spell is lost for ever,And the common earth is thine;Count the traffic on the river,Weigh the ingots in the mine;Look around, aloft, and under,With an eye upon the cost;Gone the happy world of wonder!Woe, thy fairy land is lost!CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.Nature bare is, where thine air is,Custom cramps thee inch by inch,And when care is, human fairiesPreach and—vanish, at a pinch!
CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.
Joy to him who fairy treasuresWith a fairy's eye can see;Woe to him who counts and measuresWhat the worth in coin may be.
Gems from wither'd leaves we fashionFor the spirit pure from stain;Grasp them with a sordid passionAnd they turn to leaves again.
CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.
Here and there, and everywhere,Tramp and cramp him inch by inch;Fair is fair,—to each his shareYou shall preach, and we will pinch.
CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.
Fairy treasures are not ratedBy their value in the mart;In thy bosom, Earth, createdFor the coffers of the heart.
Dost thou covet fairy money?Rifle but the blossom bells—Like the wild bee, shape the honeyInto golden cloister-cells.
CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.
Spirit hear it, flesh revere it!Stamp the lesson inch by inch!Rightly merit, flesh and spirit,This the preaching, that the pinch!
CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.
Wretched mortal, once invited,Fairy land was thine at will;Every little star had lightedRevels when the world was still.
Every bank a gate had granted.To the topaz-paven halls—Every wave had roll'd enchanted,Chiming from our music-falls.
CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.
Round him winging, sharp and stinging,Clip him, nip him, inch by inch,Sermons singing, wisdom bringing,Point the moral with a pinch.
CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.
Now the spell is lost for ever,And the common earth is thine;Count the traffic on the river,Weigh the ingots in the mine;
Look around, aloft, and under,With an eye upon the cost;Gone the happy world of wonder!Woe, thy fairy land is lost!
CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.
Nature bare is, where thine air is,Custom cramps thee inch by inch,And when care is, human fairiesPreach and—vanish, at a pinch!
Sudden they cease—for shrill crow'd chanticleer;121Grey on the darkness broke the glimmering light;Slowly assured he was not dead with fearAnd pinches, cautious peer'd around the knight;He found himself replaced beneath the oak,And heard with rising wrath the chuckling croak."O bird of birds most monstrous and malific,122Were these the inns to which thou wert to lead!Now gash'd with swords, now claw'd by imps horrific;Wives—wounds—cramps—pinches! Precious guide, indeed!Ossa on Pelion piling, crime on crime:Wretch, save thy throttle, and repent in time!"Thus spoke the knight—the raven gave a grunt,123(That raven liked not threats to life or limb!)Then with due sense of the unjust affront,Hopp'd supercilious forth, and summon'd him—His mail once more the aching knight indued,Limp'd to his steed, and ruefully pursued.The sun was high when all the glorious sea124Flash'd through the boughs that overhung the way,And down a path, as rough as path could be,The bird flew sullen, delving towards the bay;The moody knight dismounts, and leads with painThe stumbling steed, oft backing from the rein.One ray of hope alone illumed his soul,125"The bird will lead thee to the ocean coast,"The wizard's words had clearly mark'd the goal;The goal once won—of course the guide was lost;While thus consoled, its croak the raven gave,Folded its wings and hopp'd into a cave.Sir Gawaine paused—Sir Gawaine drew his sword;126The bird unseen scream'd loud for him to follow—His soul the knight committed to our Lord,Stepp'd on—and fell ten yards into a hollow;No time had he the ground thus gain'd to note,Ere six strong hands laid gripe upon his throat.It was a creek, three sides with rocks enclosed,127The fourth stretch'd, opening on the golden sand;Dull on the wave an anchor'd ship reposed;A boat with peaks of brass lay on the strand;And in that creek caroused the grisliest crewThor ever nurst, or Rana[9]ever knew.But little cared the knight for mortal foes.128From those strong hands he wrench'd himself away,Sprang to his feet and dealt so dour his blows,Cleft to the chin a grim Berseker lay,A Fin fell next, and next a giant Dane—"Ten thousand pardons!" said the bland Gawaine.But ev'n in that not democratic age129Too large majorities were stubborn things,Nor long could one man strive against the rageOf half a hundred thick-skull'd ocean kings—Four felons crept between him and the rocks,Lifted four clubs and fell'd him like an ox.When next the knight unclosed his dizzy eyes,130His feet were fetter'd and his arms were bound—Below the ocean and above the skies;Sails flapp'd—cords crackled; long he gazed around;Still where he gazed, fierce eyes and naked swordsPeer'd through the flapping sails and crackling cords—A chief before him leant upon his club,131With hideous visage bush'd with tawny hair."Who plays at bowls must count upon a rub,"Said the bruised Gawaine, with a smiling air;"Brave sir, permit me humbly to suggestYou make your gyves too tight across the breast."Grinn'd the grim chief, vouchsafing no reply;132The knight resumed—"Your pleasant looks bespeakA mind as gracious;—may I ask you whyYou fish for Christians in King Arthur's creek?""The kings of creeks," replied that hideous man,"Are we, the Vikings and the sons of Ran!"Your beacon fires allured us to your strands,133The dastard herdsmen fled before our feet,Thee, Odin's raven guided to our hands;Thrice happy man, Valhalla's boar to eat!The raven's choice suggests it's God's idea,And marks thee out—a sacrifice to Freya!"As spoke the Viking, over Gawaine's head134Circled the raven with triumphal caw;Then o'er the cliffs, still hoarse with glee, it fled.Thrice a deep breath the knight relieved did draw,Fair seem'd the voyage—pleasant seem'd the haven;"Bless'd saints," he cried, "I have escaped the raven!"
Sudden they cease—for shrill crow'd chanticleer;121Grey on the darkness broke the glimmering light;Slowly assured he was not dead with fearAnd pinches, cautious peer'd around the knight;He found himself replaced beneath the oak,And heard with rising wrath the chuckling croak.
"O bird of birds most monstrous and malific,122Were these the inns to which thou wert to lead!Now gash'd with swords, now claw'd by imps horrific;Wives—wounds—cramps—pinches! Precious guide, indeed!Ossa on Pelion piling, crime on crime:Wretch, save thy throttle, and repent in time!"
Thus spoke the knight—the raven gave a grunt,123(That raven liked not threats to life or limb!)Then with due sense of the unjust affront,Hopp'd supercilious forth, and summon'd him—His mail once more the aching knight indued,Limp'd to his steed, and ruefully pursued.
The sun was high when all the glorious sea124Flash'd through the boughs that overhung the way,And down a path, as rough as path could be,The bird flew sullen, delving towards the bay;The moody knight dismounts, and leads with painThe stumbling steed, oft backing from the rein.
One ray of hope alone illumed his soul,125"The bird will lead thee to the ocean coast,"The wizard's words had clearly mark'd the goal;The goal once won—of course the guide was lost;While thus consoled, its croak the raven gave,Folded its wings and hopp'd into a cave.
Sir Gawaine paused—Sir Gawaine drew his sword;126The bird unseen scream'd loud for him to follow—His soul the knight committed to our Lord,Stepp'd on—and fell ten yards into a hollow;No time had he the ground thus gain'd to note,Ere six strong hands laid gripe upon his throat.
It was a creek, three sides with rocks enclosed,127The fourth stretch'd, opening on the golden sand;Dull on the wave an anchor'd ship reposed;A boat with peaks of brass lay on the strand;And in that creek caroused the grisliest crewThor ever nurst, or Rana[9]ever knew.
But little cared the knight for mortal foes.128From those strong hands he wrench'd himself away,Sprang to his feet and dealt so dour his blows,Cleft to the chin a grim Berseker lay,A Fin fell next, and next a giant Dane—"Ten thousand pardons!" said the bland Gawaine.
But ev'n in that not democratic age129Too large majorities were stubborn things,Nor long could one man strive against the rageOf half a hundred thick-skull'd ocean kings—Four felons crept between him and the rocks,Lifted four clubs and fell'd him like an ox.
When next the knight unclosed his dizzy eyes,130His feet were fetter'd and his arms were bound—Below the ocean and above the skies;Sails flapp'd—cords crackled; long he gazed around;Still where he gazed, fierce eyes and naked swordsPeer'd through the flapping sails and crackling cords—
A chief before him leant upon his club,131With hideous visage bush'd with tawny hair."Who plays at bowls must count upon a rub,"Said the bruised Gawaine, with a smiling air;"Brave sir, permit me humbly to suggestYou make your gyves too tight across the breast."
Grinn'd the grim chief, vouchsafing no reply;132The knight resumed—"Your pleasant looks bespeakA mind as gracious;—may I ask you whyYou fish for Christians in King Arthur's creek?""The kings of creeks," replied that hideous man,"Are we, the Vikings and the sons of Ran!
"Your beacon fires allured us to your strands,133The dastard herdsmen fled before our feet,Thee, Odin's raven guided to our hands;Thrice happy man, Valhalla's boar to eat!The raven's choice suggests it's God's idea,And marks thee out—a sacrifice to Freya!"
As spoke the Viking, over Gawaine's head134Circled the raven with triumphal caw;Then o'er the cliffs, still hoarse with glee, it fled.Thrice a deep breath the knight relieved did draw,Fair seem'd the voyage—pleasant seem'd the haven;"Bless'd saints," he cried, "I have escaped the raven!"
Arthur and the Lady of the Lake—They land on the Meteor Isle—which then sinks to the Halls below—Arthur beholds the Forest springing from a single stem—He tells his errand to the Phantom, and rejects the fruits that It proffers him in lieu of the Sword—He is conducted by the Phantom to the entrance of the caves, through which he must pass alone—He reaches the Coral Hall of the Three Kings—The Statue crowned with thorns—The Asps and the Vulture, and the Diamond Sword—The choice of the Three Arches—He turns from the first and second arch, and beholds himself, in the third, a corpse—The sleeping King rises at Arthur's question—"if his death shall be in vain?"—The Vision of times to be—Cœur de Lion and the age of Chivalry—The Tudors—Henry VII.—the restorer of the line of Arthur and the founder of civil Freedom—Henry VIII. and the Revolution of Thought—Elizabeth and the Age of Poetry—The union of Cymrian and Saxon, under the sway of "Crowned Liberty"—Arthur makes his choice, and attempts, but in vain, to draw the Sword from the Rock—The Statue with the thorn-wreath addresses him—Arthur called upon to sacrifice the Dove—His reply—The glimpse of Heaven—The trance which succeeds, and in which the King is borne to the sea shores.
Arthur and the Lady of the Lake—They land on the Meteor Isle—which then sinks to the Halls below—Arthur beholds the Forest springing from a single stem—He tells his errand to the Phantom, and rejects the fruits that It proffers him in lieu of the Sword—He is conducted by the Phantom to the entrance of the caves, through which he must pass alone—He reaches the Coral Hall of the Three Kings—The Statue crowned with thorns—The Asps and the Vulture, and the Diamond Sword—The choice of the Three Arches—He turns from the first and second arch, and beholds himself, in the third, a corpse—The sleeping King rises at Arthur's question—"if his death shall be in vain?"—The Vision of times to be—Cœur de Lion and the age of Chivalry—The Tudors—Henry VII.—the restorer of the line of Arthur and the founder of civil Freedom—Henry VIII. and the Revolution of Thought—Elizabeth and the Age of Poetry—The union of Cymrian and Saxon, under the sway of "Crowned Liberty"—Arthur makes his choice, and attempts, but in vain, to draw the Sword from the Rock—The Statue with the thorn-wreath addresses him—Arthur called upon to sacrifice the Dove—His reply—The glimpse of Heaven—The trance which succeeds, and in which the King is borne to the sea shores.
As when, in Autumn nights and Arctic skies,1An angel makes the cloud his noiseless car,And, through cerulean silence, silent fliesFrom antique Hesper to some dawning star,So still, so swift, along the windless tidesHer vapour-sail the Phantom Lady guides.Along the sheen, along the glassy sheen,2Amid the lull of lucent night they go;Till, in the haven of an islet green,Murmuring through reeds, the gentle waters flow:The shooting pinnace gains the gradual strand,Hush'd as a shadow glides the Shape to land.The Cymrian, following, scarcely touch'd the shore3When slowly, slowly sunk the meteor-isle,Fathom on fathom, to the sparry floorOf alabaster shaft and porphyr-pile,Built as by Nereus for his own retreat,Or the Nymph-mother of the silver feet.[1]Far, through the crystal lymph, the pillar'd halls4Went lengthening on in vista'd majesty;The waters sapp'd not the enchanted walls,Nor shut their roofless silence from the sky;But every beam that lights this world of oursBroke sparkling downward into diamond showers.And the strange magic of the place bestow'd5Its own strange life upon the startled King,Round him, like air, the subtle waters flow'd;As round the Naiad flows her native spring;Domelike collapsed the azure;—moonlight clearFill'd the melodious silvery atmosphere—Melodious with the chaunt of distant falls6Of sportive waves, within the waves at play,And infant springs that bubble up the hallsThrough sparry founts (on which the broken rayWeaves its slight iris), hymning while they riseTo that smooth calm their restless life supplies,Like secret thoughts in some still poet's soul,7That swell the deep while yearning to the stars:—But overhead a trembling shadow stole,A gloom that leaf-like quiver'd on the spars,And that quick shadow, ever moving, fellFrom a vast Tree with root immoveable;In link'd arcades, and interwoven bowers8Swept the long forest from that single stem!And, flashing through the foliage, fruits or flowersIn jewell'd clusters, glow'd with every gemGolgonda hideth from the greed of kings;Or Lybian gryphons guard with drowsy wings.Here blush'd the ruby, warm as Charity,9There the mild topaz, wrath-assuaging, shoneRadiant as Mercy; like an angel's eye,Or a stray splendour from the Father's throneThe sapphire chaste a heavenly lustre gaveTo that blue heaven reflected on the wave.Never from India's cave, or Oman's sea10Swart Afrite stole for scornful Peri's brow,Such gems as, wasted on that Wonder-tree,Paled Sheban treasures in each careless bough;And every bough the gliding wavelet heaves,Quivers to music with the quivering leaves.Then first the Sovereign Lady of the deep11Spoke;—and the waves and whispering leaves wore still,"Ever I rise before the eyes that weepWhen, born from sorrow, Wisdom wakes the will;But few behold the shadow through the dark,And few will dare the venture of the bark."And now amid the Cuthites' temple halls12O'er which the waters undestroying flow,Heark'ning the mysteries hymn'd from silver fallsOr from the springs that, gushing up below,Gleam to the surface, whence to Heaven updrawn,They form the clouds that harbinger the Dawn,—"Say what the treasures which my deeps enfold13That thou would'st bear to the terrestrial day?"Then Arthur answer'd—and his quest he told,The prophet mission which his steps obey—"Here springs the forest from the single stem:I seek the falchion welded from the gem!""Pause," said the Phantom, "and survey the tree!14More worth one fruit that weighs a branchlet down,Than all which mortals in the sword can see.Thou ask'st the falchion to defend a crown—But seize the fruit, and to thy grasp decreedMore realms than Ormuzd lavish'd on the Mede;"Than great Darius left his doomèd son,15From Scythian wastes to Abyssinian caves;From Nimrod's tomb in silenced BabylonTo Argive islands fretting Asian waves;Than changed to sceptres the rude Lictor-rods,And placed the worm call'd Cæsar with the gods!"Pause—take thy choice—each gem a host can buy,16Seize—and yoke kings to War's triumphant car!The Child of Earth, no Genii here defy,The fruits unguarded, and the fiends afar—But dark the perils that surround the Sword,And slight its worth—ambitious if its Lord;"True to the warrior on his native soil,17Its blade would break in the Invader's clasp;A weapon meeter for the sons of Toil,When plough-shares turn to falchions in their grasp;—Leave the rude boor to battle for his hearth—Expand thy scope;—Ambition asks the Earth!""Spirit or Sorceress," said the frowning King,18"Panic like the Sun illumes an Universe;But life and joy both Fame and Sun should bring;And God ordains no glory for a curse.The souls of kings should be the towers of law,We right the balance, if the sword we draw!"Not mine the crowns the Persian lost or won,19Tiaras glittering over kneeling slaves;Mine be the sword that freed at Marathon,The unborn races by the Father-graves—Or stay'd the Orient in the Spartan pass,And carved on Time thy name, Leonidas."The Sibyl of the Sources of the Deep20Heard nor replied, but, indistinct and wan,Went as a Dream that through the worlds of SleepLeads the charm'd soul of labour-wearied man;And ev'n as man and dream, so, side by side,Glideth the mortal with the gliding guide.Glade after glade, beneath that forest tree21They pass,—till sudden, looms amid the waves,A dismal rock, hugely and heavily,With crags distorted vaulting horrent caves;A single moonbeam through the hollow creeps:Glides with the beam the Lady of the deeps.Then Arthur felt the Dove that at his breast22Lay nestling warm—stir quick and quivering,His soothing hand the crisped plumes caress'd;—Slow went they on, the Lady and the King:And, ever as they went, before their wayO'er prison'd waters lengthening stretch'd the ray.Now the black jaws as of a hell they gain;23The Lake's pale Hecate pauses. "Lo," she said,"Within, the Genii thou invadest reign.Alone thy feet the threshold floors must tread—Lone is the path when glory is the goal;—Pass to thy proof—O solitary soul!"She spoke to vanish—but the single ray24Shot from the unseen moon, still palely breakethThe awe that rests with midnight on the way;Faithful as Hope when Wisdom's self forsaketh—The buoyant beam the lonely man pursued—And, feeling God, he felt not Solitude.No fiend obscene, no giant spectre grim25(Born or of Runic or Arabian Song),Affronts the progress through the gallery dim,Into the sudden light which flames alongThe waves, and dyes the stillness of their floodTo one red horror like a lake of blood.And now, he enters, with that lurid tide,26Where time-long corals shape a mighty hall:Three curtain'd arches on the dexter side,And on the floors a ruby pedestal,On which, with marble lips, that life-like smiled,Stood the fair Statue of a crownèd Child:It smiled, and yet its crown was wreath'd of thorns,27And round its limbs coil'd foul the viper's brood;Near to that Child a rough crag, deluge-torn,Jagg'd, with sharp shadow abrupt, the luminous flood;And a huge Vulture from the summit, there,Watch'd, with dull hunger in its glassy stare.Below the Vulture in the rock ensheathed,28Shone out the hilt-beam of the diamond glaive;And all the hall one hue of crimson wreathed,And all the galleries vista'd through the wave;As flush'd the coral fathom-deep below,Lit into glory from the ruby's glow.And on three thrones there sate three giant forms,29Rigid the first, as Death;—with lightless eyes,And brows as hush'd as deserts, when the stormsLock the tornado in the Nubian skies;—Dead on dead knees the large hands nerveless rest,And dead the front droops heavy on the breast.The second shape, with bright and kindling eye30And aspect haughty with triumphant life,Like a young Titan rear'd its crest on high,Crown'd as for sway, and harness'd as for strife;But, o'er one-half his image, there was castA shadow from the throne where sate the last.And this, the third and last, seem'd in that sleep31Which neighbours waking in a summer's dawn,When dreams, relaxing, scarce their captive keep;Half o'er his face a veil transparent drawn,Stirr'd with quick sighs unquiet and disturb'd,Which told the impatient soul the slumber curb'd.Thrill'd, but undaunted, on the Adventurer strode32Then spoke the youthful Genius with the crownAnd armour: "Hail to our august abode!Guardless we greet the seeker of Renown.In our least terror cravens Death behold,But vainly frown our direst for the bold.""And who are ye?" the wondering King replied,33"On whose large aspects reigns the awe sublimeOf fabled judges, that o'er souls presideIn Rhadamanthian Halls?" "The Lords of Time,"Answer'd the Giant, "And our realms are three,TheWhat has been, what is, andWHAT SHALL BE!"But while we speak my brother's shadow creeps34Over the life-blood that it freezes fast;Haste, while the king that shall discrown me sleeps,Nor lose the Present—lo, how dead the Past!Accept the trials, Prince beloved by Heaven,To the deep heart—(that nobler reason,) given."Thou hast rejected in the Cuthites' halls35The fruits that flush Ambition's dazzling tree,The Conqueror's lust of blood-stain'd coronals;—Again thine ordeal in thy judgment be!Nor here shall empire need the arm of crime—But Fate achieve the lot, thou ask'st from Time."Behold the threefold Future at thy choice,36Choose right, and win from Fame the master-spell."Then the concealing veils, as ceased the voice,From the three arches with a clangor fell,And clear as scenes with Thespian wonders rifeGave to his view the Lemur-shapes of life.Lo the fair stream amidst that pleasant vale,37Wherein his youth held careless holiday;The stream is blithe with many a silken sail,The vale with many a proud pavilion gay,And in the centre of the rosy ring,Reclines the Phantom of himself—the King.All, all the same as when his golden prime38Lay in the lap of Life's soft Arcady;When the light love beheld no foe but Time,When but from Pleasure heaved the prophet sigh,And Luxury's prayer was as "a Summer day,'Mid blooms and sweets to wear the hours away.""Behold," the Genius said, "is that thy choice39As once it was?" "Nay, I have wept since then,"Answer'd the mortal with a mournful voice,"When the dews fall, the stars arise for men!"So turn'd he to the second arch to seeThe imperial peace of tranquil majesty;—The kingly throne, himself the dazzling king;40Bright arms, and jewell'd vests, and purple stoles;While silver winds, from many a music-string,Rippled the wave of glittering banderolls:From mitred priests and ermined barons, clearCame the loud praise which monarchs love to hear!"Doth this content thee?" "Ay," the Prince replied,41And tower'd erect, with empire on his brow;"Ay, here at once a Monarch may decide,Be but the substance worthy of the show!Show me the men whose toil the pomp creates,Pomp is the robe,—Content the soul, of States!"Slow fades the pageant, and the Phantom stage42As slowly fill'd with squalid, ghastly forms;Here, over fireless hearths cower'd shivering AgeAnd blew with feeble breath dead embers;—stormsHung in the icy welkin; and the bareEarth lay forlorn in Winter's charnel air.And Youth all labour-bow'd, with wither'd look,43Knelt by a rushing stream whose waves were gold,And sought with lean strong hands to grasp the brook,And clutch the glitter lapsing from the hold,Till with mad laugh it ceased, and, tott'ring down,Fell, and on frowning skies scowl'd back the frown.No careless Childhood laugh'd disportingly,44But dwarf'd, pale mandrakes with a century's gloomOn infant brows, beneath a poison-treeWith skeleton fingers plied a ghastly loom,Mocking in cynic jests life's gravest things,They wove gay King-robes, muttering "What are Kings?"And through that dreary Hades to and fro,45Stalk'd all unheeded the Tartarean Guests;Grim Discontent that loathes the Gods, and WoeClasping dead infants to her milkless breasts;And madding Hate, and Force with iron heel,And voiceless Vengeance sharp'ning secret steel.And, hand in hand, a Gorgon-visaged Pair,46Envy and Famine, halt with livid smile,Listening the demon-orator Despair,That, with a glozing and malignant guile,Seems sent the gates of Paradise to ope,And lures to Hell by simulating Hope."Can such things be below and God above?"47Falter'd the King;—Replied the Genius—"Nay,This is the state that sages most approve;This is Man civilized!—the perfect swayOf Merchant Kings;—the ripeness of the ArtWhich cheapens men—the Elysium of the Mart."Twixt want and wealth is placed the Reign of Gold;48The reign for which each race advancing sighs,And none so clamour to be bought or soldAs those gaunt shadows—Trade's grim merchandize.Dread not their curse—for their delirious sightHails in the yellow pest 'The march of Light.'""Better for nations," cried the wrathful King.49"The antique chief, whose palace was the glen,Whose crown the plumage of the eagle's wing,Whose throne the hill-top, and whose subjects—men,Than that last thraldom which precedes decay,For Avarice reigns not till the hairs are grey."Is it in marts that manhood finds its worth?50When merchants reign'd—what left they to admire?Which hath bequeath'd the nobler wealth to earth,The steel of Sparta, or the gold of Tyre?Beneath the night-shade let the mandrakes grow—Hide from my sight that Lazar-house of woe."So, turn'd with generous tears in manly eyes51The hardy Lord of heaven-taught Chivalry;Lo the third arch and last!—In moonlight, riseThe Cymrian rocks dark-shining from the sea,And all those rocks, some patriot war, far gone,Hallows with grassy mound and starlit stone.And where the softest falls the loving light,52He sees himself, stretch'd lifeless on the sward,And by the corpse, with sacred robes of whiteLeans on his ivory harp a lonely Bard;Yea, to the Dead the sole still watchers givenAre the Fame-Singer and the Hosts of Heaven.But on the kingly front the kingly crown53Rests;—the pale right hand grasps the diamond glaive;The brow, on which ev'n strife hath left no frown,Calm in the halo Glory gives the Brave."Mortal, isthisthy choice?" the Genius cried."Here Death; there Pleasure; and there Pomp!—decide!""Death," answer'd Arthur, "is nor good nor ill54Save in the ends for which men die—and DeathCan oft achieve what Life may not fulfil,And kindle earth with Valour's dying breath;But oh, one answer to one terror deign,My land—my people!—is that death in vain?"Mute droop'd the Genius, but the unquiet form55Dreaming beside its brother king, arose.Though dreaming still: as leaps the sudden stormOn sands Arabian, as with spasms and throesBursts the Fire-mount by soft Parthenopé,Rose the veil'd Genius of the Things to be!Shook all the hollow caves;—with tortur'd groan,56Shook to their roots in the far core of hell;Deep howl'd to deep—the monumental throneOf the dead giant rock'd;—each coral cellFlash'd quivering billowlike. Unshaken smiled,From the calm ruby base the thorn-crown'd Child.The Genius rose; and through the phantom arch57Glided the Shadows of His own pale dreams;The mortal saw the long procession marchBeside that image which his lemur seems:An armèd King—three lions on his shield[2]—First by the Bard-watch'd Shadow paused and kneel'd.Kneel'd there his train—upon each mailèd breast58A red cross stamp'd; and, deep as from a seaWith all its waves, full voices murmur'd, "RestEver unburied, Sire of Chivalry!Ever by Minstrel watch'd, and Knight adored,King of the halo-brow, and diamond sword!"Then, as from all the courts of all the earth,59The reverent pilgrims, countless, clustering came;They whom the seas of fabled Sirens girth,Or Baltic freezing in the Boreal flame;Or they, who watch the Star of Bethlem quiverBy Carmel's Olive mount, and Judah's river.From violet Provence comes the Troubadour;60Ferrara sends her clarion-sounding son;Comes from Iberian halls the turban'd MoorWith cymbals chiming to the clarion;And, with large stride, amid the gaudier throng,Stalks the vast Scald of Scandinavian song.Pass'd he who bore the lions and the cross,61And all that gorgeous pageant left the spaceVoid as a heart that mourns the golden lossOf young illusions beautiful. A RaceSedate supplants upon the changeful stageLight's early sires,—the Song-World's hero-age.Slow come the Shapes from out the dim Obscure,62A noon-like quiet circles swarming bays,Seas gleam with sails, and wall-less towns secure,Rise from the donjon sites of antique days;Lo, the calm sovereign of that sober reign!Unarm'd,—with burghers in his pompless train.And by the corpse of Arthur kneels that king,63And murmurs, "Father of the Tudor, hail!To thee nor bays, nor myrtle wreath I bring;But in thy Son, the Dragon-born prevail,And in my rule Right first deposes Wrong,And first the Weak undaunted face the Strong."He pass'd—Another, with a Nero's frown64Shading the quick light of impatient eyes,Strides on—and casts his sceptre, clattering, down,And from the sceptre rushingly ariseFierce sparks; along the heath they hissing run,And the dull earth glows lurid as a sun.And there is heard afar the hollow crash65Of ruin;—wind-borne, on the flames are driven:But where, round falling shrines, they coil and flash,A seraph's hand extends a scroll from heaven,And the rude shape cries loud, "Behold, ye blind,I who have trampled Men have freed the Mind!"So laughing grim, pass'd the Destroyer on;66And, after two pale shadows, to the soundOf lutes more musical than Helicon,A manlike Woman march'd:—The graves aroundYawn'd, and the ghosts of Knighthood, more sereneIn death, arose, and smiled upon the Queen.With her (at either hand) two starry forms67Glide—than herself more royal—and the glowOf their own lustre, each pale phantom warmsInto the lovely life the angels know,And as they pass, each Fairy leaves its cell,AndGlorianacalls onAriel!Yet she, unconscious as the crescent queen68Of orbs whose brightness makes her image bright,Haught and imperious, through the borrow'd sheen,Claims to herself the sovereignty of light;And is herself so stately to survey,That orbs which lend, but seem to steal, the ray.Elf-land divine, and Chivalry sublime,69Seem there to hold their last high jubilee—One gloriousSabbatof enchanted Time,Ere the dull spell seals the sweet glamoury.And all those wonder-shapes in subject ringKneel where the Bard still sits beside the King.Slow falls a mist, far booms a labouring wind,70As into night reluctant fades the Dream;And lo, the smouldering embers left behindFrom the old sceptre-flame, with blood-red beam,Kindle afresh, and the thick smoke-reeks goHeavily up from marching fires below.Hark! through sulphureous cloud the jarring bray71Of trumpet-clangours—the strong shock of steel;And fitful flashes light the fierce arrayOf faces gloomy with the calm of zeal,Or knightlier forms, on wheeling chargers borne;Gay in despair, and meeting zeal with scorn.Forth from the throng came a majestic Woe,72That wore the shape of man—"And I"—It said"I am thy Son; and if the Fates bestowBlood on my soul and ashes on my head;Time's is the guilt, though mine the misery—This teach me, Father—to forgive and die!"But here stern voices drown'd the mournful word,73Crying—"Men's freedom is the heritageLeft by the Hero of the Diamond Sword,"And others answer'd—"Nay, the knightly ageLeaves, as its heirloom, knighthood, and that highLife in sublimer life called loyalty."Then, through the hurtling clamour came a fair74Shape like a sworded seraph—sweet and grave;And when the war heaved distant down the airAnd died, as dies a whirlwind, on the wave,By the two forms upon the starry hill,Stood the Arch Beautiful, august and still.And thus It spoke—"I, too, will hail thee, 'Sire,'75Type of the Hero-age!—thy sons are notOn the earth's thrones. They who, with stately lyre,Make kingly thoughts immortal, and the lotOf the hard life divine with visitingsOf the far angels—are thy race of Kings."All that ennobles strife in either cause,76And, rendering service stately, freedom wise,Knits to the throne of God our human laws—Doth heir earth's humblest son with royaltiesBorn from the Hero of the diamond sword,Watch'd by the Bard, and by the Brave adored.Then the Bard, seated by the halo'd dead,77Lifts his sad eyes—and murmurs, "Sing of Him!"Doubtful the stranger bows his lofty head,When down descend his kindred Seraphim;Borne on their wings he soars from human sight,And Heaven regains the Habitant of Light.Again, and once again, from many a pale78And swift-succeeding, dim-distinguish'd, crowd,Swells slow the pausing pageant. Mount and valeMingle in gentle daylight, with one cloudOn the fair welkin, which the iris huesSteal from its gloom with rays that interfuse.Mild, like all strength, sits Crownèd Liberty,79Wearing the aspect of a youthful Queen:And far outstretch'd along the unmeasured seaRests the vast shadow of her throne; sereneFrom the dumb icebergs to the fiery zone,Rests the vast shadow of that guardian throne.And round her group the Cymrian's changeless race80Blent with the Saxon, brother-like; and bothSaxon and Cymrian from that sovereign traceTheir hero line;—sweet flower of age-long growth;The single blossom on the twofold stem;—Arthur's white plume crests Cerdic's diadem.Yet the same harp that Taliessin strung81Delights the sons whose sires the chords delighted;Still the old music of the mountain tongueTells of a race not conquer'd but united;That, losing nought, wins all the Saxon won,And shares the realm "where never sets the sun."Afar is heard the fall of headlong thrones,82But from that throne as calm the shadow falls;And where Oppression threats and Sorrow groansJustice sits listening in her gateless halls,And ev'n, if powerless, still intent, to cure,Whispers to Truth, "Truths conquer that endure."Yet still on that horizon hangs the cloud,83And on the cloud still rests the Cymrian's eye;"Alas," he murmur'd, "that one mist should shroud,Perchance from sorrow, that benignant sky!"But while he sigh'd the Vision vanishèd,And left once more the lone Bard by the dead."Behold the close of thirteen hundred years;84Lo, Cymri's Daughter on the Saxon's throne!Free as their air thy Cymrian mountaineers,And in the heavens one rainbow cloud alone,Which shall not pass, until, the cycle o'er,The soul of Arthur comes to earth once more."Dost thou choose Death?" the giant Dreamer said.85"Ay, for in death I seize the life of fame,And link the eternal millions with the dead,"Replied the King—and to the sword he cameLarge-striding;—grasp'd the hilt;—the charmèd brandClove to the rock, and stirr'd not to his hand.The Dreaming Genius has his throne resumed;86Sit the Great Three with Silence for their reign,Awful as earliest Theban kings entomb'd,Or idols granite-hewn in Indian fane;When lo, the dove flew forth, and circling round,Dropp'd on the thorn-wreath which the Statue crown'd.Rose then the Vulture with its carnage-shriek,87Up coil'd the darting Asps; the bird above;Below the reptiles:—poison-fang and beak,Nearer and nearer gather'd round the dove;When with strange life the marble Image stirr'd,And sudden pause the Asps—and rests the Bird."Mortal," the Image murmur'd, "I am He,88Whose voice alone the enchanted sword unsheathes,Mightier than yonder Shapes—eternallyThroned upon light, though crown'd with thorny wreaths;Changeless amid the Halls of Time; my nameIn heaven isYouth, and on the earth isFame,"All altars need their sacrifice; and mine89Asks every bloom in which thy heart delighted.Thorns are my garlands—wouldst thou serve the shrine,Drear is the faith to which thy vows are plighted.The Asp shall twine, the Vulture watch the prey,And Horror rend thee, let but Hope give way."Wilt thou the falchion with the thorns it brings?"90"Yea—for the thorn-wreath hath not dimm'd thy smile.""Lo, thy first offering to the Vulture's wings,And the Asp's fangs!"—the cold lips answer'd, whileNearer and nearer the devourers came,Where the Dove resting hid the thorns of fame.And all the memories of that faithful guide,91The sweet companion of unfriended ways,When danger threaten'd, ever at his side,And ever, in the grief of later days,Soothing his heart with its mysterious love,Till Ægle's soul seem'd hovering in the Dove,—All cried aloud in Arthur, and he sprang92And sudden from the slaughter snatch'd the prey;"What!" said the Image, "can a moment's pangTo the poor worthless favourite of a dayAppal the soul that yearns for ends sublime,Aid sighs for empire o'er the world's of Time?"Wilt thou resign the guerdon of the Sword?93Wilt thou forego the freedom of thy land?Not one slight offering will thy heart accord?The hero's prize is for the martyr's hand."Safe on his breast the King replaced the guide,Raised his majestic front, and thus replied:"For Fame and Cymri, what is mine I give.94Life;—and brave death prefer to ease and power;But not for Fame or Cymri would I liveSoil'd by the stain of one dishonour'd hour;And man's great cause was ne'er triumphant made,By man's worst meanness—Trust for gain betray'd."Let then the rock the Sword for ever sheathe,95All blades are charmèd in the Patriot's grasp!He spoke, and lo! the Statue's thorny wreathBloom'd into roses—and each baffled aspFell down and died of its own poison-sting,Back to the crag dull-sail'd the death-bird's wing.And from the Statue's smile, as when the morn96Unlocks the Eastern gates of Paradise,Ineffable joy, in light and beauty borne,Flow'd; and the azure of the distant skiesStole through the crimson hues the ruby gave,And slept, like Happiness, on Glory's wave."Go," said the Image, "thou hast won the Sword;97He who thus values Honour more than FameMakes Fame itself his servant, not his lord;And the man's heart achieves the hero's claim.But by Ambition is Ambition tried,None gain the guerdon who betray the guide!"Wondering the Monarch heard, and hearing laid98On the bright hilt-gem the obedient hand;Swift at the touch, leapt forth the diamond blade,And each long vista lighten'd with the brand;The speaking marble bow'd its reverent head,Rose the three Kings—the Dreamer and the Dead;Voices far off, as in the heart of heaven,99Hymn'd, "Hail, Fame-Conqueror in the Halls of Time;"Deep as to hell the flaming vaults were riven;High as to angels, space on space sublimeOpen'd, and flash'd upon the mortal's eyeThe Morning Land of Immortality.Bow'd down before the intolerable light,100Sank on his knees the King; and humbly veil'dThe Home of Seraphs from the human sight;Then the freed soul forsook him, as it hail'dThrough Flesh, its prison-house,—the spirit-choir;And fled as flies the music from the lyre.And all was blank, and meaningless, and void;101For the dull form, abandon'd thus below,Scarcely it felt the closing waves that buoy'dIts limbs, light-drifting down the gentle flow—And when the conscious life return'd again,Lo, noon lay tranquil on the ocean main.As from a dream he woke, and look'd around,102For the lost Lake and Ægle's distant grave;But dark, behind, the silent headlands frown'd;And bright, before him, smiled the murmuring wave;His right hand rested on the falchion won;And the Dove pruned her pinions in the sun.
As when, in Autumn nights and Arctic skies,1An angel makes the cloud his noiseless car,And, through cerulean silence, silent fliesFrom antique Hesper to some dawning star,So still, so swift, along the windless tidesHer vapour-sail the Phantom Lady guides.
Along the sheen, along the glassy sheen,2Amid the lull of lucent night they go;Till, in the haven of an islet green,Murmuring through reeds, the gentle waters flow:The shooting pinnace gains the gradual strand,Hush'd as a shadow glides the Shape to land.
The Cymrian, following, scarcely touch'd the shore3When slowly, slowly sunk the meteor-isle,Fathom on fathom, to the sparry floorOf alabaster shaft and porphyr-pile,Built as by Nereus for his own retreat,Or the Nymph-mother of the silver feet.[1]
Far, through the crystal lymph, the pillar'd halls4Went lengthening on in vista'd majesty;The waters sapp'd not the enchanted walls,Nor shut their roofless silence from the sky;But every beam that lights this world of oursBroke sparkling downward into diamond showers.
And the strange magic of the place bestow'd5Its own strange life upon the startled King,Round him, like air, the subtle waters flow'd;As round the Naiad flows her native spring;Domelike collapsed the azure;—moonlight clearFill'd the melodious silvery atmosphere—
Melodious with the chaunt of distant falls6Of sportive waves, within the waves at play,And infant springs that bubble up the hallsThrough sparry founts (on which the broken rayWeaves its slight iris), hymning while they riseTo that smooth calm their restless life supplies,
Like secret thoughts in some still poet's soul,7That swell the deep while yearning to the stars:—But overhead a trembling shadow stole,A gloom that leaf-like quiver'd on the spars,And that quick shadow, ever moving, fellFrom a vast Tree with root immoveable;
In link'd arcades, and interwoven bowers8Swept the long forest from that single stem!And, flashing through the foliage, fruits or flowersIn jewell'd clusters, glow'd with every gemGolgonda hideth from the greed of kings;Or Lybian gryphons guard with drowsy wings.
Here blush'd the ruby, warm as Charity,9There the mild topaz, wrath-assuaging, shoneRadiant as Mercy; like an angel's eye,Or a stray splendour from the Father's throneThe sapphire chaste a heavenly lustre gaveTo that blue heaven reflected on the wave.
Never from India's cave, or Oman's sea10Swart Afrite stole for scornful Peri's brow,Such gems as, wasted on that Wonder-tree,Paled Sheban treasures in each careless bough;And every bough the gliding wavelet heaves,Quivers to music with the quivering leaves.
Then first the Sovereign Lady of the deep11Spoke;—and the waves and whispering leaves wore still,"Ever I rise before the eyes that weepWhen, born from sorrow, Wisdom wakes the will;But few behold the shadow through the dark,And few will dare the venture of the bark.
"And now amid the Cuthites' temple halls12O'er which the waters undestroying flow,Heark'ning the mysteries hymn'd from silver fallsOr from the springs that, gushing up below,Gleam to the surface, whence to Heaven updrawn,They form the clouds that harbinger the Dawn,—
"Say what the treasures which my deeps enfold13That thou would'st bear to the terrestrial day?"Then Arthur answer'd—and his quest he told,The prophet mission which his steps obey—"Here springs the forest from the single stem:I seek the falchion welded from the gem!"
"Pause," said the Phantom, "and survey the tree!14More worth one fruit that weighs a branchlet down,Than all which mortals in the sword can see.Thou ask'st the falchion to defend a crown—But seize the fruit, and to thy grasp decreedMore realms than Ormuzd lavish'd on the Mede;
"Than great Darius left his doomèd son,15From Scythian wastes to Abyssinian caves;From Nimrod's tomb in silenced BabylonTo Argive islands fretting Asian waves;Than changed to sceptres the rude Lictor-rods,And placed the worm call'd Cæsar with the gods!
"Pause—take thy choice—each gem a host can buy,16Seize—and yoke kings to War's triumphant car!The Child of Earth, no Genii here defy,The fruits unguarded, and the fiends afar—But dark the perils that surround the Sword,And slight its worth—ambitious if its Lord;
"True to the warrior on his native soil,17Its blade would break in the Invader's clasp;A weapon meeter for the sons of Toil,When plough-shares turn to falchions in their grasp;—Leave the rude boor to battle for his hearth—Expand thy scope;—Ambition asks the Earth!"
"Spirit or Sorceress," said the frowning King,18"Panic like the Sun illumes an Universe;But life and joy both Fame and Sun should bring;And God ordains no glory for a curse.The souls of kings should be the towers of law,We right the balance, if the sword we draw!
"Not mine the crowns the Persian lost or won,19Tiaras glittering over kneeling slaves;Mine be the sword that freed at Marathon,The unborn races by the Father-graves—Or stay'd the Orient in the Spartan pass,And carved on Time thy name, Leonidas."
The Sibyl of the Sources of the Deep20Heard nor replied, but, indistinct and wan,Went as a Dream that through the worlds of SleepLeads the charm'd soul of labour-wearied man;And ev'n as man and dream, so, side by side,Glideth the mortal with the gliding guide.
Glade after glade, beneath that forest tree21They pass,—till sudden, looms amid the waves,A dismal rock, hugely and heavily,With crags distorted vaulting horrent caves;A single moonbeam through the hollow creeps:Glides with the beam the Lady of the deeps.
Then Arthur felt the Dove that at his breast22Lay nestling warm—stir quick and quivering,His soothing hand the crisped plumes caress'd;—Slow went they on, the Lady and the King:And, ever as they went, before their wayO'er prison'd waters lengthening stretch'd the ray.
Now the black jaws as of a hell they gain;23The Lake's pale Hecate pauses. "Lo," she said,"Within, the Genii thou invadest reign.Alone thy feet the threshold floors must tread—Lone is the path when glory is the goal;—Pass to thy proof—O solitary soul!"
She spoke to vanish—but the single ray24Shot from the unseen moon, still palely breakethThe awe that rests with midnight on the way;Faithful as Hope when Wisdom's self forsaketh—The buoyant beam the lonely man pursued—And, feeling God, he felt not Solitude.
No fiend obscene, no giant spectre grim25(Born or of Runic or Arabian Song),Affronts the progress through the gallery dim,Into the sudden light which flames alongThe waves, and dyes the stillness of their floodTo one red horror like a lake of blood.
And now, he enters, with that lurid tide,26Where time-long corals shape a mighty hall:Three curtain'd arches on the dexter side,And on the floors a ruby pedestal,On which, with marble lips, that life-like smiled,Stood the fair Statue of a crownèd Child:
It smiled, and yet its crown was wreath'd of thorns,27And round its limbs coil'd foul the viper's brood;Near to that Child a rough crag, deluge-torn,Jagg'd, with sharp shadow abrupt, the luminous flood;And a huge Vulture from the summit, there,Watch'd, with dull hunger in its glassy stare.
Below the Vulture in the rock ensheathed,28Shone out the hilt-beam of the diamond glaive;And all the hall one hue of crimson wreathed,And all the galleries vista'd through the wave;As flush'd the coral fathom-deep below,Lit into glory from the ruby's glow.
And on three thrones there sate three giant forms,29Rigid the first, as Death;—with lightless eyes,And brows as hush'd as deserts, when the stormsLock the tornado in the Nubian skies;—Dead on dead knees the large hands nerveless rest,And dead the front droops heavy on the breast.
The second shape, with bright and kindling eye30And aspect haughty with triumphant life,Like a young Titan rear'd its crest on high,Crown'd as for sway, and harness'd as for strife;But, o'er one-half his image, there was castA shadow from the throne where sate the last.
And this, the third and last, seem'd in that sleep31Which neighbours waking in a summer's dawn,When dreams, relaxing, scarce their captive keep;Half o'er his face a veil transparent drawn,Stirr'd with quick sighs unquiet and disturb'd,Which told the impatient soul the slumber curb'd.
Thrill'd, but undaunted, on the Adventurer strode32Then spoke the youthful Genius with the crownAnd armour: "Hail to our august abode!Guardless we greet the seeker of Renown.In our least terror cravens Death behold,But vainly frown our direst for the bold."
"And who are ye?" the wondering King replied,33"On whose large aspects reigns the awe sublimeOf fabled judges, that o'er souls presideIn Rhadamanthian Halls?" "The Lords of Time,"Answer'd the Giant, "And our realms are three,TheWhat has been, what is, andWHAT SHALL BE!
"But while we speak my brother's shadow creeps34Over the life-blood that it freezes fast;Haste, while the king that shall discrown me sleeps,Nor lose the Present—lo, how dead the Past!Accept the trials, Prince beloved by Heaven,To the deep heart—(that nobler reason,) given.
"Thou hast rejected in the Cuthites' halls35The fruits that flush Ambition's dazzling tree,The Conqueror's lust of blood-stain'd coronals;—Again thine ordeal in thy judgment be!Nor here shall empire need the arm of crime—But Fate achieve the lot, thou ask'st from Time.
"Behold the threefold Future at thy choice,36Choose right, and win from Fame the master-spell."Then the concealing veils, as ceased the voice,From the three arches with a clangor fell,And clear as scenes with Thespian wonders rifeGave to his view the Lemur-shapes of life.
Lo the fair stream amidst that pleasant vale,37Wherein his youth held careless holiday;The stream is blithe with many a silken sail,The vale with many a proud pavilion gay,And in the centre of the rosy ring,Reclines the Phantom of himself—the King.
All, all the same as when his golden prime38Lay in the lap of Life's soft Arcady;When the light love beheld no foe but Time,When but from Pleasure heaved the prophet sigh,And Luxury's prayer was as "a Summer day,'Mid blooms and sweets to wear the hours away."
"Behold," the Genius said, "is that thy choice39As once it was?" "Nay, I have wept since then,"Answer'd the mortal with a mournful voice,"When the dews fall, the stars arise for men!"So turn'd he to the second arch to seeThe imperial peace of tranquil majesty;—
The kingly throne, himself the dazzling king;40Bright arms, and jewell'd vests, and purple stoles;While silver winds, from many a music-string,Rippled the wave of glittering banderolls:From mitred priests and ermined barons, clearCame the loud praise which monarchs love to hear!
"Doth this content thee?" "Ay," the Prince replied,41And tower'd erect, with empire on his brow;"Ay, here at once a Monarch may decide,Be but the substance worthy of the show!Show me the men whose toil the pomp creates,Pomp is the robe,—Content the soul, of States!"
Slow fades the pageant, and the Phantom stage42As slowly fill'd with squalid, ghastly forms;Here, over fireless hearths cower'd shivering AgeAnd blew with feeble breath dead embers;—stormsHung in the icy welkin; and the bareEarth lay forlorn in Winter's charnel air.
And Youth all labour-bow'd, with wither'd look,43Knelt by a rushing stream whose waves were gold,And sought with lean strong hands to grasp the brook,And clutch the glitter lapsing from the hold,Till with mad laugh it ceased, and, tott'ring down,Fell, and on frowning skies scowl'd back the frown.
No careless Childhood laugh'd disportingly,44But dwarf'd, pale mandrakes with a century's gloomOn infant brows, beneath a poison-treeWith skeleton fingers plied a ghastly loom,Mocking in cynic jests life's gravest things,They wove gay King-robes, muttering "What are Kings?"
And through that dreary Hades to and fro,45Stalk'd all unheeded the Tartarean Guests;Grim Discontent that loathes the Gods, and WoeClasping dead infants to her milkless breasts;And madding Hate, and Force with iron heel,And voiceless Vengeance sharp'ning secret steel.
And, hand in hand, a Gorgon-visaged Pair,46Envy and Famine, halt with livid smile,Listening the demon-orator Despair,That, with a glozing and malignant guile,Seems sent the gates of Paradise to ope,And lures to Hell by simulating Hope.
"Can such things be below and God above?"47Falter'd the King;—Replied the Genius—"Nay,This is the state that sages most approve;This is Man civilized!—the perfect swayOf Merchant Kings;—the ripeness of the ArtWhich cheapens men—the Elysium of the Mart.
"Twixt want and wealth is placed the Reign of Gold;48The reign for which each race advancing sighs,And none so clamour to be bought or soldAs those gaunt shadows—Trade's grim merchandize.Dread not their curse—for their delirious sightHails in the yellow pest 'The march of Light.'"
"Better for nations," cried the wrathful King.49"The antique chief, whose palace was the glen,Whose crown the plumage of the eagle's wing,Whose throne the hill-top, and whose subjects—men,Than that last thraldom which precedes decay,For Avarice reigns not till the hairs are grey.
"Is it in marts that manhood finds its worth?50When merchants reign'd—what left they to admire?Which hath bequeath'd the nobler wealth to earth,The steel of Sparta, or the gold of Tyre?Beneath the night-shade let the mandrakes grow—Hide from my sight that Lazar-house of woe."
So, turn'd with generous tears in manly eyes51The hardy Lord of heaven-taught Chivalry;Lo the third arch and last!—In moonlight, riseThe Cymrian rocks dark-shining from the sea,And all those rocks, some patriot war, far gone,Hallows with grassy mound and starlit stone.
And where the softest falls the loving light,52He sees himself, stretch'd lifeless on the sward,And by the corpse, with sacred robes of whiteLeans on his ivory harp a lonely Bard;Yea, to the Dead the sole still watchers givenAre the Fame-Singer and the Hosts of Heaven.
But on the kingly front the kingly crown53Rests;—the pale right hand grasps the diamond glaive;The brow, on which ev'n strife hath left no frown,Calm in the halo Glory gives the Brave."Mortal, isthisthy choice?" the Genius cried."Here Death; there Pleasure; and there Pomp!—decide!"
"Death," answer'd Arthur, "is nor good nor ill54Save in the ends for which men die—and DeathCan oft achieve what Life may not fulfil,And kindle earth with Valour's dying breath;But oh, one answer to one terror deign,My land—my people!—is that death in vain?"
Mute droop'd the Genius, but the unquiet form55Dreaming beside its brother king, arose.Though dreaming still: as leaps the sudden stormOn sands Arabian, as with spasms and throesBursts the Fire-mount by soft Parthenopé,Rose the veil'd Genius of the Things to be!
Shook all the hollow caves;—with tortur'd groan,56Shook to their roots in the far core of hell;Deep howl'd to deep—the monumental throneOf the dead giant rock'd;—each coral cellFlash'd quivering billowlike. Unshaken smiled,From the calm ruby base the thorn-crown'd Child.
The Genius rose; and through the phantom arch57Glided the Shadows of His own pale dreams;The mortal saw the long procession marchBeside that image which his lemur seems:An armèd King—three lions on his shield[2]—First by the Bard-watch'd Shadow paused and kneel'd.
Kneel'd there his train—upon each mailèd breast58A red cross stamp'd; and, deep as from a seaWith all its waves, full voices murmur'd, "RestEver unburied, Sire of Chivalry!Ever by Minstrel watch'd, and Knight adored,King of the halo-brow, and diamond sword!"
Then, as from all the courts of all the earth,59The reverent pilgrims, countless, clustering came;They whom the seas of fabled Sirens girth,Or Baltic freezing in the Boreal flame;Or they, who watch the Star of Bethlem quiverBy Carmel's Olive mount, and Judah's river.
From violet Provence comes the Troubadour;60Ferrara sends her clarion-sounding son;Comes from Iberian halls the turban'd MoorWith cymbals chiming to the clarion;And, with large stride, amid the gaudier throng,Stalks the vast Scald of Scandinavian song.
Pass'd he who bore the lions and the cross,61And all that gorgeous pageant left the spaceVoid as a heart that mourns the golden lossOf young illusions beautiful. A RaceSedate supplants upon the changeful stageLight's early sires,—the Song-World's hero-age.
Slow come the Shapes from out the dim Obscure,62A noon-like quiet circles swarming bays,Seas gleam with sails, and wall-less towns secure,Rise from the donjon sites of antique days;Lo, the calm sovereign of that sober reign!Unarm'd,—with burghers in his pompless train.
And by the corpse of Arthur kneels that king,63And murmurs, "Father of the Tudor, hail!To thee nor bays, nor myrtle wreath I bring;But in thy Son, the Dragon-born prevail,And in my rule Right first deposes Wrong,And first the Weak undaunted face the Strong."
He pass'd—Another, with a Nero's frown64Shading the quick light of impatient eyes,Strides on—and casts his sceptre, clattering, down,And from the sceptre rushingly ariseFierce sparks; along the heath they hissing run,And the dull earth glows lurid as a sun.
And there is heard afar the hollow crash65Of ruin;—wind-borne, on the flames are driven:But where, round falling shrines, they coil and flash,A seraph's hand extends a scroll from heaven,And the rude shape cries loud, "Behold, ye blind,I who have trampled Men have freed the Mind!"
So laughing grim, pass'd the Destroyer on;66And, after two pale shadows, to the soundOf lutes more musical than Helicon,A manlike Woman march'd:—The graves aroundYawn'd, and the ghosts of Knighthood, more sereneIn death, arose, and smiled upon the Queen.
With her (at either hand) two starry forms67Glide—than herself more royal—and the glowOf their own lustre, each pale phantom warmsInto the lovely life the angels know,And as they pass, each Fairy leaves its cell,AndGlorianacalls onAriel!
Yet she, unconscious as the crescent queen68Of orbs whose brightness makes her image bright,Haught and imperious, through the borrow'd sheen,Claims to herself the sovereignty of light;And is herself so stately to survey,That orbs which lend, but seem to steal, the ray.
Elf-land divine, and Chivalry sublime,69Seem there to hold their last high jubilee—One gloriousSabbatof enchanted Time,Ere the dull spell seals the sweet glamoury.And all those wonder-shapes in subject ringKneel where the Bard still sits beside the King.
Slow falls a mist, far booms a labouring wind,70As into night reluctant fades the Dream;And lo, the smouldering embers left behindFrom the old sceptre-flame, with blood-red beam,Kindle afresh, and the thick smoke-reeks goHeavily up from marching fires below.
Hark! through sulphureous cloud the jarring bray71Of trumpet-clangours—the strong shock of steel;And fitful flashes light the fierce arrayOf faces gloomy with the calm of zeal,Or knightlier forms, on wheeling chargers borne;Gay in despair, and meeting zeal with scorn.
Forth from the throng came a majestic Woe,72That wore the shape of man—"And I"—It said"I am thy Son; and if the Fates bestowBlood on my soul and ashes on my head;Time's is the guilt, though mine the misery—This teach me, Father—to forgive and die!"
But here stern voices drown'd the mournful word,73Crying—"Men's freedom is the heritageLeft by the Hero of the Diamond Sword,"And others answer'd—"Nay, the knightly ageLeaves, as its heirloom, knighthood, and that highLife in sublimer life called loyalty."
Then, through the hurtling clamour came a fair74Shape like a sworded seraph—sweet and grave;And when the war heaved distant down the airAnd died, as dies a whirlwind, on the wave,By the two forms upon the starry hill,Stood the Arch Beautiful, august and still.
And thus It spoke—"I, too, will hail thee, 'Sire,'75Type of the Hero-age!—thy sons are notOn the earth's thrones. They who, with stately lyre,Make kingly thoughts immortal, and the lotOf the hard life divine with visitingsOf the far angels—are thy race of Kings.
"All that ennobles strife in either cause,76And, rendering service stately, freedom wise,Knits to the throne of God our human laws—Doth heir earth's humblest son with royaltiesBorn from the Hero of the diamond sword,Watch'd by the Bard, and by the Brave adored.
Then the Bard, seated by the halo'd dead,77Lifts his sad eyes—and murmurs, "Sing of Him!"Doubtful the stranger bows his lofty head,When down descend his kindred Seraphim;Borne on their wings he soars from human sight,And Heaven regains the Habitant of Light.
Again, and once again, from many a pale78And swift-succeeding, dim-distinguish'd, crowd,Swells slow the pausing pageant. Mount and valeMingle in gentle daylight, with one cloudOn the fair welkin, which the iris huesSteal from its gloom with rays that interfuse.
Mild, like all strength, sits Crownèd Liberty,79Wearing the aspect of a youthful Queen:And far outstretch'd along the unmeasured seaRests the vast shadow of her throne; sereneFrom the dumb icebergs to the fiery zone,Rests the vast shadow of that guardian throne.
And round her group the Cymrian's changeless race80Blent with the Saxon, brother-like; and bothSaxon and Cymrian from that sovereign traceTheir hero line;—sweet flower of age-long growth;The single blossom on the twofold stem;—Arthur's white plume crests Cerdic's diadem.
Yet the same harp that Taliessin strung81Delights the sons whose sires the chords delighted;Still the old music of the mountain tongueTells of a race not conquer'd but united;That, losing nought, wins all the Saxon won,And shares the realm "where never sets the sun."
Afar is heard the fall of headlong thrones,82But from that throne as calm the shadow falls;And where Oppression threats and Sorrow groansJustice sits listening in her gateless halls,And ev'n, if powerless, still intent, to cure,Whispers to Truth, "Truths conquer that endure."
Yet still on that horizon hangs the cloud,83And on the cloud still rests the Cymrian's eye;"Alas," he murmur'd, "that one mist should shroud,Perchance from sorrow, that benignant sky!"But while he sigh'd the Vision vanishèd,And left once more the lone Bard by the dead.
"Behold the close of thirteen hundred years;84Lo, Cymri's Daughter on the Saxon's throne!Free as their air thy Cymrian mountaineers,And in the heavens one rainbow cloud alone,Which shall not pass, until, the cycle o'er,The soul of Arthur comes to earth once more.
"Dost thou choose Death?" the giant Dreamer said.85"Ay, for in death I seize the life of fame,And link the eternal millions with the dead,"Replied the King—and to the sword he cameLarge-striding;—grasp'd the hilt;—the charmèd brandClove to the rock, and stirr'd not to his hand.
The Dreaming Genius has his throne resumed;86Sit the Great Three with Silence for their reign,Awful as earliest Theban kings entomb'd,Or idols granite-hewn in Indian fane;When lo, the dove flew forth, and circling round,Dropp'd on the thorn-wreath which the Statue crown'd.
Rose then the Vulture with its carnage-shriek,87Up coil'd the darting Asps; the bird above;Below the reptiles:—poison-fang and beak,Nearer and nearer gather'd round the dove;When with strange life the marble Image stirr'd,And sudden pause the Asps—and rests the Bird.
"Mortal," the Image murmur'd, "I am He,88Whose voice alone the enchanted sword unsheathes,Mightier than yonder Shapes—eternallyThroned upon light, though crown'd with thorny wreaths;Changeless amid the Halls of Time; my nameIn heaven isYouth, and on the earth isFame,
"All altars need their sacrifice; and mine89Asks every bloom in which thy heart delighted.Thorns are my garlands—wouldst thou serve the shrine,Drear is the faith to which thy vows are plighted.The Asp shall twine, the Vulture watch the prey,And Horror rend thee, let but Hope give way.
"Wilt thou the falchion with the thorns it brings?"90"Yea—for the thorn-wreath hath not dimm'd thy smile.""Lo, thy first offering to the Vulture's wings,And the Asp's fangs!"—the cold lips answer'd, whileNearer and nearer the devourers came,Where the Dove resting hid the thorns of fame.
And all the memories of that faithful guide,91The sweet companion of unfriended ways,When danger threaten'd, ever at his side,And ever, in the grief of later days,Soothing his heart with its mysterious love,Till Ægle's soul seem'd hovering in the Dove,—
All cried aloud in Arthur, and he sprang92And sudden from the slaughter snatch'd the prey;"What!" said the Image, "can a moment's pangTo the poor worthless favourite of a dayAppal the soul that yearns for ends sublime,Aid sighs for empire o'er the world's of Time?
"Wilt thou resign the guerdon of the Sword?93Wilt thou forego the freedom of thy land?Not one slight offering will thy heart accord?The hero's prize is for the martyr's hand."Safe on his breast the King replaced the guide,Raised his majestic front, and thus replied:
"For Fame and Cymri, what is mine I give.94Life;—and brave death prefer to ease and power;But not for Fame or Cymri would I liveSoil'd by the stain of one dishonour'd hour;And man's great cause was ne'er triumphant made,By man's worst meanness—Trust for gain betray'd.
"Let then the rock the Sword for ever sheathe,95All blades are charmèd in the Patriot's grasp!He spoke, and lo! the Statue's thorny wreathBloom'd into roses—and each baffled aspFell down and died of its own poison-sting,Back to the crag dull-sail'd the death-bird's wing.
And from the Statue's smile, as when the morn96Unlocks the Eastern gates of Paradise,Ineffable joy, in light and beauty borne,Flow'd; and the azure of the distant skiesStole through the crimson hues the ruby gave,And slept, like Happiness, on Glory's wave.
"Go," said the Image, "thou hast won the Sword;97He who thus values Honour more than FameMakes Fame itself his servant, not his lord;And the man's heart achieves the hero's claim.But by Ambition is Ambition tried,None gain the guerdon who betray the guide!"
Wondering the Monarch heard, and hearing laid98On the bright hilt-gem the obedient hand;Swift at the touch, leapt forth the diamond blade,And each long vista lighten'd with the brand;The speaking marble bow'd its reverent head,Rose the three Kings—the Dreamer and the Dead;
Voices far off, as in the heart of heaven,99Hymn'd, "Hail, Fame-Conqueror in the Halls of Time;"Deep as to hell the flaming vaults were riven;High as to angels, space on space sublimeOpen'd, and flash'd upon the mortal's eyeThe Morning Land of Immortality.
Bow'd down before the intolerable light,100Sank on his knees the King; and humbly veil'dThe Home of Seraphs from the human sight;Then the freed soul forsook him, as it hail'dThrough Flesh, its prison-house,—the spirit-choir;And fled as flies the music from the lyre.
And all was blank, and meaningless, and void;101For the dull form, abandon'd thus below,Scarcely it felt the closing waves that buoy'dIts limbs, light-drifting down the gentle flow—And when the conscious life return'd again,Lo, noon lay tranquil on the ocean main.
As from a dream he woke, and look'd around,102For the lost Lake and Ægle's distant grave;But dark, behind, the silent headlands frown'd;And bright, before him, smiled the murmuring wave;His right hand rested on the falchion won;And the Dove pruned her pinions in the sun.