Invocation to Love—Arthur, Ægle, and the Augur—Dialogue between the Cymrian and the Etrurian—Meanwhile Lancelot gains the sea-shore, where he meets with the Aleman priest and his sons, and hears tidings of Arthur—He tells them the tale of his own infancy—Crosses the sea—Lands on the coast of Brettannie—And is guided by the crystal ring in quest of Arthur towards the Alps—He finds the King's charger, which Arthur had left without the vaulted passage into the Happy Valley—But the rock-gate being closed, he cannot discover the King; and, winding by the foot of the Alps round the valley, gains a lake and a convent—The story now returns to Arthur and Ægle—Descriptive stanzas—A raven brings Arthur news from Merlin—The King resolves to quit the valley—He seeks and finds the Augur—Dialogue—Parting scene with Ægle—Arthur follows the Augur towards the fane of the funereal god.
Invocation to Love—Arthur, Ægle, and the Augur—Dialogue between the Cymrian and the Etrurian—Meanwhile Lancelot gains the sea-shore, where he meets with the Aleman priest and his sons, and hears tidings of Arthur—He tells them the tale of his own infancy—Crosses the sea—Lands on the coast of Brettannie—And is guided by the crystal ring in quest of Arthur towards the Alps—He finds the King's charger, which Arthur had left without the vaulted passage into the Happy Valley—But the rock-gate being closed, he cannot discover the King; and, winding by the foot of the Alps round the valley, gains a lake and a convent—The story now returns to Arthur and Ægle—Descriptive stanzas—A raven brings Arthur news from Merlin—The King resolves to quit the valley—He seeks and finds the Augur—Dialogue—Parting scene with Ægle—Arthur follows the Augur towards the fane of the funereal god.
Hail, thou, the ever young, albeit of Night1And of primæval Chaos eldest born;Thou, at whose birth broke forth the Founts of Light,And o'er Creation flush'd the earliest Morn!Life, in thy life, suffused the conscious whole;And formless matter took the harmonious soul.Hail, Love! the death-defier! age to age2Linking, with flowers, in the still heart of man!Dream to the bard, and marvel to the sage,Glory and mystery since the world began.Like the new moon, whose disk of silver sheenBut halves the circle Heaven completes unseen.Ghostlike amidst the unfamiliar Past,3Dim shadows flit along the streams of Time;Vainly our learning trifles with the vastUnknown of ages!—Like the wizard's rhymeWe call the dead, and from the Tartarus'Tis but the dead that rise to answer us!Voiceless and wan, we question them in vain;4They leave unsolved earth's mighty yesterday.But wave thy wand—they bloom, they breathe again!The link is found!—aswelove, so lovedthey!Warm to our clasp our human brothers start,All centuries blend when heart speaks out to heart.Arch Power, of every power most dread, most sweet,5Ope at thy touch the far celestial gates;Yet Terror flies with Joy before thy feet,And, with the Graces, glide unseen the Fates.Eos and Hesperus; one, with twofold light,Bringer of day, and herald of the night.But, lo! again, where rise upon the gaze6The Tuscan Virgin in the Alpine bower,The steel-clad wanderer, in his rapt amaze,Led through the flowerets to that living flower:Eye meeting eye, as in that blest surveyTwo hearts, unspeaking, breathe themselves away!Calm on the twain reposed the Augur's eye,7A marble stillness on his solemn face;Like some cold image of NecessityWhen fated hands lay garlands on its base.And slanted sunbeams, through the blossoms stealing,Lit circled Childhood round the Virgin kneeling.Slow from charm'd wonder woke at last the King,8Well the mild grace became the lordly mien,As, gently passing through the kneeling ring,The warrior knelt with Childhood to the queen;And on the hand, that thrill'd in his to be,Press'd the pure kiss of courteous chivalry;In the bold music of his mountain tongue,9Speaking the homage of his frank delight.Is there one common language to the youngThat, with each word more troubled and more bright,Stirr'd the quick blush—as when the south wind heavesInto sweet storm the hush of rosy leaves?But now the listening Augur to the side10Of Arthur moves; and, signing silently,The handmaid children from the chamber glide,And Ægle followeth slow, with drooping eye.—Then on the King the soothsayer gazed and spoke,And Arthur started as the accents broke;—For those dim sounds his mother-tongue express,11But in some dialect of remotest age;Like that in which the farSaronides[1]Exchanged dark riddles with the Samian sage.[2]Ghostlike the sounds; a founder of his raceSeem'd in that voice the haunter of the place."Guest," said the priest, with labour'd words and slow,12"If, as thy language, though corrupt, betraysThou art of those great tribes our records showAs the crown'd wanderers of untrodden waysWhose eldest god, from pole to pole enshrined,Gives Greece herKronosand herBoudhto Ind;"Who, from their Syrian parent-stem, spread forth13Their giant roots to every farthest shore,Sires of young nations in the stormy North,And slumberous East; but most renown'd of yoreIn purple Tyre;—if, ofPhœnicianrace,In truth thou art,—thrice welcome to the place!"Know us as sons of that old friendly soil14Whose ports, perchance, yet glitter with the prowsOf Punic ships, when resting from their toilInLuna's[3]gulf, the seabeat crews carouse.Unless in sooth (and here he sigh'd) the dayCære foretold hath come toRasena!"[4]"Grave sir," quoth Arthur, piteously perplext,15"Or much—forgive me, hath my hearing err'd,Or of that People quoted in thy text,(Perish'd long since)—but dimly have I heard:Phœnicians! True, that name is found withinOur scrolls;—they came toMel Ynysfor tin!"As for my race, our later bards declare16It springs from Brut, the famous Knight of Troy;But if Sir Hector spoke in Welsh, I ne'erCould clearly learn—meanwhile, I hear with joy,My native language (pardon the remark)Much as Noah spoke it when he left the ark."More would my pleasure be increased to know17That that fair lady has your own precisionIn the dear music which, so long ago,Wetaught—observe, notlearn'dfrom—the Phœnician.""Speak as your fathers spoke the maiden can,O many-vowell'd, ear-afflicting man!"The priest replied. "But, ere I yet disclose18The bliss that Northia[5]singles for your lot,Fain would I learn what change the gods imposeOn the old races and their sceptres?—whatThe latest news fromRasena?"—"With shameI own, grave sir, I never heard that name!"The Augur stood aghast!—"O, ruthless Fates!19Who then rules Italy?"—"The Ostrogoth.""The Os——- the what?"—"Except the Papal states;Unless the Goth, indeed, has ravish'd bothThe Cæsar's throne and the apostle's chair—Spite of the Knight of Thrace,—Sir Belisair."[6]"What else the warrior nations of the earth?"20Groan'd the stunn'd Augur.—"Reverend sir, the Huns,Franks, Vandals, Lombards,—all have warlike worth;Nor least, I trust, old Cymri's Druid sons!""O, Northia, Northia! and the East?"—"In peace,Under the Christian Emperor of Greece;"Whose arms of late have scourged the Paynim race,21And worsted Satan!"—"Satan, who is he?"Greatly the knight was shock'd in that fair place,To find such ignorance of the powers that be:So then, from Eve and Serpent he began;And sketch'd the history of the Foe of Man."Ah," said the Augur,—"here, I comprehend22Ægypt, and Typhon, and the serpent creed![7]So, o'er the East the gods of Greece extend,And Isis totters?"—"Truly, and indeed,"Sigh'd Arthur, scandalized—"I see, with pain,You have much to learn my monks could best explain—"Nathless for this, and all you seek to know23Which I, no clerk, though Christian, can relate,Occasion meet my sojourn may bestow;—Now, wherefore, pray you, through yon granite gateHave you, with signs of some distress endured,And succour sought, my wandering steps allured?""Pardon, but first, soul-startling stranger," said24The slow-recovering Augur—"say if fairThe region seems to which those steps were led?And next, the maid to whom you knelt compareWith those you leave. Are hers, in sober truth,The charms that fix the roving heart of youth?""Lovelier than all on earth mine eyes have seen25Smiles the gay marvel of this gentle realm;Of all earth's beauty that fair maid the queen;And, might I place her glove upon my helm,I would proclaim that truth with lance and shield,In tilt and tourney, sole against a field!""Since that be so (though what such custom means26I rather guess than fully comprehend)Answer again;—if right my reason gleansFrom dismal harvests, and discerns the endTo which the beautiful and wise have come,Hard are the fates beyond our Alpine home:"What makes, without, the chief pursuit of life?"27"War," said the Cymrian, with a mournful sigh:"The fierce provoke, the free resist, the strife,The daring perish and the dastard fly;Amidst a storm we snatch our troubled breath,And life is one grim battle-field of death.""Then here, O stranger, find at last repose!28Here, never smites the thunder-blast of war:Here, all unknown the very name of foes;Here, but with yielding earth men's contests are;Our trophies—flower and olive, corn and wine:—Accept a sceptre, be this kingdom thine!"Our queen, the virgin who hath charm'd thine eyes—29Our laws her spouse, in whom the gods shall send,Decree; the gods have sent thee;—what the skiesAllot, receive:—Here, shall thy wanderings end,Here thy woes cease, and life's voluptuous dayGlide, like yon river through our flowers, away.""Kind sir," said Arthur, gratefully—"such lot30Indeed were fair beyond what dreams display;But earth has duties which"——"Relate them not!"Exclaim'd the Augur—"or at least delay,Till better known the kingdom and the bride,Then youth, and sense, and nature, shall decide."With that, the Augur, much too wise as yet31To hint compulsion, and secure from flight,Arose, resolved each scruple to besetWith all which melteth duty in delight—Here, for awhile, we leave the tempted King,And turn to him who owns the crystal ring.Oh, the old time's divine and fresh romance!32When o'er the lone yet ever-haunted waysWent frank-eyed Knighthood with the lifted lance,And life with wonder charm'd adventurous days!When light more rich, through prisms that dimm'd it, shone;And Nature loom'd more large through the Unknown.Nature, not then the slave of formal law!33Her each free sport a miracle might be:Enchantment clothed the forest with sweet awe;Astolfo[8]spoke from out the bleeding tree;The fairy wreath'd his dance in moonlit air;On golden sands the mermaid sleek'd her hair—Then soul learn'd more than barren sense can teach34(Soul with the sense now evermore at strife)Wherever fancy wander'd man could reach—And what is now call'd poetry was life.If the old beauty from the world is fled,Is it that Truth or that Belief is dead?Not following, step by step, the devious King,35But whither best his later steps are gain'd,Moved the sure index of the fairy ring,And since, at least, a moon hath wax'd and wanedWhat time the pilgrim left the fatherland—So towards his fresher footsteps veer'd the hand.Lo, now where pure Sabrina[9]on her breast36Hushes sweet Isca, and, like some fair nunThat yearns, earth-wearied, for the golden rest,Sees with delighted calm her journey done;And broader, brighter, as she nears her grave,Melts in the deep;—all daylight on the wave.Across that stream pass'd sprightly Lancelot,37Then, towards those lovely lands which yet retainThe Cymrian freedom, rode, and rested notTill, loud on Devon, broke the rough'ning main.Through rocks abrupt, the strong waves force their way,Here cleave the land—there, hew the indented bay.The horseman paused. Rude huts lay far and wide;38The dipping sea-gulls wheel'd with startled shriek;Drawn on the sands lay coracles of hide,[10]And all was desolate; when, towards the creek,Near which he halts, he hears the plashing oar;A boat shoots in; the seamen leap to shore.Three were their number,—two in youthful prime,39One of mid years;—tall, huge of limb the three;Scarce clad, with weapons of a northward clime;Clubs, spears, and shields—the uncouth armouryOf man, while yet the wild beast is his foe.Yet something still the lords of earth may show;—The pride of eye, the majesty of mien,40The front erect that looks upon the star:While round each neck the twisted chains are seenOf Teuton chiefs;—(and signs of chiefs they areIn Cymrian lands—where still the torque of gold[11]Or decks the highborn or rewards the bold).Stern Lancelot frown'd; for in those sturdy forms41The Christian Knight the Saxon foemen fear'd."Why come ye hither?—nor compell'd by storms,Nor proffering barter?" As he spoke they near'dThe noble knight;—and thus the elder said,"Nought save his heart the Aleman hath led!"Ere more I answer, say if this the shore,42And thou the friend, of him who owns the dove?Arthur the king,—who taught us to adoreBy the man's deeds the God whose creed is love?"Then Lancelot answer'd, with a moistening eye,"Arthur's true knight and lealest friend am I."With that, he leapt from selle to clasp the hand43Of him who honour'd thus the absent one:And now behold them seated on the sand,Frank faces smiling in the cordial sun;The absent, there, seem'd present: to unite,In loving bonds, his converts and his knight.Then told the Aleman the tale by song44Already told—and we resume its flowWhere the mild hero charm'd the stormy throngAnd twined the arm that shelter'd, round his foe:Not meanly conquer'd but sublimely won—Stern Harold vail'd his plume to Uther's son.The Saxon troop resought the Vandal king,45And Arthur sojourn'd with the savage race:More easy such rude proselytes to bringTo Christian truth, than, in the wonderous placeWhere now he rests, proud Wisdom he shall find!For heaven dawns clearest on the simplest mind.But when his cause of wrong the Cymrian show'd;46The heathen foe—the carnage-crimson'd fields;With one fierce impulse those fierce converts glow'd,And their wild war-howl chimed with clashing shieldsBut Arthur wisely shunn'd that last appealOf falling states,—the stranger's fatal steel.Yet to the chief (for there at least no fear)47And his two sons, a slow consent he gave:Show'd by the prince the stars by which to steer,They hew'd a pine and launch'd it on the wave;Bringing rough forms but dauntless hearts to swellThe force that guards the fates of Carduel.The story heard, the son of royalBan[12]48Questions the paths to which the King was led."Know," answered Faul (so hight the Aleman),"That, in our father's days, our warriors spreadO'er lands wherein eternal summer dwells,Beyond the snow-storm's siegeless pinnacles;"And on the borders of those lands, 'tis told,49There lies a lake, some dead great city's grave,Where, when the moon is at her full, beholdPillar and palace shine up from the wave!And o'er the lake, seen but by gifted seers,Its phantom bark a silent phantom steers."It chanced, as round our fires we sate at night,50And saga-runes to wile our watch were sung,That with the legends of our father's mightAnd wandering labours, this old tale was strung,Then the roused King much question'd:—what we knewWe told, still question from each answer grew."That night he slept not—with the morn was gone;51And the dove led him where the snow-storms sleep."Then Lancelot rose, and led his destrier on,And gain'd the boat, and motion'd to the deep,His purpose well the Alemen divine,And launch once more the bark upon the brine.And ask to aid—"Know, friends," replied the knight,52"Each wave that rolleth smooths its frown for me;My sire and mother, by the lawless mightOf a fierce foe expell'd and forced to fleeFrom the fair halls ofBenoic, paused to takeBreath for new woes, beside a Fairy's lake."With them was I, their new-born helpless heir,53The hunted exiles gazed afar on home,And saw the fires that dyed like blood the airPall with the pomp of hell the crashing dome.They clung, they gazed—no word by either spoken;And in that hush the sterner heart was broken."The woman felt the cold hand fail her own;54The head that lean'd fell heavy on the sod;She knelt—she kiss'd the lips,—the breath was flown!She call'd upon a soul that was with God:For the first time the wife's sweet power was o'er—She who had soothed till then could soothe no more!"In the wife's woe, the mother was forgot.55At last—(for I was all earth held of himWho had been all to her, and now was not)—She rose, and look'd with tearless eyes, but dim,In the babe's face the father still to see;And lo! the babe was on another's knee!—"Another's lip had kiss'd it into sleep,56And o'er the sleep another, watchful, smiled;—The Fairy sate beside the lake's still deep,And hush'd with chanted charms the orphan child!Scared at the cry the startled mother gave,It sprang, and, snow-like, melted in the wave."There, in calm halls of lucent crystalline,57Fed by the dews that fell from golden stars,But through the lymph I saw the sunbeams shine,Nor dream'd a world beyond the glist'ning spars;Buoy'd by a charm that still endows and saves,In stream or sea, the nurseling of the waves."In my fifth year, to Uther's royal towers58The fairy bore me, and her charge resign'd.My mother took the veil of Christ—the HoursWith Arthur's life the orphan's life entwined.O'er mine own element my course I take—All oceans smile on Lancelot of the Lake!"He said, and waved his hand: around the boat59The curlews hover'd, as it shot to sea.The wild men, lingering, watch'd the lessening float,Till in the far expanse lost desolately,Then slowly towards the hut they bent their way,And the lone waves moan'd up the lifeless bay.Pass we the voyage. Hunger-worn, to shore60Gain'd man and steed; there food and rest they foundIn humble roofs. The course, resumed once more,Stretch'd inland o'er not unfamiliar ground:The wanderer smiles, by tower and town, to seeCymri's old oak rebloom in Brettanie.Nathless, no pause, save such as needful rest61Demands, delays him in the friendly land.No tidings here of Arthur gain'd, his breastSprings to the goal of the quick-moving hand,Howbeit not barren of adventurous days,Sweet danger found him in the devious ways.What foes encounter'd, or what damsels freed—62What demon spells in lonely forests braving,Leave we to songs yet vocal to the reedOn ev'ry bank, beloved by poets, waving;Our task unborrow'd from the muse of old,Takes but the tale by nobler bards untold.Now as he journeys, frequent more and more63The traces of the steps he tracks are found;Fame, like a light, shines broadening on beforeHis path, and cleaves the shadows on the ground;High deeds and gentle, bruited near and far,Show where that soul went flashing as a star.At length he gains the Ausonian Alpine walls;64Here, castle, convent, town, and hamlet fade;Lone, through the rolling mists, the hoof-tread falls;Lone, earth's mute giants loom amidst the shade:Yet still, as sure of hope, he tracks the king,Up steep, through gorge, where guides the crystal ring.One day—along by gloomy chasms his course—65He saw before him indistinctly passThrough the dun fogs, what seem'd a phantom horse,Like that which oft, amidst the dank morass,Bestrid by goblin-meteor, starts the eye—So fleshless flitting—wan and shadowy.By a bare rock it paused, and feebly neigh'd.66As the good knight, descending, seized the rein;Dew-rusted mail the shrunken front array'd;The rich selle rotted with the moulder-stain;And on the selle were slung helm, axe, and mace;And the great lance lay careless near the place.Then first the seeker's stricken spirit fell;67Too well that helmet, with its dragon crest,Speaks of the mighty owner; and too wellThat steed, so oft by snowy hands carest,When bright-eyed Beauty from the balcon bentTo crown the victor-lord of tournament.Near and afar he searched—he called in vain,68By crag and combe, nought answering, and nought seen;Return'd, the charger long refused the rein,Clinging, poor slave, where last its lord had been.At length the slow, reluctant hoofs obey'dThe soothing words; so went they through the shade:Following the gorge that wound the Alpine wall,69Like the huge fosse of some Cyclopean town,(While roaring round, invisible cataracts fall);On the black rocks twilight comes ghostly down,And deep and deeper still the windings go,And dark and darker as to worlds below.Night halts the course, resumed at earliest day,70Through day pursued, till the last sunbeams fellOn a broad mere whose margin closed the way.Hark! o'er the waters swung the holy bellFrom a grey convent on the rising ground,Amidst the subject hamlet stretch'd around.Here, while both man and steeds the welcome rest71Under the sacred roof of Christ receive,We turn once more to Ægle and her guest.Lo! the sweet valley in the flush of eve!Lo! side by side, where through the rose-arcade,Steals the love star, the hero and the maid!Silent they gaze into each other's eyes,72Stirring the inmost soul's unquiet sleep;So pierce soft star-beams, blending wave and skies,Some holy fountain trembling to its deep!Bright to each eye each human heart is bare,And scarce a thought to start an angel there!Love to the soul, whate'er the harsh may say,73Is as the hallowing Naïad to the well—The linking life between the forms of clayAnd those ambrosia nurtures; from its spellFly earth's rank fogs, and Thought's ennobled flowShines with the shape that glides in light below.Seize, O beloved, the blooms the Hour allows!74Alas, but once can flower the Beautiful!Hark, the wind rustles through the trembling boughs,And the stem withers while the buds ye cull!Brief though the prize, how few in after hoursCan say, "at least the Beautifulwasours!"Two loves (and both divine and pure) there are;75One by the roof-tree takes its root for ever,Nor tempests rend, nor changeful seasons mar—It clings the stronger for the storm's endeavour;Beneath its shade the wayworn find their rest,And in its boughs the calm bird builds its nest.But one more frail (in that more prized, perchance),76Bends its rich blossoms over lonely streamsIn the untrodden ways of wild Romance,On earth's far confines, like the Tree of Dreams,[13]Few find the path;—O bliss! O woe to find!What bliss the blossom!—ah! what woe the wind!Oh, the short spring!—the eternal winter!—All77Branch,—stem all shatter'd; fragile as the bloom!Yet this the love that charms us to recallLife's golden holiday before the tomb;Yea!thisthe love which age again lives o'er,And hears the heart beat loud with youth once more!Before them, at the distance, o'er the blue78Of the sweet waves which girt the rosy isle,Flitted light shapes the inwoven alleys through:Remotely mellow'd, musical the while,Floated the hum of voices, and the sweetLutes chimed with timbrels to dim-glancing feet.The calm swan rested on the breathless glass79Of dreamy waters, and the snow-white steerNear the opposing margin, motionless,Stood, knee-deep, gazing wistful on its clearAnd life-like shadow, shimmering deep and far,Where on the lucid darkness fell the star.Near them, upon its lichen-tinted base,80Gleam'd one of those fair fancied imagesWhich art hath lost—no god of Idan race,But the wing'd symbol which, by Caspian seas,Or Susa's groves, its parable addrestTo the wild faith of Iran's Zendavest.[14]Light as the soul, whose archetype it was81The Genius touch'd, yet spurn'd the pedestal;Behind, the foliage, in its purple mass,Shut out the flush'd horizon; clasping all,Nature's hush'd giants stood to guard and girthThe only home of peace upon the earth.And when, at last, from Ægle's lips, the voice82Came soft as murmur'd hymns at closing day,The sweet sound seem'd the sweet air to rejoice—To give the sole charm wanting,—to conveyThe crowning music to the Musical;As with the soul of love infusing all!And to the Northman's ear that antique tongue,83Which from the Augur's lips fell weird and cold,Seem'd as the thread in fairy tales,[15]which strungEnchanted pearls, won from the caves of old,And woven round a sunbeam;—so was wroughtO'er cordial love the pure and delicate thought.She spoke of youth's lost years, so lone before,84And coming to the present, paused and blush'd;As if Time's wing were spell-bound evermore,And Life, the restless, in the hour were hush'd:The pause, the blush, said more than words, "And thouArt found!—thou lov'st me!—Fate is powerless now!"That hand in his—that heart his own entwining85With its life's tendrils,—youth his pardon be,If in his heaven no loftier star were shining—If round the haven boom'd unheard the sea—If in the wreath forgot the thorny crown,And the harsh duties of severe renown.Blame we as well the idlesse of a dream,86As that entranced oblivion from the reignOf the Great Curse, which glares in every beamOf labouring suns to the stern race of Cain;So life from earth did Nature here withdraw,That the strange peace seem'd but earth's common law.Yet some excuse all stronger spirits take87For all repose from toil (to strength the doom)How sweet in that fair heathen soil to wakeThe living palm God planted on the tomb!And so, and long, did Passion's subtle artMask with the soul the impulse of the heart.Wonderous and lovely in that last retreat88Of the old Gods,—the simple speech to hearTell of the Messenger whose beauteous feetHad gilt the mountain-tops with tidings clearOf veilless Heaven, while Ægle, thoughtful said,"This, love makes plain—yes, love can ne'er be dead!"Now, as Night gently deepens round them, while89Oft to the moon upturn their happy eyes—Still, hand in hand, they range the lullèd isle.Air knows no breeze, scarce sighing to their sighs;No bird of night shrieks bode from drowsy trees,Nought lives between them and the Pleïades;Save where the moth strains to the moon its wing,90Deeming the Reachless near;—the prophet raceOf the cold stars forewarn'd them not; the RingOf great Orion, who for the embraceOf Morn's sweet Maid had died,[16]look'd calm aboveThe last unconscious hours of human love.Each astral influence unrevealing shone91O'er the dark web its solemn thread enwove;Mars shot no anger from his fatal throne,No beam spoke trouble in the House of Love;Their closing path the treacherous smile illumed;And the stern Star-kings kiss'd the brows they doom'd.—'Tis morn once more; upon the shelving green92Of the small isle, alone the Cymrian stoodWith his full heart,—when, suddenly, betweenHim and the sun, the azure solitudeWas broken by a dark and rapid wing,And a dusk bird swoop'd downward to the King.And the King's cheek grew pale, for well to him93(As now the raven, settling, touch'd his feet),Was known the mystic messenger:—where, grimO'er the Black Valley,[17]demon shadows fleetGlass'd on the lake whose horror scares awayEach harmless wing that skims the golden day.The Prophet's dauntless childhood stray'd and found94The weird bird muttering by the waves of dread;Three days and nights upon the haunted groundThe raven's beak the solemn infant fed:And ever after (so the legend ran)The lone bird tended on the lonely man.O'er the Man's temples fell the snows of age,95As fresh the lustrous ebon of the Bird,—Less awe had credulous terror of the sageThan that familiar by the Fiend conferr'd—So thought the crowd; nor knew what holy loreLives in all things whose instinct is to soar.Hoarse croaks the bird, and, with its round bright eye,96Fixes the gaze of the recoiling King;Slowly the hand, that trembles, cuts the tieWhich binds the white scroll gleaming from the wing,And these the words, "Weak Loiterer from thy toil,The Saxon's march is on thy father's soil."Bounded the Prince!—As when the sudden sun97Looses the ice-chains on the halted rill,Smites the dumb snow-mass, and the cataracts runIn molten thunder down the clanging hill,So from his heart the fetters burst; and strongIn its rough course the great soul rush'd along.As looks a warrior on the fort he scales,98His glance darts round the everlasting steeps—Not there escape!—the wildest fancy quailsBefore those heights on which the whitening deepsOf measureless heaven repose:—below their frown,Planed as a wall, shears the smooth granite down.Marvel, indeed, how ev'n the enchanted wing99Had o'er such rampires won to the abode:But not for marvel paused the kindled King,Swift, as Pelides stung to war, he strode;While the dark herald, with its sullen scream,Rose, and fled, dismal as an evil dream.Carved as for Love, a slender boat rock'd o'er100The ripple with the murmuring marge at play,He loosed its chain, he gain'd the adverse shore,Startled the groups that flutter'd round his way,Awed by the knitted brow and flashing eyesOf him they deem'd the native of the skies.As towards the fane, which closed on hardy life101The granite path to Labour's world behind,O'er trampled flowers, strode the stern Child of Strife,He saw the melancholy priest reclinedUnder the shade of hush'd Dodonian boughs,Bending, o'er mystic scrolls, calm, mournful brows.—Loud on that musing leisure broke the cry102Of the imperious Northman, "Rise, unbarYour granite gates—the eagle seeks the sky,The captive freedom, and the warrior war!"Slow rose the Augur, and this answer gave,"Man, see thy world—its outlet is the grave!"Thou hast our secret! Thou must share our fates:103The Alps and Orcus guard ourselves—and thee!To what new Mars shall Janus ope the gates?Thou speak'st of war, and then demand'st the key!"Scornful he turn'd—but thrill'd with wrath to feelHis sacred arm lock'd in a grasp of steel."Trifle not, host,—Fate calls me to depart;104On my shamed soul a prophet's voice hath cried!Nor Alps nor Orcus like a loyal heartEnsures the secret trustful lips confide."The Augur sneer'd—"A loyal heart, forsooth!And what says Ægle of the stranger's truth?""Let Ægle answer," cried the noble lover;105"Let Ægle judge the trust I hold from Heaven.I faithless!—I—a King?—my labours over,From mine own soil the surge of carnage driven,And I will come, as kings should come, to claimA mate for empire, and a meed for fame!"—Long mused the Augur, and at length replied,106His guile scarce mask'd in his malignant gaze,"Take, as thou say'st, an answer from thy bride—Then, if still wearied of untroubled days—No more from Mantu[18]Pales shall control;And one free gate shall open on thy soul!"He said, and drew his large robe round his form,107And wrathful swept along, as o'er the skyA cloud sweeps dark, secret with hoarded storm;Behind him went the guest as silently;Afar the gazing wonderers whisper'd, whileThey cross'd the girdling wave and reach'd the isle.With violet buds, bright Ægle, in her bower,108Knits the dark riches of her lustrous hair;Her heart springs eager to the magic hourWhen to loved eyes 'tis glorious to be fair:Gleams of a neck, proud as the swan's, escapeThe light-spun tunic rounded to the shape.The airy veil, its silver cloud dividing,109Falls, and floats fragrant, from the violet crown.What happy thought is in that breast presidingLike some serenest bird that settles down(Its wanderings over) on calm summer evesInto its nest, amid the secret leaves?What happy thought in those large tranquil eyes110Speaks of a bliss remote from human fear?Speaks of a soul which like a star suppliesIts own circumfluent lustrous atmosphere;Weaves beam on beam around its peace, and glowsSoft through the splendour which itself bestows?Who ever gazed on perfect happiness,111Nor felt it as the shadow cast from God?It seems so still in its sublime excess,So brings all heaven around its hush'd abode,That in its very beauty awe has birth,Dismay'd by too much glory for the earth.Across the threshold now abruptly strode112Her youth's stern guardian. "Child ofRasena,"He said, "the lover on thy youth bestow'dFor the last time on earth thine eyes survey,Unless thy power can chain the faithless breast,And sated bliss deigns gracious to be blest.""Not so!" cried Arthur, as his loyal knee113Bent to the earth, and with the knightly truthOf his right hand he clasp'd her own;—"to beThine evermore; youth mingled with thy youth,Age with thine age; in thy grave mine; above,Soul with thy soul—this is the Christian's love!"Oft wouldst thou smile, believing smile, to hear114Thy lover speak of knighthood's holy vow—That vow holds falsehood more abhorr'd than fear,—And canst thou doubt both love and knighthood now?"His words rush'd on—told of the threaten'd land,The fates confided to the sceptred hand,Here gathering woes, and there suspended toil;115And the stern warning from the distant seer."Thine be my people—thine this bleeding soil;Queen of my realm, its groaning murmurs hear!Then ask thyself, what manhood's choice should be;False to my country, were I worthy thee?"Dim through her struggling sense the light came slow,116Struck from those words of fire. Alas, poor child!What, in thine isle of roses, shouldst thou knowOf earth's grave duties?—of that stormy wildOf care and carnage—the relentless strifeOf man with happiness, and soul with life?Thou who hadst seen the sun but rise and set117O'er one Saturnian Arcady of rest,Snatch'd from the Age of Iron? Ever, yet,Dwells that fine instinct in the noble breast,Which each high truth intuitive receives,And what the Reason grasps not, Faith believes.So in mute woe, one hand to his resign'd,118And one press'd firmly on her swelling heart,Passive she heard, and in her labouring mindStrove with the dark enigma—"part!—to part!"Till, having solved it by the beams that brokeFrom that clear soul on hers, struggling she spoke:—"Thou bidst me trust thee!—This is my reply:119Trust is my life—to trust thee is to live!And ev'n farewell less bitter than thy sighFor something Ægle is too poor to give.Thou speak'st of dread and terror, strife and woe;And I might wonder why they tempt thee so;"And I might ask how more can mortals please120The heavens, than thankful to enjoy the earth?But through its mist my soul, though faintly, seesWhere thine sweeps on beyond this mountain girth,And, awed and dazzled, bending I confessLife may have holier ends than happiness!"Yes, as thou offerest joy upon the shrine121Of some bright good, all human joys above,So does my heart its altar seek in thine,Content to bleed:—Thee, not myself, I love!"Sighing, she ceased; and yet still seem'd to sigh,As doth the wave on which the zephyrs die.Then, as she felt his tears upon her hand,122Sorrow woke sorrow, and her face she bow'd:As when the silver gates of heaven expand,And on the earth descends the melting cloud,So sunk the spirit from sublimer air,And all the woman rush'd on her despair."To lose thee—oh, to lose thee! To live on123And see the sun—not thee! Will the sun shine,Will the birds sing, flowers bloom, when thou art gone?Desolate, desolate! Thy right hand in mine,Swear, by the Past, thou wilt return!—Oh, say,Say it again!"——voice died in sobs away!Mute look'd the Augur, with his deathful eyes,124On the last anguish of their lock'd embrace."Priest," cried the lover, "canst thou deem this prizeLost to my future?—No, though round the placeYon Alps took life, with all the dire arrayOf demon legions, Love would force the way."Hear me, adored one!" On the silent ear125The promise fell, and o'er the unconscious frameWound the protecting arm.—"Since neither fearOf the great Powers thou dost blaspheming name,Nor the soft impulse native in man's heartRestrains thee, doom'd one—hasten to depart."Come, in thy treason merciful at least,126Come, while those eyes by pitying slumbers bound,See not thy shadow pass from earth!"——The priestSpoke,—and now call'd the infant handmaids round;But o'er that form with arms that vainly cling,And words that idly comfort, bends the King."Nay, nay, look up! It is these arms that fold;—127I still am here;—this hand, these tears, are mine."Then, when they sought to loose her from his hold,He waived them back with a fierce jealous sign;O'er her hush'd breath his listening ear he bow'd,And the awed children round him wept aloud.But when the soul broke faint from its eclipse,128And his own name came, shaping life's first sigh,His very heart seem'd breaking in the lipsPress'd to those faithful ones;—then tremblingly,He rose;—he moved;—he paused;—his nerveless handVeil'd the dread agony of man unmann'd.Thus, from the chamber, as an infant meek129The priest's slight arm led forth the mighty King;In vain wide air came fresh upon his cheek,Passive he went in his great sorrowing;Hate, the mute guide,—the waves of death, the goal;—So, following Hermes, glides to Styx a soul.
Hail, thou, the ever young, albeit of Night1And of primæval Chaos eldest born;Thou, at whose birth broke forth the Founts of Light,And o'er Creation flush'd the earliest Morn!Life, in thy life, suffused the conscious whole;And formless matter took the harmonious soul.
Hail, Love! the death-defier! age to age2Linking, with flowers, in the still heart of man!Dream to the bard, and marvel to the sage,Glory and mystery since the world began.Like the new moon, whose disk of silver sheenBut halves the circle Heaven completes unseen.
Ghostlike amidst the unfamiliar Past,3Dim shadows flit along the streams of Time;Vainly our learning trifles with the vastUnknown of ages!—Like the wizard's rhymeWe call the dead, and from the Tartarus'Tis but the dead that rise to answer us!
Voiceless and wan, we question them in vain;4They leave unsolved earth's mighty yesterday.But wave thy wand—they bloom, they breathe again!The link is found!—aswelove, so lovedthey!Warm to our clasp our human brothers start,All centuries blend when heart speaks out to heart.
Arch Power, of every power most dread, most sweet,5Ope at thy touch the far celestial gates;Yet Terror flies with Joy before thy feet,And, with the Graces, glide unseen the Fates.Eos and Hesperus; one, with twofold light,Bringer of day, and herald of the night.
But, lo! again, where rise upon the gaze6The Tuscan Virgin in the Alpine bower,The steel-clad wanderer, in his rapt amaze,Led through the flowerets to that living flower:Eye meeting eye, as in that blest surveyTwo hearts, unspeaking, breathe themselves away!
Calm on the twain reposed the Augur's eye,7A marble stillness on his solemn face;Like some cold image of NecessityWhen fated hands lay garlands on its base.And slanted sunbeams, through the blossoms stealing,Lit circled Childhood round the Virgin kneeling.
Slow from charm'd wonder woke at last the King,8Well the mild grace became the lordly mien,As, gently passing through the kneeling ring,The warrior knelt with Childhood to the queen;And on the hand, that thrill'd in his to be,Press'd the pure kiss of courteous chivalry;
In the bold music of his mountain tongue,9Speaking the homage of his frank delight.Is there one common language to the youngThat, with each word more troubled and more bright,Stirr'd the quick blush—as when the south wind heavesInto sweet storm the hush of rosy leaves?
But now the listening Augur to the side10Of Arthur moves; and, signing silently,The handmaid children from the chamber glide,And Ægle followeth slow, with drooping eye.—Then on the King the soothsayer gazed and spoke,And Arthur started as the accents broke;—
For those dim sounds his mother-tongue express,11But in some dialect of remotest age;Like that in which the farSaronides[1]Exchanged dark riddles with the Samian sage.[2]Ghostlike the sounds; a founder of his raceSeem'd in that voice the haunter of the place.
"Guest," said the priest, with labour'd words and slow,12"If, as thy language, though corrupt, betraysThou art of those great tribes our records showAs the crown'd wanderers of untrodden waysWhose eldest god, from pole to pole enshrined,Gives Greece herKronosand herBoudhto Ind;
"Who, from their Syrian parent-stem, spread forth13Their giant roots to every farthest shore,Sires of young nations in the stormy North,And slumberous East; but most renown'd of yoreIn purple Tyre;—if, ofPhœnicianrace,In truth thou art,—thrice welcome to the place!
"Know us as sons of that old friendly soil14Whose ports, perchance, yet glitter with the prowsOf Punic ships, when resting from their toilInLuna's[3]gulf, the seabeat crews carouse.Unless in sooth (and here he sigh'd) the dayCære foretold hath come toRasena!"[4]
"Grave sir," quoth Arthur, piteously perplext,15"Or much—forgive me, hath my hearing err'd,Or of that People quoted in thy text,(Perish'd long since)—but dimly have I heard:Phœnicians! True, that name is found withinOur scrolls;—they came toMel Ynysfor tin!
"As for my race, our later bards declare16It springs from Brut, the famous Knight of Troy;But if Sir Hector spoke in Welsh, I ne'erCould clearly learn—meanwhile, I hear with joy,My native language (pardon the remark)Much as Noah spoke it when he left the ark.
"More would my pleasure be increased to know17That that fair lady has your own precisionIn the dear music which, so long ago,Wetaught—observe, notlearn'dfrom—the Phœnician.""Speak as your fathers spoke the maiden can,O many-vowell'd, ear-afflicting man!"
The priest replied. "But, ere I yet disclose18The bliss that Northia[5]singles for your lot,Fain would I learn what change the gods imposeOn the old races and their sceptres?—whatThe latest news fromRasena?"—"With shameI own, grave sir, I never heard that name!"
The Augur stood aghast!—"O, ruthless Fates!19Who then rules Italy?"—"The Ostrogoth.""The Os——- the what?"—"Except the Papal states;Unless the Goth, indeed, has ravish'd bothThe Cæsar's throne and the apostle's chair—Spite of the Knight of Thrace,—Sir Belisair."[6]
"What else the warrior nations of the earth?"20Groan'd the stunn'd Augur.—"Reverend sir, the Huns,Franks, Vandals, Lombards,—all have warlike worth;Nor least, I trust, old Cymri's Druid sons!""O, Northia, Northia! and the East?"—"In peace,Under the Christian Emperor of Greece;
"Whose arms of late have scourged the Paynim race,21And worsted Satan!"—"Satan, who is he?"Greatly the knight was shock'd in that fair place,To find such ignorance of the powers that be:So then, from Eve and Serpent he began;And sketch'd the history of the Foe of Man.
"Ah," said the Augur,—"here, I comprehend22Ægypt, and Typhon, and the serpent creed![7]So, o'er the East the gods of Greece extend,And Isis totters?"—"Truly, and indeed,"Sigh'd Arthur, scandalized—"I see, with pain,You have much to learn my monks could best explain—
"Nathless for this, and all you seek to know23Which I, no clerk, though Christian, can relate,Occasion meet my sojourn may bestow;—Now, wherefore, pray you, through yon granite gateHave you, with signs of some distress endured,And succour sought, my wandering steps allured?"
"Pardon, but first, soul-startling stranger," said24The slow-recovering Augur—"say if fairThe region seems to which those steps were led?And next, the maid to whom you knelt compareWith those you leave. Are hers, in sober truth,The charms that fix the roving heart of youth?"
"Lovelier than all on earth mine eyes have seen25Smiles the gay marvel of this gentle realm;Of all earth's beauty that fair maid the queen;And, might I place her glove upon my helm,I would proclaim that truth with lance and shield,In tilt and tourney, sole against a field!"
"Since that be so (though what such custom means26I rather guess than fully comprehend)Answer again;—if right my reason gleansFrom dismal harvests, and discerns the endTo which the beautiful and wise have come,Hard are the fates beyond our Alpine home:
"What makes, without, the chief pursuit of life?"27"War," said the Cymrian, with a mournful sigh:"The fierce provoke, the free resist, the strife,The daring perish and the dastard fly;Amidst a storm we snatch our troubled breath,And life is one grim battle-field of death."
"Then here, O stranger, find at last repose!28Here, never smites the thunder-blast of war:Here, all unknown the very name of foes;Here, but with yielding earth men's contests are;Our trophies—flower and olive, corn and wine:—Accept a sceptre, be this kingdom thine!
"Our queen, the virgin who hath charm'd thine eyes—29Our laws her spouse, in whom the gods shall send,Decree; the gods have sent thee;—what the skiesAllot, receive:—Here, shall thy wanderings end,Here thy woes cease, and life's voluptuous dayGlide, like yon river through our flowers, away."
"Kind sir," said Arthur, gratefully—"such lot30Indeed were fair beyond what dreams display;But earth has duties which"——"Relate them not!"Exclaim'd the Augur—"or at least delay,Till better known the kingdom and the bride,Then youth, and sense, and nature, shall decide."
With that, the Augur, much too wise as yet31To hint compulsion, and secure from flight,Arose, resolved each scruple to besetWith all which melteth duty in delight—Here, for awhile, we leave the tempted King,And turn to him who owns the crystal ring.
Oh, the old time's divine and fresh romance!32When o'er the lone yet ever-haunted waysWent frank-eyed Knighthood with the lifted lance,And life with wonder charm'd adventurous days!When light more rich, through prisms that dimm'd it, shone;And Nature loom'd more large through the Unknown.
Nature, not then the slave of formal law!33Her each free sport a miracle might be:Enchantment clothed the forest with sweet awe;Astolfo[8]spoke from out the bleeding tree;The fairy wreath'd his dance in moonlit air;On golden sands the mermaid sleek'd her hair—
Then soul learn'd more than barren sense can teach34(Soul with the sense now evermore at strife)Wherever fancy wander'd man could reach—And what is now call'd poetry was life.If the old beauty from the world is fled,Is it that Truth or that Belief is dead?
Not following, step by step, the devious King,35But whither best his later steps are gain'd,Moved the sure index of the fairy ring,And since, at least, a moon hath wax'd and wanedWhat time the pilgrim left the fatherland—So towards his fresher footsteps veer'd the hand.
Lo, now where pure Sabrina[9]on her breast36Hushes sweet Isca, and, like some fair nunThat yearns, earth-wearied, for the golden rest,Sees with delighted calm her journey done;And broader, brighter, as she nears her grave,Melts in the deep;—all daylight on the wave.
Across that stream pass'd sprightly Lancelot,37Then, towards those lovely lands which yet retainThe Cymrian freedom, rode, and rested notTill, loud on Devon, broke the rough'ning main.Through rocks abrupt, the strong waves force their way,Here cleave the land—there, hew the indented bay.
The horseman paused. Rude huts lay far and wide;38The dipping sea-gulls wheel'd with startled shriek;Drawn on the sands lay coracles of hide,[10]And all was desolate; when, towards the creek,Near which he halts, he hears the plashing oar;A boat shoots in; the seamen leap to shore.
Three were their number,—two in youthful prime,39One of mid years;—tall, huge of limb the three;Scarce clad, with weapons of a northward clime;Clubs, spears, and shields—the uncouth armouryOf man, while yet the wild beast is his foe.Yet something still the lords of earth may show;—
The pride of eye, the majesty of mien,40The front erect that looks upon the star:While round each neck the twisted chains are seenOf Teuton chiefs;—(and signs of chiefs they areIn Cymrian lands—where still the torque of gold[11]Or decks the highborn or rewards the bold).
Stern Lancelot frown'd; for in those sturdy forms41The Christian Knight the Saxon foemen fear'd."Why come ye hither?—nor compell'd by storms,Nor proffering barter?" As he spoke they near'dThe noble knight;—and thus the elder said,"Nought save his heart the Aleman hath led!
"Ere more I answer, say if this the shore,42And thou the friend, of him who owns the dove?Arthur the king,—who taught us to adoreBy the man's deeds the God whose creed is love?"Then Lancelot answer'd, with a moistening eye,"Arthur's true knight and lealest friend am I."
With that, he leapt from selle to clasp the hand43Of him who honour'd thus the absent one:And now behold them seated on the sand,Frank faces smiling in the cordial sun;The absent, there, seem'd present: to unite,In loving bonds, his converts and his knight.
Then told the Aleman the tale by song44Already told—and we resume its flowWhere the mild hero charm'd the stormy throngAnd twined the arm that shelter'd, round his foe:Not meanly conquer'd but sublimely won—Stern Harold vail'd his plume to Uther's son.
The Saxon troop resought the Vandal king,45And Arthur sojourn'd with the savage race:More easy such rude proselytes to bringTo Christian truth, than, in the wonderous placeWhere now he rests, proud Wisdom he shall find!For heaven dawns clearest on the simplest mind.
But when his cause of wrong the Cymrian show'd;46The heathen foe—the carnage-crimson'd fields;With one fierce impulse those fierce converts glow'd,And their wild war-howl chimed with clashing shieldsBut Arthur wisely shunn'd that last appealOf falling states,—the stranger's fatal steel.
Yet to the chief (for there at least no fear)47And his two sons, a slow consent he gave:Show'd by the prince the stars by which to steer,They hew'd a pine and launch'd it on the wave;Bringing rough forms but dauntless hearts to swellThe force that guards the fates of Carduel.
The story heard, the son of royalBan[12]48Questions the paths to which the King was led."Know," answered Faul (so hight the Aleman),"That, in our father's days, our warriors spreadO'er lands wherein eternal summer dwells,Beyond the snow-storm's siegeless pinnacles;
"And on the borders of those lands, 'tis told,49There lies a lake, some dead great city's grave,Where, when the moon is at her full, beholdPillar and palace shine up from the wave!And o'er the lake, seen but by gifted seers,Its phantom bark a silent phantom steers.
"It chanced, as round our fires we sate at night,50And saga-runes to wile our watch were sung,That with the legends of our father's mightAnd wandering labours, this old tale was strung,Then the roused King much question'd:—what we knewWe told, still question from each answer grew.
"That night he slept not—with the morn was gone;51And the dove led him where the snow-storms sleep."Then Lancelot rose, and led his destrier on,And gain'd the boat, and motion'd to the deep,His purpose well the Alemen divine,And launch once more the bark upon the brine.
And ask to aid—"Know, friends," replied the knight,52"Each wave that rolleth smooths its frown for me;My sire and mother, by the lawless mightOf a fierce foe expell'd and forced to fleeFrom the fair halls ofBenoic, paused to takeBreath for new woes, beside a Fairy's lake.
"With them was I, their new-born helpless heir,53The hunted exiles gazed afar on home,And saw the fires that dyed like blood the airPall with the pomp of hell the crashing dome.They clung, they gazed—no word by either spoken;And in that hush the sterner heart was broken.
"The woman felt the cold hand fail her own;54The head that lean'd fell heavy on the sod;She knelt—she kiss'd the lips,—the breath was flown!She call'd upon a soul that was with God:For the first time the wife's sweet power was o'er—She who had soothed till then could soothe no more!
"In the wife's woe, the mother was forgot.55At last—(for I was all earth held of himWho had been all to her, and now was not)—She rose, and look'd with tearless eyes, but dim,In the babe's face the father still to see;And lo! the babe was on another's knee!—
"Another's lip had kiss'd it into sleep,56And o'er the sleep another, watchful, smiled;—The Fairy sate beside the lake's still deep,And hush'd with chanted charms the orphan child!Scared at the cry the startled mother gave,It sprang, and, snow-like, melted in the wave.
"There, in calm halls of lucent crystalline,57Fed by the dews that fell from golden stars,But through the lymph I saw the sunbeams shine,Nor dream'd a world beyond the glist'ning spars;Buoy'd by a charm that still endows and saves,In stream or sea, the nurseling of the waves.
"In my fifth year, to Uther's royal towers58The fairy bore me, and her charge resign'd.My mother took the veil of Christ—the HoursWith Arthur's life the orphan's life entwined.O'er mine own element my course I take—All oceans smile on Lancelot of the Lake!"
He said, and waved his hand: around the boat59The curlews hover'd, as it shot to sea.The wild men, lingering, watch'd the lessening float,Till in the far expanse lost desolately,Then slowly towards the hut they bent their way,And the lone waves moan'd up the lifeless bay.
Pass we the voyage. Hunger-worn, to shore60Gain'd man and steed; there food and rest they foundIn humble roofs. The course, resumed once more,Stretch'd inland o'er not unfamiliar ground:The wanderer smiles, by tower and town, to seeCymri's old oak rebloom in Brettanie.
Nathless, no pause, save such as needful rest61Demands, delays him in the friendly land.No tidings here of Arthur gain'd, his breastSprings to the goal of the quick-moving hand,Howbeit not barren of adventurous days,Sweet danger found him in the devious ways.
What foes encounter'd, or what damsels freed—62What demon spells in lonely forests braving,Leave we to songs yet vocal to the reedOn ev'ry bank, beloved by poets, waving;Our task unborrow'd from the muse of old,Takes but the tale by nobler bards untold.
Now as he journeys, frequent more and more63The traces of the steps he tracks are found;Fame, like a light, shines broadening on beforeHis path, and cleaves the shadows on the ground;High deeds and gentle, bruited near and far,Show where that soul went flashing as a star.
At length he gains the Ausonian Alpine walls;64Here, castle, convent, town, and hamlet fade;Lone, through the rolling mists, the hoof-tread falls;Lone, earth's mute giants loom amidst the shade:Yet still, as sure of hope, he tracks the king,Up steep, through gorge, where guides the crystal ring.
One day—along by gloomy chasms his course—65He saw before him indistinctly passThrough the dun fogs, what seem'd a phantom horse,Like that which oft, amidst the dank morass,Bestrid by goblin-meteor, starts the eye—So fleshless flitting—wan and shadowy.
By a bare rock it paused, and feebly neigh'd.66As the good knight, descending, seized the rein;Dew-rusted mail the shrunken front array'd;The rich selle rotted with the moulder-stain;And on the selle were slung helm, axe, and mace;And the great lance lay careless near the place.
Then first the seeker's stricken spirit fell;67Too well that helmet, with its dragon crest,Speaks of the mighty owner; and too wellThat steed, so oft by snowy hands carest,When bright-eyed Beauty from the balcon bentTo crown the victor-lord of tournament.
Near and afar he searched—he called in vain,68By crag and combe, nought answering, and nought seen;Return'd, the charger long refused the rein,Clinging, poor slave, where last its lord had been.At length the slow, reluctant hoofs obey'dThe soothing words; so went they through the shade:
Following the gorge that wound the Alpine wall,69Like the huge fosse of some Cyclopean town,(While roaring round, invisible cataracts fall);On the black rocks twilight comes ghostly down,And deep and deeper still the windings go,And dark and darker as to worlds below.
Night halts the course, resumed at earliest day,70Through day pursued, till the last sunbeams fellOn a broad mere whose margin closed the way.Hark! o'er the waters swung the holy bellFrom a grey convent on the rising ground,Amidst the subject hamlet stretch'd around.
Here, while both man and steeds the welcome rest71Under the sacred roof of Christ receive,We turn once more to Ægle and her guest.Lo! the sweet valley in the flush of eve!Lo! side by side, where through the rose-arcade,Steals the love star, the hero and the maid!
Silent they gaze into each other's eyes,72Stirring the inmost soul's unquiet sleep;So pierce soft star-beams, blending wave and skies,Some holy fountain trembling to its deep!Bright to each eye each human heart is bare,And scarce a thought to start an angel there!
Love to the soul, whate'er the harsh may say,73Is as the hallowing Naïad to the well—The linking life between the forms of clayAnd those ambrosia nurtures; from its spellFly earth's rank fogs, and Thought's ennobled flowShines with the shape that glides in light below.
Seize, O beloved, the blooms the Hour allows!74Alas, but once can flower the Beautiful!Hark, the wind rustles through the trembling boughs,And the stem withers while the buds ye cull!Brief though the prize, how few in after hoursCan say, "at least the Beautifulwasours!"
Two loves (and both divine and pure) there are;75One by the roof-tree takes its root for ever,Nor tempests rend, nor changeful seasons mar—It clings the stronger for the storm's endeavour;Beneath its shade the wayworn find their rest,And in its boughs the calm bird builds its nest.
But one more frail (in that more prized, perchance),76Bends its rich blossoms over lonely streamsIn the untrodden ways of wild Romance,On earth's far confines, like the Tree of Dreams,[13]Few find the path;—O bliss! O woe to find!What bliss the blossom!—ah! what woe the wind!
Oh, the short spring!—the eternal winter!—All77Branch,—stem all shatter'd; fragile as the bloom!Yet this the love that charms us to recallLife's golden holiday before the tomb;Yea!thisthe love which age again lives o'er,And hears the heart beat loud with youth once more!
Before them, at the distance, o'er the blue78Of the sweet waves which girt the rosy isle,Flitted light shapes the inwoven alleys through:Remotely mellow'd, musical the while,Floated the hum of voices, and the sweetLutes chimed with timbrels to dim-glancing feet.
The calm swan rested on the breathless glass79Of dreamy waters, and the snow-white steerNear the opposing margin, motionless,Stood, knee-deep, gazing wistful on its clearAnd life-like shadow, shimmering deep and far,Where on the lucid darkness fell the star.
Near them, upon its lichen-tinted base,80Gleam'd one of those fair fancied imagesWhich art hath lost—no god of Idan race,But the wing'd symbol which, by Caspian seas,Or Susa's groves, its parable addrestTo the wild faith of Iran's Zendavest.[14]
Light as the soul, whose archetype it was81The Genius touch'd, yet spurn'd the pedestal;Behind, the foliage, in its purple mass,Shut out the flush'd horizon; clasping all,Nature's hush'd giants stood to guard and girthThe only home of peace upon the earth.
And when, at last, from Ægle's lips, the voice82Came soft as murmur'd hymns at closing day,The sweet sound seem'd the sweet air to rejoice—To give the sole charm wanting,—to conveyThe crowning music to the Musical;As with the soul of love infusing all!
And to the Northman's ear that antique tongue,83Which from the Augur's lips fell weird and cold,Seem'd as the thread in fairy tales,[15]which strungEnchanted pearls, won from the caves of old,And woven round a sunbeam;—so was wroughtO'er cordial love the pure and delicate thought.
She spoke of youth's lost years, so lone before,84And coming to the present, paused and blush'd;As if Time's wing were spell-bound evermore,And Life, the restless, in the hour were hush'd:The pause, the blush, said more than words, "And thouArt found!—thou lov'st me!—Fate is powerless now!"
That hand in his—that heart his own entwining85With its life's tendrils,—youth his pardon be,If in his heaven no loftier star were shining—If round the haven boom'd unheard the sea—If in the wreath forgot the thorny crown,And the harsh duties of severe renown.
Blame we as well the idlesse of a dream,86As that entranced oblivion from the reignOf the Great Curse, which glares in every beamOf labouring suns to the stern race of Cain;So life from earth did Nature here withdraw,That the strange peace seem'd but earth's common law.
Yet some excuse all stronger spirits take87For all repose from toil (to strength the doom)How sweet in that fair heathen soil to wakeThe living palm God planted on the tomb!And so, and long, did Passion's subtle artMask with the soul the impulse of the heart.
Wonderous and lovely in that last retreat88Of the old Gods,—the simple speech to hearTell of the Messenger whose beauteous feetHad gilt the mountain-tops with tidings clearOf veilless Heaven, while Ægle, thoughtful said,"This, love makes plain—yes, love can ne'er be dead!"
Now, as Night gently deepens round them, while89Oft to the moon upturn their happy eyes—Still, hand in hand, they range the lullèd isle.Air knows no breeze, scarce sighing to their sighs;No bird of night shrieks bode from drowsy trees,Nought lives between them and the Pleïades;
Save where the moth strains to the moon its wing,90Deeming the Reachless near;—the prophet raceOf the cold stars forewarn'd them not; the RingOf great Orion, who for the embraceOf Morn's sweet Maid had died,[16]look'd calm aboveThe last unconscious hours of human love.
Each astral influence unrevealing shone91O'er the dark web its solemn thread enwove;Mars shot no anger from his fatal throne,No beam spoke trouble in the House of Love;Their closing path the treacherous smile illumed;And the stern Star-kings kiss'd the brows they doom'd.—
'Tis morn once more; upon the shelving green92Of the small isle, alone the Cymrian stoodWith his full heart,—when, suddenly, betweenHim and the sun, the azure solitudeWas broken by a dark and rapid wing,And a dusk bird swoop'd downward to the King.
And the King's cheek grew pale, for well to him93(As now the raven, settling, touch'd his feet),Was known the mystic messenger:—where, grimO'er the Black Valley,[17]demon shadows fleetGlass'd on the lake whose horror scares awayEach harmless wing that skims the golden day.
The Prophet's dauntless childhood stray'd and found94The weird bird muttering by the waves of dread;Three days and nights upon the haunted groundThe raven's beak the solemn infant fed:And ever after (so the legend ran)The lone bird tended on the lonely man.
O'er the Man's temples fell the snows of age,95As fresh the lustrous ebon of the Bird,—Less awe had credulous terror of the sageThan that familiar by the Fiend conferr'd—So thought the crowd; nor knew what holy loreLives in all things whose instinct is to soar.
Hoarse croaks the bird, and, with its round bright eye,96Fixes the gaze of the recoiling King;Slowly the hand, that trembles, cuts the tieWhich binds the white scroll gleaming from the wing,And these the words, "Weak Loiterer from thy toil,The Saxon's march is on thy father's soil."
Bounded the Prince!—As when the sudden sun97Looses the ice-chains on the halted rill,Smites the dumb snow-mass, and the cataracts runIn molten thunder down the clanging hill,So from his heart the fetters burst; and strongIn its rough course the great soul rush'd along.
As looks a warrior on the fort he scales,98His glance darts round the everlasting steeps—Not there escape!—the wildest fancy quailsBefore those heights on which the whitening deepsOf measureless heaven repose:—below their frown,Planed as a wall, shears the smooth granite down.
Marvel, indeed, how ev'n the enchanted wing99Had o'er such rampires won to the abode:But not for marvel paused the kindled King,Swift, as Pelides stung to war, he strode;While the dark herald, with its sullen scream,Rose, and fled, dismal as an evil dream.
Carved as for Love, a slender boat rock'd o'er100The ripple with the murmuring marge at play,He loosed its chain, he gain'd the adverse shore,Startled the groups that flutter'd round his way,Awed by the knitted brow and flashing eyesOf him they deem'd the native of the skies.
As towards the fane, which closed on hardy life101The granite path to Labour's world behind,O'er trampled flowers, strode the stern Child of Strife,He saw the melancholy priest reclinedUnder the shade of hush'd Dodonian boughs,Bending, o'er mystic scrolls, calm, mournful brows.—
Loud on that musing leisure broke the cry102Of the imperious Northman, "Rise, unbarYour granite gates—the eagle seeks the sky,The captive freedom, and the warrior war!"Slow rose the Augur, and this answer gave,"Man, see thy world—its outlet is the grave!
"Thou hast our secret! Thou must share our fates:103The Alps and Orcus guard ourselves—and thee!To what new Mars shall Janus ope the gates?Thou speak'st of war, and then demand'st the key!"Scornful he turn'd—but thrill'd with wrath to feelHis sacred arm lock'd in a grasp of steel.
"Trifle not, host,—Fate calls me to depart;104On my shamed soul a prophet's voice hath cried!Nor Alps nor Orcus like a loyal heartEnsures the secret trustful lips confide."The Augur sneer'd—"A loyal heart, forsooth!And what says Ægle of the stranger's truth?"
"Let Ægle answer," cried the noble lover;105"Let Ægle judge the trust I hold from Heaven.I faithless!—I—a King?—my labours over,From mine own soil the surge of carnage driven,And I will come, as kings should come, to claimA mate for empire, and a meed for fame!"—
Long mused the Augur, and at length replied,106His guile scarce mask'd in his malignant gaze,"Take, as thou say'st, an answer from thy bride—Then, if still wearied of untroubled days—No more from Mantu[18]Pales shall control;And one free gate shall open on thy soul!"
He said, and drew his large robe round his form,107And wrathful swept along, as o'er the skyA cloud sweeps dark, secret with hoarded storm;Behind him went the guest as silently;Afar the gazing wonderers whisper'd, whileThey cross'd the girdling wave and reach'd the isle.
With violet buds, bright Ægle, in her bower,108Knits the dark riches of her lustrous hair;Her heart springs eager to the magic hourWhen to loved eyes 'tis glorious to be fair:Gleams of a neck, proud as the swan's, escapeThe light-spun tunic rounded to the shape.
The airy veil, its silver cloud dividing,109Falls, and floats fragrant, from the violet crown.What happy thought is in that breast presidingLike some serenest bird that settles down(Its wanderings over) on calm summer evesInto its nest, amid the secret leaves?
What happy thought in those large tranquil eyes110Speaks of a bliss remote from human fear?Speaks of a soul which like a star suppliesIts own circumfluent lustrous atmosphere;Weaves beam on beam around its peace, and glowsSoft through the splendour which itself bestows?
Who ever gazed on perfect happiness,111Nor felt it as the shadow cast from God?It seems so still in its sublime excess,So brings all heaven around its hush'd abode,That in its very beauty awe has birth,Dismay'd by too much glory for the earth.
Across the threshold now abruptly strode112Her youth's stern guardian. "Child ofRasena,"He said, "the lover on thy youth bestow'dFor the last time on earth thine eyes survey,Unless thy power can chain the faithless breast,And sated bliss deigns gracious to be blest."
"Not so!" cried Arthur, as his loyal knee113Bent to the earth, and with the knightly truthOf his right hand he clasp'd her own;—"to beThine evermore; youth mingled with thy youth,Age with thine age; in thy grave mine; above,Soul with thy soul—this is the Christian's love!
"Oft wouldst thou smile, believing smile, to hear114Thy lover speak of knighthood's holy vow—That vow holds falsehood more abhorr'd than fear,—And canst thou doubt both love and knighthood now?"His words rush'd on—told of the threaten'd land,The fates confided to the sceptred hand,
Here gathering woes, and there suspended toil;115And the stern warning from the distant seer."Thine be my people—thine this bleeding soil;Queen of my realm, its groaning murmurs hear!Then ask thyself, what manhood's choice should be;False to my country, were I worthy thee?"
Dim through her struggling sense the light came slow,116Struck from those words of fire. Alas, poor child!What, in thine isle of roses, shouldst thou knowOf earth's grave duties?—of that stormy wildOf care and carnage—the relentless strifeOf man with happiness, and soul with life?
Thou who hadst seen the sun but rise and set117O'er one Saturnian Arcady of rest,Snatch'd from the Age of Iron? Ever, yet,Dwells that fine instinct in the noble breast,Which each high truth intuitive receives,And what the Reason grasps not, Faith believes.
So in mute woe, one hand to his resign'd,118And one press'd firmly on her swelling heart,Passive she heard, and in her labouring mindStrove with the dark enigma—"part!—to part!"Till, having solved it by the beams that brokeFrom that clear soul on hers, struggling she spoke:—
"Thou bidst me trust thee!—This is my reply:119Trust is my life—to trust thee is to live!And ev'n farewell less bitter than thy sighFor something Ægle is too poor to give.Thou speak'st of dread and terror, strife and woe;And I might wonder why they tempt thee so;
"And I might ask how more can mortals please120The heavens, than thankful to enjoy the earth?But through its mist my soul, though faintly, seesWhere thine sweeps on beyond this mountain girth,And, awed and dazzled, bending I confessLife may have holier ends than happiness!
"Yes, as thou offerest joy upon the shrine121Of some bright good, all human joys above,So does my heart its altar seek in thine,Content to bleed:—Thee, not myself, I love!"Sighing, she ceased; and yet still seem'd to sigh,As doth the wave on which the zephyrs die.
Then, as she felt his tears upon her hand,122Sorrow woke sorrow, and her face she bow'd:As when the silver gates of heaven expand,And on the earth descends the melting cloud,So sunk the spirit from sublimer air,And all the woman rush'd on her despair.
"To lose thee—oh, to lose thee! To live on123And see the sun—not thee! Will the sun shine,Will the birds sing, flowers bloom, when thou art gone?Desolate, desolate! Thy right hand in mine,Swear, by the Past, thou wilt return!—Oh, say,Say it again!"——voice died in sobs away!
Mute look'd the Augur, with his deathful eyes,124On the last anguish of their lock'd embrace."Priest," cried the lover, "canst thou deem this prizeLost to my future?—No, though round the placeYon Alps took life, with all the dire arrayOf demon legions, Love would force the way.
"Hear me, adored one!" On the silent ear125The promise fell, and o'er the unconscious frameWound the protecting arm.—"Since neither fearOf the great Powers thou dost blaspheming name,Nor the soft impulse native in man's heartRestrains thee, doom'd one—hasten to depart.
"Come, in thy treason merciful at least,126Come, while those eyes by pitying slumbers bound,See not thy shadow pass from earth!"——The priestSpoke,—and now call'd the infant handmaids round;But o'er that form with arms that vainly cling,And words that idly comfort, bends the King.
"Nay, nay, look up! It is these arms that fold;—127I still am here;—this hand, these tears, are mine."Then, when they sought to loose her from his hold,He waived them back with a fierce jealous sign;O'er her hush'd breath his listening ear he bow'd,And the awed children round him wept aloud.
But when the soul broke faint from its eclipse,128And his own name came, shaping life's first sigh,His very heart seem'd breaking in the lipsPress'd to those faithful ones;—then tremblingly,He rose;—he moved;—he paused;—his nerveless handVeil'd the dread agony of man unmann'd.
Thus, from the chamber, as an infant meek129The priest's slight arm led forth the mighty King;In vain wide air came fresh upon his cheek,Passive he went in his great sorrowing;Hate, the mute guide,—the waves of death, the goal;—So, following Hermes, glides to Styx a soul.