Flow on, flow on, fair Fable's happy stream,1Vocal for aye with Eld's first music-chaunt,Where, mirror'd far adown the chrystal, gleamThe golden domes of Carduel and Romaunt;Still one last look on knighthood's peerless ring,On moonèd Dream-land and the Dragon King!—Detain me yet amid the lovely throng,2Hold yet thySabbat, thou melodious spell!Still to the circle of enchanted songCharm the high Mage of Druid parable,The Fairy, bard-led from her Caspian Sea,And Genius, lured from caves in Araby!Though me, less fair if less familiar ways,3Sought in the paths by earlier steps untrod,Allure—yet ever, in the marvel-maze,The flowers afar perfume the virgin sod;The simplest leaf in fairy gardens cull,And round thee opens all the Beautiful!Alas! the sunsets of our Northern main4Soon lose the tints Hesperian Fancy weaves;Soon the sweet river feels the icy chain,And haunted forests shed their murmurous leaves;The bough must wither, and the bird depart,And winter clasp the world—as life the heart!A day had pass'd since first the Saxons fled5Before the Christian, and their war lay still;From morn to eve the Cymrian riders spreadWhere flocks yet graze on some remoter hill,Pale, on the walls, fast-sinking Famine waits,When hark, the droves come lowing through the gates!Yet still, the corpse of Caradoc around,6All day, and far into the watch of night,The grateful victors guard the sacred ground;But in that hour when all his race of lightLeave Eos lone in heaven,—earth's hollow breastOped to the dawn-star and the singer's rest.Now, ere they lower'd the corpse, with noiseless tread7Still as a sudden shadow, Merlin cameThrough the arm'd crowd; and paused before the dead,And, looking on the face, thrice call'd the name.Then, hush'd through all an awed compassion ran,And all gave way to the old quiet man.For Cymri knew that of her children none8Had, like the singer, loved the lonely sage;All felt, that there a father call'd a sonOut from that dreariest void,—bereavèd age;Forgot the dread renown, the mystic art,And saw but sacred there—the human heart!And thrice the old man kiss'd the lips that smiled,9And thrice he call'd the name,—then to the grave,Hush'd as the nurse that bears a sleeping childTo its still mother's breast,—the form he gave:With tender hand composed the solemn rest,And laid the harp upon the silent breast.And then he sate him down, a little space10From the dark couch, and so of none took heed;But lifting to the twilight skies his face,That secret soul which never man could read,Far as the soul it miss'd, from human breath,Rose—where Thought rises when it follows Death!And swells and falls in gusts the funeral dirge11As hollow falls the mould, or swells the mound;And (Cymri's warlike wont) upon the vergeThe orbèd shields are placed in rows around;Now o'er the dead, grass waves;—the rite is done;And a new grave shall greet a rising sun.Then slowly turn'd, and calmly moved the sage,12On the Bard's grave his stand the Prophet took.High o'er the crowd in all his pomp of ageAugust, a glory brighten'd from his look;Hope flash'd in eyes illumined from his own,Bright, as if there some sure redemption shone.Thus spoke the Seer: "Hosannah to the brave;13Lo, the eternal heir-looms of your land!A realm's great treasure-house! The freeman's graveThe hero creed that to the swordless handThought, when heroic, gives an army's might;—And song to nations as to plants the light!"Cymrians, the sun yon towers will scarcely gild,14Ere war will scale them! Here, your task is o'er.Your walls your camp, your streets your battle-field;Each house a fortress!—One strong effort moreFor God, for Freedom—for your shrines and homes!After the Martyr the Deliverer comes!"He ceased; and such the reverence of the crowd,15No lip presumed to question. Wonder hush'dIts curious guess, and only Hope aloudSpoke in the dauntless shout: each cheek was flush'd:Each eye was bright;—each heart beat high; and allRanged in due ranks, resought the shatter'd wall:Save only four, whom to that holy spot16The Prophet's whisper stay'd:—of these, the oneOf knightly port and arms, was Lancelot;But in the ruder three, with garments wonFrom the wild beast,—long hair'd, large limb'd, againSee Rhine's strong sons, the convert Alemen!When these alone remain'd beside the mound,17The Prophet drew apart the Paladin,And said, "What time, feud, worse than famine, foundThe Cymrian race, like some lost child of sinThat courts, yet cowers from death;—serene through allThe jarring factions of the maddening hall,"Thou didst in vain breathe high rebuke to pride,18With words sublimely proud. 'No post the manEnnobles;—man the post! did He who diedTo crown in death the end His birth began,Assume the sceptre when the cross He braved?Did He wear purple in the world He saved?"'Ye clamour which is worthiest of command,—19Place me, whose fathers led the hosts of Gaul,Amongst the meanest children of your land;Let me owe nothing to my fathers,—allTo such high deeds as raised, ere kings were known,The boldest savage to the earliest throne!'"But none did heed thee, and in scornful grief20Went thy still footsteps from the raging hall,Where, by the altar of the bright BeliefThat spans this cloud-world when its sun-showers fall,Assured at least thy bride in heaven to be,Genevra pray'd—not life but death with thee."There, by the altar, did ye join your hands,21And in your vow, scorning malignant Time,Ye plighted two immortals! in those bandsHope still wove flowers,—but earth was not their clime;Then to the breach alone, resign'd, consoled,Went Gaul's young hero.—Art thou now less bold?"Thy smile replies! Know, while we speak, the King22Is on the march; each moment that delaysThe foeman, speeds the conqueror on its wing;If, till the hour is ripe, the Saxon staysHis rush, then idly wastes it on our wall,Not ours the homes that burn, the shrines that fall!"But that delay vouchsafed not—comes in vain23The bright achiever of enchanted powers;He comes a king,—no people but the slain,And round his throne will crash his blazing towers.This is not all; for him, the morn is rifeWith one dire curse that threatens more than life;—"A curse, once launch'd, which withers every leaf24In victory's crown, chills youth itself to age!Here magic fails—for over love and griefThere is no glamour in the brazen pageBorn of the mind, o'er mind extends mine art;—Beyond its circle beats the human heart!"Delay the hour—save Carduel for thy king;25Avert the curse; from misery save thy brother!""Thrice welcome death," cried Lancelot, "could it bringThe bliss to bless mine Arthur! As the motherLives in her child, the planet in the sky,Thought in the soul, in Arthur so live I.""Prepare," the Seer replied, "be firm!—and yield26The maid thou lovest to her Saxon Sire."Like a man lightning-stricken, Lancelot reel'd,And as if blinded by the intolerant fire,Cover'd his face with his convulsive hand,And groan'd aloud, "What woe dost thou demand?"Yield her! and wherefore? Cruel as thou art!27Can Cymri's king or Carduel's destinyNeed the lone offering of a loving heart,Nothing to kings and states, but all to me?""Son," said the Prophet, "can the human eyeTrace by what wave light quivers from the sky;"Explore some thought whose utterance shakes the earth28Along the airy galleries of the brain;Or say, can human wisdom test the worthOf the least link in Fate's harmonious chain?All doubt is cowardice—all trust is brave—Doubt, and desert thy king;—believe and save."Then Lancelot fix'd his keen eyes on the sage,29And said, "Am I the sacrifice or she?Risks she no danger from the heathen's rage,She, the new Christian?"—"Danger more with thee!Can blazing roofs and trampled altars yieldA shelter surer than her father's shield?"If mortal schemes may foil the threatening hour,30Thy heart's reward shall crown thine honour's test;And the same fates that crush the heathen powerRestore the Christian to the conqueror's breast;Yea, the same lights that gild the nuptial shrineOf Arthur, shed a beam as bless'd on thine!""I trust and I submit," said Lancelot,31With pale firm lip. "Go thou—I dare not—I!Say, if I yield, that I abandon not!Her form may leave a desert to my eye,But here—buthere!"—No more his lips could say,He smote his bleeding heart, and went his way!The Enchanter, thoughtful, turn'd, and on the grave32His look relaxing fell,—"Ah, child, lost child!To thy young life no youth harmonious gaveMusic;—no love thine exquisite griefs beguiled;Thy soul's deep ocean hid its priceless pearl:—Andheis loved and yet repines! O churl!"And murmuring thus, he saw below the mound33The stoic brows of the stern Alemen,Their gaunt limbs strewn supine along the ground,Still as gorged lions couch'd before the denAfter the feast; their life no medium knows,—Here headlong conflict, there inert repose!"Which of these feet could overtake the roe?34Which of these arms could grapple with the bear?""My first-born," answer'd Faul, "outstrips the roe;My youngest crushes in his grasp the bear.""Thou, then, the swift one, gird thy loins, and rise:See o'er the lowland where the vapour lies,"Far to the right, a mist from Sabra's wave;35Amidst that haze explore a creek rush-grown,Screen'd from the waters less remote, which laveThe Saxon's anchor'd barks, and near a loneGrey crag where bitterns boom; within that creekGleams through green boughs a galley's brazen peak;This gain'd, demand the chief, a Christian knight,36The bear's rough mantle o'er his rusted mail;Tell him from me, to tarry till a lightBurst from the Dragon keep;—then crowd his sail,Fire his own ship—and, blazing to the bay,Cleave through yon fleet his red destroying way;"No arduous feat: the galleys are unmann'd,37Moor'd each to each; let fire consume them all!Then, the shore won, lead hitherwards the bandBetween the Saxon camp and Cymrian wall.What next behoves, the time itself will show,Here counsel ceases;—there ye find the foe!"Heard the wild youth, and no reply made he,38But braced his belt and griped his spear, and straightAs the bird flies, he flew. "My son, to thee,"Next said the Prophet, "a more urgent fateAnd a more perilous duty are consign'd;Mark, the strong arm requires the watchful mind."Thou hast to pass the Saxon sentinels;39Thou hast to thread the Saxon hosts alone;Many are there whom thy far Rhine expelsHis swarming war-hive,—and their tongue thine own;Take from yon Teuton dead the mail'd disguise,Thy speech their ears, thy garb shall dupe their eyes;"The watch-pass 'Vingólf'[1]wins thee through the van,40The rest shall danger to thy sense inspire,And that quick light in the hard sloth of manCoil'd, till sharp need strike forth the sudden fire.The encampment traversed, where the woods behindSlope their green gloom, thy stealthy pathway wind;"Keep to one leftward track, amidst the chase41Clear'd for the hunter's sport in happier days;Till scarce a mile from the last tent, a spaceClasping grey crommell stones, will close the maze.There, in the centre of that Druid ring,Arm'd men will stand around the Cymrian King:—"Tell him to set upon the tallest pine42Keen watch, and wait, until from Carduel's tower,High o'er the wood a starry light shall shine;Notthatthe signal, though it nears the hour,But when the light shall change its hues, and formOne orb, blood-dyed, as sunsets red with storm;"Then, while the foe their camp unguarded leave,43And round our walls their tides tempestuous roll,To yon wood pile, the Saxon fortress, cleave;Be Odin's Idol the Deliverer's goal.Say to the King, 'In that funereal faneComplete thy mission, and thy guide regain!'"While spoke the seer, the Teuton's garb of mail44The son of Faul had donn'd, and bending now,He kiss'd his father's cheek.—"And if I fail,"He murmur'd, "leave thy blessing on my brow,My father!" Then the convert of the wildLook'd up to Heaven, and mutely bless'd his child."Thou wend with me, proud sire of dauntless men,"45Resumed the seer:—"On thine arm let my ageLean, as shall thine upontheirchildren!"—ThenThe loreless savage—the all-gifted sage,By the strong bonds of will and heart allied;Went towards the towers of Carduel side by side.To Crida's camp the swift song rushing flies;46Round Odin's shrine wild Priests, rune muttering,Task the weird omens hateful to the skies;Pale by the idol stands the grey-hair'd king;And, from without, the unquiet armamentBooms in hoarse surge, its chafing discontent.For in defeat (when first that multitude47Shrunk from a foe, and fled the Cymrian sword)The pride of man the wrath of gods had view'd;Religious horror smote the palsied horde;The field refused, till priest, and seid, and charm,Explore the offence, and wrath divine disarm.All day, all night, glared fires, dark-red and dull48With mystic gums, before the Teuton god,And waved o'er runes which Mimer's trunkless skullHad whisper'd Odin—the Diviner's rod,And rank with herbs which baleful odours breathed,The bubbling hell-juice in the cauldron seethed.Now towards that hour when into coverts dank49Slinks back the wolf; when to her callow broodVeers through still boughs, the owl; when from the bankThe glow-worm wanes; when heaviest droops the wood,Ere the faint twitter of the earliest lark,—Ere dawn creeps chill and timorous through the dark;About that hour, of all the dreariest,50A flame leaps up from the dull fire's repose,And shoots weird sparks along the runes, imprestOn stone and elm-bark, ranged in ninefold rows;The vine's deep flush the purpling seid assumes,And the strong venom coils in maddening fumes.Pale grew the elect Diviner's alter'd brows;51Swell'd the large veins, and writhed the foaming lips;And as some swart and fateful planet glowsAthwart the disc to which it brings eclipse;So that strange Pythian madness, whose controlSeems half to light and half efface the soul,Broke from the horror of his glazing look;52His breath that died in hollow gusts away,Seized by the grasp of unseen tempests, shookTo its rack'd base the spirit-house of clay;Till the dark Power made firm the crushing spell,And from the man burst forth the voice of hell."The god—the god! lo, on his throne he reels!53Under his knit brows glow his wrathful eyes!At his dread feet a spectral Valkyr kneels,And shrouds her face! And cloud is in the skies,And neither sun nor star, nor day nor night,But in the cloud a steadfast Cross of Light!"The god—the god! hide, hide me from his gaze!54Its awful anger burns into the brain!Spare me, O spare me! Speak, thy child obeys!What rites appease thee, Father of the Slain?[2]What direful omen do these signs foreshow?What victim ask'st thou? Speak, the blood shall flow!'Sunk the Possest One—writhing with wild throes;55And one appalling silence dusk'd the place,As with a demon's wing. Anon arose,Calm as a ghost, the soothsayer: form and faceRigid with iron sleep! and hollow fellFrom stonelike lips the hateful oracle."A cloud, where Nornas nurse the thunder, lowers;56A curse is cleaving to the Teuton race;Before the Cross the stricken Valkyr cowers;The Herr-god trembles on his column'd base;A virgin's loss aroused the Teuton strife;A virgin's love hath charm'd the Avenger's life;"A virgin's blood alone averts the doom;57Revives the Valkyr, and preserves the god.Whet the quick steel—she comes, she comes, for whomThe runes glow'd blood-red to the soothsayer's rod!O king, whose wrath the Odin-born array'd,Regain the lost, and yield the Christian maid!"As if that voice had quicken'd some dead thing58To give it utterance, so, when ceased the sound,The dull eye fix'd, and the faint shudderingStirr'd all the frame; then sudden on the groundFell heavily the lumpish inert clay,From which the demon noiseless rush'd away.Then the grey priests and the grey king creep near59The corpselike man; and sit them mutely downIn the still fire's red vaporous atmosphere;The bubbling caldron sings and simmers on;And through the reeks that from the poison rise,Looks the wolf's blood-lust from those cruel eyes.So sat they, musing fell;—when hark, a shout60Rang loud from rank to rank, re-echoing deep;Hark to the tramp of multitudes without!Near and more near the thickening tumults sweep;King Crida wrathful rose: "What steps profaneThy secret thresholds, Father of the Slain?"Frowning he strode along the lurid floors,61And loud, and loud the invading footsteps ring;His hand impetuous flings apart the doors:—"Who dare insult the god, and brave the king?"Swift through the throng a bright-hair'd vision came;Those stern lips falter with a daughter's name!Those hands uplifted, or to curse or smite,62Fold o'er a daughter's head their tremulous joy!Oh, to the natural worship of delight,How came the monstrous dogma—"To destroy!"Sure, Heaven foreshow'd its gospel to the wildIn earth's first bond—the father and the child!While words yet fail'd the bliss of that embrace,63The muttering priests, unmoved, each other eyed;Then to the threshold came their measured pace:—"Depart, Profane," their Pagan pontiff cried,"Depart, Profane, too near your steps have trodTo altars darken'd with an angry God."Dire are the omens! Skulda rides the clouds,64Her sisters tremble[3]at the Urdar spring;The hour demands us—shun the veil that shroudsThe Priests, the God, the Victim, and the King."Shuddering, the crowds retreat, and whispering low,Spread the contagious terrors where they go.Then the stern Elders came to Crida's side,65And from their lock'd embrace unclasp'd his hands:"Lo," said their chieftain, "how the gods provideThemselves the offering which the shrine demands!By Odin's son be Odin's voice obey'd;The lost is found—behold, and yield the maid!"As when some hermit saint, in the old day66Of the soul's giant war with Solitude,From some bright dream which rapt his life awayAmidst the spheres, unclosed his eyes and view'd,'Twixt sleep and waking, vaguely horrible,The grisly tempter of the gothic hell;So on the father's bliss abruptly broke67The dreadful memory of his dismal god;And, his eyes pleading ere his terrors spoke,Look'd round the brows of that foul brotherhood.Then his big voice came weak and strangely mild,"What mean those words?—why glare ye on my child?"Do ye not know her? Elders, she is mine,—68My flesh, my blood, mine age's youngest-born!Why are ye mute? Why point to yonder shrine?Ay,"—and here haughty with the joy of scorn,He raised his front.—"Ay,bethe voice obey'd!Priests, ye forget,—it was aChristianmaid!"He ceased and laugh'd aloud, as humbled fell69Those greedy looks, and mutteringly repliedFaint voices, "True, so said the Oracle!"When the Arch-Elder, with an eager strideReach'd child and sire, and cried, "See Crida, there,On the maid's breast the cross that Christians wear!"Those looks, those voices, thrill'd through Geneviève,70With fears as yet vague, shapeless, undefined:"Father," she murmur'd, "Father, let us leaveThese dismal precincts; how those eyes unkindFreeze to my soul; sweet father, let us go;My heart to thine would speak! why frown'st thou so?""Tear from thy breast that sign, unhappy one!71Sign to thy country's wrathful gods accurst!Back, priests of Odin, I am Odin's son,And she my daughter; in my war-shield nurst,Rear'd at your altars! Trample down the sign,O child, and say—the Saxon's God is mine!"Infant, who came to bid a war relent,72And rob ambition of its carnage-prize,Is it on thee those sombre brows are bent?For thee the death-greed in those ravening eyes?Thy task undone, thy gentle prayer unspoken?Ay, press the cross: it is the martyr's token!She press'd the cross with one firm faithful hand,73While one—(thattrembled!)—clasp'd her father's knees;As clings a wretch, that sinks in sight of land,To reeds swept with him down the weltering seas,And murmur'd, "Pardon; Him whose agonyWas earth's salvation, I may not deny!"Him who gave God the name I give to thee,74'Father,'—in Him, in Christ, is my belief!"Then Crida turn'd unto the priests,—"Ye see,"Smiling, he said, "that I have done with grief:Behold the victim! be the God obey'd!The son of Odin dooms the Christian maid!"He said, and from his robe he wrench'd the hand,75And, where the gloom was darkest, stalk'd away.But whispering low, still pause the hellish band;And dread lest Nature yet redeem the prey,And deem it wise against such chance to armThe priesthood's puissance with the host's alarm;To bruit abroad the dark oracular threats,76From which the Virgin's blood alone can save;Gird with infuriate fears the murtherous nets,And plant an army to secure a grave;The whispers cease—the doors one gleam of dayGive—and then close;—the blood-hound slinks away.Around the victim—where with wandering hand,77Through her blind tears, she seems to search through spaceFor him who had forsaken—circling standThe solemn butchers; calm in every faceAnd death in every heart; till from the beltStretch'd one lean hand and grasp'd her where she knelt.And her wild shriek went forth and smote the shrine,78Which echo'd, shrilling back the sharp despair,Through the waste gaps between the shafts of pineTo th' unseen father's ear. Before the glareOf the weird fire, the sacrifice they chainTo stones impress'd with rune and shamble-stain.Then wait (for so their formal rites compel)79Till from the trance that still his senses seals,Awakes the soothsayer of the oracle;At length with tortured spasms, and slowly, stealsBack the reluctant life—slow as it creepsTo one hard-rescued from the drowning deeps.And when from dim, uncertain, swimming eyes80The gaunt long fingers put the shaggy hair,And on the priests, the shrine, the sacrifice,Dwelt the fix'd sternness of the glassy stare,Before the god they led the demon-man,And circling round the two their hymn began.So rapt in their remorseless ecstasy,81They did not hear the quick steps at the door,Nor that loud knock nor that impatient cry;Till shook,—till crash'd, the portals on the floor,—Crash'd to the strong hand of the fiery thane;And Harold's stride came clanging up the fane.—But from his side bounded a shape as light82As forms that glide through Elfheim's limber air;Swift to the shrine—where on those robes of whiteThe gloomy hell fires scowl'd their sullen glare,Through the death-chaunting choir,—she sprang,—she prest,And bow'd her head upon the victim's breast;And cried, "With thee, with thee, to live or die,83With thee, my Geneviève!" The Elders raisedTheir hands in wrath, when from as stern an eyeAnd brow erect as theirs, they shrunk amazed—And Harold spoke, "Ye priests of Odin, hear!Your gods are mine, their voices I revere."Voices in winds, in groves, in hollow caves,84Oracular dream, or runic galdra sought;But ages ere from Don's ancestral wavesSuch wizard signs the Scythian Odin brought,A voice that needs no priesthood's sacred art,Some earlier God placed in the human heart."I bow to charms that doom embattled walls:85To dreams revealing no unworthy foe;A warrior's god in Glory's clarion calls;Where war-steeds snort, and hurtling standards flow;But when weak women for strong men must die,My Man's proud nature gives your Gods the lie!"If—not yon seer by fumes and dreams beguiled,86But Odin's self stood where his image stands,Against the god I would protect my child!Ha, Crida!—come!—thychild in chains!—those handsLifted to smite!—and thou, whose kingly bannArms nations,—wake, O statue, into man!"For from his lair, and to his liegeman's side,87Had Crida listening strode: When ceased the Thane,His voice, comprest and tremulous, replied,—"The life thou plead'st for doth these shrines profane.In Odin's son a father lives no more;Yon maid adores the God our foes adore.""And I—and I, stern king!"—Genevra cries,88"Her God is mine, and if that faith is crime,Be just—and take a twofold sacrifice!""Cease," cried the Thane,—"is this, ye Powers, a timeFor kings and chiefs to lean on idle blades,—Our leaders dreamers, and our victims maids?"Be varying gods by varying tribes addrest,89I scorn no gods that worthy foes adore;Brave was the arm that humbled Harold's crest,And large the heart that did his child restore.To all the valiant Gladsheim's Halls unclose;[4]In Heaven the comrades were on Earth the foes.
Flow on, flow on, fair Fable's happy stream,1Vocal for aye with Eld's first music-chaunt,Where, mirror'd far adown the chrystal, gleamThe golden domes of Carduel and Romaunt;Still one last look on knighthood's peerless ring,On moonèd Dream-land and the Dragon King!—
Detain me yet amid the lovely throng,2Hold yet thySabbat, thou melodious spell!Still to the circle of enchanted songCharm the high Mage of Druid parable,The Fairy, bard-led from her Caspian Sea,And Genius, lured from caves in Araby!
Though me, less fair if less familiar ways,3Sought in the paths by earlier steps untrod,Allure—yet ever, in the marvel-maze,The flowers afar perfume the virgin sod;The simplest leaf in fairy gardens cull,And round thee opens all the Beautiful!
Alas! the sunsets of our Northern main4Soon lose the tints Hesperian Fancy weaves;Soon the sweet river feels the icy chain,And haunted forests shed their murmurous leaves;The bough must wither, and the bird depart,And winter clasp the world—as life the heart!
A day had pass'd since first the Saxons fled5Before the Christian, and their war lay still;From morn to eve the Cymrian riders spreadWhere flocks yet graze on some remoter hill,Pale, on the walls, fast-sinking Famine waits,When hark, the droves come lowing through the gates!
Yet still, the corpse of Caradoc around,6All day, and far into the watch of night,The grateful victors guard the sacred ground;But in that hour when all his race of lightLeave Eos lone in heaven,—earth's hollow breastOped to the dawn-star and the singer's rest.
Now, ere they lower'd the corpse, with noiseless tread7Still as a sudden shadow, Merlin cameThrough the arm'd crowd; and paused before the dead,And, looking on the face, thrice call'd the name.Then, hush'd through all an awed compassion ran,And all gave way to the old quiet man.
For Cymri knew that of her children none8Had, like the singer, loved the lonely sage;All felt, that there a father call'd a sonOut from that dreariest void,—bereavèd age;Forgot the dread renown, the mystic art,And saw but sacred there—the human heart!
And thrice the old man kiss'd the lips that smiled,9And thrice he call'd the name,—then to the grave,Hush'd as the nurse that bears a sleeping childTo its still mother's breast,—the form he gave:With tender hand composed the solemn rest,And laid the harp upon the silent breast.
And then he sate him down, a little space10From the dark couch, and so of none took heed;But lifting to the twilight skies his face,That secret soul which never man could read,Far as the soul it miss'd, from human breath,Rose—where Thought rises when it follows Death!
And swells and falls in gusts the funeral dirge11As hollow falls the mould, or swells the mound;And (Cymri's warlike wont) upon the vergeThe orbèd shields are placed in rows around;Now o'er the dead, grass waves;—the rite is done;And a new grave shall greet a rising sun.
Then slowly turn'd, and calmly moved the sage,12On the Bard's grave his stand the Prophet took.High o'er the crowd in all his pomp of ageAugust, a glory brighten'd from his look;Hope flash'd in eyes illumined from his own,Bright, as if there some sure redemption shone.
Thus spoke the Seer: "Hosannah to the brave;13Lo, the eternal heir-looms of your land!A realm's great treasure-house! The freeman's graveThe hero creed that to the swordless handThought, when heroic, gives an army's might;—And song to nations as to plants the light!
"Cymrians, the sun yon towers will scarcely gild,14Ere war will scale them! Here, your task is o'er.Your walls your camp, your streets your battle-field;Each house a fortress!—One strong effort moreFor God, for Freedom—for your shrines and homes!After the Martyr the Deliverer comes!"
He ceased; and such the reverence of the crowd,15No lip presumed to question. Wonder hush'dIts curious guess, and only Hope aloudSpoke in the dauntless shout: each cheek was flush'd:Each eye was bright;—each heart beat high; and allRanged in due ranks, resought the shatter'd wall:
Save only four, whom to that holy spot16The Prophet's whisper stay'd:—of these, the oneOf knightly port and arms, was Lancelot;But in the ruder three, with garments wonFrom the wild beast,—long hair'd, large limb'd, againSee Rhine's strong sons, the convert Alemen!
When these alone remain'd beside the mound,17The Prophet drew apart the Paladin,And said, "What time, feud, worse than famine, foundThe Cymrian race, like some lost child of sinThat courts, yet cowers from death;—serene through allThe jarring factions of the maddening hall,
"Thou didst in vain breathe high rebuke to pride,18With words sublimely proud. 'No post the manEnnobles;—man the post! did He who diedTo crown in death the end His birth began,Assume the sceptre when the cross He braved?Did He wear purple in the world He saved?
"'Ye clamour which is worthiest of command,—19Place me, whose fathers led the hosts of Gaul,Amongst the meanest children of your land;Let me owe nothing to my fathers,—allTo such high deeds as raised, ere kings were known,The boldest savage to the earliest throne!'
"But none did heed thee, and in scornful grief20Went thy still footsteps from the raging hall,Where, by the altar of the bright BeliefThat spans this cloud-world when its sun-showers fall,Assured at least thy bride in heaven to be,Genevra pray'd—not life but death with thee.
"There, by the altar, did ye join your hands,21And in your vow, scorning malignant Time,Ye plighted two immortals! in those bandsHope still wove flowers,—but earth was not their clime;Then to the breach alone, resign'd, consoled,Went Gaul's young hero.—Art thou now less bold?
"Thy smile replies! Know, while we speak, the King22Is on the march; each moment that delaysThe foeman, speeds the conqueror on its wing;If, till the hour is ripe, the Saxon staysHis rush, then idly wastes it on our wall,Not ours the homes that burn, the shrines that fall!
"But that delay vouchsafed not—comes in vain23The bright achiever of enchanted powers;He comes a king,—no people but the slain,And round his throne will crash his blazing towers.This is not all; for him, the morn is rifeWith one dire curse that threatens more than life;—
"A curse, once launch'd, which withers every leaf24In victory's crown, chills youth itself to age!Here magic fails—for over love and griefThere is no glamour in the brazen pageBorn of the mind, o'er mind extends mine art;—Beyond its circle beats the human heart!
"Delay the hour—save Carduel for thy king;25Avert the curse; from misery save thy brother!""Thrice welcome death," cried Lancelot, "could it bringThe bliss to bless mine Arthur! As the motherLives in her child, the planet in the sky,Thought in the soul, in Arthur so live I."
"Prepare," the Seer replied, "be firm!—and yield26The maid thou lovest to her Saxon Sire."Like a man lightning-stricken, Lancelot reel'd,And as if blinded by the intolerant fire,Cover'd his face with his convulsive hand,And groan'd aloud, "What woe dost thou demand?
"Yield her! and wherefore? Cruel as thou art!27Can Cymri's king or Carduel's destinyNeed the lone offering of a loving heart,Nothing to kings and states, but all to me?""Son," said the Prophet, "can the human eyeTrace by what wave light quivers from the sky;
"Explore some thought whose utterance shakes the earth28Along the airy galleries of the brain;Or say, can human wisdom test the worthOf the least link in Fate's harmonious chain?All doubt is cowardice—all trust is brave—Doubt, and desert thy king;—believe and save."
Then Lancelot fix'd his keen eyes on the sage,29And said, "Am I the sacrifice or she?Risks she no danger from the heathen's rage,She, the new Christian?"—"Danger more with thee!Can blazing roofs and trampled altars yieldA shelter surer than her father's shield?
"If mortal schemes may foil the threatening hour,30Thy heart's reward shall crown thine honour's test;And the same fates that crush the heathen powerRestore the Christian to the conqueror's breast;Yea, the same lights that gild the nuptial shrineOf Arthur, shed a beam as bless'd on thine!"
"I trust and I submit," said Lancelot,31With pale firm lip. "Go thou—I dare not—I!Say, if I yield, that I abandon not!Her form may leave a desert to my eye,But here—buthere!"—No more his lips could say,He smote his bleeding heart, and went his way!
The Enchanter, thoughtful, turn'd, and on the grave32His look relaxing fell,—"Ah, child, lost child!To thy young life no youth harmonious gaveMusic;—no love thine exquisite griefs beguiled;Thy soul's deep ocean hid its priceless pearl:—Andheis loved and yet repines! O churl!"
And murmuring thus, he saw below the mound33The stoic brows of the stern Alemen,Their gaunt limbs strewn supine along the ground,Still as gorged lions couch'd before the denAfter the feast; their life no medium knows,—Here headlong conflict, there inert repose!
"Which of these feet could overtake the roe?34Which of these arms could grapple with the bear?""My first-born," answer'd Faul, "outstrips the roe;My youngest crushes in his grasp the bear.""Thou, then, the swift one, gird thy loins, and rise:See o'er the lowland where the vapour lies,
"Far to the right, a mist from Sabra's wave;35Amidst that haze explore a creek rush-grown,Screen'd from the waters less remote, which laveThe Saxon's anchor'd barks, and near a loneGrey crag where bitterns boom; within that creekGleams through green boughs a galley's brazen peak;
This gain'd, demand the chief, a Christian knight,36The bear's rough mantle o'er his rusted mail;Tell him from me, to tarry till a lightBurst from the Dragon keep;—then crowd his sail,Fire his own ship—and, blazing to the bay,Cleave through yon fleet his red destroying way;
"No arduous feat: the galleys are unmann'd,37Moor'd each to each; let fire consume them all!Then, the shore won, lead hitherwards the bandBetween the Saxon camp and Cymrian wall.What next behoves, the time itself will show,Here counsel ceases;—there ye find the foe!"
Heard the wild youth, and no reply made he,38But braced his belt and griped his spear, and straightAs the bird flies, he flew. "My son, to thee,"Next said the Prophet, "a more urgent fateAnd a more perilous duty are consign'd;Mark, the strong arm requires the watchful mind.
"Thou hast to pass the Saxon sentinels;39Thou hast to thread the Saxon hosts alone;Many are there whom thy far Rhine expelsHis swarming war-hive,—and their tongue thine own;Take from yon Teuton dead the mail'd disguise,Thy speech their ears, thy garb shall dupe their eyes;
"The watch-pass 'Vingólf'[1]wins thee through the van,40The rest shall danger to thy sense inspire,And that quick light in the hard sloth of manCoil'd, till sharp need strike forth the sudden fire.The encampment traversed, where the woods behindSlope their green gloom, thy stealthy pathway wind;
"Keep to one leftward track, amidst the chase41Clear'd for the hunter's sport in happier days;Till scarce a mile from the last tent, a spaceClasping grey crommell stones, will close the maze.There, in the centre of that Druid ring,Arm'd men will stand around the Cymrian King:—
"Tell him to set upon the tallest pine42Keen watch, and wait, until from Carduel's tower,High o'er the wood a starry light shall shine;Notthatthe signal, though it nears the hour,But when the light shall change its hues, and formOne orb, blood-dyed, as sunsets red with storm;
"Then, while the foe their camp unguarded leave,43And round our walls their tides tempestuous roll,To yon wood pile, the Saxon fortress, cleave;Be Odin's Idol the Deliverer's goal.Say to the King, 'In that funereal faneComplete thy mission, and thy guide regain!'"
While spoke the seer, the Teuton's garb of mail44The son of Faul had donn'd, and bending now,He kiss'd his father's cheek.—"And if I fail,"He murmur'd, "leave thy blessing on my brow,My father!" Then the convert of the wildLook'd up to Heaven, and mutely bless'd his child.
"Thou wend with me, proud sire of dauntless men,"45Resumed the seer:—"On thine arm let my ageLean, as shall thine upontheirchildren!"—ThenThe loreless savage—the all-gifted sage,By the strong bonds of will and heart allied;Went towards the towers of Carduel side by side.
To Crida's camp the swift song rushing flies;46Round Odin's shrine wild Priests, rune muttering,Task the weird omens hateful to the skies;Pale by the idol stands the grey-hair'd king;And, from without, the unquiet armamentBooms in hoarse surge, its chafing discontent.
For in defeat (when first that multitude47Shrunk from a foe, and fled the Cymrian sword)The pride of man the wrath of gods had view'd;Religious horror smote the palsied horde;The field refused, till priest, and seid, and charm,Explore the offence, and wrath divine disarm.
All day, all night, glared fires, dark-red and dull48With mystic gums, before the Teuton god,And waved o'er runes which Mimer's trunkless skullHad whisper'd Odin—the Diviner's rod,And rank with herbs which baleful odours breathed,The bubbling hell-juice in the cauldron seethed.
Now towards that hour when into coverts dank49Slinks back the wolf; when to her callow broodVeers through still boughs, the owl; when from the bankThe glow-worm wanes; when heaviest droops the wood,Ere the faint twitter of the earliest lark,—Ere dawn creeps chill and timorous through the dark;
About that hour, of all the dreariest,50A flame leaps up from the dull fire's repose,And shoots weird sparks along the runes, imprestOn stone and elm-bark, ranged in ninefold rows;The vine's deep flush the purpling seid assumes,And the strong venom coils in maddening fumes.
Pale grew the elect Diviner's alter'd brows;51Swell'd the large veins, and writhed the foaming lips;And as some swart and fateful planet glowsAthwart the disc to which it brings eclipse;So that strange Pythian madness, whose controlSeems half to light and half efface the soul,
Broke from the horror of his glazing look;52His breath that died in hollow gusts away,Seized by the grasp of unseen tempests, shookTo its rack'd base the spirit-house of clay;Till the dark Power made firm the crushing spell,And from the man burst forth the voice of hell.
"The god—the god! lo, on his throne he reels!53Under his knit brows glow his wrathful eyes!At his dread feet a spectral Valkyr kneels,And shrouds her face! And cloud is in the skies,And neither sun nor star, nor day nor night,But in the cloud a steadfast Cross of Light!
"The god—the god! hide, hide me from his gaze!54Its awful anger burns into the brain!Spare me, O spare me! Speak, thy child obeys!What rites appease thee, Father of the Slain?[2]What direful omen do these signs foreshow?What victim ask'st thou? Speak, the blood shall flow!'
Sunk the Possest One—writhing with wild throes;55And one appalling silence dusk'd the place,As with a demon's wing. Anon arose,Calm as a ghost, the soothsayer: form and faceRigid with iron sleep! and hollow fellFrom stonelike lips the hateful oracle.
"A cloud, where Nornas nurse the thunder, lowers;56A curse is cleaving to the Teuton race;Before the Cross the stricken Valkyr cowers;The Herr-god trembles on his column'd base;A virgin's loss aroused the Teuton strife;A virgin's love hath charm'd the Avenger's life;
"A virgin's blood alone averts the doom;57Revives the Valkyr, and preserves the god.Whet the quick steel—she comes, she comes, for whomThe runes glow'd blood-red to the soothsayer's rod!O king, whose wrath the Odin-born array'd,Regain the lost, and yield the Christian maid!"
As if that voice had quicken'd some dead thing58To give it utterance, so, when ceased the sound,The dull eye fix'd, and the faint shudderingStirr'd all the frame; then sudden on the groundFell heavily the lumpish inert clay,From which the demon noiseless rush'd away.
Then the grey priests and the grey king creep near59The corpselike man; and sit them mutely downIn the still fire's red vaporous atmosphere;The bubbling caldron sings and simmers on;And through the reeks that from the poison rise,Looks the wolf's blood-lust from those cruel eyes.
So sat they, musing fell;—when hark, a shout60Rang loud from rank to rank, re-echoing deep;Hark to the tramp of multitudes without!Near and more near the thickening tumults sweep;King Crida wrathful rose: "What steps profaneThy secret thresholds, Father of the Slain?"
Frowning he strode along the lurid floors,61And loud, and loud the invading footsteps ring;His hand impetuous flings apart the doors:—"Who dare insult the god, and brave the king?"Swift through the throng a bright-hair'd vision came;Those stern lips falter with a daughter's name!
Those hands uplifted, or to curse or smite,62Fold o'er a daughter's head their tremulous joy!Oh, to the natural worship of delight,How came the monstrous dogma—"To destroy!"Sure, Heaven foreshow'd its gospel to the wildIn earth's first bond—the father and the child!
While words yet fail'd the bliss of that embrace,63The muttering priests, unmoved, each other eyed;Then to the threshold came their measured pace:—"Depart, Profane," their Pagan pontiff cried,"Depart, Profane, too near your steps have trodTo altars darken'd with an angry God.
"Dire are the omens! Skulda rides the clouds,64Her sisters tremble[3]at the Urdar spring;The hour demands us—shun the veil that shroudsThe Priests, the God, the Victim, and the King."Shuddering, the crowds retreat, and whispering low,Spread the contagious terrors where they go.
Then the stern Elders came to Crida's side,65And from their lock'd embrace unclasp'd his hands:"Lo," said their chieftain, "how the gods provideThemselves the offering which the shrine demands!By Odin's son be Odin's voice obey'd;The lost is found—behold, and yield the maid!"
As when some hermit saint, in the old day66Of the soul's giant war with Solitude,From some bright dream which rapt his life awayAmidst the spheres, unclosed his eyes and view'd,'Twixt sleep and waking, vaguely horrible,The grisly tempter of the gothic hell;
So on the father's bliss abruptly broke67The dreadful memory of his dismal god;And, his eyes pleading ere his terrors spoke,Look'd round the brows of that foul brotherhood.Then his big voice came weak and strangely mild,"What mean those words?—why glare ye on my child?
"Do ye not know her? Elders, she is mine,—68My flesh, my blood, mine age's youngest-born!Why are ye mute? Why point to yonder shrine?Ay,"—and here haughty with the joy of scorn,He raised his front.—"Ay,bethe voice obey'd!Priests, ye forget,—it was aChristianmaid!"
He ceased and laugh'd aloud, as humbled fell69Those greedy looks, and mutteringly repliedFaint voices, "True, so said the Oracle!"When the Arch-Elder, with an eager strideReach'd child and sire, and cried, "See Crida, there,On the maid's breast the cross that Christians wear!"
Those looks, those voices, thrill'd through Geneviève,70With fears as yet vague, shapeless, undefined:"Father," she murmur'd, "Father, let us leaveThese dismal precincts; how those eyes unkindFreeze to my soul; sweet father, let us go;My heart to thine would speak! why frown'st thou so?"
"Tear from thy breast that sign, unhappy one!71Sign to thy country's wrathful gods accurst!Back, priests of Odin, I am Odin's son,And she my daughter; in my war-shield nurst,Rear'd at your altars! Trample down the sign,O child, and say—the Saxon's God is mine!"
Infant, who came to bid a war relent,72And rob ambition of its carnage-prize,Is it on thee those sombre brows are bent?For thee the death-greed in those ravening eyes?Thy task undone, thy gentle prayer unspoken?Ay, press the cross: it is the martyr's token!
She press'd the cross with one firm faithful hand,73While one—(thattrembled!)—clasp'd her father's knees;As clings a wretch, that sinks in sight of land,To reeds swept with him down the weltering seas,And murmur'd, "Pardon; Him whose agonyWas earth's salvation, I may not deny!
"Him who gave God the name I give to thee,74'Father,'—in Him, in Christ, is my belief!"Then Crida turn'd unto the priests,—"Ye see,"Smiling, he said, "that I have done with grief:Behold the victim! be the God obey'd!The son of Odin dooms the Christian maid!"
He said, and from his robe he wrench'd the hand,75And, where the gloom was darkest, stalk'd away.But whispering low, still pause the hellish band;And dread lest Nature yet redeem the prey,And deem it wise against such chance to armThe priesthood's puissance with the host's alarm;
To bruit abroad the dark oracular threats,76From which the Virgin's blood alone can save;Gird with infuriate fears the murtherous nets,And plant an army to secure a grave;The whispers cease—the doors one gleam of dayGive—and then close;—the blood-hound slinks away.
Around the victim—where with wandering hand,77Through her blind tears, she seems to search through spaceFor him who had forsaken—circling standThe solemn butchers; calm in every faceAnd death in every heart; till from the beltStretch'd one lean hand and grasp'd her where she knelt.
And her wild shriek went forth and smote the shrine,78Which echo'd, shrilling back the sharp despair,Through the waste gaps between the shafts of pineTo th' unseen father's ear. Before the glareOf the weird fire, the sacrifice they chainTo stones impress'd with rune and shamble-stain.
Then wait (for so their formal rites compel)79Till from the trance that still his senses seals,Awakes the soothsayer of the oracle;At length with tortured spasms, and slowly, stealsBack the reluctant life—slow as it creepsTo one hard-rescued from the drowning deeps.
And when from dim, uncertain, swimming eyes80The gaunt long fingers put the shaggy hair,And on the priests, the shrine, the sacrifice,Dwelt the fix'd sternness of the glassy stare,Before the god they led the demon-man,And circling round the two their hymn began.
So rapt in their remorseless ecstasy,81They did not hear the quick steps at the door,Nor that loud knock nor that impatient cry;Till shook,—till crash'd, the portals on the floor,—Crash'd to the strong hand of the fiery thane;And Harold's stride came clanging up the fane.—
But from his side bounded a shape as light82As forms that glide through Elfheim's limber air;Swift to the shrine—where on those robes of whiteThe gloomy hell fires scowl'd their sullen glare,Through the death-chaunting choir,—she sprang,—she prest,And bow'd her head upon the victim's breast;
And cried, "With thee, with thee, to live or die,83With thee, my Geneviève!" The Elders raisedTheir hands in wrath, when from as stern an eyeAnd brow erect as theirs, they shrunk amazed—And Harold spoke, "Ye priests of Odin, hear!Your gods are mine, their voices I revere.
"Voices in winds, in groves, in hollow caves,84Oracular dream, or runic galdra sought;But ages ere from Don's ancestral wavesSuch wizard signs the Scythian Odin brought,A voice that needs no priesthood's sacred art,Some earlier God placed in the human heart.
"I bow to charms that doom embattled walls:85To dreams revealing no unworthy foe;A warrior's god in Glory's clarion calls;Where war-steeds snort, and hurtling standards flow;But when weak women for strong men must die,My Man's proud nature gives your Gods the lie!
"If—not yon seer by fumes and dreams beguiled,86But Odin's self stood where his image stands,Against the god I would protect my child!Ha, Crida!—come!—thychild in chains!—those handsLifted to smite!—and thou, whose kingly bannArms nations,—wake, O statue, into man!"
For from his lair, and to his liegeman's side,87Had Crida listening strode: When ceased the Thane,His voice, comprest and tremulous, replied,—"The life thou plead'st for doth these shrines profane.In Odin's son a father lives no more;Yon maid adores the God our foes adore."
"And I—and I, stern king!"—Genevra cries,88"Her God is mine, and if that faith is crime,Be just—and take a twofold sacrifice!""Cease," cried the Thane,—"is this, ye Powers, a timeFor kings and chiefs to lean on idle blades,—Our leaders dreamers, and our victims maids?
"Be varying gods by varying tribes addrest,89I scorn no gods that worthy foes adore;Brave was the arm that humbled Harold's crest,And large the heart that did his child restore.To all the valiant Gladsheim's Halls unclose;[4]In Heaven the comrades were on Earth the foes.