"And if our Gods are wrath, what wonder, when90Their traitor priests creep whispering coward fears;Unnerve the arms and rot the hearts of men,And filch the conquest from victorious spears?—Yes, reverend elders,onesuch priest I found,And cheer'd my bandogs on the meaner hound!""Be dumb, blasphemer," cried the Pontiff seer,91"Depart, or dread the vengeance of the shrine;Depart, or armies from these floors shall hearHow chiefs can mock what nations deem divine;Then, let her Christian faith thy daughter boast,And brave the answer of the Teuton host!"A paler hue shot o'er the hardy face92Of the great Earl, as thus the Elder spoke;But calm he answer'd, "Summon Odin's race;On me and mine the Teuton's wrath invoke!Let shuddering fathers learn what priests can dream,And warriors judge ifItheir Gods blaspheme!"But peace and hearken.—To the king I speak:—93With mine own lithsmen, and such willing aidAs Harold's tromps arouse,—yon walls I seek;Be Cymri's throne the ransom of the maid.On Carduel's wall if Saxon standards wave,Let Odin's arms the needless victim save!"Grant me till noon to prove what men are worth,94Who serve the War God by the warlike deed;Refuse me this, King Crida, and henceforthLet chiefs more prized the Mercian armies lead;For I, blunt Harold, join no cause with thoseWho, wolves for victims, are as hares to foes!"Scornful he ceased, and lean'd upon his sword;95Whispering the Priests, and silent Crida, stood.A living Thor to that barbarian hordeWas the bold Thane, and ev'n the men of bloodFelt Harold's loss amid the host's dismayWould rend the clasp that link'd the wild array.At length out spoke the priestly chief, "The gods96Endure the boasts, to bow the pride, of men;The Well of Wisdom sinks in Hell's abode;The Læca shines beside the bautasten,[5]And Truth too oft illumes the eyes that scorn'd,By the death-flash from which in vain it warn'd."Be the delay the pride of man demands97Vouchsafed, the nothingness of man to show!The gods unsoften'd, march thy futile bands:Till noon, we spare the victim;—seek the foe!But when with equal shadows rests the sun—The altar reddens, or the walls are won!""So be it," the Thane replied, and sternly smiled;98Then towards the sister-twain, with pitying brow,Whispering he came,—"Fair friend of Harold's child,Let our own gods at least be with thee now;Pray that the Asas bless the Teuton strife,And guide the swords that strike for thy sweet life.""Alas!" cried Geneviève, "Christ came to save,99Not slay: He taught the weakest how to die;For me, forme, a nation glut the grave!That nation Christ's, and—No, the victimI!Not now forlife, my father, see me kneel,But one kind look,—and then, how blunt the steel!"And Crida moved not! Moist were Harold's eyes;100Bending, he whisper'd in Genevra's ear,"Thy presence is her safety! Time deniesAll words but these;—hope in the brave; revereThe gods they serve;—by acts our faith we test;The holiest gods are where the men are best.""With this he turn'd, "Ye priests," he call'd aloud,101"On every head within these walls, I setDread weregeld for the compact; blood for blood!"Then o'er his brows he closed his bassinet,Shook the black death-pomp of his shadowy plume,And his arm'd stride was lost amidst the gloom.—And still poor Geneviève with mournful eyes102Gazed on the father, whose averted browsHad more of darkness for her soul than liesUnder the lids of death. The murmurousAnd lurid air buzzed with a ghostlike soundFrom patient Murder's iron lip;—and roundThe delicate form which, like a Psyche, seem'd103Beauty sublimed into the type of soul,Fresh from such stars as ne'er on Paphos beam'd,When first on Love the chastening vision stole,—The sister virgin coil'd her clasp of woe;Ev'n as that Sorrow which the Soul must knowTill Soul and Love meet never more to part.104At last, from under his wide mantle's fold,The strain'd arms lock'd on his loud-beating heart(As if the anguish which the king controll'd,The man could stifle),—Crida toss'd on high;—And nature conquer'd in the father's cry!Over the kneeling form swept his grey hair;105On the soft upturn'd eyes prest his wild kiss;And then recoiling, with a livid stare,He faced the priests, and mutter'd, "Dotage this!Crida is old,—come—come;" and from the ringBeckon'd their chief, and went forth tottering.Out of the fane, up where the stair of pine106Wound to the summit of the camp's rough tower,King Crida pass'd. On moving armour shineThe healthful beams of the fresh morning hour;He hears the barb's shrill neigh,—the clarion's swell,And half his armies march to Carduel.Far in the van, like Odin's fatal bird107Wing'd for its feast, sails Harold's raven plume.Now from the city's heart a shout is heard,Wall, bastion, tower, their steel-clad life resume;Far shout! faint forms! yet seem they loud and clearTo that strain'd eyeball and that feverish ear.But not on hosts that march by Harold's side,108Gazed the stern priest, who stood with Crida there;On sullen gloomy groups—discatter'd wide,Grudging the conflict they refused to share,Or seated round rude tents and pilèd spears;Circling the mutter of rebellious fears;Or, near the temple fort, with folded arms109On their broad breasts, waiting the deed of blood;On these he gazed—to gloat on the alarmsThat madehimmonarch of that multitude!Not one man there had pity in his eye.And the priest smiled,—then turn'd to watch the sky.And the sky deepen'd, and the time rush'd on.110And Crida sees the ladders on the wall;And dust-clouds gather round his gonfanon;And through the dust-clouds glittering rise and fallThe meteor lights of helms, and shields, and glaives;Up o'er the rampires mount the labouring waves;And joyous rings the Saxon's battle shout;111And Cymri's angel cry wails like despair;And from the Dragon Keep a light shines out,Calm as a single star in tortured air,To whose high peace, aloof from storms, in vainLooks a lost navy from the violent main.Now on the nearest wall the Pale Horse stands;112Now from the wall the Pale Horse lightens down;And flash and vanish, file on file, the bandsInto the rent heart of the howling town;And the Priest paling frown'd upon the sun,—Though the sky deepen'd and the time rush'd on.When from the camp around the fane, there rose113Ineffable cries of wonder, wrath, and fear;With some strange light that scares the sunshine, glowsO'er Sabra's waves the crimson'd atmosphere;And dun from out the widening, widening glare,Like Hela's serpents, smoke-reeks wind through air.Forth look'd the king, appall'd! and where his masts114Soar'd from the verge of the far forest-land,He hears the crackling, as when vernal blastsShiver Groninga's pines—"Lo, the same hand,"Cried the fierce priest, "which sway'd the soothsayer's rod,Writes now the last runes of thine angry god!"And here and there, and wirbelling to and fro,115Confused, distraught, pale thousands spread the plain;Some snatch their arms in haste, and yelling goWhere the fleets burn; some creep around the faneLike herds for shelter; prone on earth lie someShrieking, "The Twilight of the Gods hath come!"And the great glare hath redden'd o'er the town,116And seems the strife it gildeth to appall;Flock back dim straggling Saxons, gazing downThe lurid valleys from the jagged wall,Still as on Cuthite towers Chaldean seers,When some red portent flamed into the spheres.And now from brake and copse—from combe and dell,117Gleams break;—steel flashes;—helms on helms arise;Faint heard at first,—now near, now thunderous,—swellThe Cymrian mingled with the Baltic cries;And, loud alike in each, exulting cameWar's noblest music—a Deliverer's name."Arthur!—for Arthur!—Arthur is at hand!118Woe, Saxons, woe!" Then from the rampart heightVanish'd each watcher; while the rescue-bandSweep the clear slopes; and not a foe in sight!And now the beacon on the Dragon Keep:Springs from pale lustre into hues blood-deep:And on that tower stood forth a lonely man;119Full on his form the beacon glory fell;And joy revived each sinking Cymrian;There, the still Prophet watch'd o'er Carduel!Back o'er the walls, and back through gate and breach,Now ebbs the war, like billows from the beach.Along the battlements swift crests arise,120Swift follow'd by avenging, smiting brands,And fear and flight are in the Saxon cries!The portals vomit bands on hurtling bands;And lo, wide streaming o'er the helms,—againThe Pale Horse flings on angry winds its mane!And facing still the foe, but backward borne121By his own men, towers high one kingliest chief;Deep through the distance roll his shout of scorn,And the grand anguish of a hero's grief.Bounded the Priest!—"The Gods are heard at last!—Proud Harold flieth;—and the noon is past!Come, Crida, come." Up as from heavy sleep122The grey-hair'd giant raised his awful head;As, after calmest waters, the swift leapOf the strong torrent rushes to its bed,—So the new passion seized and changed the form,As if the rest had braced it for the storm.No grief was in the iron of that brow;123Age cramp'd no sinew in that mighty arm;"Go," he said sternly, "where it fits thee, thou:Thy post with Odin—mine with Managarm![6]Let priests avert the dangers kings must dare;My shrine yon Standard, and my Children—there!"So from the height he swept—as doth a cloud124That brings a tempest when it sinks below;Swift strides a chief amidst the jarring crowd;Swift in stern ranks the rent disorders grow;Swift, as in sails becalm'd swells forth the wind,The wide mass quickens with the one strong mind.Meanwhile the victim, to the Demon vow'd,125Knelt; every thought wing'd for the Angel goal,And ev'n the terror which the form had bow'dSearch'd but new sweetness where it shook the soul.Self was forgot, and to the Eternal EarPrayer but for others spoke the human fear.And when at moments from that rapt communion126With the Invisible Holy, those young armsClasp'd round her neck, to childhood's happy unionIn the old days recall'd her; such sweet charmsDid Comfort weave, that in the sister's breastGrief like an infant sobb'd itself to rest.Up leapt the solemn priests from dull repose:127The fires were fann'd as with a sudden wind;While shrieking loud, "Hark, hark, the conquering foes!Haste, haste, the victim to the altar bind!"Rush'd to the shrine the haggard Slaughter-Chief.—As the strong gusts that whirl the fallen leafI' the month when wolves descend, the barbarous hands128Plunge on the prey of their delirious wrath,Wrench'd from Genevra's clasp;—Lo, where she stands,On earth no anchor,—is she less like Faith?The same smile firmly sad, the same calm eye,The same meek strength;—strength to forgive and die!"Hear us, O Odin, in this last despair!129Hear us, and save!" the Pontiff call'd aloud;"By the Child's blood we shed, thy children spare!"And the knife glitter'd o'er the breast that bow'd.Dropp'd blade;—fell priest!—blood chokes a gurgling groan;Blood,—bloodnot Christian, dyes the altar-stone!Deep in theDOOMER'Sbreast it sank—the dart;130As if from Fate it came invisibly;Where is the hand?—from what dark hush shall startFoeman or fiend?—no shape appalls the eye,No sound the ear!—ice-lock'd each coward breath;The Power the Deathsman call'd, hath heard him—Death!"While yet the stupor stuns the circle there,131Fierce shrieks—loud feet—come rushing through the doors:Women with outstretch'd arms and tossing hair,And flying warriors, shake the solemn floors;Thick as the birds storm-driven on the decksOf some lone ship—the last an ocean wrecks.And where on tumult, tumult whirl'd and roar'd,132Shrill'd cries, "The fires around us and behind,And the last Fire-God and the Flaming-Sword!"[7]And from without, like that destroying windIn which the world shall perish, grides and sweepsVictory—swift-cleaving through the battle deeps!—Victory, by shouts of terrible rapture known,133Through crashing ranks it drives in iron rain;Borne on the wings of fire it blazes on;It halts its storm before the fortress fane;And through the doors, and through the chinks of pine,Flames its red breath upon the paling shrine.Roused to their demon courage by the dread134Of the wild hour, the priests a voice have found;To pious horror show their sacred dead,Invoke the vengeance, and explore the ground,When, like the fiend in monkish legends known,Sprang a grim image on the altar-stone!The wolf's hide bristled on the shaggy breast135Over the brows, the forest buffaloWith horn impending arm'd the grisly crest,From which the swart eye sent its savage glow:Long shall the Saxon dreams that shape recall,And ghastly legends teem with tales ofFaul![8]Needs here to tell, that when, at Merlin's hest,136Faul led to Harold's tent the Saxon maid,The wrathful Thane had chased the skulking priestFrom the paled ranks, that evil Bode[9]dismay'd:—And the grim tidings of the rite to comeFlew lip to lip through that awed Heathendom.Foretaught by Merlin of her mission there,137Scarce to her father's heart Genevra sprungThan (while most soften'd) her impassion'd prayerPierced to its human deeps; and, roused and stungBy that keen pity, keenest in the brave,—Strength felt why strength is given, and rush'd to save:—Amidst those quick emotions half forgot,138Follow'd the tutor'd furtive Aleman;On, when the portals crash'd, still heeded not,Stole his light step behind the striding Thane.From coign to shaft the practised glider crept,A shadow, lost where shadows darkest slept.And safe and screen'd the idol god behind,139He who once lurk'd to slay, kept watch to save;—Nowtherehe stood! And the same altar shrinedThe wild man, the wild god! and up the naveFlight flow'd on flight; and near and loud, the nameOf "Arthur" borne as on a whirlwind came.Down from the altar to the victim's side,140While yet shrunk back the priests—the savage leapt,And with quick steel gash'd the strong cords that tied;When round them both the rallying vengeance swept;Raised every arm;—O joy!—the enchanted glaiveShines o'er the threshold! is there time to save?A torch whirls hissing through the air—it falls141Into the centre of the murderous throng!Dread herald of dread steps! the conscious hallsQuake where the falchion flames and flies along;Though crowd on crowd behold the falchion cleave!—The Silver Shield rests over Geneviève!Bright as the shape that smote the Assyrian,142The fulgent splendour from the arms divinePaled the hell-fires round God's elected Man,And burst like Truth upon the demon-shrine.Among the thousands stood the Conquering One,Still, lone, and unresisted as a sun!Now through the doors, commingling side by side,143Saxon and Cymrian struggle hand in hand;For there the war, in its fast ebbing tide,Flings its last prey—there, Crida takes his stand;There his co-monarchs hail a funeral pyreThat opes Walhalla from the grave of fire.And as a tiger swept adown a flood144With meaner beasts, that dyes the howling waterWhich whirls it onward, with a waste of blood,And gripes a stay with fangs that leave the slaughter,—So where halts Crida, groans and falls a foe—And deep in gore his steps receding go.And his large sword has made in reeking air145Broad space (through which, around the golden ringThat crownlike clasps the sweep of his grey hair,)Shine the tall helms of many a Teuton king;Lord of the West—broad-breasted Chevaline;And Ymrick's son of Hengist's giant line;Fierce Sibert, throned by Britain's kingliest river,146And Elrid, honour'd in Northumbrian homes;And many a sire whose stubborn soul for everShadows the fields where England's thunder comes.High o'er them all his front grey Crida rears,As some old oak whose crest a forest clears.High o'er them all, that front fierce Arthur sees,147And knows the arch-invader of the land;Swift through the chiefs—swift path his falchion frees;Corpse falls on corpse before the avenger's hand;For fair-hair'd Ælla, Cantia's maids shall wail;Hurl'd o'er the dead, rings Elrid's crashing mail;His follower's arms stunn'd Sibert's might receive,148And from the death-blow snatch their bleeding lord;And now behold, O fearful Geneviève,O'er thy doom'd father shines the charmèd sword,And shaking, as it shone, the glorious blade,The hand for very wrath the death delay'd."At last, at last we meet, on Cymri's soil;149And foot to foot! Destroyer of my shrines,And murderer of my people! Ay, recoilBefore the doom thy quailing soul divines!Ay—turn thine eyes,—nor hosts nor flight can save!Thy foe is Arthur—and these halls thy grave!""Flight," laugh'd the king, whose glance had wander'd round,150Where through the throng had pierced a woman's cry,"Flight for a chief, by Saxon warriors crown'd,And from a Walloon!—this is my reply!"And, both hands heaving up the sword enorme,Swept the swift orbit round the luminous form;Full on the gem the iron drives its course,151And shattering clinks in splinters on the floor;The foot unsteadied by the blow's spent force,Slides on the smoothness of the soil of gore;Gore, quench the blood-thirst! guard, O soil, the guest!For Freedom's heel is on the Invader's breast!When, swift beneath the flashing of the blade,152When, swift before the bosom of the foe,She sprang, she came, she knelt,—the guardian maid!And startling vengeance from the righteous blow,Cried, "Spare, oh spare, this sacred life to me,A father's life!—I would have died for thee!"While thus within, the Christian God prevails,153Without the idol temple, fast and far,Like rolling storm-wrecks, shatter'd by the gales,Fly the dark fragments of the Heathen War,Where, through the fires that flash from camp to wave,Escape the land that locks them in its grave?When by the Hecla of their burning fleet154Dismay'd amidst the marts of Carduel,The Saxons rush'd without the walls to meetThe Vikings' swords, which their mad terrors swellInto a host—assaulted, rear and van,The foe scarce smote before the flight began.In vain were Harold's voice, and name, and deeds,155Unnerved by omen, priest, and shapeless fear,And less by man than their own barbarous creedsAppall'd,—a God in every shout they hear,And in their blazing barks behold unfurl'd,The wings of Muspell[10]to consume the world.Yet still awhile the heart of the great Thane,156And the stout few that gird the gonfanon,Build a steel bulwark on the midmost plain,That stems all Cymri,—so Despair fights on.When from the camp the new volcanoes spring,With sword and fire he comes,—the Dragon King!Then all, save Harold, shriek to Hope farewell;157Melts the last barrier; through the clearing space,On towards the camp the Cymrian chiefs compelThe ardent followers from the tempting chase;Through Crida's ranks to Arthur's side they gain,And blend two streams in one resistless main.True to his charge as chief, 'mid all disdain158Of recreant lithsmen—Harold's iron soulSees the storm sweep beyond it o'er the plain;And lofty duties, yet on earth, controlThe yearnings for Walhalla:—Where the dayPaled to the burning ships—he tower'd away.And with him, mournful, drooping, rent and torn,159But captive not—the Pale Horse dragg'd its mane.Beside the fire-reflecting waves, forlorn,As ghosts that gaze on Phlegethon—the ThaneSaw listless leaning o'er the silent coasts,The spectre wrecks of what at morn were hosts.Tears rush'd to burning eyes, and choked awhile160The trumpet music of his manly voice,At length he spoke: "And are ye then so vile!A death of straw! Is that the Teuton's choice?By all our gods, I hail that reddening sky,And bless the burning fleets which flight deny!"Lo, yet the thunder clothes the charger's mane,161As when it crested Hengist's helmet crown!What ye have lost—an hour can yet regain;Life has no path so short as to renown!Shrunk if your ranks,—when first from Albion's shoreYour sires carved kingdoms, were their numbers more?"If not your valour, let your terrors speak.162Where fly?—what path can lead ye from the foes?Where hide?—what cavern will not vengeance seek?What shun ye? Death?—Death smites ye in repose!Back to your king: from Hela snatch the brave—We best escape, when most we scorn, the grave."Roused by the words, though half reluctant still,163The listless ranks reform their slow array,Sullen but stern they labour up the hill,And gain the brow!—In smouldering embers layThe castled camp, and slanting sunbeams shedLight o'er the victors—quiet o'er the dead.Hush'd was the roar of war—the conquer'd ground164Waved with the glitter of the Cymrian spears;The temple fort the Dragon standard crown'd;And Christian anthems peal'd on Pagan ears;The Mercian halts his bands—their front surveys;No fierce eye kindles to his fiery gaze.One dull, dishearten'd, but not dastard gloom165Clouds every brow,—like men compell'd to die,Who see no hope that can elude the doom,Prepared to fall but powerless to defy.Not those the ranks, yon ardent hosts to face!The Hour had conquer'd earth's all-conquering race.The leader paused, and into artful show,166Doubling the numbers with extended wing;"Here halt," he said, "to yonder hosts I goWith terms of peace or war to Cymri's king."He turn'd, and towards the Victor's bright array,With tromp and herald, strode his bitter way.Before the signs to war's sublime belief167Sacred, the host disparts its hushing wave.Moved by the sight of that renownèd chief,Joy stills the shout that might insult the brave;And princeliest guides the stately foeman bring,Where Odin's temple shrines the Christian king.The North's fierce idol, roll'd in pools of blood,168Lies crush'd before the Cross of Nazareth.Crouch'd on the splinter'd fragments of their god,Silent as clouds from which the tempest's breathHas gone,—the butchers of the priesthood rest.—Each heavy brow bent o'er each stony breast.Apart, the guards of Cymri stand around169The haught repose of captive Teuton kings;With eyes disdainful of the chains that bound,And fronts superb—as if defeat but flingsA kinglier grandeur over fallen power:—So suns shine larger in their setting hour.From these remote, unchain'd, unguarded, leant170On the gnarl'd pillar of the fort of pine,The Saturn of the Titan armament,His looks averted from the alter'd shrineWhence iron Doom the antique Faith has hurl'd,For that new Jove who dawns upon the world!And one broad hand conceal'd the monarch's face;171And one lay calm on the low-bended headOf the forgiving child, whose young embraceClasp'd that grey wreck of Empire! All had fledThe heart of pride:—Thrones, hosts, the gods! yea allThat scaled the heaven, strew'd Hades with their fall!But Natural Love, the household melody,172Steals through the dearth,—resettling on the breast;The bird returning with the silenced sky,Sings in the ruin, and rebuilds its nest;Home came the Soother that the storm exiled,—And Crida's hand lay calm upon his child!Beside her sister saint, Genevra kneeleth,173Mourning her father's in her Country's woes;And near her, hushing iron footsteps, stealethThe noblest knight the wondrous Table knows—Whispering low comfort into thrilling ears—When Harold's plume floats up the flash of spears.But the proud Earl, with warning hand and eye,174Repels the yearning arms, the eager start;Man amidst men, his haughty thoughts denyTo foes the triumph o'er his father's heart;Quickly he turn'd—where shone amidst his ringOf subject planets, the Hyperion King.There Tristan grateful—Agrafayn uncouth,175And Owaine comely with the battle-scar,And Geraint's lofty age, to venturous youthGlory and guide, as to proud ships a star,And Gawaine sober'd to his gravest smile,—Lean on the spears that lighten through the pile.There stood the stoic Alemen sedate,176Blocks hewn from man, which love with life inspired;There, by the Cross, from eyes serene with Fate,Look'd into space the Mage! and carnage-tired,On Ægis shields, like Jove's still thunders, layThine ocean giants, Scandinavia!But lo, the front, where conquest's auriole177Shone, as round Genius marching at the vanOf nations;—where the victories of the soulStamp'd Nature's masterpiece, perfected Man:Fair as young Honour's vision of a kingFit for bold hearts to serve, free lips to sing!
"And if our Gods are wrath, what wonder, when90Their traitor priests creep whispering coward fears;Unnerve the arms and rot the hearts of men,And filch the conquest from victorious spears?—Yes, reverend elders,onesuch priest I found,And cheer'd my bandogs on the meaner hound!"
"Be dumb, blasphemer," cried the Pontiff seer,91"Depart, or dread the vengeance of the shrine;Depart, or armies from these floors shall hearHow chiefs can mock what nations deem divine;Then, let her Christian faith thy daughter boast,And brave the answer of the Teuton host!"
A paler hue shot o'er the hardy face92Of the great Earl, as thus the Elder spoke;But calm he answer'd, "Summon Odin's race;On me and mine the Teuton's wrath invoke!Let shuddering fathers learn what priests can dream,And warriors judge ifItheir Gods blaspheme!
"But peace and hearken.—To the king I speak:—93With mine own lithsmen, and such willing aidAs Harold's tromps arouse,—yon walls I seek;Be Cymri's throne the ransom of the maid.On Carduel's wall if Saxon standards wave,Let Odin's arms the needless victim save!
"Grant me till noon to prove what men are worth,94Who serve the War God by the warlike deed;Refuse me this, King Crida, and henceforthLet chiefs more prized the Mercian armies lead;For I, blunt Harold, join no cause with thoseWho, wolves for victims, are as hares to foes!"
Scornful he ceased, and lean'd upon his sword;95Whispering the Priests, and silent Crida, stood.A living Thor to that barbarian hordeWas the bold Thane, and ev'n the men of bloodFelt Harold's loss amid the host's dismayWould rend the clasp that link'd the wild array.
At length out spoke the priestly chief, "The gods96Endure the boasts, to bow the pride, of men;The Well of Wisdom sinks in Hell's abode;The Læca shines beside the bautasten,[5]And Truth too oft illumes the eyes that scorn'd,By the death-flash from which in vain it warn'd.
"Be the delay the pride of man demands97Vouchsafed, the nothingness of man to show!The gods unsoften'd, march thy futile bands:Till noon, we spare the victim;—seek the foe!But when with equal shadows rests the sun—The altar reddens, or the walls are won!"
"So be it," the Thane replied, and sternly smiled;98Then towards the sister-twain, with pitying brow,Whispering he came,—"Fair friend of Harold's child,Let our own gods at least be with thee now;Pray that the Asas bless the Teuton strife,And guide the swords that strike for thy sweet life."
"Alas!" cried Geneviève, "Christ came to save,99Not slay: He taught the weakest how to die;For me, forme, a nation glut the grave!That nation Christ's, and—No, the victimI!Not now forlife, my father, see me kneel,But one kind look,—and then, how blunt the steel!"
And Crida moved not! Moist were Harold's eyes;100Bending, he whisper'd in Genevra's ear,"Thy presence is her safety! Time deniesAll words but these;—hope in the brave; revereThe gods they serve;—by acts our faith we test;The holiest gods are where the men are best."
"With this he turn'd, "Ye priests," he call'd aloud,101"On every head within these walls, I setDread weregeld for the compact; blood for blood!"Then o'er his brows he closed his bassinet,Shook the black death-pomp of his shadowy plume,And his arm'd stride was lost amidst the gloom.—
And still poor Geneviève with mournful eyes102Gazed on the father, whose averted browsHad more of darkness for her soul than liesUnder the lids of death. The murmurousAnd lurid air buzzed with a ghostlike soundFrom patient Murder's iron lip;—and round
The delicate form which, like a Psyche, seem'd103Beauty sublimed into the type of soul,Fresh from such stars as ne'er on Paphos beam'd,When first on Love the chastening vision stole,—The sister virgin coil'd her clasp of woe;Ev'n as that Sorrow which the Soul must know
Till Soul and Love meet never more to part.104At last, from under his wide mantle's fold,The strain'd arms lock'd on his loud-beating heart(As if the anguish which the king controll'd,The man could stifle),—Crida toss'd on high;—And nature conquer'd in the father's cry!
Over the kneeling form swept his grey hair;105On the soft upturn'd eyes prest his wild kiss;And then recoiling, with a livid stare,He faced the priests, and mutter'd, "Dotage this!Crida is old,—come—come;" and from the ringBeckon'd their chief, and went forth tottering.
Out of the fane, up where the stair of pine106Wound to the summit of the camp's rough tower,King Crida pass'd. On moving armour shineThe healthful beams of the fresh morning hour;He hears the barb's shrill neigh,—the clarion's swell,And half his armies march to Carduel.
Far in the van, like Odin's fatal bird107Wing'd for its feast, sails Harold's raven plume.Now from the city's heart a shout is heard,Wall, bastion, tower, their steel-clad life resume;Far shout! faint forms! yet seem they loud and clearTo that strain'd eyeball and that feverish ear.
But not on hosts that march by Harold's side,108Gazed the stern priest, who stood with Crida there;On sullen gloomy groups—discatter'd wide,Grudging the conflict they refused to share,Or seated round rude tents and pilèd spears;Circling the mutter of rebellious fears;
Or, near the temple fort, with folded arms109On their broad breasts, waiting the deed of blood;On these he gazed—to gloat on the alarmsThat madehimmonarch of that multitude!Not one man there had pity in his eye.And the priest smiled,—then turn'd to watch the sky.
And the sky deepen'd, and the time rush'd on.110And Crida sees the ladders on the wall;And dust-clouds gather round his gonfanon;And through the dust-clouds glittering rise and fallThe meteor lights of helms, and shields, and glaives;Up o'er the rampires mount the labouring waves;
And joyous rings the Saxon's battle shout;111And Cymri's angel cry wails like despair;And from the Dragon Keep a light shines out,Calm as a single star in tortured air,To whose high peace, aloof from storms, in vainLooks a lost navy from the violent main.
Now on the nearest wall the Pale Horse stands;112Now from the wall the Pale Horse lightens down;And flash and vanish, file on file, the bandsInto the rent heart of the howling town;And the Priest paling frown'd upon the sun,—Though the sky deepen'd and the time rush'd on.
When from the camp around the fane, there rose113Ineffable cries of wonder, wrath, and fear;With some strange light that scares the sunshine, glowsO'er Sabra's waves the crimson'd atmosphere;And dun from out the widening, widening glare,Like Hela's serpents, smoke-reeks wind through air.
Forth look'd the king, appall'd! and where his masts114Soar'd from the verge of the far forest-land,He hears the crackling, as when vernal blastsShiver Groninga's pines—"Lo, the same hand,"Cried the fierce priest, "which sway'd the soothsayer's rod,Writes now the last runes of thine angry god!"
And here and there, and wirbelling to and fro,115Confused, distraught, pale thousands spread the plain;Some snatch their arms in haste, and yelling goWhere the fleets burn; some creep around the faneLike herds for shelter; prone on earth lie someShrieking, "The Twilight of the Gods hath come!"
And the great glare hath redden'd o'er the town,116And seems the strife it gildeth to appall;Flock back dim straggling Saxons, gazing downThe lurid valleys from the jagged wall,Still as on Cuthite towers Chaldean seers,When some red portent flamed into the spheres.
And now from brake and copse—from combe and dell,117Gleams break;—steel flashes;—helms on helms arise;Faint heard at first,—now near, now thunderous,—swellThe Cymrian mingled with the Baltic cries;And, loud alike in each, exulting cameWar's noblest music—a Deliverer's name.
"Arthur!—for Arthur!—Arthur is at hand!118Woe, Saxons, woe!" Then from the rampart heightVanish'd each watcher; while the rescue-bandSweep the clear slopes; and not a foe in sight!And now the beacon on the Dragon Keep:Springs from pale lustre into hues blood-deep:
And on that tower stood forth a lonely man;119Full on his form the beacon glory fell;And joy revived each sinking Cymrian;There, the still Prophet watch'd o'er Carduel!Back o'er the walls, and back through gate and breach,Now ebbs the war, like billows from the beach.
Along the battlements swift crests arise,120Swift follow'd by avenging, smiting brands,And fear and flight are in the Saxon cries!The portals vomit bands on hurtling bands;And lo, wide streaming o'er the helms,—againThe Pale Horse flings on angry winds its mane!
And facing still the foe, but backward borne121By his own men, towers high one kingliest chief;Deep through the distance roll his shout of scorn,And the grand anguish of a hero's grief.Bounded the Priest!—"The Gods are heard at last!—Proud Harold flieth;—and the noon is past!
Come, Crida, come." Up as from heavy sleep122The grey-hair'd giant raised his awful head;As, after calmest waters, the swift leapOf the strong torrent rushes to its bed,—So the new passion seized and changed the form,As if the rest had braced it for the storm.
No grief was in the iron of that brow;123Age cramp'd no sinew in that mighty arm;"Go," he said sternly, "where it fits thee, thou:Thy post with Odin—mine with Managarm![6]Let priests avert the dangers kings must dare;My shrine yon Standard, and my Children—there!"
So from the height he swept—as doth a cloud124That brings a tempest when it sinks below;Swift strides a chief amidst the jarring crowd;Swift in stern ranks the rent disorders grow;Swift, as in sails becalm'd swells forth the wind,The wide mass quickens with the one strong mind.
Meanwhile the victim, to the Demon vow'd,125Knelt; every thought wing'd for the Angel goal,And ev'n the terror which the form had bow'dSearch'd but new sweetness where it shook the soul.Self was forgot, and to the Eternal EarPrayer but for others spoke the human fear.
And when at moments from that rapt communion126With the Invisible Holy, those young armsClasp'd round her neck, to childhood's happy unionIn the old days recall'd her; such sweet charmsDid Comfort weave, that in the sister's breastGrief like an infant sobb'd itself to rest.
Up leapt the solemn priests from dull repose:127The fires were fann'd as with a sudden wind;While shrieking loud, "Hark, hark, the conquering foes!Haste, haste, the victim to the altar bind!"Rush'd to the shrine the haggard Slaughter-Chief.—As the strong gusts that whirl the fallen leaf
I' the month when wolves descend, the barbarous hands128Plunge on the prey of their delirious wrath,Wrench'd from Genevra's clasp;—Lo, where she stands,On earth no anchor,—is she less like Faith?The same smile firmly sad, the same calm eye,The same meek strength;—strength to forgive and die!
"Hear us, O Odin, in this last despair!129Hear us, and save!" the Pontiff call'd aloud;"By the Child's blood we shed, thy children spare!"And the knife glitter'd o'er the breast that bow'd.Dropp'd blade;—fell priest!—blood chokes a gurgling groan;Blood,—bloodnot Christian, dyes the altar-stone!
Deep in theDOOMER'Sbreast it sank—the dart;130As if from Fate it came invisibly;Where is the hand?—from what dark hush shall startFoeman or fiend?—no shape appalls the eye,No sound the ear!—ice-lock'd each coward breath;The Power the Deathsman call'd, hath heard him—Death!
"While yet the stupor stuns the circle there,131Fierce shrieks—loud feet—come rushing through the doors:Women with outstretch'd arms and tossing hair,And flying warriors, shake the solemn floors;Thick as the birds storm-driven on the decksOf some lone ship—the last an ocean wrecks.
And where on tumult, tumult whirl'd and roar'd,132Shrill'd cries, "The fires around us and behind,And the last Fire-God and the Flaming-Sword!"[7]And from without, like that destroying windIn which the world shall perish, grides and sweepsVictory—swift-cleaving through the battle deeps!—
Victory, by shouts of terrible rapture known,133Through crashing ranks it drives in iron rain;Borne on the wings of fire it blazes on;It halts its storm before the fortress fane;And through the doors, and through the chinks of pine,Flames its red breath upon the paling shrine.
Roused to their demon courage by the dread134Of the wild hour, the priests a voice have found;To pious horror show their sacred dead,Invoke the vengeance, and explore the ground,When, like the fiend in monkish legends known,Sprang a grim image on the altar-stone!
The wolf's hide bristled on the shaggy breast135Over the brows, the forest buffaloWith horn impending arm'd the grisly crest,From which the swart eye sent its savage glow:Long shall the Saxon dreams that shape recall,And ghastly legends teem with tales ofFaul![8]
Needs here to tell, that when, at Merlin's hest,136Faul led to Harold's tent the Saxon maid,The wrathful Thane had chased the skulking priestFrom the paled ranks, that evil Bode[9]dismay'd:—And the grim tidings of the rite to comeFlew lip to lip through that awed Heathendom.
Foretaught by Merlin of her mission there,137Scarce to her father's heart Genevra sprungThan (while most soften'd) her impassion'd prayerPierced to its human deeps; and, roused and stungBy that keen pity, keenest in the brave,—Strength felt why strength is given, and rush'd to save:—
Amidst those quick emotions half forgot,138Follow'd the tutor'd furtive Aleman;On, when the portals crash'd, still heeded not,Stole his light step behind the striding Thane.From coign to shaft the practised glider crept,A shadow, lost where shadows darkest slept.
And safe and screen'd the idol god behind,139He who once lurk'd to slay, kept watch to save;—Nowtherehe stood! And the same altar shrinedThe wild man, the wild god! and up the naveFlight flow'd on flight; and near and loud, the nameOf "Arthur" borne as on a whirlwind came.
Down from the altar to the victim's side,140While yet shrunk back the priests—the savage leapt,And with quick steel gash'd the strong cords that tied;When round them both the rallying vengeance swept;Raised every arm;—O joy!—the enchanted glaiveShines o'er the threshold! is there time to save?
A torch whirls hissing through the air—it falls141Into the centre of the murderous throng!Dread herald of dread steps! the conscious hallsQuake where the falchion flames and flies along;Though crowd on crowd behold the falchion cleave!—The Silver Shield rests over Geneviève!
Bright as the shape that smote the Assyrian,142The fulgent splendour from the arms divinePaled the hell-fires round God's elected Man,And burst like Truth upon the demon-shrine.Among the thousands stood the Conquering One,Still, lone, and unresisted as a sun!
Now through the doors, commingling side by side,143Saxon and Cymrian struggle hand in hand;For there the war, in its fast ebbing tide,Flings its last prey—there, Crida takes his stand;There his co-monarchs hail a funeral pyreThat opes Walhalla from the grave of fire.
And as a tiger swept adown a flood144With meaner beasts, that dyes the howling waterWhich whirls it onward, with a waste of blood,And gripes a stay with fangs that leave the slaughter,—So where halts Crida, groans and falls a foe—And deep in gore his steps receding go.
And his large sword has made in reeking air145Broad space (through which, around the golden ringThat crownlike clasps the sweep of his grey hair,)Shine the tall helms of many a Teuton king;Lord of the West—broad-breasted Chevaline;And Ymrick's son of Hengist's giant line;
Fierce Sibert, throned by Britain's kingliest river,146And Elrid, honour'd in Northumbrian homes;And many a sire whose stubborn soul for everShadows the fields where England's thunder comes.High o'er them all his front grey Crida rears,As some old oak whose crest a forest clears.
High o'er them all, that front fierce Arthur sees,147And knows the arch-invader of the land;Swift through the chiefs—swift path his falchion frees;Corpse falls on corpse before the avenger's hand;For fair-hair'd Ælla, Cantia's maids shall wail;Hurl'd o'er the dead, rings Elrid's crashing mail;
His follower's arms stunn'd Sibert's might receive,148And from the death-blow snatch their bleeding lord;And now behold, O fearful Geneviève,O'er thy doom'd father shines the charmèd sword,And shaking, as it shone, the glorious blade,The hand for very wrath the death delay'd.
"At last, at last we meet, on Cymri's soil;149And foot to foot! Destroyer of my shrines,And murderer of my people! Ay, recoilBefore the doom thy quailing soul divines!Ay—turn thine eyes,—nor hosts nor flight can save!Thy foe is Arthur—and these halls thy grave!"
"Flight," laugh'd the king, whose glance had wander'd round,150Where through the throng had pierced a woman's cry,"Flight for a chief, by Saxon warriors crown'd,And from a Walloon!—this is my reply!"And, both hands heaving up the sword enorme,Swept the swift orbit round the luminous form;
Full on the gem the iron drives its course,151And shattering clinks in splinters on the floor;The foot unsteadied by the blow's spent force,Slides on the smoothness of the soil of gore;Gore, quench the blood-thirst! guard, O soil, the guest!For Freedom's heel is on the Invader's breast!
When, swift beneath the flashing of the blade,152When, swift before the bosom of the foe,She sprang, she came, she knelt,—the guardian maid!And startling vengeance from the righteous blow,Cried, "Spare, oh spare, this sacred life to me,A father's life!—I would have died for thee!"
While thus within, the Christian God prevails,153Without the idol temple, fast and far,Like rolling storm-wrecks, shatter'd by the gales,Fly the dark fragments of the Heathen War,Where, through the fires that flash from camp to wave,Escape the land that locks them in its grave?
When by the Hecla of their burning fleet154Dismay'd amidst the marts of Carduel,The Saxons rush'd without the walls to meetThe Vikings' swords, which their mad terrors swellInto a host—assaulted, rear and van,The foe scarce smote before the flight began.
In vain were Harold's voice, and name, and deeds,155Unnerved by omen, priest, and shapeless fear,And less by man than their own barbarous creedsAppall'd,—a God in every shout they hear,And in their blazing barks behold unfurl'd,The wings of Muspell[10]to consume the world.
Yet still awhile the heart of the great Thane,156And the stout few that gird the gonfanon,Build a steel bulwark on the midmost plain,That stems all Cymri,—so Despair fights on.When from the camp the new volcanoes spring,With sword and fire he comes,—the Dragon King!
Then all, save Harold, shriek to Hope farewell;157Melts the last barrier; through the clearing space,On towards the camp the Cymrian chiefs compelThe ardent followers from the tempting chase;Through Crida's ranks to Arthur's side they gain,And blend two streams in one resistless main.
True to his charge as chief, 'mid all disdain158Of recreant lithsmen—Harold's iron soulSees the storm sweep beyond it o'er the plain;And lofty duties, yet on earth, controlThe yearnings for Walhalla:—Where the dayPaled to the burning ships—he tower'd away.
And with him, mournful, drooping, rent and torn,159But captive not—the Pale Horse dragg'd its mane.Beside the fire-reflecting waves, forlorn,As ghosts that gaze on Phlegethon—the ThaneSaw listless leaning o'er the silent coasts,The spectre wrecks of what at morn were hosts.
Tears rush'd to burning eyes, and choked awhile160The trumpet music of his manly voice,At length he spoke: "And are ye then so vile!A death of straw! Is that the Teuton's choice?By all our gods, I hail that reddening sky,And bless the burning fleets which flight deny!
"Lo, yet the thunder clothes the charger's mane,161As when it crested Hengist's helmet crown!What ye have lost—an hour can yet regain;Life has no path so short as to renown!Shrunk if your ranks,—when first from Albion's shoreYour sires carved kingdoms, were their numbers more?
"If not your valour, let your terrors speak.162Where fly?—what path can lead ye from the foes?Where hide?—what cavern will not vengeance seek?What shun ye? Death?—Death smites ye in repose!Back to your king: from Hela snatch the brave—We best escape, when most we scorn, the grave."
Roused by the words, though half reluctant still,163The listless ranks reform their slow array,Sullen but stern they labour up the hill,And gain the brow!—In smouldering embers layThe castled camp, and slanting sunbeams shedLight o'er the victors—quiet o'er the dead.
Hush'd was the roar of war—the conquer'd ground164Waved with the glitter of the Cymrian spears;The temple fort the Dragon standard crown'd;And Christian anthems peal'd on Pagan ears;The Mercian halts his bands—their front surveys;No fierce eye kindles to his fiery gaze.
One dull, dishearten'd, but not dastard gloom165Clouds every brow,—like men compell'd to die,Who see no hope that can elude the doom,Prepared to fall but powerless to defy.Not those the ranks, yon ardent hosts to face!The Hour had conquer'd earth's all-conquering race.
The leader paused, and into artful show,166Doubling the numbers with extended wing;"Here halt," he said, "to yonder hosts I goWith terms of peace or war to Cymri's king."He turn'd, and towards the Victor's bright array,With tromp and herald, strode his bitter way.
Before the signs to war's sublime belief167Sacred, the host disparts its hushing wave.Moved by the sight of that renownèd chief,Joy stills the shout that might insult the brave;And princeliest guides the stately foeman bring,Where Odin's temple shrines the Christian king.
The North's fierce idol, roll'd in pools of blood,168Lies crush'd before the Cross of Nazareth.Crouch'd on the splinter'd fragments of their god,Silent as clouds from which the tempest's breathHas gone,—the butchers of the priesthood rest.—Each heavy brow bent o'er each stony breast.
Apart, the guards of Cymri stand around169The haught repose of captive Teuton kings;With eyes disdainful of the chains that bound,And fronts superb—as if defeat but flingsA kinglier grandeur over fallen power:—So suns shine larger in their setting hour.
From these remote, unchain'd, unguarded, leant170On the gnarl'd pillar of the fort of pine,The Saturn of the Titan armament,His looks averted from the alter'd shrineWhence iron Doom the antique Faith has hurl'd,For that new Jove who dawns upon the world!
And one broad hand conceal'd the monarch's face;171And one lay calm on the low-bended headOf the forgiving child, whose young embraceClasp'd that grey wreck of Empire! All had fledThe heart of pride:—Thrones, hosts, the gods! yea allThat scaled the heaven, strew'd Hades with their fall!
But Natural Love, the household melody,172Steals through the dearth,—resettling on the breast;The bird returning with the silenced sky,Sings in the ruin, and rebuilds its nest;Home came the Soother that the storm exiled,—And Crida's hand lay calm upon his child!
Beside her sister saint, Genevra kneeleth,173Mourning her father's in her Country's woes;And near her, hushing iron footsteps, stealethThe noblest knight the wondrous Table knows—Whispering low comfort into thrilling ears—When Harold's plume floats up the flash of spears.
But the proud Earl, with warning hand and eye,174Repels the yearning arms, the eager start;Man amidst men, his haughty thoughts denyTo foes the triumph o'er his father's heart;Quickly he turn'd—where shone amidst his ringOf subject planets, the Hyperion King.
There Tristan grateful—Agrafayn uncouth,175And Owaine comely with the battle-scar,And Geraint's lofty age, to venturous youthGlory and guide, as to proud ships a star,And Gawaine sober'd to his gravest smile,—Lean on the spears that lighten through the pile.
There stood the stoic Alemen sedate,176Blocks hewn from man, which love with life inspired;There, by the Cross, from eyes serene with Fate,Look'd into space the Mage! and carnage-tired,On Ægis shields, like Jove's still thunders, layThine ocean giants, Scandinavia!
But lo, the front, where conquest's auriole177Shone, as round Genius marching at the vanOf nations;—where the victories of the soulStamp'd Nature's masterpiece, perfected Man:Fair as young Honour's vision of a kingFit for bold hearts to serve, free lips to sing!