Myth and Romance Part 5

And with deep boom of atabals And crash of cymbals and wild peal Of battle-bugles, from its walls An army rushed in glimmering steel.

And where it trod he saw the torch Of conflagration stalk the skies, And in the vanward of its march The monster form of Havoc rise.

And Paynim war-cries rent the storm, Athwart whose firmament of flame, Destruction reared an earthquake form On wreck and death without a name ...

And then again the vision changed: Where flows the Guadalete, see, The warriors of the Cross are ranged Against the Crescent's chivalry.

With roar of trumpets and of drums They meet; and in the battle's van He fights; and, towering towards him, comes Florinda's father, Julian;

And one-eyed Taric, great in war: And where these couch their burning spears, The Christian phalanx, near and far, Goes down like corn before the shears.

The Moslem wins: the Christian flies: "Allah il Allah," hill and plain Reverberate: the rocking skies, "Allah il Allah," shout again.

And then he dreamed the swing of swords And hurl of arrows were no more; But, louder than the howling hordes, Strange silence fell on field and sh.o.r.e.

And through the night, it seemed, he fled, Upon a white steed like a star, Across a field of endless dead, Beneath a blood-red scimitar.

Of sunset: And he heard a moan, Beneath, around, on every hand-- "Accursed! Yea, what hast thou done To bring this curse upon thy land?"

And then an awful sense of wings: And, lo! the answer--"'Twas his l.u.s.t That was his crime. Behold! E'en kings Must reckon with Me. All are dust."

_Zyps of Zirl_

The Alps of the Tyrol are dark with pines, Where, foaming under the mountain spines, The Inn's long water sounds and shines.

Beyond, are peaks where the morning weaves An icy rose; and the evening leaves The glittering gold of a thousand sheaves.

Deep vines and torrents and glimmering haze, And sheep-bells tinkling on mountain ways, And fluting shepherds make sweet the days.

The rolling mist, like a wandering fleece, The great round moon in a mountain crease, And a song of love make the nights all peace.

Beneath the blue Tyrolean skies On the banks of the Inn, that foams and flies, The storied city of Innsbruck lies.

With its mediaeval streets, that crook, And its gabled houses, it has the look Of a belfried town in a fairy-book.

So wild the Tyrol that oft, 'tis said, When the storm is out and the town in bed, The howling of wolves sweeps overhead.

And oft the burgher, sitting here In his walled rose-garden, hears the clear Shrill scream of the eagle circling near.

And this is the tale that the burghers tell:-- The Abbot of Wiltau stood at his cell Where the Solstein lifts its pinnacle.

A mighty summit of bluffs and crags That frowns on the Inn; where the forest stags Have worn a path to the water-flags.

The Abbot of Wiltau stood below; And he was aware of a plume and bow On the precipice there in the morning's glow.

A chamois, he saw, from span to span Had leapt; and after it leapt a man; And he knew 't was the Kaiser Maxmilian.

But, see! though rash as the chamois he, His foot less sure. And verily If the King should miss ... "Jesu, Marie!

"The King hath missed!"--And, look, he falls!

Rolls headlong out to the headlong walls.

What saint shall save him on whom he calls?

What saint shall save him, who struggles there On the narrow ledge by the eagle's lair, With hooked hands clinging 'twixt earth and air?

The Abbot, he crosses himself in dread-- "Let prayers go up for the nearly dead, And the pa.s.sing-bell be tolled," he said.

"For the House of Hapsburg totters; see, How raveled the thread of its destiny, Sheer hung between cloud and rock!" quoth he.

But hark! where the steeps of the peak reply, Is it an eagle's echoing cry?

And the flitting shadow, its plumes on high?

No voice of the eagle is that which rings!

And the shadow, a wiry man who swings Down, down where the desperate Kaiser clings.

The _crampons_ bound to his feet, he leaps Like a chamois now; and again he creeps Or twists, like a snake, o'er the fearful deeps.

"By his cross-bow, baldrick, and cap's black curl,"

Quoth the Abbot below, "I know the churl!

'T is the hunted outlaw Zyps of Zirl.

"Upon whose head, or dead or alive, The Kaiser hath posted a price.--Saints shrive The King!" quoth Wiltau. "Who may contrive

"To save him now that his foe is there?"-- But, listen! again through the breathless air What words are those that the echoes bear?

"Courage, my King!--To the rescue, ho!"

The wild voice rings like a tw.a.n.ging bow, And the staring Abbot stands mute below.

And, lo! the hand of the outlaw grasps The arm of the King--and death unclasps Its fleshless fingers from him who gasps.

And how he guides! where the clean cliffs wedge Them flat to their faces; by chasm and ledge He helps the King from the merciless edge.

Then up and up, past bluffs that shun The rashest chamois; where eagles sun Fierce wings and brood; where the mists are spun.

And safe at last stand Kaiser and churl On the mountain path where the mosses curl-- And this the revenge of Zyps of Zirl.

_The Glowworm_

How long had I sat there and had not beheld The gleam of the glow-worm till something compelled!...