Poems by George Meredith Volume Ii Part 27

Silent stepped the queenly slave.

Fair, by heaven! she was to meet On a midnight, near a grave, Flapping wide the winding-sheet.

XII

Death and she walked through the crowd, Out beyond the flush of light.

Ceremonious women bowed Following her: 'twas middle night.

Then the warriors each on each Spied, nor overloudly laughed; Like the victims of the leech, Who have drunk of a strange draught.

XIII

Attila remained. Even so Frowned he when he struck the blow, Brained his horse, that stumbled twice, On a b.l.o.o.d.y day in Gaul, Bellowing, Perish omens! All Marvelled at the sacrifice, But the battle, swinging dim, Rang off that axe-blow for him.

Attila, my Attila!

XIV

Brightening over Danube wheeled Star by star; and she, most fair, Sweet as victory half-revealed, Seized to make him glad and young; She, O sweet as the dark sign Given him oft in battles gone, When the voice within said, Dare!

And the trumpet-notes were sprung Rapturous for the charge in line: She lay waiting: fair as dawn Wrapped in folds of night she lay; Secret, l.u.s.trous; flaglike there, Waiting him to stream and ray, With one loosening blush outflung, Colours of his hordes of horse Ranked for combat; still he hung Like the fever dreading air, Cursed of heat; and as a corse Gathers vultures, in his brain Images of her eyes and kiss Plucked at the limbs that could remain Loitering nigh the doors of bliss.

Make the bed for Attila!

XV

Pa.s.sion on one hand, on one, Destiny led forth the Hun.

Heard ye outcries of affright, Voices that through many a fray, In the press of flag and spear, Warned the king of peril near?

Men were dumb, they gave him way, Eager heads to left and right, Like the bearded standard, thrust, As in battle, for a nod From their lord of battle-dust.

Attila, my Attila!

Slow between the lines he trod.

Saw ye not the sun drop slow On this nuptial day, ere eve Pierced him on the couch aglow?

Attila, my Attila!

Here and there his heart would cleave Clotted memory for a s.p.a.ce: Some stout chief's familiar face, Choicest of his fighting brood, Touched him, as 'twere one to know Ere he met his bride's embrace.

Attila, my Attila!

Twisting fingers in a beard Scant as winter underwood, With a narrowed eye he peered; Like the sunset's graver red Up old pine-stems. Grave he stood Eyeing them on whom was shed Burning light from him alone.

Attila, my Attila!

Red were they whose mouths recalled Where the slaughter mounted high, High on it, o'er earth appalled, He; heaven's finger in their sight Raising him on waves of dead, Up to heaven his trumpets blown.

O for the time when G.o.d's delight Crowned the head of Attila!

Hungry river of the crag Stretching hands for earth he came: Force and Speed astride his name Pointed back to spear and flag.

He came out of miracle cloud, Lightning-swift and spectre-lean.

Now those days are in a shroud: Have him to his ghostly queen.

Make the bed for Attila!

XVI

One, with winecups overstrung, Cried him farewell in Rome's tongue.

Who? for the great king turned as though Wrath to the shaft's head strained the bow.

Nay, not wrath the king possessed, But a radiance of the breast.

In that sound he had the key Of his cunning malady.

Lo, where gleamed the sapphire lake, Leo, with his Rome at stake, Drew blank air to hues and forms; Whereof Two that shone distinct, Linked as...o...b..d stars are linked, Clear among the myriad swarms, In a constellation, dashed Full on horse and rider's eyes Sunless light, but light it was - Light that blinded and abashed, Froze his members, bade him pause, Caught him mid-gallop, blazed him home.

Attila, my Attila!

What are streams that cease to flow?

What was Attila, rolled thence, Cheated by a juggler's show?

Like that lake of blue intense, Under tempest lashed to foam, Lurid radiance, as he pa.s.sed, Filled him, and around was gla.s.sed, When deep-voiced he uttered, Rome!

XVII

Rome! the word was: and like meat Flung to dogs the word was torn.

Soon Rome's magic priests shall bleat Round their magic Pope forlorn!

Loud they swore the king had sworn Vengeance on the Roman cheat, Ere he pa.s.sed, as, grave and still, Danube through the shouting hill: Sworn it by his naked life!

Eagle, snakes these women are: Take them on the wing! but war, Smoking war's the warrior's wife!

Then for plunder! then for brides Won without a winking priest! - Danube whirled his train of tides Black toward the yellow East.

Make the bed for Attila!

XVIII

Chirrups of the trot afield, Hurrahs of the battle-charge, How they answered, how they pealed, When the morning rose and drew Bow and javelin, lance and targe, In the nuptial cas.e.m.e.nt's view!

Attila, my Attila!

Down the hillspurs, out of tents Glimmering in mid-forest, through Mists of the cool morning scents, Forth from city-alley, court, Arch, the bounding hors.e.m.e.n flew, Joined along the plains of dew, Raced and gave the rein to sport, Closed and streamed like curtain-rents Fluttered by a wind, and flowed Into squadrons: trumpets blew, Chargers neighed, and trappings glowed Brave as the bright Orient's.

Look on the seas that run to greet Sunrise: look on the leagues of wheat: Look on the lines and squares that fret Leaping to level the lance blood-wet.

Tens of thousands, man and steed, Tossing like field-flowers in Spring; Ready to be hurled at need Whither their great lord may sling.

Finger Romeward, Romeward, King!

Attila, my Attila!

Still the woman holds him fast As a night-flag round the mast.

XIX

Nigh upon the fiery noon, Out of ranks a roaring burst.

'Ware white women like the moon!

They are poison: they have thirst First for love, and next for rule.

Jealous of the army, she?

Ho, the little wanton fool!

We were his before she squealed Blind for mother's milk, and heeled Kicking on her mother's knee.

His in life and death are we: She but one flower of a field.

We have given him bliss tenfold In an hour to match her night: Attila, my Attila!

Still her arms the master hold, As on wounds the scarf winds tight.

XX

Over Danube day no more, Like the warrior's planted spear, Stood to hail the King: in fear Western day knocked at his door.

Attila, my Attila!

Sudden in the army's eyes Rolled a blast of lights and cries: Flashing through them: Dead are ye!

Dead, ye Huns, and torn piecemeal!

See the ordered army reel Stricken through the ribs: and see, Wild for speed to cheat despair, Hors.e.m.e.n, clutching knee to chin, Crouch and dart they know not where.

Attila, my Attila!

Faces covered, faces bare, Light the palace-front like jets Of a dreadful fire within.

Beating hands and driving hair Start on roof and parapets.

Dust rolls up; the slaughter din.

- Death to them who call him dead!

Death to them who doubt the tale!

Choking in his dusty veil, Sank the sun on his death-bed.

Make the bed for Attila!