The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 72

But on his arm was clasp'd the wondrous prize: 74 Dimm'd, tarnish'd, grimed, and black with gore and smoke, Still the pure metal, through each foul disguise, Like starlight scatter'd on dark waters, broke; Through gore, through smoke it shone--the silver Shield, Clear as dawns Freedom from her battle-field!

Days follow'd days, ere from that speechless trance 75 (Borne to green inlets isled amid the snows Where led the Dove), the King's reviving glance Look'd languid round on watchful, joyful brows; Ev'n while he slept, new flowers the earth had given, And on his heart brooded the bird of heaven!

But ne'er as voice and strength and sense return'd, 76 To his good knight the strife that won the Shield Did Arthur tell; deep in his soul inurn'd (As in the grave its secret) nor reveal'd To mortal ear that mystery which for ever Flow'd through his thought, as through the cave a river;

Whether to Love, how true soe'er its faith, 77 Whether to Wisdom, whatsoe'er its skill, Till his last hour the struggle and the scath Remain'd unutter'd and unutterable; But aye, in solitude, in crowds, in strife, In joy, that memory lived within his life:

It made not sadness, though the calm, grave smile 78 Never regain'd the flash that youth had given,-- But as some shadow from a sacred pile Darkens the earth from shrines that speak of heaven, That gloom the grandeur of religion wore, And seem'd to hallow all it rested o'er.

Such Freedom is, O Slave, that would be free! 79 Never her real struggles into life Hath History told! As it hath been shall be The Apocalypse of Nations; nursed in strife Not with the present, nor with living foes, But where the centuries shroud their long repose.

Out from the graves of earth's primaeval bones, 80 The shield of empire, patient Force must win: What made the Briton free? not crashing thrones Nor parchment laws. The charter must begin In Scythian tents, the steel of Nomad spears; To date the freedom, count three thousand years!

Neither is Freedom mirth! Be free, O slave, 81 And dance no more beneath the lazy palm.

Freedom's mild brow with n.o.ble care is grave, Her bliss is solemn as her strength is calm; And thought mature each childlike sport debars The forms erect whose look is on the stars.

Now as the King revived, along the seas 82 Flow'd back, enlarged to life, the lapsing waters; Kiss'd from their slumber by the loving breeze, Glide, in light dance, the Ocean's silver daughters-- And blithe and hopeful o'er the sunny strands, Listing the long-lost billow, rove the bands.

At length, O sight of joy!--the gleam of sails 83 Bursts on the solitude! more near and near Come the white playmates of the buxom gales.-- The whistling cords, the sounds of man, they hear.

Shout answers shout;--light sparkles round the oar-- And from the barks the boat skims on to sh.o.r.e.

It was a race from Rugen's friendly soil, 84 Leagued by old ties with Cymri's land and king, Who, with the spring-time, to their wonted spoil Of seals and furs had spread the canvas wing To bournes their fathers never yet had known;-- And found, amazed, hearts bolder than their own.

Soon to the barks the Cymrian and their bands 85 Are borne: Bright-hair'd, above the gazing crews, Lone on the loftiest deck, the leader stands, To whom the King (his rank made known) renews All that his tale of mortal hope and fear Vouchsafes from truth to thrill a mortal's ear;

And from the barks whose sails the chief obey, 86 Craves one to waft where yet the fates may guide.-- With rugged wonder in his large survey, That calm grand brow the son of aegir[8] eyed, And seem'd in awe, as of a G.o.d, to scan Him who so moved his homage, yet was man.

Smoothing his voice, rough with accustom'd swell 87 Above the storms, and the wild roar of war, The Northman answer'd, "Skalds in winter tell Of the dire dwarf who guards the Shield of Thor, For one whose race, with Odin's blent, shall be, Lords of the only realm which suits the Free,

"Ocean!--I greet thee, and this strong right hand 88 Place in thine own to pledge myself thy man.

Choose as thou wilt for thee and for thy band, Amongst the sea-steeds in the stalls of Ran.

Need'st thou our arms against the Saxon foe?

Our flag shall fly where'er thy trumpets blow!"

"Men to be free must free themselves," the King 89 Replied, proud-smiling. "Every father-land Spurns from its breast the recreant sons that cling For hope to standards winds not theirs have fann'd.

Thankful through thee our foe we reach;--and then Cymri hath steel eno' for Cymrian men!"

While these converse, Sir Gawaine, with his hound, 90 Lured by a fragrant and delightsome smell From roasts--not meant for Freya,--makes his round, Shakes hands with all, and hopes their wives are well.

From spit to spit with easy grace he walks, And chines astounded vanish while he talks.

At earliest morn the bark to bear the King, 91 His sage discernment delicately stores, Rejects the blubber and disdains the ling For hams of rein-deers and for heads of boars, Connives at seal, to satisfy his men, But childless leaves each loud-lamenting hen.

And now the bark the Cymrian prince ascends, 92 The large oars chiming to the chanting crew, (His leal Norwegian band) the new-found friends From brazen trumpets blare their loud adieu.

Forth bounds the ship, and Gawaine, while it quickens, The wind propitiates--with three virgin chickens.

Led by the Dove, more brightly day by day, 93 The vernal azure deepens in the sky; Far from the Polar threshold smiles the way-- And lo, white Albion shimmers on the eye, Nurse of all nations, who to b.r.e.a.s.t.s severe Takes the rude children, the calm men to rear.

Doubt and amaze with joy perplex the King: 94 Not yet the task achieved, the mission done, Why homeward steers the angel pilot's wing?

Of the three labours rests the crowning one; Unreach'd the Iron Gates--Death's sullen hold-- Where waits the Child-guide with the locks of gold.

Yet still the Dove cleaves homeward through the air; 95 Glides o'er the entrance of an inland stream; And rests at last on bowers of foliage, where Thick forests close their ramparts on the beam, And clasp with dipping boughs a gra.s.sy creek, Whose marge slopes level with the brazen beak.

Around his neck the shield the Adventurer slung; 96 And girt the enchanted sword. Then, kneeling, said The young Ulysses of the golden tongue, "Not now to phantom foes the dove hath led: For, if I err not, this a Mercian haven, And from the dove peeps forth at last the raven!

"Not lone, nor reckless, in these glooms profound, 97 Tempt the sure ambush of some Saxon host; If out of sight, at least in reach of sound, Let our stout Northmen follow up the coast; Then if thou wilt, from each suspicious tree Shake laurels down, but share them, Sire, with me!"

"Nay," answer'd Arthur, "ever, as before, 98 Alone the Pilgrim to his bourne must go; But range the men conceal'd along the sh.o.r.e; Set watch, from these green turrets, for the foe; Moor'd to the marge where broadest hangs the bough, Hide from the sun the glitter of the prow:--

And so farewell!" He said; to land he leapt; 99 And with dull murmur from its verdant waves, O'er his high crest the billowy forest swept.

As towards some fitful light the swimmer cleaves His stalwart way,--so through the woven shades Where the pale wing now glimmers and now fades.

With strong hand parting the tough branches, goes 100 Hour after hour the King; till light at last From skies long hid, in ambient silver flows Through opening glades, the length of gloom is past, And the dark pines receding stand around A silent hill with antique ruins crown'd.

Day had long closed; and from the mournful deeps 101 Of old volcanoes spent, the livid moon Which through the life of planets lifeless creeps Her ghostly way, deaf to the choral tune Of spheres rejoicing, on those ruins old Look'd down, herself a ruin,--hush'd and cold.

Mutely the granite wrecks the King survey'd, 102 And knew the work of hands Cimmerian, What time in starry robes, and awe array'd, Grey Druids spoke the oracles of man-- Solving high riddles to Chaldean Mage, Or the young wonder of the Samian Sage.

A date remounting far beyond the day 103 When Roman legions met the scythed cars, When purer founts sublime had lapsed away Through the deep rents of unrecorded wars, And bloodstain'd altars cursed the mountain sod,[9]

Where the first faith had hail'd the Only G.o.d.

For all now left us of the parent Celt, 104 Is of that later and corrupter time,-- Not in rude domeless fanes those Fathers knelt, Who lured the Brahman from his burning clime, Who charm'd lost science from each lone abyss, And wing'd the shaft of Scythian Abaris.[10]

Yea, the grandsires of our primaeval race 105 Saw angel tracks the earlier earth upon, And as a rising sun, the morning face Of Truth more near the flush'd horizon shone; Filling ev'n clouds with many a golden light, Lost when the orb is at the noonday height.

Through the large ruins (now no more), the last 106 Perchance on earth of those diviner sires, With noiseless step the lone descendant pa.s.s'd; Not there were seen BaL-HUAN'S amber pyres; No circling shafts with barbarous fragments strewn, Spoke creeds of carnage to the spectral moon.

But Art, vast, simple, and sublime, was there 107 Ev'n in its mournful wrecks,--such Art foregone As the first Builders, when their grand despair Left Shinar's tower and city half undone, Taught where they wander'd o'er the newborn world.-- Column, and vault, and roof, in ruin hurl'd,

Still spoke of hands that founded Babylon! 108 So in the wrecks, the Lord of young Romance By fallen pillars laid him musing down.

More large and large the moving shades advance, Blending in one dim silence sad and wan The past, the present, ruin and the man.

Now, o'er his lids life's gentlest influence stole, 109 Life's gentlest influence, yet the likest death!

That nightly proof how little needs the soul Light from the sense, or being from the breath, When all life knows a life unknown supplies, And airy worlds around a Spirit rise.

Still through the hazy mist of stealing sleep, 110 His eyes explore the watchful guardian's wing, There, where it broods upon the moss-grown heap, With plumes that all the stars are silvering.

Slow close the lids--reopening with a start As shoots a nameless terror through his heart.

That strange wild awe which haunted Childhood thrills, 111 When waking at the dead of Dark, alone, A sense of sudden solitude which chills The blood;--a shrinking as from shapes unknown; An instinct both of some protection fled, And of the coming of some ghastly dread.

He look'd, and lo, the Dove was seen no more, 112 Lone lay the lifeless wrecks beneath the moon, And the one loss gave all that seem'd before Desolate,--twofold desolation!

How slight a thing, whose love our trust has been, Alters the world, when it no more is seen!

He strove to speak, but voice was gone from him. 113 As in that loss new might the terror took, His veins congeal'd; and, interfused and dim, Shadow and moonlight swam before his look; Bristled his hair; and all the strong dismay Seized as an eagle when it grasps its prey.

Senses and soul confused, and jarr'd, and blent, 114 Lay crush'd beneath the intolerable Power; Then over all, one flash, in lightning, rent The veil between the Immortal and the Hour; Life heard the voice of unembodied breath, And Sleep stood trembling face to face with Death.

NOTES TO BOOK X.