The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 82

Out of the fane, up where the stair of pine 106 Wound to the summit of the camp's rough tower, King Crida pa.s.s'd. On moving armour shine The 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 bird 107 Wing'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 clear To that strain'd eyeball and that feverish ear.

But not on hosts that march by Harold's side, 108 Gazed 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 piled spears; Circling the mutter of rebellious fears;

Or, near the temple fort, with folded arms 109 On their broad b.r.e.a.s.t.s, waiting the deed of blood; On these he gazed--to gloat on the alarms That made _him_ monarch of that mult.i.tude!

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. 110 And Crida sees the ladders on the wall; And dust-clouds gather round his gonfanon; And through the dust-clouds glittering rise and fall The 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; 111 And 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 vain Looks a lost navy from the violent main.

Now on the nearest wall the Pale Horse stands; 112 Now from the wall the Pale Horse lightens down; And flash and vanish, file on file, the bands Into 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 rose 113 Ineffable cries of wonder, wrath, and fear; With some strange light that scares the sunshine, glows O'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 masts 114 Soar'd from the verge of the far forest-land, He hears the crackling, as when vernal blasts Shiver 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 G.o.d!"

And here and there, and wirbelling to and fro, 115 Confused, distraught, pale thousands spread the plain; Some s.n.a.t.c.h their arms in haste, and yelling go Where the fleets burn; some creep around the fane Like herds for shelter; p.r.o.ne on earth lie some Shrieking, "The Twilight of the G.o.ds hath come!"

And the great glare hath redden'd o'er the town, 116 And seems the strife it gildeth to appall; Flock back dim straggling Saxons, gazing down The 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, 117 Gleams break;--steel flashes;--helms on helms arise; Faint heard at first,--now near, now thunderous,--swell The Cymrian mingled with the Baltic cries; And, loud alike in each, exulting came War's n.o.blest music--a Deliverer's name.

"Arthur!--for Arthur!--Arthur is at hand! 118 Woe, Saxons, woe!" Then from the rampart height Vanish'd each watcher; while the rescue-band Sweep the clear slopes; and not a foe in sight!

And now the beacon on the Dragon Keep: Springs from pale l.u.s.tre into hues blood-deep:

And on that tower stood forth a lonely man; 119 Full 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, 120 Swift 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,--again The Pale Horse flings on angry winds its mane!

And facing still the foe, but backward borne 121 By 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 G.o.ds are heard at last!-- Proud Harold flieth;--and the noon is past!

Come, Crida, come." Up as from heavy sleep 122 The grey-hair'd giant raised his awful head; As, after calmest waters, the swift leap Of the strong torrent rushes to its bed,-- So the new pa.s.sion seized and changed the form, As if the rest had braced it for the storm.

No grief was in the iron of that brow; 123 Age 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 cloud 124 That 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 ma.s.s quickens with the one strong mind.

Meanwhile the victim, to the Demon vow'd, 125 Knelt; every thought wing'd for the Angel goal, And ev'n the terror which the form had bow'd Search'd but new sweetness where it shook the soul.

Self was forgot, and to the Eternal Ear Prayer but for others spoke the human fear.

And when at moments from that rapt communion 126 With the Invisible Holy, those young arms Clasp'd round her neck, to childhood's happy union In the old days recall'd her; such sweet charms Did Comfort weave, that in the sister's breast Grief like an infant sobb'd itself to rest.

Up leapt the solemn priests from dull repose: 127 The 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 hands 128 Plunge 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! 129 Hear 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,--blood _not Christian_, dyes the altar-stone!

Deep in the DOOMER'S breast it sank--the dart; 130 As if from Fate it came invisibly; Where is the hand?--from what dark hush shall start Foeman 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, 131 Fierce 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 decks Of some lone ship--the last an ocean wrecks.

And where on tumult, tumult whirl'd and roar'd, 132 Shrill'd cries, "The fires around us and behind, And the last Fire-G.o.d and the Flaming-Sword!"[7]

And from without, like that destroying wind In which the world shall perish, grides and sweeps VICTORY--swift-cleaving through the battle deeps!--

VICTORY, by shouts of terrible rapture known, 133 Through 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 c.h.i.n.ks of pine, Flames its red breath upon the paling shrine.

Roused to their demon courage by the dread 134 Of 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 s.h.a.ggy breast 135 Over the brows, the forest buffalo With 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 of FAUL![8]

Needs here to tell, that when, at Merlin's hest, 136 Faul led to Harold's tent the Saxon maid, The wrathful Thane had chased the skulking priest From the paled ranks, that evil Bode[9] dismay'd:-- And the grim tidings of the rite to come Flew lip to lip through that awed Heathendom.

Foretaught by Merlin of her mission there, 137 Scarce to her father's heart Genevra sprung Than (while most soften'd) her impa.s.sion'd prayer Pierced to its human deeps; and, roused and stung By that keen pity, keenest in the brave,-- Strength felt why strength is given, and rush'd to save:--

Amidst those quick emotions half forgot, 138 Follow'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 G.o.d behind, 139 He who once lurk'd to slay, kept watch to save;-- Now _there_ he stood! And the same altar shrined The wild man, the wild G.o.d! and up the nave Flight flow'd on flight; and near and loud, the name Of "ARTHUR" borne as on a whirlwind came.

Down from the altar to the victim's side, 140 While 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 glaive Shines o'er the threshold! is there time to save?

A torch whirls hissing through the air--it falls 141 Into the centre of the murderous throng!

Dread herald of dread steps! the conscious halls Quake where the falchion flames and flies along; Though crowd on crowd behold the falchion cleave!-- The Silver Shield rests over Genevieve!

Bright as the shape that smote the a.s.syrian, 142 The fulgent splendour from the arms divine Paled the h.e.l.l-fires round G.o.d'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, 143 Saxon 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 pyre That opes Walhalla from the grave of fire.

And as a tiger swept adown a flood 144 With meaner beasts, that dyes the howling water Which 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 air 145 Broad s.p.a.ce (through which, around the golden ring That 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, 146 And Elrid, honour'd in Northumbrian homes; And many a sire whose stubborn soul for ever Shadows the fields where England's thunder comes.