The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 77

But now, why gape the wounds upon thy breast?

What guilty hand dismiss'd thee to the Blest?

"For blest thou art, beloved and lost? Oh, speak, 132 Say thou art with the Angels?"--As at night Far off the pharos on the mountain-peak Sends o'er dim ocean one pale path of light, Lost in the wideness of the weltering Sea, So, that one gleam along eternity

Vouchsafed, the radiant guide (its mission closed) 133 Fled, and the mortal stood amidst the cloud!

All dark above, lo at his feet reposed Beneath the Brow's still terror o'er it bow'd, With eyes that lit the gloom through which they smiled, A Virgin shape, half woman and half child!

There, bright before the iron gates of Death, 134 Bright in the shadow of the awful Power Which did as Nature give the human breath, As Fate mature the germ and nurse the flower Of earth for heaven,--Toil's last and sweetest prize, The destined Soother lifts her fearless eyes!

Through all the mortal's fame enraptured thrills 135 A subtler tide, a life ambrosial, Bright as the fabled element which fills The veins of G.o.ds to whom in Ida's hall Flush'd Hebe brims the urn. The transport broke The charm that gave it--and the Dreamer woke.

Was it in truth a Dream? He gazed around, 136 And saw the granite of sepulchral walls; Through open doors, along the desolate ground, O'er coffin dust--the morning sunbeam falls; On mouldering relics life its splendour flings, The arms of warriors and the bones of kings.--

He stood within that Golgotha of old, 137 Whither the Phantom first had led the soul.

It was no dream! lo, round those locks of gold Rest the young sunbeams like an auriole; Lo, where the day, night's mystic promise keeps, And in the tomb a life of beauty sleeps!

Slow to his eyes, those lids reveal their own, 138 And, the lips smiling even in their sigh, The Virgin woke! Oh, never yet was known, In bower or plaisaunce under summer sky, Life so enrich'd with nature's happiest bloom As thine, thou young Aurora of the tomb!

Words cannot paint thee, gentlest cynosure 139 Of all things lovely in that loveliest form, Souls wear--the youth of woman! brows as pure As Memphian skies that never knew a storm; Lips with such sweetness in their honey'd deeps As fills the rose in which a fairy sleeps;

Eyes on whose tenderest azure aching hearts 140 Might look as to a heaven, and cease to grieve; The very blush,--as day, when it departs, Haloes in flus.h.i.+ng, the mild cheek of eve,-- Taking soft warmth in light from earth afar, Heralds no thought less holy than a star.

And Arthur spoke! O ye, all n.o.ble souls, 141 Divine how knighthood speaks to maiden fear!

Yet, is it fear which that young heart controuls And leaves its music voiceless on the ear?-- Ye, who have felt what words can ne'er express, Say then, is fear as still as happiness?

By the mute pathos of an eloquent sign, 142 Her rosy finger on her lip, the maid Seem'd to denote that on that coral shrine Speech was to silence vow'd. Then from the shade Gliding--she stood beneath the golden skies, Fair as the dawn that brighten'd Paradise.

And Arthur look'd, and saw the Dove no more; 143 Yet, by some wild and wondrous glamoury, Changed to the shape the new companion wore, His soul the missing Angel seem'd to see; And, soft and silent as the earlier guide, The soft eyes thrill, the silent footsteps glide.

Through paths his yester steps had fail'd to find, 144 Adown the woodland slope she leads the king,-- And pausing oft, she turns to look behind, As oft had turn'd the Dove upon the wing; And oft he question'd, still to find reply Mute on the lip, yet struggling to the eye.

Far briefer now the way, and open more 145 To heaven, than those his whilom steps had won; And sudden, lo! his galley's brazen prore Beams from the greenwood burnish'd in the sun; Up from the sward his watchful cruisers spring, And loud-lipp'd welcome girds with joy the King.

Now plies the rapid oar, now swells the sail; 146 All day, and deep into the heart of night, Flies the glad bark before the favouring gale; Now Sabra's virgin waters dance in light Under the large full moon, on margents green, Lone with charr'd wrecks where Saxon fires have been.

Here furls the sail, here rests awhile the oar, 147 And from the crews the Cymrians and the maid Pa.s.s with mute breath upon the mournful sh.o.r.e; For, where yon groves the gradual hillock shade, A convent stood when Arthur left the land.

G.o.d grant the shrine hath 'scaped the heathen's hand!

Landing, on lifeless hearths, through roofless walls 148 And cas.e.m.e.nt gaps, the ghost-like starbeams peer; Welcomed by night and ruin, hollow falls The footstep of a King!--Upon the ear The inexpressible hush of murder lay,-- Wide yawn'd the doors, and not a watch dog's bay!

They pa.s.s the groves, they gain the holt, and lo! 149 Rests of the sacred pile but one grey tower, A fort for luxury in the long-ago Of gentile G.o.ds, and Rome's voluptuous power.

But far on walls yet spared, the moonbeams fell,-- Far on the golden domes of Carduel!

"Joy," cried the King, "behold, the land lives still!" 150 Then Gawaine pointed, where in lengthening line The Saxon watch-fires from the haunted hill (Shorn of its forest old) their blood-red s.h.i.+ne Fling over Isca, and with wrathful flush Gild the vast storm-cloud of the armed hush.

"Ay," said the King, "in that lull'd Ma.s.sacre 151 Doth no ghost whisper Crida--'Sleep no more!'

"Hark, where I stand, dark murder-chief, on thee I launch the doom! ye airs, that wander o'er Ruins and graveless bones, to Crida's sleep Bear Cymri's promise, which her king shall keep!"

As thus he spoke, upon his outstretch'd arm 152 A light touch trembled,--turning he beheld The maiden of the tomb; a wild alarm Shone from her eyes; his own their terror spell'd.

Struggling for speech, the pale lips writhed apart, And, as she clung, he heard her beating heart;

While Arthur marvelling soothed the agony 153 Which, comprehending not, he still could share, Sudden sprang Gawaine--hark! a timorous cry Pierced yon dim shadows! Arthur look'd, and where On artful valves revolved the stony door, A kneeling nun his knight is bending o'er.

Ere the nun's fears the knightly words dispel, 154 As towards the spot the maid and monarch came, On Arthur's brow the slanted moonbeams fell, And the nun knew the King, and call'd his name, And clasp'd his knees, and sobb'd through joyous tears, "Once more; once more! our G.o.d his people hears!"

Kin to his blood--the welcome face of one 155 Known as a saint throughout the Christian land, Arthur recall'd, and as a pious son Honouring a mother--on that sacred hand Bent low, in murmuring--"Say, what mercy saves Thee, blest survivor in this shrine of graves?"

Then the nun led them through the artful door, 156 Mask'd in the masonry, adown a stair That coil'd its windings to the grottoed floor Of vaulted chambers desolately fair; Wrought in the green hill, like an Oread's home, For summer heats by some soft lord of Rome,

On sh.e.l.ls, which nymphs from silver sands might cull, 157 On paved mosaics, and long-silenced fount, On marble waifs of the far Beautiful By graceful spoiler garner'd from the mount Of vocal Delphi, or the Elean town, Or Sparta's rival of the violet-crown--

Shone the rude cresset from the homely shrine 158 Of that new Power, upon whose Syrian Cross Perish'd the antique Jove! And the grave sign Of the glad faith (which, for the lovely loss Of poet-G.o.ds, their own Olympus frees To men!--our souls the new Uranides),

High from the base on which of old reposed 159 Grape-crown'd Iacchus, spoke the Saving Woe!

The place itself the sister's tale disclosed.

Here, while, amidst the hamlet doom'd below, Raged the fierce Saxon--was retreat secured; Nor gnaw'd the flame where those deep vaults immured.

To peasants, scatter'd through the neighbouring plains, 160 The secret known;--kind hands with pious care Supply such humble nurture as sustains Lives most with fast familiar; thus and there The patient sisters in their faith sublime, Felt G.o.d was good, and waited for His time.

Yet ever when the crimes of earth and day 161 Slept in the starry peace, to the lone tower The sainted abbess won her nightly way, And gazed on Carduel!--'Twas the wonted hour When from the opening door the Cymrian knight Saw the pale shadow steal along the light.

Musing, the King the safe retreat survey'd, 162 And smooth'd his brow from times most anxious care; Here--from the strife secure, might rest the maid Not meet the tasks that morn must bring to share; She, while he mused, the nun's mild aspect eyed, And crept with woman's trust to woman's side.

"King," said the gentle saint, "from what far clime 163 Comes this fair stranger, that her eyes alone Answer our mountain tongue?"--"May happier time,"

Replied the King, "her tale, her land, make known!

Meanwhile, O kind recluse, receive the guest To whom these altars seem the native rest."

The sister smiled, "In sooth those looks," she said, 164 "Do speak a soul pure with celestial air; And in the morrow's awful hour of dread Her heart methinks will echo to our prayer, And breathe responsive to the hymns that swell The Christian's curse upon the infidel.

"But say, if truth from rumour vague and wild 165 To this still world the friendly peasants bring, 'That grief and wrath for some lost heathen child, Urge to yon walls the Mercian's direful king?'"-- "Nay," said the Cymrian, "doth ambition fail When force needs falsehood, of the glozing tale?

"And--but behold she droops, she faints, outworn 166 By the long wandering and the scorch of day!"

Pale as a lily when the dewless morn, Parch'd in the fiery dog-star, wanes away Into the glare of noon without a cloud, O'er the nun's breast that flower of beauty bow'd.

Yet still the clasp retain'd the hand that press'd, 167 And breath came still, though heaved in sobbing sighs.

"Leave her," the sister said, "to needful rest, And to such care as woman best supplies; And may this charge a conqueror soon recall, And change the refuge to a monarch's hall!"

Though found the asylum sought, with boding mind 168 The crowning guerdon of his mystic toil To the kind nun the unwilling King resign'd; Nor till his step was on his mountain soil Did his large heart its lion calm regain, And o'er his soul no thought but Cymri reign.

As towards the bark the friends resume their way, 169 Quick they resolve the conflict's hardy scheme; With half the Northmen, at the break of day Shall Gawaine sail where Sabra's broadening stream Admits a reeded creek, and, landing there, Elude the fleet the neighbouring waters bear;

Through secret paths with bush and bosk o'ergrown, 170 Wind round the tented hill, and win the wall; With Arthur's name arouse the leaguer'd town, Give the pent stream the cataract's rus.h.i.+ng fall, Sweep to the camp, and on the Pagan horde Urge all of man that yet survives the sword.

Meanwhile on foot the king shall guide his band 171 Round to the rearward of the vast array Where yet large fragments of the forest stand To shroud with darkness the avenger's way;-- Thence, when least look'd for, burst upon the foe, On war's own heart direct the sudden blow;

Thus, front and rear a.s.sail'd, their numbers less 172 (Perplex'd, distraught) avail the heathen's power.

Dire was the peril, and the sole success In the nice seizure of the season'd hour; The high-soul'd rashness of the bold emprise; The fear that smites the fiercest in surprise;

Whatever worth the enchanted boons may bear, 173 The hero heart by which those boons were won; The stubborn strength of that supreme despair, When victory lost is all a land undone; In the Man's cause, and in the Christian's zeal, And the just G.o.d that sanctions Freedom's steel.