The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 80

The Enchanter, thoughtful, turn'd, and on the grave 32 His look relaxing fell,--"Ah, child, lost child!

To thy young life no youth harmonious gave Music;--no love thine exquisite griefs beguiled; Thy soul's deep ocean hid its priceless pearl:-- And _he_ is loved and yet repines! O churl!"

And murmuring thus, he saw below the mound 33 The stoic brows of the stern Alemen, Their gaunt limbs strewn supine along the ground, Still as gorged lions couch'd before the den After the feast; their life no medium knows,-- Here headlong conflict, there inert repose!

"Which of these feet could overtake the roe? 34 Which of these arms could grapple with the bear?"

"My first-born," answer'd Faul, "outstrips the roe; My youngest crushes in his grasp the bear."

"Thou, then, the swift one, gird thy loins, and rise: See o'er the lowland where the vapour lies,

"Far to the right, a mist from Sabra's wave; 35 Amidst that haze explore a creek rush-grown, Screen'd from the waters less remote, which lave The Saxon's anchor'd barks, and near a lone Grey crag where bitterns boom; within that creek Gleams through green boughs a galley's brazen peak;

This gain'd, demand the chief, a Christian knight, 36 The bear's rough mantle o'er his rusted mail; Tell him from me, to tarry till a light Burst from the Dragon keep;--then crowd his sail, Fire his own s.h.i.+p--and, blazing to the bay, Cleave through yon fleet his red destroying way;

"No arduous feat: the galleys are unmann'd, 37 Moor'd each to each; let fire consume them all!

Then, the sh.o.r.e won, lead hitherwards the band Between the Saxon camp and Cymrian wall.

What next behoves, the time itself will show, Here counsel ceases;--there ye find the foe!"

Heard the wild youth, and no reply made he, 38 But braced his belt and griped his spear, and straight As the bird flies, he flew. "My son, to thee,"

Next said the Prophet, "a more urgent fate And a more perilous duty are consign'd; Mark, the strong arm requires the watchful mind.

"Thou hast to pa.s.s the Saxon sentinels; 39 Thou hast to thread the Saxon hosts alone; Many are there whom thy far Rhine expels His swarming war-hive,--and their tongue thine own; Take from yon Teuton dead the mail'd disguise, Thy speech their ears, thy garb shall dupe their eyes;

"The watch-pa.s.s 'Vingolf'[1] wins thee through the van, 40 The rest shall danger to thy sense inspire, And that quick light in the hard sloth of man Coil'd, till sharp need strike forth the sudden fire.

The encampment traversed, where the woods behind Slope their green gloom, thy stealthy pathway wind;

"Keep to one leftward track, amidst the chase 41 Clear'd for the hunter's sport in happier days; Till scarce a mile from the last tent, a s.p.a.ce Clasping grey crommell stones, will close the maze.

There, in the centre of that Druid ring, Arm'd men will stand around the Cymrian King:--

"Tell him to set upon the tallest pine 42 Keen watch, and wait, until from Carduel's tower, High o'er the wood a starry light shall s.h.i.+ne; Not _that_ the signal, though it nears the hour, But when the light shall change its hues, and form One orb, blood-dyed, as sunsets red with storm;

"Then, while the foe their camp unguarded leave, 43 And round our walls their tides tempestuous roll, To yon wood pile, the Saxon fortress, cleave; Be Odin's Idol the Deliverer's goal.

Say to the King, 'In that funereal fane Complete thy mission, and thy guide regain!'"

While spoke the seer, the Teuton's garb of mail 44 The son of Faul had donn'd, and bending now, He kiss'd his father's cheek.--"And if I fail,"

He murmur'd, "leave thy blessing on my brow, My father!" Then the convert of the wild Look'd up to Heaven, and mutely bless'd his child.

"Thou wend with me, proud sire of dauntless men," 45 Resumed the seer:--"On thine arm let my age Lean, as shall thine upon _their_ children!"--Then The loreless savage--the all-gifted sage, By the strong bonds of will and heart allied; Went towards the towers of Carduel side by side.

To Crida's camp the swift song rus.h.i.+ng flies; 46 Round Odin's shrine wild Priests, rune muttering, Task the weird omens hateful to the skies; Pale by the idol stands the grey-hair'd king; And, from without, the unquiet armament Booms in hoa.r.s.e surge, its chafing discontent.

For in defeat (when first that mult.i.tude 47 Shrunk from a foe, and fled the Cymrian sword) The pride of man the wrath of G.o.ds had view'd; Religious horror smote the palsied horde; The field refused, till priest, and seid, and charm, Explore the offence, and wrath divine disarm.

All day, all night, glared fires, dark-red and dull 48 With mystic gums, before the Teuton G.o.d, And waved o'er runes which Mimer's trunkless skull Had whisper'd Odin--the Diviner's rod, And rank with herbs which baleful odours breathed, The bubbling h.e.l.l-juice in the cauldron seethed.

Now towards that hour when into coverts dank 49 Slinks back the wolf; when to her callow brood Veers through still boughs, the owl; when from the bank The glow-worm wanes; when heaviest droops the wood, Ere the faint twitter of the earliest lark,-- Ere dawn creeps chill and timorous through the dark;

About that hour, of all the dreariest, 50 A flame leaps up from the dull fire's repose, And shoots weird sparks along the runes, imprest On stone and elm-bark, ranged in ninefold rows; The vine's deep flush the purpling seid a.s.sumes, And the strong venom coils in maddening fumes.

Pale grew the elect Diviner's alter'd brows; 51 Swell'd the large veins, and writhed the foaming lips; And as some swart and fateful planet glows Athwart the disc to which it brings eclipse; So that strange Pythian madness, whose control Seems half to light and half efface the soul,

Broke from the horror of his glazing look; 52 His breath that died in hollow gusts away, Seized by the grasp of unseen tempests, shook To its rack'd base the spirit-house of clay; Till the dark Power made firm the crus.h.i.+ng spell, And from the man burst forth the voice of h.e.l.l.

"The G.o.d--the G.o.d! lo, on his throne he reels! 53 Under his knit brows glow his wrathful eyes!

At his dread feet a spectral Valkyr kneels, And shrouds her face! And cloud is in the skies, And neither sun nor star, nor day nor night, But in the cloud a steadfast Cross of Light!

"The G.o.d--the G.o.d! hide, hide me from his gaze! 54 Its awful anger burns into the brain!

Spare me, O spare me! Speak, thy child obeys!

What rites appease thee, Father of the Slain?[2]

What direful omen do these signs foreshow?

What victim ask'st thou? Speak, the blood shall flow!'

Sunk the Possest One--writhing with wild throes; 55 And one appalling silence dusk'd the place, As with a demon's wing. Anon arose, Calm as a ghost, the soothsayer: form and face Rigid with iron sleep! and hollow fell From stonelike lips the hateful oracle.

"A cloud, where Nornas nurse the thunder, lowers; 56 A curse is cleaving to the Teuton race; Before the Cross the stricken Valkyr cowers; The Herr-G.o.d trembles on his column'd base; A virgin's loss aroused the Teuton strife; A virgin's love hath charm'd the Avenger's life;

"A virgin's blood alone averts the doom; 57 Revives the Valkyr, and preserves the G.o.d.

Whet the quick steel--she comes, she comes, for whom The runes glow'd blood-red to the soothsayer's rod!

O king, whose wrath the Odin-born array'd, Regain the lost, and yield the Christian maid!"

As if that voice had quicken'd some dead thing 58 To give it utterance, so, when ceased the sound, The dull eye fix'd, and the faint shuddering Stirr'd all the frame; then sudden on the ground Fell heavily the lumpish inert clay, From which the demon noiseless rush'd away.

Then the grey priests and the grey king creep near 59 The corpselike man; and sit them mutely down In the still fire's red vaporous atmosphere; The bubbling caldron sings and simmers on; And through the reeks that from the poison rise, Looks the wolf's blood-l.u.s.t from those cruel eyes.

So sat they, musing fell;--when hark, a shout 60 Rang loud from rank to rank, re-echoing deep; Hark to the tramp of mult.i.tudes without!

Near and more near the thickening tumults sweep; King Crida wrathful rose: "What steps profane Thy secret thresholds, Father of the Slain?"

Frowning he strode along the lurid floors, 61 And loud, and loud the invading footsteps ring; His hand impetuous flings apart the doors:-- "Who dare insult the G.o.d, and brave the king?"

Swift through the throng a bright-hair'd vision came; Those stern lips falter with a daughter's name!

Those hands uplifted, or to curse or smite, 62 Fold o'er a daughter's head their tremulous joy!

Oh, to the natural wors.h.i.+p of delight, How came the monstrous dogma--"To destroy!"

Sure, Heaven foreshow'd its gospel to the wild In earth's first bond--the father and the child!

While words yet fail'd the bliss of that embrace, 63 The muttering priests, unmoved, each other eyed; Then to the threshold came their measured pace:-- "Depart, Profane," their Pagan pontiff cried, "Depart, Profane, too near your steps have trod To altars darken'd with an angry G.o.d.

"Dire are the omens! Skulda rides the clouds, 64 Her sisters tremble[3] at the Urdar spring; The hour demands us--shun the veil that shrouds The Priests, the G.o.d, the Victim, and the King."

Shuddering, the crowds retreat, and whispering low, Spread the contagious terrors where they go.

Then the stern Elders came to Crida's side, 65 And from their lock'd embrace unclasp'd his hands: "Lo," said their chieftain, "how the G.o.ds provide Themselves the offering which the shrine demands!

By Odin's son be Odin's voice obey'd; The lost is found--behold, and yield the maid!"

As when some hermit saint, in the old day 66 Of the soul's giant war with Solitude, From some bright dream which rapt his life away Amidst the spheres, unclosed his eyes and view'd, 'Twixt sleep and waking, vaguely horrible, The grisly tempter of the gothic h.e.l.l;

So on the father's bliss abruptly broke 67 The dreadful memory of his dismal G.o.d; And, his eyes pleading ere his terrors spoke, Look'd round the brows of that foul brotherhood.

Then his big voice came weak and strangely mild, "What mean those words?--why glare ye on my child?

"Do ye not know her? Elders, she is mine,-- 68 My flesh, my blood, mine age's youngest-born!

Why are ye mute? Why point to yonder shrine?

Ay,"--and here haughty with the joy of scorn, He raised his front.--"Ay, _be_ the voice obey'd!

Priests, ye forget,--it was a _Christian_ maid!"