The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 83

High o'er them all his front grey Crida rears, As some old oak whose crest a forest clears.

High o'er them all, that front fierce Arthur sees, 147 And knows the arch-invader of the land; Swift through the chiefs--swift path his falchion frees; Corpse falls on corpse before the avenger's hand; For fair-hair'd aella, Cantia's maids shall wail; Hurl'd o'er the dead, rings Elrid's cras.h.i.+ng mail;

His follower's arms stunn'd Sibert's might receive, 148 And from the death-blow s.n.a.t.c.h their bleeding lord; And now behold, O fearful Genevieve, O'er thy doom'd father s.h.i.+nes the charmed sword, And shaking, as it shone, the glorious blade, The hand for very wrath the death delay'd.

"At last, at last we meet, on Cymri's soil; 149 And foot to foot! Destroyer of my shrines, And murderer of my people! Ay, recoil Before the doom thy quailing soul divines!

Ay--turn thine eyes,--nor hosts nor flight can save!

Thy foe is Arthur--and these halls thy grave!"

"Flight," laugh'd the king, whose glance had wander'd round, 150 Where through the throng had pierced a woman's cry, "Flight for a chief, by Saxon warriors crown'd, And from a Walloon!--this is my reply!"

And, both hands heaving up the sword enorme, Swept the swift orbit round the luminous form;

Full on the gem the iron drives its course, 151 And shattering clinks in splinters on the floor; The foot unsteadied by the blow's spent force, Slides on the smoothness of the soil of gore; Gore, quench the blood-thirst! guard, O soil, the guest!

For Freedom's heel is on the Invader's breast!

When, swift beneath the flas.h.i.+ng of the blade, 152 When, swift before the bosom of the foe, She sprang, she came, she knelt,--the guardian maid!

And startling vengeance from the righteous blow, Cried, "Spare, oh spare, this sacred life to me, A father's life!--I would have died for thee!"

While thus within, the Christian G.o.d prevails, 153 Without the idol temple, fast and far, Like rolling storm-wrecks, shatter'd by the gales, Fly the dark fragments of the Heathen War, Where, through the fires that flash from camp to wave, Escape the land that locks them in its grave?

When by the Hecla of their burning fleet 154 Dismay'd amidst the marts of Carduel, The Saxons rush'd without the walls to meet The Vikings' swords, which their mad terrors swell Into a host--a.s.saulted, rear and van, The foe scarce smote before the flight began.

In vain were Harold's voice, and name, and deeds, 155 Unnerved by omen, priest, and shapeless fear, And less by man than their own barbarous creeds Appall'd,--a G.o.d in every shout they hear, And in their blazing barks behold unfurl'd, The wings of Muspell[10] to consume the world.

Yet still awhile the heart of the great Thane, 156 And the stout few that gird the gonfanon, Build a steel bulwark on the midmost plain, That stems all Cymri,--so Despair fights on.

When from the camp the new volcanoes spring, With sword and fire he comes,--the Dragon King!

Then all, save Harold, shriek to Hope farewell; 157 Melts the last barrier; through the clearing s.p.a.ce, On towards the camp the Cymrian chiefs compel The ardent followers from the tempting chase; Through Crida's ranks to Arthur's side they gain, And blend two streams in one resistless main.

True to his charge as chief, 'mid all disdain 158 Of recreant lithsmen--Harold's iron soul Sees the storm sweep beyond it o'er the plain; And lofty duties, yet on earth, control The yearnings for Walhalla:--Where the day Paled to the burning s.h.i.+ps--he tower'd away.

And with him, mournful, drooping, rent and torn, 159 But captive not--the Pale Horse dragg'd its mane.

Beside the fire-reflecting waves, forlorn, As ghosts that gaze on Phlegethon--the Thane Saw listless leaning o'er the silent coasts, The spectre wrecks of what at morn were hosts.

Tears rush'd to burning eyes, and choked awhile 160 The trumpet music of his manly voice, At length he spoke: "And are ye then so vile!

A death of straw! Is that the Teuton's choice?

By all our G.o.ds, I hail that reddening sky, And bless the burning fleets which flight deny!

"Lo, yet the thunder clothes the charger's mane, 161 As when it crested Hengist's helmet crown!

What ye have lost--an hour can yet regain; Life has no path so short as to renown!

Shrunk if your ranks,--when first from Albion's sh.o.r.e Your sires carved kingdoms, were their numbers more?

"If not your valour, let your terrors speak. 162 Where fly?--what path can lead ye from the foes?

Where hide?--what cavern will not vengeance seek?

What shun ye? Death?--Death smites ye in repose!

Back to your king: from Hela s.n.a.t.c.h the brave-- We best escape, when most we scorn, the grave."

Roused by the words, though half reluctant still, 163 The listless ranks reform their slow array, Sullen but stern they labour up the hill, And gain the brow!--In smouldering embers lay The castled camp, and slanting sunbeams shed Light o'er the victors--quiet o'er the dead.

Hush'd was the roar of war--the conquer'd ground 164 Waved with the glitter of the Cymrian spears; The temple fort the Dragon standard crown'd; And Christian anthems peal'd on Pagan ears; The Mercian halts his bands--their front surveys; No fierce eye kindles to his fiery gaze.

One dull, dishearten'd, but not dastard gloom 165 Clouds every brow,--like men compell'd to die, Who see no hope that can elude the doom, Prepared to fall but powerless to defy.

Not those the ranks, yon ardent hosts to face!

The Hour had conquer'd earth's all-conquering race.

The leader paused, and into artful show, 166 Doubling the numbers with extended wing; "Here halt," he said, "to yonder hosts I go With terms of peace or war to Cymri's king."

He turn'd, and towards the Victor's bright array, With tromp and herald, strode his bitter way.

Before the signs to war's sublime belief 167 Sacred, the host disparts its hus.h.i.+ng wave.

Moved by the sight of that renowned chief, Joy stills the shout that might insult the brave; And princeliest guides the stately foeman bring, Where Odin's temple shrines the Christian king.

The North's fierce idol, roll'd in pools of blood, 168 Lies crush'd before the Cross of Nazareth.

Crouch'd on the splinter'd fragments of their G.o.d, Silent as clouds from which the tempest's breath Has gone,--the butchers of the priesthood rest.-- Each heavy brow bent o'er each stony breast.

Apart, the guards of Cymri stand around 169 The haught repose of captive Teuton kings; With eyes disdainful of the chains that bound, And fronts superb--as if defeat but flings A kinglier grandeur over fallen power:-- So suns s.h.i.+ne larger in their setting hour.

From these remote, unchain'd, unguarded, leant 170 On the gnarl'd pillar of the fort of pine, The Saturn of the t.i.tan armament, His looks averted from the alter'd shrine Whence iron Doom the antique Faith has hurl'd, For that new Jove who dawns upon the world!

And one broad hand conceal'd the monarch's face; 171 And one lay calm on the low-bended head Of the forgiving child, whose young embrace Clasp'd that grey wreck of Empire! All had fled The heart of pride:--Thrones, hosts, the G.o.ds! yea all That scaled the heaven, strew'd Hades with their fall!

But Natural Love, the household melody, 172 Steals through the dearth,--resettling on the breast; The bird returning with the silenced sky, Sings in the ruin, and rebuilds its nest; Home came the Soother that the storm exiled,-- And Crida's hand lay calm upon his child!

Beside her sister saint, Genevra kneeleth, 173 Mourning her father's in her Country's woes; And near her, hus.h.i.+ng iron footsteps, stealeth The n.o.blest knight the wondrous Table knows-- Whispering low comfort into thrilling ears-- When Harold's plume floats up the flash of spears.

But the proud Earl, with warning hand and eye, 174 Repels the yearning arms, the eager start; Man amidst men, his haughty thoughts deny To foes the triumph o'er his father's heart; Quickly he turn'd--where shone amidst his ring Of subject planets, the Hyperion King.

There Tristan grateful--Agrafayn uncouth, 175 And Owaine comely with the battle-scar, And Geraint's lofty age, to venturous youth Glory and guide, as to proud s.h.i.+ps a star, And Gawaine sober'd to his gravest smile,-- Lean on the spears that lighten through the pile.

There stood the stoic Alemen sedate, 176 Blocks hewn from man, which love with life inspired; There, by the Cross, from eyes serene with Fate, Look'd into s.p.a.ce the Mage! and carnage-tired, On aegis s.h.i.+elds, like Jove's still thunders, lay Thine ocean giants, Scandinavia!

But lo, the front, where conquest's auriole 177 Shone, as round Genius marching at the van Of nations;--where the victories of the soul Stamp'd Nature's masterpiece, perfected Man: Fair as young Honour's vision of a king Fit for bold hearts to serve, free lips to sing!

So stood the Christian Prince in Odin's hall, 178 Gathering in one, Renown's converging rays; But, in the hour of triumph, turn, from all War's victor pomp, his memory and his gaze; Miss that last boon the mission should achieve, And rest where droops the dove-like Genevieve.

Now at the sight of Mercia's haughty lord, 179 A loftier grandeur calms yet more his brow; And leaning lightly on his sheathless sword, Listening he stood, while spoke the Earl:--"I bow Not to war's fortune, but the victor's fame; Thine is so large, it s.h.i.+elds thy foes from shame.

"Prepared for battle, proffering peace I come; 180 On yonder hills eno' of Saxon steel Remains, to match the Cymrian Christendom; Not slaves with masters, men with men would deal.

We cannot leave your land, our chiefs in gyves,-- While chains gall Saxons, Saxon war survives.

"Our kings, our women, and our priests release, 181 And in their name I pledge (no mean return) A ransom worthy of both nations--Peace; Peace with the Teuton! On your hills shall burn No more the beacon; on your fields no more The steed of Hengist plunge its hoofs in gore.

"Peace while this race remains--(our sons, alas, 182 We cannot bind!) Peace with the Mercian men: This is the ransom. Take it, and we pa.s.s Friends from a foeman's soil: reject it,--then Firm to this land we cling, as if our own, Till the last Saxon falls, or Cymri's throne!"

Abrupt upon the audience dies the voice, 183 And varying pa.s.sions stir the murmurous groups; Here, to the wiser; there, the haughtier choice: Youth rears its crest; but age foreboding droops; Chiefs yearn for fame; the crowds to safety cling; The murmurs hush, and thus replies the King:--

"Foe, thy proud speech offends no manly ear. 184 So would I speak, could our conditions change.

Peace gives no shame, where war has brought no fear; We fought for freedom,--we disdain revenge; The freedom won, no cause for war remains, And loyal Honour binds more fast than chains.

"The Peace thus proffer'd, with accustom'd rites, 185 Hostage and oath, confirm, ye Teuton kings, And ye are free! Where we, the Christians, fight, Our Valkyrs sail with healing on their wings; We shed no blood but for our fatherland!-- And so, frank soldier, take this soldier's hand!"