Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton - King Arthur: Book 3 of 12 lyrics

ARGUMENT. Arthur still sleeps—The sounds that break his rest—The war between the beast and the man—How ended—The Christian foe and the heathen—The narrative returns to the Saxons in pursuit of Arthur—Their chase is stayed by the caverns described in the preceding book, the tides having now advanced up the gorge through which Arthur pa**ed, and blocked that pathway—the hunt is resumed at dawn—the tides have receded from the gorge—One of the hounds finds scent—The riders are on the track—Harold heads the pursuit—The beech tree—The man by the water-spring—The wood is left—The knight on the brow of the hill—Parley between the earl and the knight—The encounter—Harold's address to his men, and his foe—His foe's reply—the dove and the falcon—The unexpected succor—And conclusion of the fray—The narrative pa**es on to the description of the Happy Valley—In which the dwellers await the coming of a stranger—History of the Happy Valley—A colony founded by Etrurians from Fiesole, forwarned of the destined growth of the Roman dominion—Its strange seclusion and safety from the changes of the ancient world—The law that forbade the daughters of the Lartian or ruling family to marry into other clans—Only one daughter (the queen) is left now, and the male line in the whole Lartian clan is extinct—The contrivance of the Augur for the continuance of the royal house, sanctioned by two former precedents—A stranger is to be lured into the valley—The simple dwellers therein to be deceived into believing him a god—He is to be married to the queen, and then, on the birth of a son, to vanish again amongst the gods, (i.e. to be secretly made away with)—Two temples at the opposite ends of the valley give the only gates to the place—By the first, dedicated to Tina, (the Etrurian Jove,) the stranger is to be admitted—In the second, dedicated to Mantu, (the god of the shades,) he is destined to vanish—Such a stranger is now expected in the happy valley—He emerges, led by the Augur, from the temple of Tina—Æglè, the queen, described—Her stranger-bridegroom is led to her bower. I. We raise the curtain where the unconscious King Beneath the beech his fearless couch had made; Here the fierce fangs prepared their deadly spring; There, in the hand of Murther gleamed the blade; And not a sound to warn him from above; Where still unsleeping, watch'd the guardian dove! II. Hark, a dull crash!—a howling, ravenous yell! Opening fell symphony of ghastly sound, Jarring yet blent, as if the dismal hell Sent its strange anguish from the rent profound: Through all its scale the horrible discord ran, Now mock'd the beast, now took the groan of man; III. Wrath, and the grind of gnashing teeth; the growl Of famine routed from its red respast; Sharp shrilling pain; and fury from some soul That fronts despair, and wrestles to the last. Sprang to his feet the King;—the feeble ray Through the still leaves just wins its glimmering way, IV. And lo, before him, close, yet wanly faint, Forms that seem shadows, strife that seems the sport Of things that oft some holy hermit saint Lone in Egyptian plains—the dread resort Of Nile's dethroned demon gods—hath viewed; The grisly tempters, born of Solitude:— V. Coiled in the strong d**h-grapple, through the dim And haggard air, before the Cymrian lay Writhing and interlaced, with fang and limb, As if one shape, what seemed a beast of prey And the grand form of Man!—The bird of Heaven Wisely no note to warn the sleep had given; VI. The sleep protected;—as the murther sprang So sprang the wolf,—before the dreamer's breast d**h d**h encountered; murther found the fang, The wolf the steel;—so, starting from his rest The saved man woke to save! Nor time was here For pause or caution; for the sword or spear; VII. Clasp'd round the wolf, swift arms of iron draw From their fierce hold the buried fangs;—on high Up-borne, the baffled terrors of its jaw Gnash vain;—one yell howls, hollow, through the sky, And dies abruptly, stifled to a gasp, As pants the wild-beast in its conqueror's grasp. VIII. Fit for a nation's bulwark, that strong breast To which the strong arms lock the powerless foe, Till its limbs stir not,—till its gasp hath ceast; And lifeless down the dull weight drops below. And kindred form, which now the King surveys, Those arms, all gentle as a woman's, raise. IX. The pale cheek pillow'd on the pitying heart, He wipes the blood from face, and breast, and limb, And joyful sees (for no humaner art Which Christian knighthood knows, unknown to him) That the fell fangs the nobler parts forbore, And, thanks, sweet Virgin!—life returns once more. X. Stared round the savage man: from dizzy eyes Toss'd the wild shaggy hair; and to his knee,— His reeling feet—ap stagger'd—Lo, where lies The dead wild beast!—lo, in his saviour, see The fellow-man, whom;—with a feeble bound He leapt, and snatch'd the dagger from the ground; XI. And faithful to his gods, he sprang to slay; [blade; The weak limb fail'd him; gleam'd and dropp'd the The arm hung nerveless;—by the beast of prey Murder, still baffled, fell;—Then soothing, said The gentle King—“Behold no foe in me!” And knelt by Hate like pitying Charity. XII. In suffering man he could not find a foe, And the mild hand clasp'd that which yearn'd to k**! “Ha,” gasp'd the gazing savage, “dost thou know That I had doom'd thee in thy sleep?—that still My soul would doom thee, could my hand obey?— Wake thou, stern goddess—seize thyself the prey!” XIII. “Serv'st thou a goddess,” said the wondering King, “Whose rites ask innocent blood?—O brother, learn In heaven, in earth, in each created thing, One God, whom all call ‘FATHER,' to discern!” “Can thy God suffer thy God's foe to live?”— “God once had foes, and said to man, ‘forgive!'” XIV. Answered the Cymrian! Dream-like the mild words Fell on the ear, as sense again gave way To swooning sleep; which woke but with the birds In the cold clearness of the dawning day.— Strung by that sleep, the savage scowl'd around; Why droops his head? Kind hands his wounds have bound! XV. Lonely he stood, and miss'd that tender foe; The wolf's glazed eye-ball mutely met his own; Beyond, the pine-brand sent its sullen glow, Circling blood-red the awful altar stone; Blood-red, as sinks the sun, from the land afar, Ere tempests wreck the Amalfian mariner; XVI. Or as, when Mars sits in the House of d**h For doom'd Aleppo, on the hopeless Moor Glares the fierce orb from skies without a breath, While chalk'd signal on the abhorred door Tells that the Pestilence is come!—The pine Unheeded wastes upon the hideous shrine; XVII. The priest returns not;—from its giant throne, The idol calls in vain:—its realm is o'er; The Dire Religion flies the altar-stone For love has breath'd on what was hate before. Lured by man's heart, but man's kind deeds subdued, Him who had pardoned, he who wronged pursued. XVIII. Meanwhile speeds on the Saxon chase, behind;— Baffled at first, and doubling to and fro At last the war dogs snort the fatal wind, Burst on the scent which gathers as they go; Day wanes, night comes; the star succeeds the sun, To light the hunt until the quarry's won. XIX. At the first gray of dawn, they halt before The fretted arches of the giant caves; For here the tides rush full upon the shore. The failing scent is snatch'd amidst the waves,— Waves block the entrance of the gorge unseen; And roar, hoarse-surging, up the pent ravine. XX. And worn, and spent, and panting, flag the steeds, With mail and man bow'd down; nor meet to breast The hell of waters, whence no pathway leads, And which no plummet sounds;—Reluctant rest Checks the pursuit, till sullenly and slow Back, threatening still, the hosts of Ocean go,— XXI. And the bright clouds that circled the fair sun Melt in the azure of the mellowing sky; Then hark again the human hunt begun, The ringing hoof, the hunter's cheering cry; Round and around, by sand, and cave, and steep, The doubtful ban-dogs, undulating, sweep: XXII. At length, one windeth where the wave hath left The unguarded portals of the gorge, and there Far-wandering halts; and from a rocky cleft Spreads his keen nostril to the whispering air; Then, with trail'd ears, moves cowering o'er the ground The deep bay booming breaks:—the scent is found. XXIII. Hound answers hound,—along the dank ravine Pours the fresh wave of spears and tossing plumes; On—on; and now the idol-shrine obscene The dying pine-brand flickeringly illumes; The dogs go glancing through the shafts of stone, Trample the altar, hurtle round the throne; XXIV. Where the lone priest had watch'd, they pause awhile; Then forth, hard-breathing, down the gorge they swoop; Soon the swart woods that close the far defile Gleam with the shimmer of the steel-clad troop; Glinting thro' leaves—now bright'ning thro' the glade, Now lost, dispersed amidst the matted shade. XXV. Foremost rode Harold, on a matchless steed, Whose sire, from Afric coasts a sea-king bore, And gave the Mercian, as his noblest meed, What time (then beardless) to Norwegian shore Against a common foe, the Saxon Thane Led three tall ships, and loosed them on the Dane: XXVI. Foremost he rode, and on his mailed breast Cranch'd the strong branches of the groaning oak. Hark; with full peal, as suddenly supprest, Behind, the ban-dog's choral joy-cry broke! Led by the note, he turns him back, to reach, Near the wood's marge, a solitary beech. XXVII. Clear space spreads round it for a rood or more; Where o'er the space the feathering branches bend, The dogs, wedg'd close, with jaws that drip with gore, Growl o'er the carcase of the wolf they rend Shamed at their lord's rebuke, they leave the feast— Scent the fresh foot-track of the idol priest; XXVIII. And, track by track, deep, deeper through the maze, Slowly they go—the watchful earl behind. Here the soft earth a recent hoof betrays; And still a footstep near the hoof they find;— So on, so on—the pathway spreads more large, And daylight rushes on the forest marge. XXIX. The dogs bound emulous; but, snarling, shrink Back at the anger of the earl's quick cry;— Near a small water spring, had paused to drink A man half clad, who now, with kindling eye, And lifted knife, roused by the hostile sounds, Plants his firm foot, and fronts the glaring hounds. XXX. “Fear not, rude stranger,” quoth the earl in scorn; “Not thee I seek; my dogs chase nobler prey. Speak, thou hast seen (if wandering here since morn) A lonely horseman;—whither wends his way?” “Track'st thou his steps in love or hate?”—“Why, so As hawk its quarry, or as man his foe.” XXXI. “Thou dost not serve his God,” the heathen said; And sullen turn'd to quench his thirst again. The fierce earl chafed, but longer not delay'd; For what he sought the earth itself made plain In the clear hoof-prints; to the hounds he showed The clue, and, cheering as they track'd, he rode. XXXII. But thrice, to guide his comrades from the maze, Rings through the echoing wood his lusty horn Now o'er waste pastures where the wild bulls graze, Now labouring up slow-lengthening headlands borne, The steadfast hounds outstrip the horseman's flight, And on the hill's dim summit fade from sight. XXXIII. But scarcely fade, before, though faint and far, Fierce wrathful yells the foe at bay reveal. On spurs the Saxon, till, like some pale star, Gleams on the hill a lance—a helm of steel. The brow is gained; a space of level land, Bare to the sun—a grove at either hand; XXXIV. And in the middle of the space a mound; And, on the mound a knight upon his barb. No need for herald there his trump to sound!— No need for diadem and ermine garb! Nature herself has crown'd that lion mien; And in the man the king of men is seen. XXXV. Upon his helmet sits a snow-white dove, Its plumage blending with the plumed crest. Below the mount, recoiling, circling move The ban-dogs, awed by the majestic rest Of the great foe; and, yet with fangs that grin, And eyes that redden, raves the madding din. XXXVI. Stills stands the steed; still, shining in the sun, Sits on the steed the rider, statue-like: One stately hand upon his haunch, while one Lifts the tall lance, disdainful even to strike; Calm from the roar obscene looks forth his gaze, Calms as the moon at which the watch-dog bays. XXXVII. The Saxon rein'd his destrier on the brow Of the broad hill; and if his inmost heart Ever confest to fear, fear touched it now;— Not that chill pang which strife and d**h impart To meaner men, but such religious awe As from brave souls a foe admired can draw: XXXVIII. Behind a quick and anxious glance he threw, And pleased beheld spur midway up the hill His knights and squires; again his horn he blew, Then hush'd the hounds, and near'd the slope where still The might of Arthur rested, as in cloud Rests thunder; there his haughty crest he bowed, XXXIX. And lowered his lance, and said—“Dread foe and lord, Pardon the Saxon Harold, nor disdain To yield to warrior hand a kingly sword. Behold my numbers! to resist were vain, And flight—” Said Arthur, “Saxon, is a word From warrior lips a King should not have heard; XL. “And, sooth to say, when Cymri's knights shall ride To chase a Saxon monarch from the plain, More knightly sport shall Cymri's king provide, And Cymrian tromps shall ring a nobler strain. Warrior, forsooth! when first went warrior, say, With hound and horn—God's image for the prey?” XLI. Gall'd to the quick, the firey earl erect Rose in his stirrups, shook his iron hand, And cried—“ALFADER! but for the respect Arm'd numbers owe to one, my Saxon brand Should—but why words? Ho, Mercia to the field! Lance to the rest!—yield, scornful Cymrian, yield!” XLII. For answer, Arthur closed his ba**inet, Then down it broke, the thunder from that cloud! And, even as thunder by thunder met, O'er his spurr'd steed broad-breasted Harold bow'd; Swift through the air the rushing armour flash'd, And in the shock commingling tempests clash'd! XLIII. The Cymrian's lance smote on the Mercian's breast, Thro' the pierced shield, there, shivering in the hand. The dove had stirr'd not on the Prince's crest, And on his destrier bore him to the band, Which, moving not, but in a steadfast ring, With levell'd lances front the coming King. XLIV. His shivered lance thrown by, high o'er his head, Pluck'd from the selle, his battle-axe he shook— Paused for an instant—breathed his foaming steed, And chose his pathway with one lightning look: From the hill's brow extending either side, The Saxon troop the rearward woods denied; XLV. These gain'd, their numbers less the strife avail. He paused, and every voice cried—“Yield, brave King! Scarce died the word ere through the wall of steel Flashes the breach, and backward reels the ring, Plumes shorn, shields cloven, man and horse o'erthrown, As the armed meteor flames and rushes on. XLVI. Till then, the danger shared, upon his crest, Unmoved and calm, had sate the faithful dove, Serene as, braved for some beloved breast All peril finds the gentle hero,—Love; But rising now, towards the dexter side Where stretch the woods, the prescient pinions guide. XLVII. Near the green marge the Cymrian checks the rein, And, even forgetful of the dove, wheels round, To front the foe that follows up the plain: So when the lion, with a single bound, Breaks through Numidian spears,—his den before He halts, and roots dread feet that fly no more. XLVIII. Their riven ranks reform'd, the Saxons move In curving crescent, close, compact, and slow Behind the earl; who feels a hero's love Fill his large heart for that great hero foe; Murmuring “May Harold, thus confronting all, Pa** from the spear-storm to the Golden Hall XLIX. Then to his band—“If prophecy and sign Paling men's cheeks, and read by wizard seers, Had not declared that Woden's threatened line, And the large birthright of the Saxon spears, Were cross'd by SKULDA; in the baleful skein Of him who dares "The Choosers of the Slain." L. “If not forbid against his single arm Singly to try the even-sworded strife, Since his new gods, or Merlin's mighty charm, Hath made a host the were-geld of his life— Not ours this shame!—here one, and there a field, But men are waxen when the Fates are steel'd. LI. “Seize we our captive, so the gods command— But ye are men, let manhood guide the blow; Spare life, or but with life-defending hand Strike—and Walhalla take that noble foe! Sound trump, speed truce.”—Sedately from the rest Rode out the earl, and Cymri thus addrest:— LII. "Our steels have cross'd: hate shivers on the shield; If the speech gall'd, the lance atones the word: Yield, for thy valour wins the right to yield; Unstain'd the scutcheon, though resign'd the sword. Grant us the grace, which chance (not arms) hath won: Why strike the many who would save the one?" LIII. “Fair foe, and courteous,” answered Arthur, moved By that chivalric speech, “too well the might Of Mercia's famous Harold have I proved, To deem it shame to yield as knight to knight; But a king's sword is by a nation given, Who guards a people holds his post from heaven. LIV. “This freedom which thou ask'st me to resign Than life is dearer; were it but to slow That with my people thinks their King!—divine Through me all Cymri!—Streams shall cease to flow, Yon sun to shine, before to Saxon strife One Cymrian yields his freedom save with life. LV. “And so the saints a**oil ye of my blood; Return;—the rest we leave unto our cause And the just heavens;” All silent, Harold stood And his heart smote him. Now, amidst that pause, Arthur look'd up, and in the calm above Behold a falcon wheeling round the dove! LVI. For thus it chanced; the bird which Harold bore (As was the Saxon wont whate'er his way, Had, in the woodland, slipp'd the hood it wore, Unmark'd; and, when the bloodhounds bark'd at bay, Lured by the sound, had risen on the wing, Far o'er the fierce encounter hovering— LVII. Till when the dove had left, to guide, her lord, It caught the white plume glancing where it went; High in large circles to its height it soared, Swoop'd;—the light pinion foil'd the fierce descent; The falcon rose rebounding to the prey; And barred the refuge—fronting still the way. LVIII. In vain to Arthur seeks the dove to flee; Round her and round, with every sweep more near, The swift destroyer circles rapidly, Fixing keen eyes that fascinate with fear, A moment—and a shaft, than wing more fleet, Hurls the pierced falcon at the Saxon's feet. LIX. Down, heavily it fell;—a moment stirr'd Its fluttering plumes, and roll'd its glazing eye; But even before the breath forsook the bird, Even while the arrow whistled through the sky, Rush'd from the grove that screen'd the marksman's hand With yell and whoop, a wild barbarian band— LX. Half clad, with hides of beast, and shields of horn, And huge clubs cloven from the knotty pine; And spears like those by Thor's great children borne, When Cæsar arch'd with moving steel the Rhine— Countless they start, as if from every tree Had sprung the uncouth defending diety; LXI. They pa** the King, low bending as they pa**; Bear back the startled Harold on their way; And roaring onward, ma** succeeding ma**, Snatch the hemm'd Saxons from the King's survey. On Arthur's crest the dove refolds its wing; On Arthur's ear a voice comes murmuring: LXII. “Man, have I served thy God?” and Arthur saw The priest beside him, leaning on his bow; “Not till, in all, thou hast fulfill'd the law— Thou hast saved the friend—now, aid to shield the foe;” And as a ship, cleaving the severed tides, Right through the sea of spears the hero rides. LXIII. The wild troop part submissive as he goes; Where, like an islet in that stormy main, Gleam'd Mercia's steel; and like a rock arose, Breasting the breakers, the undaunted Thane; He doff'd his helmet, look'd majestic round; And dropp'd the murderous weapon on the ground; LXIV. And with a meek and brotherly embrace Twined round the Saxon's neck the peaceful arm. Strife stood arrested—the mild kingly face, The loving gesture, like a holy charm Thrill'd thro' the ranks: you might have heard a breath! So did soft silence seem to bury d**h. LXV. On the fair locks, and on the noble brow, Fell the full splendor of the heavenly ray; The dove, dislodged, flew up—and rested now, Poised in the tranquil and translucent day. The calm wings seem'd to canopy the head; And from each plume a parting glory spread LXVI. So leave we that still picture on the eye; And turn, reluctant, where the wand of Song Points to the walls of Time's long gallery: And the dim Beautiful of Eld—too long Mouldering unheeded in these latter days, Starts from the canva**, bright'ning as we gaze. LXVII. O lovely scene which smiles upon my view, As sure it smiled on sweet Albano's dreams; He to whom Amor gave the roseate hue And that harmonious colour-wand which seems Pluck'd from the god's own wing!—Arcades and bowers, Mellifluous waters lapsing amidst flowers, LXVIII. Or springing up, in multiform disport, From countless founts, delightedly at play; As if the Naiad held her joyous court To greet the goddess whom the flowers obey; And all her nymphs took varying shapes in glee, Bell'd like the blossom—branching like the tree. LXIX. Adown the cedarn alleys glanced the wings Of all the painted populace of air, Whatever lulls the noonday while it sings Or mocks the iris with its plumes,—is there— Music and air so interfused and blent, That music seems life's breathing element. LXX. And every alley's stately vista closed With some fair statue, on whose gleaming base, Beauty, not earth's benignantly repose, As if the gods were native to the place; And fair indeed the mortal forms, I ween, Whose presence brings no discord to the scene! LXXI. O fair they are, if mortal forms they be! Mine eye the lovely error must beguile; See I the Hours, when from the lulled Sea Come Aphrodite to the rose isle, What time they left their orient halls above, To greet on earth their best beguiler—Love? LXXII. Or are they Oreads from the Delphian steep Waiting their goddess of the silver bow? Or shy Napææ startled from their sleep Where blue Cythærom guards sweet vales below, Watching as home, from vanquish'd Ind afar, Comes their loved Evian in the panther-car? LXXIII. Why stream ye thus from yonder arching bowers? Whom wait, whom watch ye for, O lovely band? With spears that, thyrus-like, glance, wreath'd with flowers And garland fetters, linking hand to hand, And locks, from which drop blossoms on your way, Like starry buds from the loose crown of May? LXXIV. Behold how Alp on Alp shuts out the scene From all the ruder world that lies afar; Deep, fathom-deep, the valley which they screen, Deep, as in chasms of cloud a happy star! What pa** admits the stranger to your land? Whom wait, whom watch ye for, O lovely band? LXXV. Ages ago, what time the barbarous horde, From whose rough bosoms sprang Imperial Rome, Drew the slow widening circle of the sword, Till kingdoms vanish'd in a robbers home, A wise Etrurian Lar, forwarn'd ('t was said) By his dark (Cære, from the danger fled: LXXVI. He left the vines of fruitful Fiesole, Left, with his household gods and chosen clan, Intent beyond the Ausonian bounds to flee, And Rome's dark shadow on the world of man. So came the exiles to the rocky wall Which, centuries after, frown'd on Hannibal. LXXVII. Here, it so chanced, that down the deep profound Of some huge Alp—a stray'd Etrurian fell; The pious rites ordained to explore the ground, And give the ashes to the funeral cell; Slowly they gained the gulf, to scare away A vulture ravening on the mangled clay; LXXVIII. Smit by a javelin from the leader's hand, The bird crept fluttering down a deep defile, Through whose far end faint glimpses of a land, Sunn'd by a softer daylight, sent a smile; This seen, the attendant seer, ordained the Lar To take the glimmer for the guiding star. LXXIX. What seem'd a gorge was but a vista'd cave, Long-drawn and hollow'd through the dædal stone; Rude was the path, but as, beyond the grave, Elysium shines, the glorious landscape shone, Broadening and brightening—till their wonder sees Bloom through the Alps the lost Hesperides. LXXX. There, the sweet sunlight, from the heights debarr'd, Gathered its pomp to lavish on the vale; A wealth of wild sweets glittered on the sward, Screen'd by the very snow-rocks from the gale; Murmured clear waters, murmured joyous birds, And o'er soft pastures roved the fearless herds. LXXXI. His rod the Augur waves above the ground, And cries, “In Tina's name I bless the soil.” With veiled brows the exiles circle round; Along the rod propitious lightnings coil; The gods approve: rejoicing hands combine, Swift springs a sylvan city from the pine. LXXXII. What charm yet fails them in the lovely place? Childhood's gay laugh—and woman's tender smile. A chosen few the venturous steps retrace; Love lightens toil for those who rest the while; And, ere the winter stills the sadden'd bird, The sweeter music of glad homes is heard; LXXXIII. And with the objects of the dearer care, The parting gifts of the old soil are borne; Soon Tusca's grape hangs flushing in the air, Soon fields wave golden with the rippling corn; Gleams on gray slopes the olive's silvery tree, In her lone Alpine child,—far Fiesole LXXXIV. Revives—reblooms, but under happier stars! Age rolls on age,—upon the antique world Full many a storm hath graved its thunder scars; Tombs only speak the Etrurian's language—hurl'd To dust the shrines of Naith;—the serpents hiss On Asia's throne in lorn Persepolis; LXXXV. The seaweed rots upon the ports of Tyre; On Delphi's steep the Pythian's voice is dumb; Sad Athens leans upon her broken lyre; From the doom'd east the Bethlem Star hath come; But Rome an empire from an empire's loss Gains in the god Rome yielded to the Cross! LXXXVI. And here, as in a crypt, the miser, Time, Hoards, from all else, embedded in the stone, One eldest treasure—fresh as when, sublime O'er gods and men, Jove thundered from his throne. The garb, the arts, the creed, the tongue, the same As when to Tarquin Cuma's Sybil came. LXXXVII. The soil's first fathers, with elaborate hands, Had closed the rocky portals of the place; No egress opens to unhappier lands: As tree on tree so race succeeds to race, From sleep the pa**ions no temptations draw, And strife bows childlike to the patriarch's law; LXXXVIII. Ambition was not; each soft lot was east; Gold had no use; with war expired renown; From priest to priest mysterious reverence past; From king to king the mild Saturnian crown; Like dews, the rest came harmless into birth; Like dews exhaling—after gladdening earth. LXXXIX. Not wholly dead indeed, the love of praise— When can that warmth from heaven forsake the heart? The Hister's lyre still thrill'd with Camsee's lays, Still urn and statue caught the Arretian art, And hands, least sk**'d, found leisure still to cull Some flowers, in offering to the Beautiful. XC. Hence, the whole vale one garden of delight Hence every home a temple for the Grace; Who worships Nature finds in Arts the rite; And Beauty grows the Genius of the Place. Enough this record of the happy land; Whom watch, whom wait ye for, O lovely band? XCI. Listen awhile!—The strength of that soft state, The arch's key-stones, are the priest and king; To guard all power inviolate from debate, To curb all impulse, or direct its wing, In antique forms to mould from childhood all;— This guards more strongly than the Alpine wall. XCII. The regal chief might wed as choice inclined, Not so the daughters sprung from his embrace, Law, strong as caste, their nuptial rite confined To the pure circle of the Lartian race; Hence with more awe the kingly house was viewed, Hence nipp'd ambition bore no rival feud. XCIII. But now, as on some eldest oak, decay In the proud topmost boughs is serely shown; While life yet shoots from every humbler spray— So, of the royal tribe, one branch alone Remains; and all the honours of the race Lend their last bloom to smile in Æglè's face. XCIV. The great arch-priest (to whom the laws a**ign The charge of this sweet blossom from the bud), Consults the annals archived in the shrine, And, twice before, when fail'd the Lartian blood, And no male heir was found, the guiding page Records the expedient of the elder age. XCV. Rather than yield to rival tribes the hope That wakes aspiring thought and tempts to strife, And (lowering awful reverence) rashly ope The pales that mark the set degrees of life, The priest (to whom the secret only known) Unlock'd the artful portals of the stone; XCVI. And watch'd and lured some wanderer, o'er the steep, Into the vale, return for ever o'er; The gate, like d**h's, reclosed upon the keep— Earth left its ghost upon the Elysian shore. And what more envied lot could earth provide— The Hesperian gardens and the royal bride? XCVII. A priestly tale the simple flock deceived: The gods had care of their Tagetian child! The nuptial garland for a god they weaved; A god himself upon the maid had smiled; A god himself renewed the race divine, And gave new monarchs to the Lartian line. XCVIII. Yet short, alas, the incense of delight That lull'd the new-found Ammon of the Hour; Like love's own star, upon the verge of night, Trembled the torch that lit the bridal bower; Soon as a son was born—his mission o'er— The stranger vanish'd to his gods once more. XCIX. Two temples closed the boundaries of the place, One (vow'd to Tina) in its walls conceal'd The granite-portals, by the former race So deftly fashion'd,—not a chink reveal'd Where (twice unbarr'd in all the ages flown) The stony donjon mask'd the door of stone. C. The fane of Mantu form'd the opposing bound Of the long valley; where the surplus wave Of the main stream a gloomy outlet found, Split on sharp rocks beneath a night of cave, And there, in torrents, down some lost ravine Where Alps took root—fell heard but never seen. CI. Right o'er this cave the d**h-Power's temple rose; The cave's dark vault was curtain' by the shrine; Here by the priest (the sacred scrolls depose) Was led the bridegroom when renewed the line; At night, that shrine his steps unprescient trod— And morning came, and earth had lost her god! CII. Nine days had now the Augur to the flock Announced the coming of the heavenly spouse; Nine days his steps had wandered through the rock, And his eye watched through unfamiliar boughs, And not a foot-fall in those rugged ways! The lone Alps wearied on his lonely gaze— CIII. But now this day (the tenth) the signal torch Streams from the temple; the mysterious swell Of long-drawn music peals from aisle to porch:— He leaves the bright hall where the Æsars dwell, He comes, o'er flowers and fountains to preside, He comes, the god-spouse to the mortal bride— CIV. He comes, for whom ye watch'd, O lovely band, Scatter your flowers before his welcome feet! Lo, where the temple's holy gates expand, Haste, O ye nymphs, the bright'ning steps to meet! Why start ye back?—What though the blaze of steel The form of Mars, the expanding gates reveal— CV. The face, no helmet crowns with war, displays Not that fierce god from whom Etruria fled; Cull from far softer legends while ye gaze, Not there the aspect mortal maid should dread! Have ye no songs from kindred Castaly Of that bright wanderer from the Olympian sky, CVI. When in Arcadian dells his silver lute Hush'd in delight the nymph and breathless fawn? Or are your cold Etrurian minstrels mute Of him whom Syria worshipp'd as the Dawn And Greece as fair Adonis? Hail, O hail! Scatter your flowers, and welcome to the vale! CVII. Wondering the stranger moves! That fairy land, Those forms of dark yet lustrous loveliness, That solemn seer, who leads him by the hand; The tongue unknown, the joy he cannot guess, Blend in one marvel every sound and sight; And in the strangeness doubles the delight. CVIII. Young Æglè sits within her palace bower, She hears the cymbals clashing from afar— So Ormuzd's music welcomed in the hour When the sun hastened to his morning-star. Smile, Star of Morn—he cometh from above! And twilight melteth round the steps of Love. CIX. Save the gray Augur (since the unconscious child Sprang to the last kiss of her dying sire) Those eyes by man's rude presence undefiled, Had deepened into woman's. As a lyre Hung on unwitnessed boughs, amidst the shade, And but to air her soul its music made. CX. Fair was her prison, walled with woven flowers, In a soft isle embraced by softest waters, Linnet and lark the sentries to the towers, And for the guard Etruria's infant daughters; But stronger far than wall, the antique law, And more than hosts, religion's shadowy awe. CXI. Thus lone, thus reverenced, the young virgin grew Into the age, when on the heart's calm wave The light winds tremble, and emotions new Steal to the peace departing childhood gave; When for the vague Beyond the captive pines, And the soul misses—what it scarce divines. CXII. Lo where she sits—(and blossoms arch the dome) Girt by young handmaids!—Near and nearer swelling The cymbals sound before the steps that come O'er rose and hayacinth to the bridal dwelling; And clear and loud the summer air along From virgin voices floats the choral song. CXIII. Lo where the sacred talismans diffuse Their fragrant charms against the Evil Powers; Lo where young hands the consecrated dews From cusped vervain sprinkle round the flowers, And o'er the robe with broidered palm-leaves sown, That decks the daughter of the peaceful throne! CXIV. Lo, on those locks of night the myrtle crown! Lo where the heart beats quick beneath the veil; Lo where the lids, cast tremulously down, Cloud stars which Eros as his own might hail; Oh lovelier than Endymion's loveliest dream, Joy to the heart on which those eyes shall beam! CXV. The bark comes bounding to the islet shore, The trelliced gates fly back; the footsteps fall Through jasmine galleries on the threshold floor; And in the Heart-Enchainer's golden thrall, There, spell-bound halt;—So, first since youth began Here eyes meet youth in the charm'd eyes of man! CXVI. And there Art's two opposed Ideals rest; There the twin flowers of the old world bloom forth: The cla**ic symbol of the gentle West, And the bold type of the chivalric North. What trial waits thee, Cymrian, sharper here Than the wolf's d**h-fang or the Saxon's spear? CXVII. But would ye learn how he we left afar, Girt by the stormy people of the wild, Came to the confines of the Hesperus Star, And the soft gardens of the Etrurian child? Would ye yet lingering in the wondrous vale, Learn what time spares if sorrow can a**ail? CXVIII. What there, forgetful of the vanish'd dove, (Lost at those portals) did the King befall; Pause till the hand has tuned the harp to love, And notes that bring young listeners to the hall; And he whose sires in Cymri reign'd, shall sing How Tusca's daughter loved the Cymrian King.