William H. Babcock - Cian of the Chariots - Chapter VII: Feast and Song lyrics

CHAPTER VII. FEAST AND SONG. Many a mead hall Fragrant with human joys. – THE RUIN, Codex Exoniensis. A NOTABLE banquet awaited them in that great dining-hall, which its owner yet persisted in styling the triclinium, while so many of its kind had gone to ruin or been given over to later ways. The great table and the couches round about occupied nearly one-half the floor; harpers were stationed, in bright apparel, at the other end. The mosaic work of the space between was at its best, a picture of leisurely Olympian enjoyment, from which the great-eyed Juno turned her welcoming face on the mere mortals invited thus into the company of the gods. There were many other decorations, above, below, and all around; but none filled the eye and mind like this. Both speech and song turned toward what was yet a vivid memory, the war-filled siege and destruction of Anderida. There may have been forethought in this, for nothing could more readily bring together [Page 73] in feeling the different elements a**embled. Tigernach's pride was all inwoven with the theme. The father of Caowl had fallen in a furious endeavor to break through the beleaguerment. Constantine's one feat in justification of his aspect – the relief of an ambuscaded provision train – had been wisely and daringly performed not far away. Also he had the chief management of supplies for the forest-entangled army of Ambrosius during all that campaign; and if this effected little, the fault was not his own. Every family of his Roman and mercantile adherents, including nearly all the wealth of London, had contributed both men and needful things, and had lost friends there. It was a retrospect of complacent pride and of pity. The woodland men had been glooming discontentedly over unfamiliar ways. But now their faces quickened, and their voices came freely, proving them at one with their company. Even their limbs grew more supple in conformity. Constantine, in high feather, looked toward Llywarch and Cian. "Will one of our guests from the emperor," said he "give us in music the tale of the town which is gone?" "Willingly," answered Llywarch; "but we need the future, also, to hearten us. Now I never feel sure of my prophecy unless I am hungry, and the Saxons before me, pugnacious. Then I can prophesy [Page 74] heavenly vengeance very confidently. But Cian here, if he is strong enough, will find Tophet ahead almost any time for anybody, and not mind the trouble at all." Cian's face, perhaps from weakness, had a faraway look. He rose without a word, and took the great harp in hand. In his touch and voice there was something compelling, so that they bore the hearer's heart and mind with them, into what had been, and was no longer, and into what was yet to come: THE SONG OF CIAN. Where is the woodland city, The city beside the sea, White from her ramparts towering, Queen of the Andred lea? Lovely her courts were, and woven With rainbows her palace walls; The voice of her many fountains Was the song of the waterfalls. But ever a threatful shadow Grew from the eastward haze, Out of the bath of burning, Dawn of the evil days. And ever a wordless horror Deepened in heart and eye, Till the noisome breath was o'er her, And the coils were winding nigh. Then broke her trance of anguish Abroad in a mighty wail; [Page 75] And the forest arms gave echo, Smiting the monster's mail: For round the tightening spoiler A whirl of fury sped; And still the spears of Britain Drove at the giant head. But foes more grim and ghostly Hid by the idle gate; And the life within grew weaker In all but the force of hate. There came an eve and a morning, The blackness of Hell between; By fire-waves broken, and flashes, And outcry wild and keen. The sun came up through smoke-clouds; Never a soul was near. The sun went down in glory; But the walls were riven and drear. Drear was the riven rampart; The light of her brow had fled; The maiden city of Andred Was a city of the dead. Nor ever morrow shall see her Blithe as before and fair; The life that she found so lovely Is a life she may not share. A thing of blackness and ruin, Of lichen and mould and rime, Of waste where there has been beauty, She waits till the end of time. [Page 76] He paused a moment, with one or two hesitating notes, then swept on, – But she, the lordlier, grander, Who proffered the aiding hand; So long as the Thames runs seaward, So long her walls shall stand. The tempest may break upon her, The billows may whelm and hide; But there with the life still in her, She stands in the ebbing tide. Nor all of the world's old grandeur Holds aught to hers akin In the noontime of her glory – The town by the reedy lynn. Had Cian, as he went to his couch, a faint memory of that other forecast, "a city nearing its end"? Yet surely both were true. That London should die; but London should live on. For a moment all were silent, looking at each other with widening eyes; for it was a very wonderful promise that he gave to men who felt the overshadowing of Caerleon from afar, and knew themselves outshone by that Caer Segeint which the Romans had called Calleva. Surely there were at least three more towns in Britain already beyond them. But at once all doubts were swept away in the will-[Page 77] ingness of city pride; for what could be too good and fair to foretell a man of that home which was his birthplace. Acclaim arose, beyond any that the villa of Constantine had ever known. But the look of a dreamer was on Cian still, and the strength and the vision were ebbing away.