Part 3

Nigh upon the fiery noon, Out of ranks a roaring burst. 'Ware white women like the moon! They are poison: they have thirst First for love, and next for rule. Jealous of the army, she? Ho, the little wanton fool! We were his before she squealed Blind for mother's milk, and heeled Kicking on her mother's knee. His in life and death are we: She but one flower of a field. We have given him bliss tenfold In an hour to match her night: Attila, my Attila! Still her arms the master hold, As on wounds the scarf winds tight.

XX.

Over Danube day no more, Like the warrior's planted spear, Stood to hail the King: in fear Western day knocked at his door. Attila, my Attila! Sudden in the army's eyes Rolled a blast of lights and cries: Flashing through them: Dead are ye! Dead, ye Huns, and torn piecemeal! See the ordered army reel Stricken through the ribs: and see, Wild for speed to cheat despair, Horsemen, clutching knee to chin, Crouch and dart they know not where. Attila, my Attila! Faces covered, faces bare, Light the palace-front like jets Of a dreadful fire within. Beating hands and driving hair Start on roof and parapets. Dust rolls up; the slaughter din. --Death to them who call him dead! Death to them who doubt the tale! Choking in his dusty veil, Sank the sun on his death-bed. Make the bed for Attila!

XXI.

'Tis the room where thunder sleeps. Frenzy, as a wave to shore Surging, burst the silent door, And drew back to awful deeps, Breath beaten out, foam-white. Anew Howled and pressed the ghastly crew, Like storm-waters over rocks. Attila, my Attila! One long shaft of sunset red Laid a finger on the bed. Horror, with the snaky locks, Shocked the surge to stiffened heaps, Hoary as the glacier's head Faced to the moon. Insane they look. God it is in heaven who weeps Fallen from his hand the Scourge he shook. Make the bed for Attila!

XXII.

Square along the couch, and stark, Like the sea-rejected thing Sea-sucked white, behold their King. Attila, my Attila! Beams that panted black and bright, Scornful lightnings danced their sight: Him they see an oak in bud, Him an oaklog stripped of bark: Him, their lord of day and night, White, and lifting up his blood Dumb for vengeance. Name us that, Huddled in the corner dark, Humped and grinning like a cat, Teeth for lips!--'tis she! she stares, Glittering through her bristled hairs. Rend her! Pierce her to the hilt! She is Murder: have her out! What! this little fist, as big As the southern summer fig! She is Madness, none may doubt. Death, who dares deny her guilt! Death, who says his blood she spilt! Make the bed for Attila!

XXIII.

Torch and lamp and sunset-red Fell three-fingered on the bed. In the torch the beard-hair scant With the great breast seemed to pant: In the yellow lamp the limbs Wavered, as the lake-flower swims: In the sunset red the dead Dead avowed him, dry blood-red.

XXIV.

Hatred of that abject slave, Earth, was in each chieftain's heart. Earth has got him, whom God gave, Earth may sing, and earth shall smart! Attila, my Attila!

XXV.

Thus their prayer was raved and ceased. Then had Vengeance of her feast Scent in their quick pang to smite Which they knew not, but huge pain Urged them for some victim slain Swift, and blotted from the sight. Each at each, a crouching beast, Glared, and quivered for the word. Each at each, and all on that, Humped and grinning like a cat, Head-bound with its bridal-wreath. Then the bitter chamber heard Vengeance in a cauldron seethe. Hurried counsel rage and craft Yelped to hungry men, whose teeth Hard the grey lip-ringlet gnawed, Gleaming till their fury laughed. With the steel-hilt in the clutch, Eyes were shot on her that froze In their blood-thirst overawed; Burned to rend, yet feared to touch. She that was his nuptial rose, She was of his heart's blood clad: Oh! the last of him she had!-- Could a little fist as big As the southern summer fig, Push a dagger's point to pierce Ribs like those? Who else! They glared Each at each. Suspicion fierce Many a black remembrance bared. Attila, my Attila! Death, who dares deny her guilt! Death, who says his blood she spilt! Traitor he, who stands between! Swift to hell, who harms the Queen! She, the wild contention's cause, Combed her hair with quiet paws. Make the bed for Attila!

XXVI.

Night was on the host in arms. Night, as never night before, Hearkened to an army's roar Breaking up in snaky swarms: Torch and steel and snorting steed, Hunted by the cry of blood, Cursed with blindness, mad for day. Where the torches ran a flood, Tales of him and of the deed Showered like a torrent spray. Fear of silence made them strive Loud in warrior-hymns that grew Hoarse for slaughter yet unwreaked. Ghostly Night across the hive, With a crimson finger drew Letters on her breast and shrieked. Night was on them like the mould On the buried half alive. Night, their bloody Queen, her fold Wound on them and struck them through. Make the bed for Attila!

XXVII.

Earth has got him whom God gave, Earth may sing, and earth shall smart! None of earth shall know his grave. They that dig with Death depart. Attila, my Attila!

XXVIII.

Thus their prayer was raved and passed: Passed in peace their red sunset: Hewn and earthed those men of sweat Who had housed him in the vast, Where no mortal might declare, There lies he--his end was there! Attila, my Attila!

XXIX.

Kingless was the army left: Of its head the race bereft. Every fury of the pit Tortured and dismembered it. Lo, upon a silent hour, When the pitch of frost subsides, Danube with a shout of power Loosens his imprisoned tides: Wide around the frighted plains Shake to hear his riven chains, Dreadfuller than heaven in wrath, As he makes himself a path: High leap the ice-cracks, towering pile Floes to bergs, and giant peers Wrestle on a drifted isle; Island on ice-island rears; Dissolution battles fast: Big the senseless Titans loom, Through a mist of common doom Striving which shall die the last: Till a gentle-breathing morn Frees the stream from bank to bank. So the Empire built of scorn Agonized, dissolved and sank. Of the Queen no more was told Than of leaf on Danube rolled. Make the bed for Attila!

ANEURIN'S HARP

I.

Prince of Bards was old Aneurin; He the grand Gododin sang; All his numbers threw such fire in, Struck his harp so wild a twang;-- Still the wakeful Briton borrows Wisdom from its ancient heat: Still it haunts our source of sorrows, Deep excess of liquor sweet!

II.

Here the Briton, there the Saxon, Face to face, three fields apart, Thirst for light to lay their thwacks on Each the other with good heart. Dry the Saxon sits, 'mid dinful Noise of iron knits his steel: Fresh and roaring with a skinful, Britons round the hirlas reel.

III.

Yellow flamed the meady sunset; Red runs up the flag of morn. Signal for the British onset Hiccups through the British horn. Down these hillmen pour like cattle Sniffing pasture: grim below, Showing eager teeth of battle In his spear-heads lies the foe.

IV.

--Monster of the sea! we drive him Back into his hungry brine. --You shall lodge him, feed him, wive him. Look on us; we stand in line. --Pale sea-monster! foul the waters Cast him; foul he leaves our land. --You shall yield us land and daughters: Stay the tongue, and try the hand.

V.

Swift as torrent-streams our warriors, Tossing torrent lights, find way; Burst the ridges, crowd the barriers, Pierce them where the spear-heads play; Turn them as the clods in furrow, Top them like the leaping foam; Sorrow to the mother, sorrow, Sorrow to the wife at home!

VI.

Stags, they butted; bulls, they bellowed; Hounds, we baited them; oh, brave! Every second man, unfellowed, Took the strokes of two, and gave. Bare as hop-stakes in November's Mists they met our battle-flood: Hoary-red as Winter's embers Lay their dead lines done in blood.

VII.

Thou, my Bard, didst hang thy lyre in Oak-leaves, and with crimson brand Rhythmic fury spent, Aneurin; Songs the churls could understand: Thrumming on their Saxon sconces Straight, the invariable blow, Till they snorted true responses. Ever thus the Bard they know!

VIII.

But ere nightfall, harper lusty! When the sun was like a ball Dropping on the battle dusty, What was yon discordant call? Cambria's old metheglin demon Breathed against our rushing tide; Clove us midst the threshing seamen:-- Gashed, we saw our ranks divide!

IX.

Britain then with valedictory Shriek veiled off her face and knelt. Full of liquor, full of victory, Chief on chief old vengeance dealt. Backward swung their hurly-burly; None but dead men kept the fight. They that drink their cup too early, Darkness they shall see ere night.

X.

Loud we heard the yellow rover Laugh to sleep, while we raged thick, Thick as ants the ant-hill over, Asking who has thrust the stick. Lo, as frogs that Winter cumbers Meet the Spring with stiffen'd yawn, We from our hard night of slumbers, Marched into the bloody dawn.

XI.

Day on day we fought, though shattered; Pushed and met repulses sharp, Till our Raven's plumes were scattered: All, save old Aneurin's harp. Hear it wailing like a mother O'er the strings of children slain! He in one tongue, in another, Alien, I; one blood, yet twain.

XII.

Old Aneurin! droop no longer. That squat ocean-scum, we own, Had fine stoutness, made us stronger, Brought us much-required backbone: Claim'd of Power their dues, and granted Dues to Power in turn, when rose Mightier rovers; they that planted Sovereign here the Norman nose.

XIII.

Glorious men, with heads of eagles, Chopping arms, and cupboard lips; Warriors, hunters, keen as beagles, Mounted aye on horse or ships. Active, being hungry creatures; Silent, having nought to say: High they raised the lord of features, Saxon-worshipped to this day.

XIV.

Hear its deeds, the great recital! Stout as bergs of Arctic ice Once it led, and lived; a title Now it is, and names its price. This our Saxon brothers cherish: This, when by the worth of wits Lands are reared aloft, or perish, Sole illumes their lucre-pits.

XV.

Know we not our wrongs, unwritten Though they be, Aneurin? Sword, Song, and subtle mind, the Briton Brings to market, all ignored. 'Gainst the Saxon's bone impinging, Still is our Gododin played; Shamed we see him humbly cringing In a shadowy nose's shade.

XVI.

Bitter is the weight that crushes Low, my Bard, thy race of fire. Here no fair young future blushes Bridal to a man's desire. Neither chief, nor aim, nor splendour Dressing distance, we perceive; Neither honour, nor the tender Bloom of promise, morn or eve.

XVII.

Joined we are; a tide of races Rolled to meet a common fate; England clasps in her embraces Many: what is England's state? England her distended middle Thumps with pride as Mammon's wife; Says that thus she reads thy riddle, Heaven! 'tis heaven to plump her life.

XVIII.

O my Bard! a yellow liquor, Like to that we drank of old-- Gold is her metheglin beaker, She destruction drinks in gold. Warn her, Bard, that Power is pressing Hotly for his dues this hour; Tell her that no drunken blessing Stops the onward march of Power.

XIX.

Has she ears to take forewarnings She will cleanse her of her stains, Feed and speed for braver mornings Valorously the growth of brains. Power, the hard man knit for action, Reads each nation on the brow. Cripple, fool, and petrifaction, Fall to him--are falling now!

FRANCE, December 1870

I.

We look for her that sunlike stood Upon the forehead of our day, An orb of nations, radiating food For body and for mind alway. Where is the Shape of glad array; The nervous hands, the front of steel, The clarion tongue? Where is the bold proud face? We see a vacant place; We hear an iron heel.

II.

O she that made the brave appeal For manhood when our time was dark, And from our fetters drove the spark Which was as lightning to reveal New seasons, with the swifter play Of pulses, and benigner day; She that divinely shook the dead From living man; that stretched ahead Her resolute forefinger straight, And marched toward the gloomy gate Of earth's Untried, gave note, and in The good name of Humanity Called forth the daring vision! she, She likewise half corrupt of sin, Angel and Wanton! can it be? Her star has foundered in eclipse, The shriek of madness on her lips; Shreds of her, and no more, we see. There is horrible convulsion, smothered din, As of one that in a grave-cloth struggles to be free.

III.

Look not for spreading boughs On the riven forest tree. Look down where deep in blood and mire Black thunder plants his feet and ploughs The soil for ruin: that is France: Still thrilling like a lyre, Amazed to shivering discord from a fall Sudden as that the lurid hosts recall Who met in heaven the irreparable mischance. O that is France! The brilliant eyes to kindle bliss, The shrewd quick lips to laugh and kiss, Breasts that a sighing world inspire, And laughter-dimpled countenance Where soul and senses caught desire!

IV.

Ever invoking fire from Heaven, the fire Has grasped her, unconsumeable, but framed For all the ecstasies of suffering dire. Mother of Pride, her sanctuary shamed: Mother of Delicacy, and made a mark For outrage: Mother of Luxury, stripped stark: Mother of Heroes, bondsmen: thro' the rains, Across her boundaries, lo the league-long chains! Fond Mother of her martial youth; they pass, Are spectres in her sight, are mown as grass! Mother of Honour, and dishonoured: Mother Of Glory, she condemned to crown with bays Her victor, and be fountain of his praise. Is there another curse? There is another: Compassionate her madness: is she not Mother of Reason? she that sees them mown Like grass, her young ones! Yea, in the low groan And under the fixed thunder of this hour Which holds the animate world in one foul blot Tranced circumambient while relentless Power Beaks at her heart and claws her limbs down-thrown, She, with the plunging lightnings overshot, With madness for an armour against pain, With milkless breasts for little ones athirst, And round her all her noblest dying in vain, Mother of Reason is she, trebly cursed, To feel, to see, to justify the blow; Chamber to chamber of her sequent brain Gives answer of the cause of her great woe, Inexorably echoing thro' the vaults, ''Tis thus they reap in blood, in blood who sow: 'This is the sum of self-absolvëd faults.' Doubt not that thro' her grief, with sight supreme, Thro' her delirium and despair's last dream, Thro' pride, thro' bright illusion and the brood Bewildering of her various Motherhood, The high strong light within her, tho' she bleeds, Traces the letters of returned misdeeds. She sees what seed long sown, ripened of late, Bears this fierce crop; and she discerns her fate From origin to agony, and on As far as the wave washes long and wan Off one disastrous impulse: for of waves Our life is, and our deeds are pregnant graves Blown rolling to the sunset from the dawn.

V.

Ah, what a dawn of splendour, when her sowers Went forth and bent the necks of populations, And of their terrors and humiliations Wove her the starry wreath that earthward lowers Now in the figure of a burning yoke! Her legions traversed North and South and East, Of triumph they enjoyed the glutton's feast: They grafted the green sprig, they lopped the oak. They caught by the beard the tempests, by the scalp The icy precipices, and clove sheer through The heart of horror of the pinnacled Alp, Emerging not as men whom mortals knew. They were the earthquake and the hurricane, The lightnings and the locusts, plagues of blight, Plagues of the revel: they were Deluge rain, And dreaded Conflagration; lawless Might. Death writes a reeling line along the snows, Where under frozen mists they may be tracked, Who men and elements provoked to foes, And Gods: they were of God and Beast compact: Abhorred of all. Yet, how they sucked the teats Of Carnage, thirsty issue of their dam, Whose eagles, angrier than their oriflamme, Flushed the vext earth with blood, green earth forgets. The gay young generations mask her grief; Where bled her children hangs the loaded sheaf. Forgetful is green earth; the Gods alone Remember everlastingly: they strike Remorselessly, and ever like for like. By their great memories the Gods are known.

VI.

They are with her now, and in her ears, and known. 'Tis they that cast her to the dust for Strength, Their slave, to feed on her fair body's length, That once the sweetest and the proudest shone; Scoring for hideous dismemberment Her limbs, as were the anguish-taking breath Gone out of her in the insufferable descent From her high chieftainship; as were she death, Who hears a voice of justice, feels the knife Of torture, drinks all ignominy of life. They are with her, and the painful Gods might weep, If ever rain of tears came out of heaven To flatter Weakness and bid Conscience sleep, Viewing the woe of this Immortal, driven For the soul's life to drain the maddening cup Of her own children's blood implacably: Unsparing even as they to furrow up The yellow land to likeness of a sea: The bountiful fair land of vine and grain, Of wit and grace and ardour, and strong roots, Fruits perishable, imperishable fruits; Furrowed to likeness of the dim grey main Behind the black obliterating cyclone.

VII.

Behold, the Gods are with her, and are known. Whom they abandon misery persecutes No more: them half-eyed apathy may loan The happiness of pitiable brutes. Whom the just Gods abandon have no light, No ruthless light of introspective eyes That in the midst of misery scrutinize The heart and its iniquities outright. They rest, they smile and rest; have earned perchance Of ancient service quiet for a term; Quiet of old men dropping to the worm; And so goes out the soul. But not of France. She cries for grief, and to the Gods she cries, For fearfully their loosened hands chastize, And icily they watch the rod's caress Ravage her flesh from scourges merciless, But she, inveterate of brain, discerns That Pity has as little place as Joy Among their roll of gifts; for Strength she yearns, For Strength, her idol once, too long her toy. Lo, Strength is of the plain root-Virtues born: Strength shall ye gain by service, prove in scorn, Train by endurance, by devotion shape. Strength is not won by miracle or rape. It is the offspring of the modest years, The gift of sire to son, thro' those firm laws Which we name Gods; which are the righteous cause, The cause of man, and manhood's ministers. Could France accept the fables of her priests, Who blest her banners in this game of beasts, And now bid hope that heaven will intercede To violate its laws in her sore need, She would find comfort in their opiates: Mother of Reason! can she cheat the Fates? Would she, the champion of the open mind, The Omnipotent's prime gift--the gift of growth-- Consent even for a night-time to be blind, And sink her soul on the delusive sloth, For fruits ethereal and material, both, In peril of her place among mankind? The Mother of the many Laughters might Call one poor shade of laughter in the light Of her unwavering lamp to mark what things The world puts faith in, careless of the truth: What silly puppet-bodies danced on strings, Attached by credence, we appear in sooth, Demanding intercession, direct aid, When the whole tragic tale hangs on a broken blade!

She swung the sword for centuries; in a day It slipped her, like a stream cut off from source. She struck a feeble hand, and tried to pray, Clamoured of treachery, and had recourse To drunken outcries in her dream that Force Needed but hear her shouting to obey. Was she not formed to conquer? The bright plumes Of crested vanity shed graceful nods: Transcendent in her foundries, Arts and looms, Had France to fear the vengeance of the Gods? Her faith was on her battle-roll of names Sheathed in the records of old war; with dance And song she thrilled her warriors and her dames, Embracing her Dishonourer: gave him France From head to foot, France present and to come, So she might hear the trumpet and the drum-- Bellona and Bacchante! rushing forth On yon stout marching Schoolmen of the North.

Inveterate of brain, well knows she why Strength failed her, faithful to himself the first: Her dream is done, and she can read the sky, And she can take into her heart the worst Calamity to drug the shameful thought Of days that made her as the man she served, A name of terror, but a thing unnerved: Buying the trickster, by the trickster bought, She for dominion, he to patch a throne.

VIII.

Henceforth of her the Gods are known, Open to them her breast is laid. Inveterate of brain, heart-valiant, Never did fairer creature pant Before the altar and the blade!

IX.

Swift fall the blows, and men upbraid, And friends give echo blunt and cold, The echo of the forest to the axe. Within her are the fires that wax For resurrection from the mould.

X.

She snatched at heaven's flame of old, And kindled nations: she was weak: Frail sister of her heroic prototype, The Man; for sacrifice unripe, She too must fill a Vulture's beak. Deride the vanquished, and acclaim The conqueror, who stains her fame, Still the Gods love her, for that of high aim Is this good France, the bleeding thing they stripe.

XI.