BOOK XI.

ARGUMENT.

The Siege of Carduel--The Saxon forces--Stanzas relative to Ludovick the Vandal, in explanation of the failure of his promised aid, and in description of the events in Vandal-land--The preparations of the Saxon host for the final assault on the City, under cover of the approaching night--The state of Carduel--Discord--Despondence--Famine--The apparent impossibility to resist the coming Enemy--Dialogue between Caradoc and Merlin--Caradoc hears his sentence, and is resigned--He takes his harp and descends into the town--The progress of Song; in its effects upon the multitude--Caradoc's address to the people he has roused, and the rush to the Council Hall--Meanwhile the Saxons reach the walls----The burst of the Cymrians--The Saxons retire into the plain between the Camp and the City, and there take their stand--The battle described--The single combat between Lancelot and Harold--Crida leads on his reserve; the Cymrians take alarm and waver--The prediction invented by the noble devotion of Caradoc--His fate--The enthusiasm of the Cymrians, and the retreat of the enemy to their Camp--The first entrance of a Happy Soul into Heaven--The Ghost that appears to Arthur, and leads him through the Cimmerian tomb to the Realm of Death--The sense of time and space are annihilated--Death, the Phantasmal Everywhere--Its brevity and nothingness--The condition of soul is life, whether here or hereafter--Fate and Nature identical--Arthur accosted by his Guardian Angel--After the address of that Angel (which represents what we call Conscience), Arthur loses his former fear both of the realm and the Phantom--He addresses the Ghost, which vanishes without reply to his question--The last boon--The destined Soother--Arthur recovering, as from a trance, sees the Maiden of the Tomb--Her description--The Dove is beheld no more--Strange resemblance between the Maiden and the Dove--Arthur is led to his ship, and sails at once for Carduel--He arrives on the Cymrian territory, and lands with Gawaine and the Maiden, near Carduel, amidst the ruins of a hamlet devastated by the Saxons--He seeks a Convent, of which only one tower, built by the Romans, remains--From the hill-top he surveys the walls of Carduel and the Saxon encampment--The appearance of the holy Abbess, who recognizes the King, and conducts him and his companions to the subterranean grottos built by the Romans for a summer retreat--He leaves the Maiden to the care of the Abbess, and concerts with Gawaine the scheme for attack on the Saxons--The Virgin is conducted to the cell of the Abbess--Her thoughts and recollections, which explain her history--Her resolution--She attempts to escape--Meets the Abbess, who hangs the Cross round her neck, and blesses her--She departs to the Saxon Camp.

King Crida's hosts are storming Carduel! 1 From vale to mount one world of armour shines, Round castled piles for which the forest fell, Spreads the white war-town of the Teuton lines; To countless clarions countless standards swell; King Crida's hosts axe storming Carduel!

There, all its floods the Saxon deluge pours; 2 All the fierce tribes; from those whose fathers first, With their red seaxes from the southward shores, Carved realms for Hengist,--to the bands that burst Along the Humber, on the idle wall Rome built for manhood rotted by her thrall.

There, wild allies from many a kindred race, 3 In Cymrian lands hail Teuton thrones to be: Dark Jutland wails her absent populace,-- And large-limb'd sons, his waves no more shall see, Leave Danube desolate! afar they roam Where halts the Raven there to find a home!

But wherefore fail the Vandal's promised bands? 4 Well said the Greek, "Not till his latest hour Deem man secure from Fortune;" in our hands We clutch the sunbeam when we grasp at power;-- No strength detains the unsubstantial prize, The light escapes us as the moment flies.

And monarchs envied Ludovick the Great! 5 And wisdom's seers his wiles did wisdom call, And Force stood sentry at his castle gate, And Mammon soothed the murmurers in the hall; For Freedom's forms disguised the despot's thought-- He ruled by synods--and the synods bought!

Yet empires rest not or on gold or steel; 6 The old in habit strike the gnarled root; But vigorous faith--the young fresh sap of zeal, Must make the life-blood of the planted shoot-- And new-born states, like new religions, need Not the dull code, but the impassion'd creed.

Give but a cause, a child may be a chief! 7 What cause to hosts can Ludovick supply? Swift flies the Element of Power, _Belief_, From all foundations hollow'd to a lie. One morn, a riot in the streets arose, And left the Vandal crownless at the close.

A plump of spears the riot could have crush'd! 8 "Defend the throne, my spearmen!" cried the king. The spearmen arm'd, and forth the spearmen rush'd, When, woe! they took to reason on the thing! And then conviction smote them on the spot, That for that throne they did not care a jot.

With scuff and scum, with urchins loosed from school, 9 Thieves, gleemen, jugglers, beggars, swell'd the riot; While, like the gods of Epicurus, cool On crowd and crown the spearmen look'd in quiet, Till all its heads that Hydra call'd "The Many," Stretch'd hissing forth without a stroke at any.

At first Astutio, wrong but very wise, 10 Disdain'd the Hydra as a fabled creature, The vague invention of a Poet's lies, Unknown to Pliny and the laws of Nature-- Nor till the fact was past philosophizing, Saith he, "That's Hydra, there is no disguising!

"A Hydra, Sire, a Hercules demands; 11 So if not Hercules, assume his vizard." The advice is good--the Vandal wrings his hands, Kicks out the Sage--and rushes to a wizard. The wizard waves his wand--disarms the sentry And (wondrous man) enchants the mob--with entry.

Thus fell, though no man touch'd him, Ludovick, 12 Tripp'd by the slide of his own slippery feet. The crown cajoled from Fortune by a trick, Fortune, in turn, outcheated from the cheat; Clapp'd her sly cap the glittering bauble on, Cried "Presto!"--raised it--and the gaud was gone.

Ev'n at the last, to self and nature true, 13 No royal heart the breath of danger woke; To mean disguise habitual instinct flew, And the king vanish'd in a craftsman's cloak. While his brave princes scampering for their lives, _Relictis parmulis_--forgot their wives!

King Mob succeeding to the vacant throne, 14 Chose for his ministers some wild Chaldeans,-- Who told the sun to close the day at noon, Nor sweat to death his betters the plebeians; And bade the earth, unvex'd by plough and spade, Bring forth its wheat in quarterns ready made.

The sun refused the astronomic fiat; 15 The earth declined to bake the corn it grew; King Mob then order'd that a second riot Should teach Creation what it had to do. "The sun shines on, the earth demands the tillage-- Down Time and Nature, and hurrah for pillage!"

Then rise _en masse_ the burghers of the town; 16 Each patriot breast the fires of Brutus fill; Gentle as lambs when riot reach'd the crown, They raged like lions when it touch'd the till. Rush'd all who boasted of a shop to rob, And stout King Money soon dethroned King Mob.

This done, much scandalised to note the fact 17 That o'er the short tyrannic rise the tall, The middle-sized a penal law enact That henceforth height must be the same in all; For being each born equal with the other, What greater crime than to outgrow your brother?

Poor Vandals, do the towers, when foes assail, 18 So idly soar above the level wall? Harmonious Order needs its music-scale; The Equal were the discord of the All. Let the wave undulate, the mountain rise; Nor ask from Law what Nature's self denies.

O vagrant Muse, deserting all too long, 19 Freedom's grand war for frenzy's goblin dream, The hour runs on, and redemands from song, And from our Father-land the mighty theme. The Pale Horse rushes and the trumpets swell, King Crida's hosts are storming Carduel!

Within the inmost fort by pine trees made, 20 The hardy women kneel to warrior gods. For where the Saxon armaments invade, All life abandons their resign'd abodes. The tents they pitch the all they prize contain; And each new march is for a new domain.

To the stern gods the fair-hair'd women kneel, 21 As slow to rest the red sun glides along; And near and far, hammers, and clanking steel, Neighs from impatient barbs, and runic song Mutter'd o'er mystic fires by wizard priests, Invite the Valkyrs to the raven feasts.

For after nine long moons of siege and storm, 22 Thy hold, Pendragon, trembles to its fall! Loftier the Roman tower uprears its form, From the crush'd bastion and the shatter'd wall. And but till night those iron floods delay Their rush of thunder:--Blood-red sinks the day.

Death halts to strike, and swift the moment flies: 23 Within the walls (than all without more fell), Discord with Babel tongues confounds the wise, And spectral Panic, like a form of hell Chased by a Fury, fleets,--or, stone-like, stands Dull-eyed Despondence, palsying nerveless hands.

And Pride, that evil angel of the Celt, 24 Whispers to all "'tis servile to obey," Robs order'd Union of its starry belt, Rends chief from chief and tribe from tribe away, And leaves the children wrangling for command Round the wild death-throes of the Father-land.

In breadless marts, the ill-persuading fiend 25 Famine, stalks maddening with her wolfish stare; And hearts, on whose stout anchors Faith had lean'd, Bound at her look to treason from despair, Shouting, "Why shrink we from the Saxon's thrall? Is slavery worse than Famine smiting all?"

Thus, in the absence of the sunlike king, 26 All phantoms stalk abroad; dissolve and droop Light and the life of nations--while the wing Of Carnage halts but for its rushing swoop. Some moan, some rave, some laze the hours away;-- And down from Carduel blood-red sunk the day!

Leaning against a broken parapet 27 Alone with Thought, mused Caradoc the Bard, When a voice smote him, and he turn'd and met A gaze prophetic in its sad regard. Beside him, solemn with his hundred years, Stood the arch hierarch of the Cymrian seers.

"Dost thou remember," said the Sage, "that hour 28 When seeking signs to Glory's distant way, Thou heard'st the night bird in her leafy bower, Singing sweet death-chaunts to her shining prey, While thy young poet-heart, with ravish'd breath, Hung on the music, nor divined the death?"[1]

"Ay," the bard answer'd, "and ev'n now methought 29 I heard again the ambrosial melody!" "So," sigh'd the Prophet, "to the bard, unsought, Come the far whispers of Futurity! Like his own harp, his soul a wind can thrill, And the chord murmur, though the hand be still.

"Wilt thou for ever, even from the tomb, 30 Live, yet a music, in the hearts of all; Arise and save thy country from its doom; Arise, Immortal, at the angel's call! The hour shall give thee all thy life implor'd, And make the lyre more glorious than the sword.

"In vain through yon dull stupor of despair 31 Sound Geraint's tromp and Owaine's battle cry; In vain where yon rude clamour storms the air, The Council Chiefs stem madd'ning mutiny; From Trystan's mail the lion heart is gone, And on the breach stands Lancelot alone!

"Drivelling the wise, and impotent the strong; 32 Fast into night the life of Freedom dies; Awake, Light-Bringer, wake bright soul of song, Kindler, reviver, re-creator rise! Crown thy great mission with thy parting breath, And teach to hosts the Bard's disdain of death!"

Thrill'd at that voice the soul of Caradoc; 33 He heard, and knew his glory and his doom. As when in summer's noon the lightning shock Smites some fair elm in all its pomp of bloom, 'Mid whose green boughs each vernal breeze had play'd, And air's sweet race melodious homes had made;

So that young life bow'd sad beneath the stroke 34 That sear'd the Fresh and still'd the Musical, Yet on the sadness Thought sublimely broke: Holy the tree on which the bolt doth fall! Wild flowers shall spring the sacred roots around, And nightly fairies tread the haunted ground;

There, age by age, shall youth with musing brow, 35 Hear Legend murmuring of the days of yore; There, virgin love more lasting deem the vow Breathed in the shade of branches green no more; And kind Religion keep the grand decay Still on the earth while forests pass away.

"So be it, O voice from Heaven," the Bard replied, 36 "Some grateful tears may yet embalm my name, Ever for human love my youth hath sigh'd And human love's divinest form is fame. Is the dream erring? shall the song remain? Say, can one Poet ever live in vain?"

As the warm south on some unfathom'd sea, 37 Along the Magian's soul, the awful rest Stirr'd with the soft emotion: tenderly He laid his hand upon the brows he blest, And said, "Complete beneath a brighter sun That course, The Beautiful, which life begun.

"Joyous and light, and fetterless through all 38 The blissful, infinite, empyreal space, If then thy spirit stoopeth to recall The ray it shed upon the human race, See where the ray had kindled from the dearth, Seeds that shall glad the garners of the earth!

"Never true Poet lived and sung in vain! 39 Lost if his name, and wither'd if his wreath, The thoughts he woke--an element remain Fused in our light and blended with our breath; All life more noble, and all earth more fair. Because that soul refined man's common air!"[2]

Then rose the Bard, and smilingly unslung 40 His harp of ivory sheen, from shoulders broad, Kissing the hand that doom'd his life, he sprung Light from the shatter'd wall,--and swiftly strode Where, herdlike huddled in the central space, Droop'd, in dull pause, the cowering populace.

There, in the midst he stood! The heavens were pale 41 With the first stars, unseen amidst the glare Cast from large pine-brands on the sullen mail Of listless legions and the streaming hair Of women, wailing for the absent dead, Or bow'd o'er infant lips that moan'd for bread.

From out the illumed cathedral hollowly 42 Swell'd, like a dirge, the hymn; and through the throng Whose looks had lost all commerce with the sky, With lifted rood the slow monks swept along, And vanish'd hopeless; From those wrecks of man Fled ev'n Religion: Then the BARD began.

Slow, pitying, soft it glides, the liquid lay, 43 Sad with the burthen of the Singer's soul Into the heart it coil'd its lulling way; Wave upon wave the golden river stole: Hush'd to his feet forgetful Famine crept, And Woe, reviving, veil'd the eyes that wept.

Then stern, and harsh, clash'd the ascending strain, 44 Telling of ills more dismal yet in store; Rough with the iron of the grinding chain, Dire with the curse of slavery evermore; Wild shrieks from lips belov'd pale warriors hear, Her child's last death-groan rends the mother's ear;

Then trembling hands instinctive griped the swords; 45 And men unquiet sought each other's eyes; Loud into pomp sonorous swell the chords, Like linked legions march the melodies; Till the full rapture swept the Bard along, And o'er the listeners rush'd the storm of song!

And the Dead spoke! from cairns and kingly graves 46 The Heroes call'd;--and Saints from earliest shrines; And the Land spoke!--Mellifluous river-waves; Dim forests awful with the roar of pines; Mysterious caves from legion-haunted deeps; And torrents flashing from untrodden steeps;--

THE LAND OF FREEDOM call'd upon the Free! 47 All Nature spoke; the clarions of the wind; The organ swell of the majestic sea; The choral stars! the Universal Mind Spoke, like the voice from which the world began, "No chain for Nature and the Soul of Man!"

Then loud through all, as if mankind's reply, 48 Burst from the Bard the Cymrian battle hymn! That song which swell'd the anthems of the sky, The Alleluia of the Seraphim; When Saints led on the Children of the Lord, And smote the Heathen with the Angel's sword.[3]

As leaps the warfire on the beacon hills, 49 Leapt in each heart the lofty flame divine; As into sunlight flash the molten rills, Flash'd the glad claymores,[4] lightening line on line; From cloud to cloud as thunder speeds along, From rank to rank rush'd forth the choral song.--

Woman and child--all caught the fire of men, 50 To its own heaven that Alleluia rang, Life to the spectres had return'd again; And from the grave an armed Nation sprang! Then spoke the Bard,--each crest its plumage bow'd, As the large voice went lengthening through the crowd

"Hark to the measur'd march!--The Saxons come! 51 The sound earth quails beneath the hollow tread; Your fathers rush'd upon the swords of Rome And climb'd her war-ships, when the Caesar fled! The Saxons come! why wait within the wall? They scale the mountain--let its torrents fall!

"Mark, ye have swords, and shields, and armour, YE! 52 No mail defends the Cymrian Child of Song,[5] But where the warrior--there the Bard shall be! All fields of glory to the Bard belong! His realm extends wherever godlike strife Spurns the base death, and wins immortal life.

"Unarm'd he goes--his guard the shields of all, 53 Where he bounds foremost on the Saxon spear! Unarm'd he goes, that, falling, ev'n his fall Shall bring no shame, and shall bequeath no fear! Does his song cease?--avenge it by the deed, And make his sepulchre--a nation freed!"

He said, and where the chieftains wrangling sate, 54 Led the grand army marshall'd by his song, Into the hall--and on the wild debate, King of all kings, A PEOPLE, pour'd along; And from the heart of man--the trumpet cry Smote faction down, "Arms, arms, and Liberty!"--

Meanwhile roll'd on the Saxon's long array; 55 On to the wall the surge of slaughter roll'd; Slow up the mount--slow heaved its labouring way; The moonlight rested on the domes of gold; No warder peals alarum from the Keep, And Death comes mute, as on the realm of Sleep;

When, as their ladders touch'd the ruin'd wall, 56 And to the van, high-towering, Harold strode, Sudden expand the brazen gates, and all The awful arch as with the lava glow'd; Torch upon torch the deathful sweep illumes, The burst of armour and the flash of plumes!

Rings Owaine's shout;--rings Geraint's thunder-cry, 57 The Saxon's death-knell in a hundred wars; And Cador's laugh of triumph;--through the sky Rush tossing banderolls swift as shooting stars, Trystan's white lion--Lancelot's cross of red, And Tudor's[6] standard with the Saxon's head.

And high o'er all, its scaled splendour rears 58 The vengeful emblem of the Dragon Kings. Full on the Saxon bursts the storm of spears; Far down the vale the charging whirlwind rings, While through the ranks its barbed knightood clave, All Carduel follows with its roaring wave.

And ever in the van, with robes of white 59 And ivory harp, shone swordless Caradoc! And ever floated in melodious might, The clear song buoyant o'er the battle shock; Calm as an eagle when the Olympian King Sends the red bolt upon the tranquil wing.

Borne back, and wedged within the ponderous weight 60 Of their own jarr'd and multitudinous crowd, Recoil'd the Saxons! As adown the height Of some grey mountain, rolls the cloven cloud, Smit by the shafts of the resistless day,-- Down to the vale sunk dun the rent array.

Midway between the camp and Carduel, 61 Halting their slow retreat, the Saxons stood: There, as the wall-like ocean ere it fell On AEgypt's chariots, gather'd up the flood; There, in suspended deluge, solid rose, And hung expectant o'er the hurrying foes!

Right in the centre, rampired round with shields, 62 King Crida stood,--o'er him, its livid mane The horse whose pasture is the Valkyr's fields Flung wide;--but, foremost through the javelin-rain, Blazed Harold's helm, as when, through all the stars Distinct, pale soothsayers see the dooming Mars.

Down dazzling sweeps the Cymrian Chivalry; 63 Round the bright sweep closes the Saxon wall; Snatch'd from the glimmer of the funeral sky, Raves the blind murder; and enclasp'd with all Its own stern hell, against the iron bar Pants the fierce heart of the imprison'd War.

Only by gleaming banners and the flash 64 Of some large sword, the vex'd Obscure once more Sparkled to light. In one tumultous clash Merg'd every sound--as when the maelstrom's roar By dire Lofoden, dulls the seaman's groan, And drowns the voice of tempests in its own.

The Cymrian ranks,--disparted from their van, 65 And their hemm'd horsemen,--stubborn, but in vain, Press through the levell'd spears; yet, man by man, And shield to shield close-serried, they sustain The sleeting hail against them hurtling sent, From every cloud in that dread armament.

But now, at length, cleaving the solid clang, 66 And o'er the dead men in their frowning sleep, The rallying shouts of chiefs confronted rang,-- "Thor and Walhalla!"--answer'd swift and deep By "Alleluia!" and thy chanted cry, Young Bard sublime, "For Christ and Liberty!"

Then the ranks open'd, and the midnight moon 67 Stream'd where the battle, like the scornful main, Ebb'd from the dismal wrecks its wrath had strewn. Paused either host;--lo, in the central plain Two chiefs had met, and in that breathless pause, Each to its champion left a Nation's cause.

Now, Heaven defend thee, noble Lancelot! 68 For never yet such danger thee befel, Though loftier deeds than thine emblazon not The peerless Twelve of golden Carduel, Though oft thy breast hath singly stemm'd a field,-- As when thy claymore clang'd on Harold's shield!

And Lancelot knew not his majestic foe, 69 Save by his deeds; by Cador's cloven crest; By Modred's corpse; by rills of blood below, And shrinking helms above;--when from the rest, Spurring,--the steel of his uplifted brand Drew down the lightning of that red right hand.

Full on the Saxon's shield the sword descends; 70 The strong shield clattering shivers at the stroke, And the bright crest with all its plumage bends As to the blast with all its boughs an oak: As from the blast an oak with all its boughs, Retowering slow, the crest sublime arose.

Grasp'd with both hands, above the Cymrian swung 71 The axe that Odin taught his sons to wield, Thrice through the air the circling iron sung, Then crash'd resounding:--horse and horseman recl'd, Though slant from sword and casque the weapon shore, Down sword and casque the weight resistless bore.

The bright plume mingles with the charger's mane; 72 Light leaves the heaven, and sense forsakes the breath; Aloft the axe impatient whirrs again,-- The steed wild-snorting bounds and foils the death; While on its neck the reins unheeded flow, It shames and saves its Lord, and flies the foe.

"Lo, Saxons, lo, what chiefs these Walloons[7] lead!" 73 Laugh'd hollow from his helm the scornful Thane. Then towards the Christian knights he spurr'd his steed, When midway in his rush--rushes again The foe that rallied while he seem'd to fly, As wheels the falcon ere it swoops from high;--

And as the falcon, while its talons dart 74 Into the crane's broad bosom, splits its own On the sharp beak, and, clinging heart to heart, Both in one plumage blent, spin whirling down,-- So in that shock each found, and dealt the blow; Horse roll'd on horse, fell grappling foe on foe.

First to his feet the slighter Cymrian leapt, 75 And on the Saxon's breast set firm his knee; Then o'er the heathen host a shudder crept, Rose all their voices,--wild and wailingly; "Woe, Harold, woe!" as from one bosom came, The groan of thousands, and the mighty name.

The Cymrian starts, and stays his lifted hand, 76 For at that name from Harold's vizor shone Genevra's eyes! Back in its sheath the brand He plunged:--sprang Harold--and the foe was gone,-- Lost where the Saxons rush'd along the plain, To save the living or avenge the slain.

Spurr'd to the rescue every Cymrian knight, 77 Again confused, the onslaught raged on high; Again the war-shout swell'd above the fight, Again the chant "for Christ and Liberty," When with fresh hosts unbreath'd, the Saxon king Forth from the wall of shields leapt thundering.

Behind the chief the dreadful gonfanon 78 Spread;--the Pale Horse went rushing down the wind.-- "On where the Valkyrs point to Carduel, on! On o'er the corpses to the wolf consign'd! On, that the Pale Horse, ere the night be o'er Stall'd in yon tower, may rest his hoofs of gore!"

Thus spoke the king, and all his hosts replied; 79 Fill'd by his word and kindled by his look-- (For helmless with his grey hair streaming wide, He strided through the spears)--the mountains shook-- Shook the dim city--as that answer rang! The fierce shout chiming to the buckler's clang!

Aghast, the Cymrians see, like Titan sons 80 New-born from earth,--leap forth the sudden bands: As when the wind's invisible tremour runs Through corn-sheaves ripening for the reaper's hands, The glittering tumult undulating flows, And the field quivers where the panic goes.

The Cymrians waver--shrink--recoil--give way, 81 Strike with weak hands amazed; half turn to flee; In vain with knightly charge the chiefs delay The hostile mass that rolls resistlessly, And the pale hoofs for aye had trampled down The Cymrian freedom and the Dragon Crown,

But for that arch preserver, under heaven, 82 Of names and states, the Bard! the hour was come To prove the ends for which the lyre was given:-- Each thought divine demands its martyrdom. "Where round the central standard rallying flock The Dragon Chiefs--paused and spoke Caradoc!

"Ye Cymrian men!" Hush'd at the calm sweet sound, 83 Droop'd the wild murmur, bow'd the loftiest crest, Meekly the haughty paladins group'd round The swordless hero with the mailless breast, Whose front, serene amid the spears, had taught To humbled Force the chivalry of Thought.

"Ye Cymrian men--from Heus the Guardian's tomb 84 I speak the oracular promise of the Past. Fear not the Saxon! Till the judgment doom Free on their hills the Dragon race shall last, If from you heathen, ye this night can save One spot not wider than a single grave.

"For thus the antique prophecy decrees,-- 85 'When where the Pale Horse crushes down the dead, War's sons shall see the lonely child of peace Grasp at the mane to fall beneath the tread-- There, where he falleth let his dust remain, There, bid the Dragon rest above the slain;

"'There, let the steel-clad living watch the clay, 86 Till on that spot their swords the grave have made, And the Pale Horse shall melt in cloud away, No stranger's step the sacred mound invade: A people's life that single death shall save, And all the land be hallow'd by a grave.'

"So be the Guardian's prophecy fulfill'd, 87 Advance the Dragon, for the grave is mine." He ceased: while yet the silver accents thrill'd Each mailed bosom down the listening line, Bounded his steed, and like an arrow went His plume, swift glancing through the armament.

On through the tempest went it glimmering, 88 On through the rushing barbs and levell'd spears; On where, far streaming o'er the Teuton king, Its horrent pomp the ghastly standard rears. On rush'd to rescue all to whom his breath Left what saves Nations,--the disdain of death!

Alike the loftiest knight and meanest man, 89 All the roused host, but now so panic-chill'd, All Cymri once more as one Cymrian, With the last light of that grand spirit fill'd, Through rank on rank, mow'd down, down trampled, sped, And reach'd the standard--to defend the dead.

Wrench'd from the heathen's hand, one moment bow'd 90 In the bright Christian's grasp the gonfanon; Then from a dumb amaze the countless crowd Swept,--and the night as with a sudden sun Flash'd with avenging steel; life gain'd its goal, And calm from lips proud-smiling went the soul!

Leapt from his selle, the king-born Lancelot; 91 Leapt from the selle each paladin and knight; In one mute sign that where upon that spot The foot was planted, God forbade the flight: There shall the Father-land avenge the son, Or heap all Cymri round the grave of one.

Then, well-nigh side by side--broad floated forth 92 The Cymrian Dragon and the Teuton Steed, The rival Powers that struggle for the North; The gory Idol--the chivalric Creed; Odin's and Christ's confronting flags unfurl'd, As which should save and which destroy a world!

Then fought those Cymrian men, as if on each 93 All Cymri set its last undaunted hope; Through the steel bulwarks round them yawns the breach; Vistas to freedom bright'ning onwards ope; Crida in vain leads band on slaughter'd band, In vain revived falls Harold's ruthless hand;

As on the bull the pard will fearless bound, 94 But if the horn that meets the spring should gore, Awed with fierce pain, slinks snarling from the ground;-- So baffled in their midmost rush, before The abrupt assault, the savage hosts give way;-- Yet will not own that man could thus dismay.

"Some God more mighty than Walhalla's king, 95 Strikes in yon arms"--the sullen murmurs run, And fast and faster drives the Dragon wing-- And shrinks and cowers the ghastly gonfanon; They flag--they falter--lo, the Saxons fly!-- Lone rests the Dragon in the dawning sky!

Lone rests the Dragon with its wings outspread, 96 Where the pale hoofs one holy ground had trod, There the hush'd victors round the martyr'd dead, As round an altar, lift their hearts to God. Calm is that brow as when a host it braved, And smiles that lip as on the land it saved!

Pardon, ye shrouded and mysterious Powers, 97 Ye far-off shadows from the spirit-clime, If for that realm untrodden by the Hours, Awhile we leave this lazar-house of Time; With Song remounting to those native airs Of which, though exiled, still we are the heirs.

Up from the clay and towards the Seraphim, 98 The Immortal, men called Caradoc, arose. Round the freed captive whose melodious hymn Had hail'd each glimmer earth, the dungeon, knows, Spread all the aisles by angel worship trod; Blazed every altar, conscious of the God.

All the illumed creation one calm shrine; 99 All space one rapt adoring ecstasy; All the sweet stars with their untroubled shine, Near and more near, enlarging through the sky; All opening gradual on the eternal sight, Joy after joy, the depths of their delight.

Paused on the marge, Heaven's beautiful New-born, 100 Paused on the marge of that wide happiness; And as a lark that, poised amid the morn, Shakes from its wing the dews--the plumes of bliss, Sunn'd in the dawn of the diviner birth, Shook every sorrow memory bore from earth:

Knowledge (that on the troubled waves of sense 101 Breaks into sparkles)--pour'd upon the soul Its lambent, clear, translucent affluence, And cold-eyed Reason loosed its hard control; Each godlike guess beheld the truth it sought; And Inspiration flash'd from what was Thought.

Still'd evermore the old familiar train 102 That fill the frail Proscenium of our deeds, The unquiet actors on that stage, the brain, Which, in the spangles of their tinsell'd weeds, Mime the true soul's majestic royalties, And strut august in Wonder's credulous eyes;--

Ambition's madness in the vain desires, 103 Which seek a goddess but to clasp a cloud; And human Passion that with fatal fires Consumes the shrine to which its faith is vow'd; And even Hope, that fairest nurse of Grief, Crown'd with young flowers,--a blight in every leaf;

All these are still--abandon'd to the worm, 104 Their loud breath jars not on the calm above! Only survived, as if the single germ Of the new life's ambrosian being,--LOVE. Ah, if the bud can give such bloom to Time, What is the flower when in its native clime?

Love to the radiant Stranger left alone 105 Of all the vanish'd hosts of memory; While broadening round, on splendour splendour shone, To earth soft-pitying dropt the veilless eye, And saw the shape, that love remember'd still, Couch'd 'mid the ruins on the moonlit hill.

And, with the new-born vision, piercing all 106 Things past and future, view'd the fates ordain'd; The fame achieved amidst the Coral Hall; From war and winter Freedom's symbol gain'd, What rests?--the Spirit from its realm of bliss, Shot, loving down,--the guide to Happiness!

Pale to the Cymrian King the Shadow came, 107 Its glory left it as the earth it near'd, In livid likeness as its corpse the same, Wan with its wounds the awful ghost appear'd. Life heard the voice of unembodied breath, And Sleep stood trembling side by side with Death.

"Come," said the Voice, "Before the Iron Gate 108 Which hath no egress, waiting thee, behold Under the shadow of the brows of Fate, The childlike playmate with the locks of gold." Then rose the mortal, following, and, before, Moved the pale shape the angel's comrade wore.

Where, in the centre of those ruins grey, 109 Immense with blind walls columnless, a tomb For earlier kings, whose names had pass'd away, Chill'd the chill moonlight with its mass of gloom, Through doors ajar to every prying blast By which to rot imperial dust had past.

The Vision went, and went the living King; 110 Then strange and hard to human hear to tell By language moulded but by thoughts that bring Material images, what there befel! The mortal enter'd Eld's dumb burial place, And at the threshold, vanish'd Time and Space.

Yea, the hard sense of time was from the mind 111 Rased and annihilate;--yea, space to eye And soul was presenceless? What rest behind? Thought and the Infinite! the eternal I, And its true realm the Limitless, whose brink Thought ever nears: What bounds us when we think?

Yea, as the dupe in tales Arabian, 112 Dipp'd but his brow beneath the beaker's brim, And in that instant all the life of man From youth to age roll'd its slow years on him, And while the foot stood motionless--the soul Swept with deliberate wing from pole to pole,

So when the man the Grave's still portals pass'd, 113 Closed on the substances or cheats of earth, The Immaterial, for the things it glass'd, Shaped a new vision from the matter's dearth: Before the sight that saw not through the clay, The undefined Immeasurable lay.

A realm not land, nor sea, nor earth, nor sky, 114 Like air impalpable, and yet not air;-- "Where am I led?" ask'd Life with hollow sigh. "To Death, that dim phantasmal EVERY WHERE," The Ghost replied. "Nature's circumfluent robe, Girding all life--the globule or the globe."

"Yet," said the Mortal, "if indeed this breath 115 Profane the world that lies beyond the tomb; Where is the Spirit-race that peoples death? My soul surveys but unsubstantial gloom, A void--a blank--where none preside or dwell, Nor woe nor bliss is here, nor heaven nor hell."

"And what is death?--a name for nothingness,"[8] 116 Replied the Dead; "the shadow of a shade; Death can retain no spirit!--woe and bliss, And heaven and hell, are for the living made; An instant flits between life's latest sigh And life's renewal;--that it is to die!

"From the brief Here to the eternal There 117 We can but see the swift flash of the goal; Less than the space between two waves of air, The void between existence and a soul; Wherefore, look forth; and with calm sight endure The vague, impalpable, inane Obscure:

"Lo, by the Iron Gate a giant cloud 118 From which emerge (the form itself unseen) Vast adamantine brows sublimely bow'd Over the dark,--relentlessly serene; Thou canst not view the hand beneath the fold, The work it weaveth none but God behold.

"Yet ever from this Nothingness of Death, 119 That hand shapes out the myriad pomps of life; Receives the matter when resign'd the breath, Calms into Law the elemental strife; On each still'd atom forms afresh bestows (No atom lost since first Creation rose).

"Thus seen, what men call Nature, thou surveyest, 120 But matter boundeth not the still one's power; In every deed its presence thou displayest. It prompts each impulse, guides each winged hour, It spells the Valkyrs to their gory loom, It calls the blessing from the bane they doom:

"It rides the steed, it saileth with the bark, 121 Wafts the first corn-seed to the herbless wild, Alike directing through the doom of dark, The age-long nation and the new-born child; Here the dread Power, yet loftier tasks await, And NATURE, twofold, takes the name of FATE.

"Nature or Fate, Matter's material life. 122 Or to all spirit the spiritual guide, Alike with one harmonious being rife, Form but the whole which only names divide; Fate's crushing power, or Nature's gentle skill, Alike one Good--from one all-loving Will."

While thus the Shade benign instructs the King, 123 Near the dark cloud the still brows bended o'er, They come: a soft wind with continuous wing Sighs through the gloom and trembles through the door, "Hark to that air," the gentle Phantom said, "In each faint murmur flit unseen the dead,--

"Pass through the gate, from life the life resume, 124 As the old impulse flies to heaven or hell." While spoke the Ghost, stood forth amidst the gloom, A lucent Image, crown'd with asphodel, The left hand bore a mirror crystal-bright, A wand star-pointed glitter'd in the right.

"Dost thou not know me?--me, thy second soul?" 125 Said the bright Image, with its low sweet voice, "I who have led thee to each noble goal, Mirror'd thy heart, and starward led thy choice? To teach thee wisdom won in Labour's school, I lured thy footsteps to the forest pool,

"Show'd all the woes which wait inebriate power, 126 And woke the man from youth's voluptuous dream; Glass'd on the crystal--let each stainless hour Obey the wand I lift unto the beam; And at the last, when yonder gates expand, Pass with thine angel, Conscience, hand in hand."

Spoke the sweet Splendour, and as music dies 127 Into the heart that hears, subsides away; Then Arthur lifted his serenest eyes Towards the pale Shade from the celestial day, And said, "O thou in life belov'd so well, Dream I or wake?--As those last accents fell,

"So fears that, spite of thy mild words, dismay'd, 128 Fears not of death, but that which death conceals, Vanish;--my soul that trembled at thy shade, Yearns to the far light which the shade reveals, And sees how human is the dismal error Thad hideth God, when veiling death with terror.

"Ev'n thus some infant, in the early spring, 129 Under the pale buds of the almond-tree, Shrinks from the wind that with an icy wing Shakes showering down white flakes that seem to be Winter's wan sleet,--till the quick sunbeam shows That those were blossoms which he took for snows.

"Thou to this last and sovran mystery 130 Of my mysterious travail guiding sent, Dear as thou wert, I will not mourn for thee, Thou wert not shaped for earth's hard element-- Our ends, our aims, our pleasure, and our woe, Thou knew'st them all, but thine we could not know.

"Forgive that none were worthy of thy worth! 131 That none took heed, upon the plodding way, What diamond dew was on the flowers of earth, Till in thy soul drawn upward to the day. But now, why gape the wounds upon thy breast? What guilty hand dismiss'd thee to the Blest?

"For blest thou art, beloved and lost? Oh, speak, 132 Say thou art with the Angels?"--As at night Far off the pharos on the mountain-peak Sends o'er dim ocean one pale path of light, Lost in the wideness of the weltering Sea, So, that one gleam along eternity

Vouchsafed, the radiant guide (its mission closed) 133 Fled, and the mortal stood amidst the cloud! All dark above, lo at his feet reposed Beneath the Brow's still terror o'er it bow'd, With eyes that lit the gloom through which they smiled, A Virgin shape, half woman and half child!

There, bright before the iron gates of Death, 134 Bright in the shadow of the awful Power Which did as Nature give the human breath, As Fate mature the germ and nurse the flower Of earth for heaven,--Toil's last and sweetest prize, The destined Soother lifts her fearless eyes!

Through all the mortal's fame enraptured thrills 135 A subtler tide, a life ambrosial, Bright as the fabled element which fills The veins of Gods to whom in Ida's hall Flush'd Hebe brims the urn. The transport broke The charm that gave it--and the Dreamer woke.

Was it in truth a Dream? He gazed around, 136 And saw the granite of sepulchral walls; Through open doors, along the desolate ground, O'er coffin dust--the morning sunbeam falls; On mouldering relics life its splendour flings, The arms of warriors and the bones of kings.--

He stood within that Golgotha of old, 137 Whither the Phantom first had led the soul. It was no dream! lo, round those locks of gold Rest the young sunbeams like an auriole; Lo, where the day, night's mystic promise keeps, And in the tomb a life of beauty sleeps!

Slow to his eyes, those lids reveal their own, 138 And, the lips smiling even in their sigh, The Virgin woke! Oh, never yet was known, In bower or plaisaunce under summer sky, Life so enrich'd with nature's happiest bloom As thine, thou young Aurora of the tomb!

Words cannot paint thee, gentlest cynosure 139 Of all things lovely in that loveliest form, Souls wear--the youth of woman! brows as pure As Memphian skies that never knew a storm; Lips with such sweetness in their honey'd deeps As fills the rose in which a fairy sleeps;

Eyes on whose tenderest azure aching hearts 140 Might look as to a heaven, and cease to grieve; The very blush,--as day, when it departs, Haloes in flushing, the mild cheek of eve,-- Taking soft warmth in light from earth afar, Heralds no thought less holy than a star.

And Arthur spoke! O ye, all noble souls, 141 Divine how knighthood speaks to maiden fear! Yet, is it fear which that young heart controuls And leaves its music voiceless on the ear?-- Ye, who have felt what words can ne'er express, Say then, is fear as still as happiness?

By the mute pathos of an eloquent sign, 142 Her rosy finger on her lip, the maid Seem'd to denote that on that coral shrine Speech was to silence vow'd. Then from the shade Gliding--she stood beneath the golden skies, Fair as the dawn that brighten'd Paradise.

And Arthur look'd, and saw the Dove no more; 143 Yet, by some wild and wondrous glamoury, Changed to the shape the new companion wore, His soul the missing Angel seem'd to see; And, soft and silent as the earlier guide, The soft eyes thrill, the silent footsteps glide.

Through paths his yester steps had fail'd to find, 144 Adown the woodland slope she leads the king,-- And pausing oft, she turns to look behind, As oft had turn'd the Dove upon the wing; And oft he question'd, still to find reply Mute on the lip, yet struggling to the eye.

Far briefer now the way, and open more 145 To heaven, than those his whilom steps had won; And sudden, lo! his galley's brazen prore Beams from the greenwood burnish'd in the sun; Up from the sward his watchful cruisers spring, And loud-lipp'd welcome girds with joy the King.

Now plies the rapid oar, now swells the sail; 146 All day, and deep into the heart of night, Flies the glad bark before the favouring gale; Now Sabra's virgin waters dance in light Under the large full moon, on margents green, Lone with charr'd wrecks where Saxon fires have been.

Here furls the sail, here rests awhile the oar, 147 And from the crews the Cymrians and the maid Pass with mute breath upon the mournful shore; For, where yon groves the gradual hillock shade, A convent stood when Arthur left the land. God grant the shrine hath 'scaped the heathen's hand!

Landing, on lifeless hearths, through roofless walls 148 And casement gaps, the ghost-like starbeams peer; Welcomed by night and ruin, hollow falls The footstep of a King!--Upon the ear The inexpressible hush of murder lay,-- Wide yawn'd the doors, and not a watch dog's bay!

They pass the groves, they gain the holt, and lo! 149 Rests of the sacred pile but one grey tower, A fort for luxury in the long-ago Of gentile gods, and Rome's voluptuous power. But far on walls yet spared, the moonbeams fell,-- Far on the golden domes of Carduel!

"Joy," cried the King, "behold, the land lives still!" 150 Then Gawaine pointed, where in lengthening line The Saxon watch-fires from the haunted hill (Shorn of its forest old) their blood-red shine Fling over Isca, and with wrathful flush Gild the vast storm-cloud of the armed hush.

"Ay," said the King, "in that lull'd Massacre 151 Doth no ghost whisper Crida--'Sleep no more!' "Hark, where I stand, dark murder-chief, on thee I launch the doom! ye airs, that wander o'er Ruins and graveless bones, to Crida's sleep Bear Cymri's promise, which her king shall keep!"

As thus he spoke, upon his outstretch'd arm 152 A light touch trembled,--turning he beheld The maiden of the tomb; a wild alarm Shone from her eyes; his own their terror spell'd. Struggling for speech, the pale lips writhed apart, And, as she clung, he heard her beating heart;

While Arthur marvelling soothed the agony 153 Which, comprehending not, he still could share, Sudden sprang Gawaine--hark! a timorous cry Pierced yon dim shadows! Arthur look'd, and where On artful valves revolved the stony door, A kneeling nun his knight is bending o'er.

Ere the nun's fears the knightly words dispel, 154 As towards the spot the maid and monarch came, On Arthur's brow the slanted moonbeams fell, And the nun knew the King, and call'd his name, And clasp'd his knees, and sobb'd through joyous tears, "Once more; once more! our God his people hears!"

Kin to his blood--the welcome face of one 155 Known as a saint throughout the Christian land, Arthur recall'd, and as a pious son Honouring a mother--on that sacred hand Bent low, in murmuring--"Say, what mercy saves Thee, blest survivor in this shrine of graves?"

Then the nun led them through the artful door, 156 Mask'd in the masonry, adown a stair That coil'd its windings to the grottoed floor Of vaulted chambers desolately fair; Wrought in the green hill, like an Oread's home, For summer heats by some soft lord of Rome,

On shells, which nymphs from silver sands might cull, 157 On paved mosaics, and long-silenced fount, On marble waifs of the far Beautiful By graceful spoiler garner'd from the mount Of vocal Delphi, or the Elean town, Or Sparta's rival of the violet-crown--

Shone the rude cresset from the homely shrine 158 Of that new Power, upon whose Syrian Cross Perish'd the antique Jove! And the grave sign Of the glad faith (which, for the lovely loss Of poet-gods, their own Olympus frees To men!--our souls the new Uranides),

High from the base on which of old reposed 159 Grape-crown'd Iacchus, spoke the Saving Woe! The place itself the sister's tale disclosed. Here, while, amidst the hamlet doom'd below, Raged the fierce Saxon--was retreat secured; Nor gnaw'd the flame where those deep vaults immured.

To peasants, scatter'd through the neighbouring plains, 160 The secret known;--kind hands with pious care Supply such humble nurture as sustains Lives most with fast familiar; thus and there The patient sisters in their faith sublime, Felt God was good, and waited for His time.

Yet ever when the crimes of earth and day 161 Slept in the starry peace, to the lone tower The sainted abbess won her nightly way, And gazed on Carduel!--'Twas the wonted hour When from the opening door the Cymrian knight Saw the pale shadow steal along the light.

Musing, the King the safe retreat survey'd, 162 And smooth'd his brow from times most anxious care; Here--from the strife secure, might rest the maid Not meet the tasks that morn must bring to share; She, while he mused, the nun's mild aspect eyed, And crept with woman's trust to woman's side.

"King," said the gentle saint, "from what far clime 163 Comes this fair stranger, that her eyes alone Answer our mountain tongue?"--"May happier time," Replied the King, "her tale, her land, make known! Meanwhile, O kind recluse, receive the guest To whom these altars seem the native rest."

The sister smiled, "In sooth those looks," she said, 164 "Do speak a soul pure with celestial air; And in the morrow's awful hour of dread Her heart methinks will echo to our prayer, And breathe responsive to the hymns that swell The Christian's curse upon the infidel.

"But say, if truth from rumour vague and wild 165 To this still world the friendly peasants bring, 'That grief and wrath for some lost heathen child, Urge to yon walls the Mercian's direful king?'"-- "Nay," said the Cymrian, "doth ambition fail When force needs falsehood, of the glozing tale?

"And--but behold she droops, she faints, outworn 166 By the long wandering and the scorch of day!" Pale as a lily when the dewless morn, Parch'd in the fiery dog-star, wanes away Into the glare of noon without a cloud, O'er the nun's breast that flower of beauty bow'd.

Yet still the clasp retain'd the hand that press'd, 167 And breath came still, though heaved in sobbing sighs. "Leave her," the sister said, "to needful rest, And to such care as woman best supplies; And may this charge a conqueror soon recall, And change the refuge to a monarch's hall!"

Though found the asylum sought, with boding mind 168 The crowning guerdon of his mystic toil To the kind nun the unwilling King resign'd; Nor till his step was on his mountain soil Did his large heart its lion calm regain, And o'er his soul no thought but Cymri reign.

As towards the bark the friends resume their way, 169 Quick they resolve the conflict's hardy scheme; With half the Northmen, at the break of day Shall Gawaine sail where Sabra's broadening stream Admits a reeded creek, and, landing there, Elude the fleet the neighbouring waters bear;

Through secret paths with bush and bosk o'ergrown, 170 Wind round the tented hill, and win the wall; With Arthur's name arouse the leaguer'd town, Give the pent stream the cataract's rushing fall, Sweep to the camp, and on the Pagan horde Urge all of man that yet survives the sword.

Meanwhile on foot the king shall guide his band 171 Round to the rearward of the vast array Where yet large fragments of the forest stand To shroud with darkness the avenger's way;-- Thence, when least look'd for, burst upon the foe, On war's own heart direct the sudden blow;

Thus, front and rear assail'd, their numbers less 172 (Perplex'd, distraught) avail the heathen's power. Dire was the peril, and the sole success In the nice seizure of the season'd hour; The high-soul'd rashness of the bold emprise; The fear that smites the fiercest in surprise;

Whatever worth the enchanted boons may bear, 173 The hero heart by which those boons were won; The stubborn strength of that supreme despair, When victory lost is all a land undone; In the Man's cause, and in the Christian's zeal, And the just God that sanctions Freedom's steel.

Meanwhile, along a cavelike corridor 174 The stranger guest the gentle abbess led; Where the voluptuous hypocaust of yore Left cells for vestal dreams saint-hallowed. Her own, austerely rude, affords the rest To which her parting kiss consigns the guest.

But welcome not for rest that loneliness! 175 The iron lamp the imaged cross displays; And to that guide for souls, what mute distress Lifts the imploring passion of its gaze? Fear like remorse--and sorrow dark as sin? Enter that mystic heart and look within!

What broken gleams of memory come and go 176 Along the dark!--a silent starry love Lighting young Fancy's virgin waves below, But shed from thoughts that rest ensphered above! Oh, flowers whose bloom had perfumed Carmel, weave Wreathes for such love as lived in Genevieve!

A May noon resteth on the forest hill; 177 A May noon resteth over ruins hoar; A maiden muses on the forest hill, A tomb's vast pile o'ershades the ruins hoar, With doors now open to each prying blast, Where once to rot imperial dust had pass'd;

Through those dark portals glides the musing maid, 178 And slumber drags her down its airy deep. O wondrous trance! in Druid robes array'd, What form benignant charms the life-like sleep? What spells low-chaunted, holy-sweet, like prayer Plume the light soul, and waft it through the air?

Comes a dim sense as of an angel's being, 179 Bathed in ambrosial dews and liquid day; Of floating wings, like heavenward instincts, freeing Through azure solitudes a spirit's way.-- An absence of all earthly thought, desire, Aim--hope, save those which love and which aspire;

Each harder sense of the mere human mind 180 Merged into some protective prescience; Calm gladness, conscious of a charge consign'd To the pure ward of guardian innocence; And the felt presence, in that charge, of one Whose smile to life is as to flowers the sun.

Go on, thou troubled Memory, wander on! 181 Dull, o'er the bounds of the departing trance, Droops the lithe wing the airier life hath known; Yet on the confines of the dream, the glance Sees--where before he stood--the Enchanter stand, Bend the vast brow and stretch the shadowy hand.

And, human sense reviving, on the ear 182 Fall words ambiguous, now with happy hours And plighted love,--and now with threats austere Of demon dangers--of malignant Powers Whose force might yet the counter charm unbind, If loosed the silence to her lips enjoin'd.

Then, as that Image faded from the verge 183 Of life's renew'd horizon--came the day; Yet, ere the last gleams of the vision merge Into earth's common light, their parting ray On Arthur's brow the faithful memories leave, And the Dove's heart still beats in Genevieve!

Still she the presence feels,--resumes the guide, 184 Till slowly, slowly waned the prescient power That gave the guardian to the pilgrim's side;-- And only rested, with her human dower Of gifts sublime to soothe, but weak to save, And blind to warn,--the Daughter of the Grave.

Yet the lost dream bequeathed for evermore 185 Thoughts that did, like a second nature, make Life to that life the Dove had hover'd o'er Cling as an instinct,--and, for that dear sake, Danger and Death had found the woman's love In realms as near the Angels as the Dove.

And now and now is she herself the one 186 To launch the bolt on that beloved life? Shuddering she starts, again she hears the nun Denounce the curse that arms the awful strife; Again her lips the wild cry stifle,--"See Crida's lost child, thy country's curse, in me!"

Or--if along the world of that despair 187 Fleet other spectres--from the ruin'd steep Points the dread arm, and hisses through the air The avenger's sentence on the father's sleep! The dead seem rising from the yawning floor, And the shrine steams as with a shamble's gore.

Sudden she springs, and, from her veiling hands, 188 Lifts the pale courage of her calmed brow; With upward eyes, and murmuring lips, she stands, Raising to heaven the new-born hope:--and now Glides from the cell along the galleried caves, Mute as a moonbeam flitting over waves.

Now gain'd the central grot; now won the stair; 189 The lamp she bore gleam'd on the door of stone; Why halt? what hand detains?--she turn'd, and there, On the nun's serge and brow rebuking, shone The tremulous light; then fear her lips unchain'd From that stern silence by the Dream ordain'd,

And at those holy feet the Saxon fell 190 Sobbing, "Oh, stay me not! Oh, rather free These steps that fly to save _his_ Carduel! Throne, altars, life--his life! In me, in me, To these strange shrines, thy saints in mercy bring Crida's lost Child!--Way, way to save thy king!"

The sister listen'd; gladness, awe, amaze, 191 Fused in that lambent atmosphere of soul, FAITH in the wise All-Good!--so melt the rays Of varying Iris in the lucid whole Of light;--"Thy people still to Thee are dear, O Lord," she murmur'd, "and Thy hand is here!"

"Yes," cried the suppliant, "if my loss deplored, 192 My fate unguess'd--misled and arm'd my sire; When to his heart his child shall be restored, Sure, war itself will in the cause expire! Ruth come with joy,--and in that happy hour Hate drop the steel, and Love alone have power?"

Then the nun took the Saxon to her breast, 193 Round the bow'd neck she hung her sainted cross, And said, "Go forth--O beautiful and blest! And if my king rebuke me for thy loss, Be my reply the gain that loss bestow'd,-- Hearths for his people, altars for his God!"

She ceased;--on secret valves revolv'd the door; 194 On the calm hill-top breath'd the dawning air; One moment paused the steps of Hope, and o'er The war's vast slumber look'd the Soul of Prayer. So halts the bird that from the cage hath flown;-- A light bough rustled, and the Dove was gone.

NOTES TO BOOK XI.

1.--Page 386, stanza xxviii.

_Hung on the music, nor divined the death?_

See Book ii. pp. 57, 58, from stanza xxvii. to stanza xxx.

2.--Page 388, stanza xxxix.

_Because that soul refined man's common air!_

Perhaps it is in this sense that Taliessin speaks in his mystical poem called "Taliessin's History," still extant:--

"I have been an instructor To the whole universe. I shall remain till the day of doom On the face of the earth."

3.--Page 389, stanza xlviii.

_And smote the Heathen with the Angel's sword._

The Bishops Germanus and Lupus, having baptized the Britains in the river Alyn, led them against the Picts and Saxons, to the cry of "Alleluia." The cry itself, uttered with all the enthusiasm of the Christian host, struck terror into the enemy, who at once took to flight. Most of those who escaped the sword perished in the river. This victory, achieved at Maes-Garmon, was called "Victoria Alleluiatica."--BRIT. ECCLES. ANTIQ., 335; BED., lib. i. c. i. 20.

4.--Page 389, stanza xlix.

_Flash'd the glad claymores, lightening line on line._

"The claymore of the Highlanders of Scotland was no other than the cledd mawr (cle'mawr) of the Welch."--CYMRODORION, vol. ii. p. 106.

5.--Page 390, stanza lii.

_No mail defends the Cymrian Child of Song._

No Cymrian bard, according to the primitive law, was allowed the use of weapons.

6.--Page 390, stanza lvii.

_And Tudor's standard with the Saxon's head._

The old arms of the Tudors were three Saxons' heads.

7.--Page 393, stanza lxxiii.

"_Lo, Saxons, lo, what chiefs these Walloons lead!_"

Walloons,--the name given by the Saxons, in contumely, to the Cymrians.

8.--Page 399, stanza cxvi.

'_And what is death?--a name for nothingness._"

The sublime idea of the nonentity of death, of the instantaneous transit of the soul from one phase and cycle of being to another, is earnestly insisted upon by the early Cymrian bards, in terms which seem borrowed from some spiritual belief anterior to that which does in truth teach that the life of man once begun, has not only no end, but no pause--and, in the triumphal cry of the Christian, "O grave, where is thy victory!"--annihilates death.