BOOK VII.
ARGUMENT.
Arthur and the Lady of the Lake—They land on the Meteor Isle—which then sinks to the Halls below—Arthur beholds the Forest springing from a single stem—He tells his errand to the Phantom, and rejects the fruits that It proffers him in lieu of the Sword—He is conducted by the Phantom to the entrance of the caves, through which he must pass alone—He reaches the Coral Hall of the Three Kings—The Statue crowned with thorns—The Asps and the Vulture, and the Diamond Sword—The choice of the Three Arches—He turns from the first and second arch, and beholds himself, in the third, a corpse—The sleeping King rises at Arthur's question—"if his death shall be in vain?"—The Vision of times to be—Cœur de Lion and the age of Chivalry—The Tudors—Henry VII.—the restorer of the line of Arthur and the founder of civil Freedom—Henry VIII. and the Revolution of Thought—Elizabeth and the Age of Poetry—The union of Cymrian and Saxon, under the sway of "Crowned Liberty"—Arthur makes his choice, and attempts, but in vain, to draw the Sword from the Rock—The Statue with the thorn-wreath addresses him—Arthur called upon to sacrifice the Dove—His reply—The glimpse of Heaven—The trance which succeeds, and in which the King is borne to the sea shores.
As when, in Autumn nights and Arctic skies,1
An angel makes the cloud his noiseless car,
And, through cerulean silence, silent flies
From antique Hesper to some dawning star,
So still, so swift, along the windless tides
Her vapour-sail the Phantom Lady guides.
Along the sheen, along the glassy sheen,2
Amid the lull of lucent night they go;
Till, in the haven of an islet green,
Murmuring through reeds, the gentle waters flow:
The shooting pinnace gains the gradual strand,
Hush'd as a shadow glides the Shape to land.
The Cymrian, following, scarcely touch'd the shore3
When slowly, slowly sunk the meteor-isle,
Fathom on fathom, to the sparry floor
Of alabaster shaft and porphyr-pile,
Built as by Nereus for his own retreat,
Or the Nymph-mother of the silver feet.[1]
Far, through the crystal lymph, the pillar'd halls4
Went lengthening on in vista'd majesty;
The waters sapp'd not the enchanted walls,
Nor shut their roofless silence from the sky;
But every beam that lights this world of ours
Broke sparkling downward into diamond showers.
And the strange magic of the place bestow'd5
Its own strange life upon the startled King,
Round him, like air, the subtle waters flow'd;
As round the Naiad flows her native spring;
Domelike collapsed the azure;—moonlight clear
Fill'd the melodious silvery atmosphere—
Melodious with the chaunt of distant falls6
Of sportive waves, within the waves at play,
And infant springs that bubble up the halls
Through sparry founts (on which the broken ray
Weaves its slight iris), hymning while they rise
To that smooth calm their restless life supplies,
Like secret thoughts in some still poet's soul,7
That swell the deep while yearning to the stars:—
But overhead a trembling shadow stole,
A gloom that leaf-like quiver'd on the spars,
And that quick shadow, ever moving, fell
From a vast Tree with root immoveable;
In link'd arcades, and interwoven bowers8
Swept the long forest from that single stem!
And, flashing through the foliage, fruits or flowers
In jewell'd clusters, glow'd with every gem
Golgonda hideth from the greed of kings;
Or Lybian gryphons guard with drowsy wings.
Here blush'd the ruby, warm as Charity,9
There the mild topaz, wrath-assuaging, shone
Radiant as Mercy; like an angel's eye,
Or a stray splendour from the Father's throne
The sapphire chaste a heavenly lustre gave
To that blue heaven reflected on the wave.
Never from India's cave, or Oman's sea10
Swart Afrite stole for scornful Peri's brow,
Such gems as, wasted on that Wonder-tree,
Paled Sheban treasures in each careless bough;
And every bough the gliding wavelet heaves,
Quivers to music with the quivering leaves.
Then first the Sovereign Lady of the deep11
Spoke;—and the waves and whispering leaves wore still,
"Ever I rise before the eyes that weep
When, born from sorrow, Wisdom wakes the will;
But few behold the shadow through the dark,
And few will dare the venture of the bark.
"And now amid the Cuthites' temple halls12
O'er which the waters undestroying flow,
Heark'ning the mysteries hymn'd from silver falls
Or from the springs that, gushing up below,
Gleam to the surface, whence to Heaven updrawn,
They form the clouds that harbinger the Dawn,—
"Say what the treasures which my deeps enfold13
That thou would'st bear to the terrestrial day?"
Then Arthur answer'd—and his quest he told,
The prophet mission which his steps obey—
"Here springs the forest from the single stem:
I seek the falchion welded from the gem!"
"Pause," said the Phantom, "and survey the tree!14
More worth one fruit that weighs a branchlet down,
Than all which mortals in the sword can see.
Thou ask'st the falchion to defend a crown—
But seize the fruit, and to thy grasp decreed
More realms than Ormuzd lavish'd on the Mede;
"Than great Darius left his doomèd son,15
From Scythian wastes to Abyssinian caves;
From Nimrod's tomb in silenced Babylon
To Argive islands fretting Asian waves;
Than changed to sceptres the rude Lictor-rods,
And placed the worm call'd Cæsar with the gods!
"Pause—take thy choice—each gem a host can buy,16
Seize—and yoke kings to War's triumphant car!
The Child of Earth, no Genii here defy,
The fruits unguarded, and the fiends afar—
But dark the perils that surround the Sword,
And slight its worth—ambitious if its Lord;
"True to the warrior on his native soil,17
Its blade would break in the Invader's clasp;
A weapon meeter for the sons of Toil,
When plough-shares turn to falchions in their grasp;—
Leave the rude boor to battle for his hearth—
Expand thy scope;—Ambition asks the Earth!"
"Spirit or Sorceress," said the frowning King,18
"Panic like the Sun illumes an Universe;
But life and joy both Fame and Sun should bring;
And God ordains no glory for a curse.
The souls of kings should be the towers of law,
We right the balance, if the sword we draw!
"Not mine the crowns the Persian lost or won,19
Tiaras glittering over kneeling slaves;
Mine be the sword that freed at Marathon,
The unborn races by the Father-graves—
Or stay'd the Orient in the Spartan pass,
And carved on Time thy name, Leonidas."
The Sibyl of the Sources of the Deep20
Heard nor replied, but, indistinct and wan,
Went as a Dream that through the worlds of Sleep
Leads the charm'd soul of labour-wearied man;
And ev'n as man and dream, so, side by side,
Glideth the mortal with the gliding guide.
Glade after glade, beneath that forest tree21
They pass,—till sudden, looms amid the waves,
A dismal rock, hugely and heavily,
With crags distorted vaulting horrent caves;
A single moonbeam through the hollow creeps:
Glides with the beam the Lady of the deeps.
Then Arthur felt the Dove that at his breast22
Lay nestling warm—stir quick and quivering,
His soothing hand the crisped plumes caress'd;—
Slow went they on, the Lady and the King:
And, ever as they went, before their way
O'er prison'd waters lengthening stretch'd the ray.
Now the black jaws as of a hell they gain;23
The Lake's pale Hecate pauses. "Lo," she said,
"Within, the Genii thou invadest reign.
Alone thy feet the threshold floors must tread—
Lone is the path when glory is the goal;—
Pass to thy proof—O solitary soul!"
She spoke to vanish—but the single ray24
Shot from the unseen moon, still palely breaketh
The awe that rests with midnight on the way;
Faithful as Hope when Wisdom's self forsaketh—
The buoyant beam the lonely man pursued—
And, feeling God, he felt not Solitude.
No fiend obscene, no giant spectre grim25
(Born or of Runic or Arabian Song),
Affronts the progress through the gallery dim,
Into the sudden light which flames along
The waves, and dyes the stillness of their flood
To one red horror like a lake of blood.
And now, he enters, with that lurid tide,26
Where time-long corals shape a mighty hall:
Three curtain'd arches on the dexter side,
And on the floors a ruby pedestal,
On which, with marble lips, that life-like smiled,
Stood the fair Statue of a crownèd Child:
It smiled, and yet its crown was wreath'd of thorns,27
And round its limbs coil'd foul the viper's brood;
Near to that Child a rough crag, deluge-torn,
Jagg'd, with sharp shadow abrupt, the luminous flood;
And a huge Vulture from the summit, there,
Watch'd, with dull hunger in its glassy stare.
Below the Vulture in the rock ensheathed,28
Shone out the hilt-beam of the diamond glaive;
And all the hall one hue of crimson wreathed,
And all the galleries vista'd through the wave;
As flush'd the coral fathom-deep below,
Lit into glory from the ruby's glow.
And on three thrones there sate three giant forms,29
Rigid the first, as Death;—with lightless eyes,
And brows as hush'd as deserts, when the storms
Lock the tornado in the Nubian skies;—
Dead on dead knees the large hands nerveless rest,
And dead the front droops heavy on the breast.
The second shape, with bright and kindling eye30
And aspect haughty with triumphant life,
Like a young Titan rear'd its crest on high,
Crown'd as for sway, and harness'd as for strife;
But, o'er one-half his image, there was cast
A shadow from the throne where sate the last.
And this, the third and last, seem'd in that sleep31
Which neighbours waking in a summer's dawn,
When dreams, relaxing, scarce their captive keep;
Half o'er his face a veil transparent drawn,
Stirr'd with quick sighs unquiet and disturb'd,
Which told the impatient soul the slumber curb'd.
Thrill'd, but undaunted, on the Adventurer strode32
Then spoke the youthful Genius with the crown
And armour: "Hail to our august abode!
Guardless we greet the seeker of Renown.
In our least terror cravens Death behold,
But vainly frown our direst for the bold."
"And who are ye?" the wondering King replied,33
"On whose large aspects reigns the awe sublime
Of fabled judges, that o'er souls preside
In Rhadamanthian Halls?" "The Lords of Time,"
Answer'd the Giant, "And our realms are three,
The What has been, what is, and WHAT SHALL BE!
"But while we speak my brother's shadow creeps34
Over the life-blood that it freezes fast;
Haste, while the king that shall discrown me sleeps,
Nor lose the Present—lo, how dead the Past!
Accept the trials, Prince beloved by Heaven,
To the deep heart—(that nobler reason,) given.
"Thou hast rejected in the Cuthites' halls35
The fruits that flush Ambition's dazzling tree,
The Conqueror's lust of blood-stain'd coronals;—
Again thine ordeal in thy judgment be!
Nor here shall empire need the arm of crime—
But Fate achieve the lot, thou ask'st from Time.
"Behold the threefold Future at thy choice,36
Choose right, and win from Fame the master-spell."
Then the concealing veils, as ceased the voice,
From the three arches with a clangor fell,
And clear as scenes with Thespian wonders rife
Gave to his view the Lemur-shapes of life.
Lo the fair stream amidst that pleasant vale,37
Wherein his youth held careless holiday;
The stream is blithe with many a silken sail,
The vale with many a proud pavilion gay,
And in the centre of the rosy ring,
Reclines the Phantom of himself—the King.
All, all the same as when his golden prime38
Lay in the lap of Life's soft Arcady;
When the light love beheld no foe but Time,
When but from Pleasure heaved the prophet sigh,
And Luxury's prayer was as "a Summer day,
'Mid blooms and sweets to wear the hours away."
"Behold," the Genius said, "is that thy choice39
As once it was?" "Nay, I have wept since then,"
Answer'd the mortal with a mournful voice,
"When the dews fall, the stars arise for men!"
So turn'd he to the second arch to see
The imperial peace of tranquil majesty;—
The kingly throne, himself the dazzling king;40
Bright arms, and jewell'd vests, and purple stoles;
While silver winds, from many a music-string,
Rippled the wave of glittering banderolls:
From mitred priests and ermined barons, clear
Came the loud praise which monarchs love to hear!
"Doth this content thee?" "Ay," the Prince replied,41
And tower'd erect, with empire on his brow;
"Ay, here at once a Monarch may decide,
Be but the substance worthy of the show!
Show me the men whose toil the pomp creates,
Pomp is the robe,—Content the soul, of States!"
Slow fades the pageant, and the Phantom stage42
As slowly fill'd with squalid, ghastly forms;
Here, over fireless hearths cower'd shivering Age
And blew with feeble breath dead embers;—storms
Hung in the icy welkin; and the bare
Earth lay forlorn in Winter's charnel air.
And Youth all labour-bow'd, with wither'd look,43
Knelt by a rushing stream whose waves were gold,
And sought with lean strong hands to grasp the brook,
And clutch the glitter lapsing from the hold,
Till with mad laugh it ceased, and, tott'ring down,
Fell, and on frowning skies scowl'd back the frown.
No careless Childhood laugh'd disportingly,44
But dwarf'd, pale mandrakes with a century's gloom
On infant brows, beneath a poison-tree
With skeleton fingers plied a ghastly loom,
Mocking in cynic jests life's gravest things,
They wove gay King-robes, muttering "What are Kings?"
And through that dreary Hades to and fro,45
Stalk'd all unheeded the Tartarean Guests;
Grim Discontent that loathes the Gods, and Woe
Clasping dead infants to her milkless breasts;
And madding Hate, and Force with iron heel,
And voiceless Vengeance sharp'ning secret steel.
And, hand in hand, a Gorgon-visaged Pair,46
Envy and Famine, halt with livid smile,
Listening the demon-orator Despair,
That, with a glozing and malignant guile,
Seems sent the gates of Paradise to ope,
And lures to Hell by simulating Hope.
"Can such things be below and God above?"47
Falter'd the King;—Replied the Genius—"Nay,
This is the state that sages most approve;
This is Man civilized!—the perfect sway
Of Merchant Kings;—the ripeness of the Art
Which cheapens men—the Elysium of the Mart.
"Twixt want and wealth is placed the Reign of Gold;48
The reign for which each race advancing sighs,
And none so clamour to be bought or sold
As those gaunt shadows—Trade's grim merchandize.
Dread not their curse—for their delirious sight
Hails in the yellow pest 'The march of Light.'"
"Better for nations," cried the wrathful King.49
"The antique chief, whose palace was the glen,
Whose crown the plumage of the eagle's wing,
Whose throne the hill-top, and whose subjects—men,
Than that last thraldom which precedes decay,
For Avarice reigns not till the hairs are grey.
"Is it in marts that manhood finds its worth?50
When merchants reign'd—what left they to admire?
Which hath bequeath'd the nobler wealth to earth,
The steel of Sparta, or the gold of Tyre?
Beneath the night-shade let the mandrakes grow—
Hide from my sight that Lazar-house of woe."
So, turn'd with generous tears in manly eyes51
The hardy Lord of heaven-taught Chivalry;
Lo the third arch and last!—In moonlight, rise
The Cymrian rocks dark-shining from the sea,
And all those rocks, some patriot war, far gone,
Hallows with grassy mound and starlit stone.
And where the softest falls the loving light,52
He sees himself, stretch'd lifeless on the sward,
And by the corpse, with sacred robes of white
Leans on his ivory harp a lonely Bard;
Yea, to the Dead the sole still watchers given
Are the Fame-Singer and the Hosts of Heaven.
But on the kingly front the kingly crown53
Rests;—the pale right hand grasps the diamond glaive;
The brow, on which ev'n strife hath left no frown,
Calm in the halo Glory gives the Brave.
"Mortal, is this thy choice?" the Genius cried.
"Here Death; there Pleasure; and there Pomp!—decide!"
"Death," answer'd Arthur, "is nor good nor ill54
Save in the ends for which men die—and Death
Can oft achieve what Life may not fulfil,
And kindle earth with Valour's dying breath;
But oh, one answer to one terror deign,
My land—my people!—is that death in vain?"
Mute droop'd the Genius, but the unquiet form55
Dreaming beside its brother king, arose.
Though dreaming still: as leaps the sudden storm
On sands Arabian, as with spasms and throes
Bursts the Fire-mount by soft Parthenopé,
Rose the veil'd Genius of the Things to be!
Shook all the hollow caves;—with tortur'd groan,56
Shook to their roots in the far core of hell;
Deep howl'd to deep—the monumental throne
Of the dead giant rock'd;—each coral cell
Flash'd quivering billowlike. Unshaken smiled,
From the calm ruby base the thorn-crown'd Child.
The Genius rose; and through the phantom arch57
Glided the Shadows of His own pale dreams;
The mortal saw the long procession march
Beside that image which his lemur seems:
An armèd King—three lions on his shield[2]—
First by the Bard-watch'd Shadow paused and kneel'd.
Kneel'd there his train—upon each mailèd breast58
A red cross stamp'd; and, deep as from a sea
With all its waves, full voices murmur'd, "Rest
Ever unburied, Sire of Chivalry!
Ever by Minstrel watch'd, and Knight adored,
King of the halo-brow, and diamond sword!"
Then, as from all the courts of all the earth,59
The reverent pilgrims, countless, clustering came;
They whom the seas of fabled Sirens girth,
Or Baltic freezing in the Boreal flame;
Or they, who watch the Star of Bethlem quiver
By Carmel's Olive mount, and Judah's river.
From violet Provence comes the Troubadour;60
Ferrara sends her clarion-sounding son;
Comes from Iberian halls the turban'd Moor
With cymbals chiming to the clarion;
And, with large stride, amid the gaudier throng,
Stalks the vast Scald of Scandinavian song.
Pass'd he who bore the lions and the cross,61
And all that gorgeous pageant left the space
Void as a heart that mourns the golden loss
Of young illusions beautiful. A Race
Sedate supplants upon the changeful stage
Light's early sires,—the Song-World's hero-age.
Slow come the Shapes from out the dim Obscure,62
A noon-like quiet circles swarming bays,
Seas gleam with sails, and wall-less towns secure,
Rise from the donjon sites of antique days;
Lo, the calm sovereign of that sober reign!
Unarm'd,—with burghers in his pompless train.
And by the corpse of Arthur kneels that king,63
And murmurs, "Father of the Tudor, hail!
To thee nor bays, nor myrtle wreath I bring;
But in thy Son, the Dragon-born prevail,
And in my rule Right first deposes Wrong,
And first the Weak undaunted face the Strong."
He pass'd—Another, with a Nero's frown64
Shading the quick light of impatient eyes,
Strides on—and casts his sceptre, clattering, down,
And from the sceptre rushingly arise
Fierce sparks; along the heath they hissing run,
And the dull earth glows lurid as a sun.
And there is heard afar the hollow crash65
Of ruin;—wind-borne, on the flames are driven:
But where, round falling shrines, they coil and flash,
A seraph's hand extends a scroll from heaven,
And the rude shape cries loud, "Behold, ye blind,
I who have trampled Men have freed the Mind!"
So laughing grim, pass'd the Destroyer on;66
And, after two pale shadows, to the sound
Of lutes more musical than Helicon,
A manlike Woman march'd:—The graves around
Yawn'd, and the ghosts of Knighthood, more serene
In death, arose, and smiled upon the Queen.
With her (at either hand) two starry forms67
Glide—than herself more royal—and the glow
Of their own lustre, each pale phantom warms
Into the lovely life the angels know,
And as they pass, each Fairy leaves its cell,
And Gloriana calls on Ariel!
Yet she, unconscious as the crescent queen68
Of orbs whose brightness makes her image bright,
Haught and imperious, through the borrow'd sheen,
Claims to herself the sovereignty of light;
And is herself so stately to survey,
That orbs which lend, but seem to steal, the ray.
Elf-land divine, and Chivalry sublime,69
Seem there to hold their last high jubilee—
One glorious Sabbat of enchanted Time,
Ere the dull spell seals the sweet glamoury.
And all those wonder-shapes in subject ring
Kneel where the Bard still sits beside the King.
Slow falls a mist, far booms a labouring wind,70
As into night reluctant fades the Dream;
And lo, the smouldering embers left behind
From the old sceptre-flame, with blood-red beam,
Kindle afresh, and the thick smoke-reeks go
Heavily up from marching fires below.
Hark! through sulphureous cloud the jarring bray71
Of trumpet-clangours—the strong shock of steel;
And fitful flashes light the fierce array
Of faces gloomy with the calm of zeal,
Or knightlier forms, on wheeling chargers borne;
Gay in despair, and meeting zeal with scorn.
Forth from the throng came a majestic Woe,72
That wore the shape of man—"And I"—It said
"I am thy Son; and if the Fates bestow
Blood on my soul and ashes on my head;
Time's is the guilt, though mine the misery—
This teach me, Father—to forgive and die!"
But here stern voices drown'd the mournful word,73
Crying—"Men's freedom is the heritage
Left by the Hero of the Diamond Sword,"
And others answer'd—"Nay, the knightly age
Leaves, as its heirloom, knighthood, and that high
Life in sublimer life called loyalty."
Then, through the hurtling clamour came a fair74
Shape like a sworded seraph—sweet and grave;
And when the war heaved distant down the air
And died, as dies a whirlwind, on the wave,
By the two forms upon the starry hill,
Stood the Arch Beautiful, august and still.
And thus It spoke—"I, too, will hail thee, 'Sire,'75
Type of the Hero-age!—thy sons are not
On the earth's thrones. They who, with stately lyre,
Make kingly thoughts immortal, and the lot
Of the hard life divine with visitings
Of the far angels—are thy race of Kings.
"All that ennobles strife in either cause,76
And, rendering service stately, freedom wise,
Knits to the throne of God our human laws—
Doth heir earth's humblest son with royalties
Born from the Hero of the diamond sword,
Watch'd by the Bard, and by the Brave adored.
Then the Bard, seated by the halo'd dead,77
Lifts his sad eyes—and murmurs, "Sing of Him!"
Doubtful the stranger bows his lofty head,
When down descend his kindred Seraphim;
Borne on their wings he soars from human sight,
And Heaven regains the Habitant of Light.
Again, and once again, from many a pale78
And swift-succeeding, dim-distinguish'd, crowd,
Swells slow the pausing pageant. Mount and vale
Mingle in gentle daylight, with one cloud
On the fair welkin, which the iris hues
Steal from its gloom with rays that interfuse.
Mild, like all strength, sits Crownèd Liberty,79
Wearing the aspect of a youthful Queen:
And far outstretch'd along the unmeasured sea
Rests the vast shadow of her throne; serene
From the dumb icebergs to the fiery zone,
Rests the vast shadow of that guardian throne.
And round her group the Cymrian's changeless race80
Blent with the Saxon, brother-like; and both
Saxon and Cymrian from that sovereign trace
Their hero line;—sweet flower of age-long growth;
The single blossom on the twofold stem;—
Arthur's white plume crests Cerdic's diadem.
Yet the same harp that Taliessin strung81
Delights the sons whose sires the chords delighted;
Still the old music of the mountain tongue
Tells of a race not conquer'd but united;
That, losing nought, wins all the Saxon won,
And shares the realm "where never sets the sun."
Afar is heard the fall of headlong thrones,82
But from that throne as calm the shadow falls;
And where Oppression threats and Sorrow groans
Justice sits listening in her gateless halls,
And ev'n, if powerless, still intent, to cure,
Whispers to Truth, "Truths conquer that endure."
Yet still on that horizon hangs the cloud,83
And on the cloud still rests the Cymrian's eye;
"Alas," he murmur'd, "that one mist should shroud,
Perchance from sorrow, that benignant sky!"
But while he sigh'd the Vision vanishèd,
And left once more the lone Bard by the dead.
"Behold the close of thirteen hundred years;84
Lo, Cymri's Daughter on the Saxon's throne!
Free as their air thy Cymrian mountaineers,
And in the heavens one rainbow cloud alone,
Which shall not pass, until, the cycle o'er,
The soul of Arthur comes to earth once more.
"Dost thou choose Death?" the giant Dreamer said.85
"Ay, for in death I seize the life of fame,
And link the eternal millions with the dead,"
Replied the King—and to the sword he came
Large-striding;—grasp'd the hilt;—the charmèd brand
Clove to the rock, and stirr'd not to his hand.
The Dreaming Genius has his throne resumed;86
Sit the Great Three with Silence for their reign,
Awful as earliest Theban kings entomb'd,
Or idols granite-hewn in Indian fane;
When lo, the dove flew forth, and circling round,
Dropp'd on the thorn-wreath which the Statue crown'd.
Rose then the Vulture with its carnage-shriek,87
Up coil'd the darting Asps; the bird above;
Below the reptiles:—poison-fang and beak,
Nearer and nearer gather'd round the dove;
When with strange life the marble Image stirr'd,
And sudden pause the Asps—and rests the Bird.
"Mortal," the Image murmur'd, "I am He,88
Whose voice alone the enchanted sword unsheathes,
Mightier than yonder Shapes—eternally
Throned upon light, though crown'd with thorny wreaths;
Changeless amid the Halls of Time; my name
In heaven is Youth, and on the earth is Fame,
"All altars need their sacrifice; and mine89
Asks every bloom in which thy heart delighted.
Thorns are my garlands—wouldst thou serve the shrine,
Drear is the faith to which thy vows are plighted.
The Asp shall twine, the Vulture watch the prey,
And Horror rend thee, let but Hope give way.
"Wilt thou the falchion with the thorns it brings?"90
"Yea—for the thorn-wreath hath not dimm'd thy smile."
"Lo, thy first offering to the Vulture's wings,
And the Asp's fangs!"—the cold lips answer'd, while
Nearer and nearer the devourers came,
Where the Dove resting hid the thorns of fame.
And all the memories of that faithful guide,91
The sweet companion of unfriended ways,
When danger threaten'd, ever at his side,
And ever, in the grief of later days,
Soothing his heart with its mysterious love,
Till Ægle's soul seem'd hovering in the Dove,—
All cried aloud in Arthur, and he sprang92
And sudden from the slaughter snatch'd the prey;
"What!" said the Image, "can a moment's pang
To the poor worthless favourite of a day
Appal the soul that yearns for ends sublime,
Aid sighs for empire o'er the world's of Time?
"Wilt thou resign the guerdon of the Sword?93
Wilt thou forego the freedom of thy land?
Not one slight offering will thy heart accord?
The hero's prize is for the martyr's hand."
Safe on his breast the King replaced the guide,
Raised his majestic front, and thus replied:
"For Fame and Cymri, what is mine I give.94
Life;—and brave death prefer to ease and power;
But not for Fame or Cymri would I live
Soil'd by the stain of one dishonour'd hour;
And man's great cause was ne'er triumphant made,
By man's worst meanness—Trust for gain betray'd.
"Let then the rock the Sword for ever sheathe,95
All blades are charmèd in the Patriot's grasp!
He spoke, and lo! the Statue's thorny wreath
Bloom'd into roses—and each baffled asp
Fell down and died of its own poison-sting,
Back to the crag dull-sail'd the death-bird's wing.
And from the Statue's smile, as when the morn96
Unlocks the Eastern gates of Paradise,
Ineffable joy, in light and beauty borne,
Flow'd; and the azure of the distant skies
Stole through the crimson hues the ruby gave,
And slept, like Happiness, on Glory's wave.
"Go," said the Image, "thou hast won the Sword;97
He who thus values Honour more than Fame
Makes Fame itself his servant, not his lord;
And the man's heart achieves the hero's claim.
But by Ambition is Ambition tried,
None gain the guerdon who betray the guide!"
Wondering the Monarch heard, and hearing laid98
On the bright hilt-gem the obedient hand;
Swift at the touch, leapt forth the diamond blade,
And each long vista lighten'd with the brand;
The speaking marble bow'd its reverent head,
Rose the three Kings—the Dreamer and the Dead;
Voices far off, as in the heart of heaven,99
Hymn'd, "Hail, Fame-Conqueror in the Halls of Time;"
Deep as to hell the flaming vaults were riven;
High as to angels, space on space sublime
Open'd, and flash'd upon the mortal's eye
The Morning Land of Immortality.
Bow'd down before the intolerable light,100
Sank on his knees the King; and humbly veil'd
The Home of Seraphs from the human sight;
Then the freed soul forsook him, as it hail'd
Through Flesh, its prison-house,—the spirit-choir;
And fled as flies the music from the lyre.
And all was blank, and meaningless, and void;101
For the dull form, abandon'd thus below,
Scarcely it felt the closing waves that buoy'd
Its limbs, light-drifting down the gentle flow—
And when the conscious life return'd again,
Lo, noon lay tranquil on the ocean main.
As from a dream he woke, and look'd around,102
For the lost Lake and Ægle's distant grave;
But dark, behind, the silent headlands frown'd;
And bright, before him, smiled the murmuring wave;
His right hand rested on the falchion won;
And the Dove pruned her pinions in the sun.