Wrath, and the grind of gnashing teeth; the growl3
Of famine routed from its red repast;
Sharp shrilling pain; and fury from some soul
That fronts despair, and wrestles to the last.
Up sprang the King—the moon's uncertain ray
Through the still leaves just wins its glimmering way.
And lo, before him, close, yet wanly faint,4
Forms that seem shadows, strife that seems the sport
Of things that oft some holy hermit saint
Lone in Egyptian plains (the dread resort
Of Nile's dethronèd demon gods) hath view'd;
The grisly tempters, born of Solitude:—
Coil'd in the strong death-grapple, through the dim5
And haggard air, before the Cymrian lay
Writhing and interlaced with fang and limb,
As if one shape, what seem'd a beast of prey
And the grand form of Man!—The bird of Heaven
Wisely no note to warn the sleep had given;
The sleep protected;—as the Savage sprang,6
Sprang the wild beast;—before the dreamer's breast
Defeated Murder found the hungry fang,
The wolf the steel:—so, starting from his rest,
The saved man woke to save! Nor time was here
For pause or caution; for the sword or spear;
Clasp'd round the wolf, swift arms of iron draw7
From their fierce hold the buried fangs;—on high
Up-borne, the baffled terrors of its jaw
Gnash vain;—one yell howls, hollow, through the sky;
And dies abruptly, stifled to a gasp,
As the grim heart pants crushing in the grasp.
Fit for a nation's bulwark, that strong breast8
To which the strong arms lock'd the powerless foe!—
Nor oped the vice till breath's last anguish ceast;
'Tis done; and dumb the dull weight drops below.
The kindred form, which now the King surveys,
Those arms, all gentle as a woman's, raise.
Leaning the pale cheek on his pitying heart,9
He wipes the blood from face, and breast, and limb,
And joyful sees (for no humaner art
Which Christian knighthood knows, unknown to him)
That the fell fangs the nobler parts forbore,
And, thanks, sweet Virgin! life returns once more.
The savage stared around: from dizzy eyes10
Toss'd the loose shaggy hair; and to his knee,—
His reeling feet—up stagger'd—Lo, where lies
The dead wild beast!—lo, in his saviour, see
The fellow-man, whom—with a feeble bound
He leapt, and snatch'd the dagger from the ground;
And, faithful to his gods, he sprang to slay;11
The weak limb fail'd him; gleam'd and dropp'd the blade;
The arm hung nerveless;—by the beast of prey
Murder, still baffled, fell:—Then, soothing, said
The gentle King—"Behold no foe in me!"
And knelt by Hate like pitying Charity.
In suffering man he could not find a foe,12
And the mild hand clasp'd that which yearn'd to kill!
"Ha," gasp'd the gazing savage, "dost thou know
That I had doom'd thee in thy sleep?—that still
My soul would doom thee, could my hand obey?—
Wake thou, stern goddess—seize thyself the prey!"