The wild troop part submissive as he goes;63
Where, like an islet in that stormy main,
Gleam'd Mercia's steel; and like a rock arose,
Breasting the breakers, the undaunted Thane;
He doff'd his helmet, look'd majestic round;
And dropp'd the murderous weapon on the ground;
And with a meek and brotherly embrace64
Twined round the Saxon's neck the peaceful arm.
Strife stood arrested—the mild kingly face,
The loving gesture, like a holy charm,
Thrill'd through the ranks: you might have heard a breath!
So did soft Silence seem to bury Death.
On the fair locks, and on the noble brow,65
Fell the full splendour of the heavenly ray;
The dove, dislodged, flew up—and rested now,
Poised in the tranquil and translucent day.
The calm wings seem'd to canopy the head;
And from each plume a parting glory spread.
So leave we that still picture on the eye;66
And turn, reluctant, where the wand of Song
Points to the walls of Time's long gallery:
And the dim Beautiful of Eld—too long
Mouldering unheeded in these later days,
Starts from the canvass, bright'ning as we gaze.
O lovely scene which smiles upon my view,67
As sure it smiled on sweet Albano's dreams;
He to whom Amor gave the roseate hue
And that harmonious colour-wand which seems
Pluck'd from the god's own wing!—Arcades and bowers,
Mellifluous waters, lapsing amidst flowers,
Or springing up, in multiform disport,68
From murmurous founts, delightedly at play;
As if the Naiad held her joyous court
To greet the goddess whom the flowers obey;
And all her nymphs took varying shapes in glee,
Bell'd like the blossom—branching like the tree.
Adown the cedarn alleys glanced the wings69
Of all the painted populace of air,
Whatever lulls the noonday while it sings
Or mocks the iris with its plumes,—is there—
Music and air so interfused and blent,
That music seems life's breathing element.
And every alley's stately vista closed70
With some fair statue, on whose gleaming base
Beauty, not earth's, benignantly reposed,
As if the gods were native to the place;
And fair indeed the mortal forms, I ween,
Whose presence brings no discord to the scene!
Oh, fair they are, if mortal forms they be!71
Mine eye the lovely error must beguile;
So bloom'd the Hours, when from the heaving sea[5]
Came Aphroditè to the rosy isle.
What time they left Olympian halls above,
To greet on earth their best beguiler—Love?
Are they the Oreads from the Delphian steep72
Waiting their goddess of the silver bow?
Or shy Napææ,[6] startled from their sleep,
Where blue Cithæron guards sweet vales below,
Watching as home, from vanquished Ind afar,
Comes their loved Evian in the panther-car?