Before him stretch'd the maëlstrom of the abyss;88
And, in the central torrent, giant pines,
Uprooted from the bordering wilderness
By some gone winter's blast—in flashing lines
Shot through the whirl—then, pluck'd to the profound,
Vanish'd and rose, swift eddying round and round.
But on the marge as on the wave thou art,89
O conquering Death!—what human, hueless face
Rests pillow'd on a silenced human heart?
What arm still clasps in more than love's embrace
That form for which yon vulture flaps its wing?
Kneel, Lancelot, kneel, thine eyes behold thy King!
Alas! in vain—still in the Death-god's cave,90
Ere yet the torrent snatch'd the hurrying stream,
Beside a crag grey-shimmering from the wave,
And near the brink by which the pallid beam
Show'd one pent path along the rugged verge,
By which to leave the raft and 'scape the surge,—
Alas! in vain, that haven to the ark91
The dove had given!—just won the refuge-place,
When, thrice emerging from the sheeted dark,
White glanced a robe, and livid rose a face!
He saw, he sprang, he near'd, he grasp'd the vest!
And both the torrent grappled to its breast.
Yet in the immense and superhuman force,92
Love and despair bestow upon the bold,
The strong man battled with the Titan's course,
Grip'd rock and layer, and ledge, with snatching hold,
Bruised, bleeding, broken, onwards, downwards driven,
No wave his treasure from his grasp had riven
Saved, saved—at last before his reeling eyes93
(Into the pool, that check'd the Fury, hurl'd)
Shone, as he rose, through all the hurtling skies,
The dove's white wing; and ere the maëlstrom whirl'd
The madden'd waters to the central shock,
Show'd the gnarl'd roots of the redeeming rock.
Less sense than instinct caught the wing that shone,94
The crags that shelter'd;—the wild billows gave
The failing limbs a force no more their own,
And as he turn'd and sunk, the swerving wave
Swoop'd round, dash'd on, and to the isthmus sped,
Still breast to breast, the living and the dead!
Long vain were Lancelot's cares and knightly skill,95
Ere, through slow veins congeal'd, pulsed back the blood;
The very wounds, the valour of the will,
The peaks that broke the fury of the flood
Had help'd to save; alas, the strong to save!
For Strength to toil, till Love re-opes the grave.
Twice down the dismal path (the dove his guide)96
The fairy nursling bore his helpless load;
A chamois-hunter, in the vale descried,
Aided the convoy to the house of God.
Dark—wroth—convulsed, the earth-bound spirit lay;
Calm from the bier beside it, smiled the clay!
O Song—for Lydian elegy too stern,97
Song, cradled in the Celt's rough battle-shield;
Rather from thee should man, the soldier, learn
To hide the wounds—heroic while conceal'd;
From foes without the mean the palm may win,
What tries the noble is the war within!