"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."