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.