"Behold the close of thirteen hundred years;84
Lo, Cymri's Daughter on the Saxon's throne!
Free as their air thy Cymrian mountaineers,
And in the heavens one rainbow cloud alone,
Which shall not pass, until, the cycle o'er,
The soul of Arthur comes to earth once more.
"Dost thou choose Death?" the giant Dreamer said.85
"Ay, for in death I seize the life of fame,
And link the eternal millions with the dead,"
Replied the King—and to the sword he came
Large-striding;—grasp'd the hilt;—the charmèd brand
Clove to the rock, and stirr'd not to his hand.
The Dreaming Genius has his throne resumed;86
Sit the Great Three with Silence for their reign,
Awful as earliest Theban kings entomb'd,
Or idols granite-hewn in Indian fane;
When lo, the dove flew forth, and circling round,
Dropp'd on the thorn-wreath which the Statue crown'd.
Rose then the Vulture with its carnage-shriek,87
Up coil'd the darting Asps; the bird above;
Below the reptiles:—poison-fang and beak,
Nearer and nearer gather'd round the dove;
When with strange life the marble Image stirr'd,
And sudden pause the Asps—and rests the Bird.
"Mortal," the Image murmur'd, "I am He,88
Whose voice alone the enchanted sword unsheathes,
Mightier than yonder Shapes—eternally
Throned upon light, though crown'd with thorny wreaths;
Changeless amid the Halls of Time; my name
In heaven is Youth, and on the earth is Fame,
"All altars need their sacrifice; and mine89
Asks every bloom in which thy heart delighted.
Thorns are my garlands—wouldst thou serve the shrine,
Drear is the faith to which thy vows are plighted.
The Asp shall twine, the Vulture watch the prey,
And Horror rend thee, let but Hope give way.
"Wilt thou the falchion with the thorns it brings?"90
"Yea—for the thorn-wreath hath not dimm'd thy smile."
"Lo, thy first offering to the Vulture's wings,
And the Asp's fangs!"—the cold lips answer'd, while
Nearer and nearer the devourers came,
Where the Dove resting hid the thorns of fame.
And all the memories of that faithful guide,91
The sweet companion of unfriended ways,
When danger threaten'd, ever at his side,
And ever, in the grief of later days,
Soothing his heart with its mysterious love,
Till Ægle's soul seem'd hovering in the Dove,—
All cried aloud in Arthur, and he sprang92
And sudden from the slaughter snatch'd the prey;
"What!" said the Image, "can a moment's pang
To the poor worthless favourite of a day
Appal the soul that yearns for ends sublime,
Aid sighs for empire o'er the world's of Time?
"Wilt thou resign the guerdon of the Sword?93
Wilt thou forego the freedom of thy land?
Not one slight offering will thy heart accord?
The hero's prize is for the martyr's hand."
Safe on his breast the King replaced the guide,
Raised his majestic front, and thus replied: