It is not man's—for they, man's savage foes,8
Whose sense ne'er fails them when the scent is blood,
Sport in the shadow the Unseen One throws,
Nor hush their young to sniff the human food;
But, undisturbed as if their home were there,
Pass to and fro the light-defying lair.
So the bears gamboll'd, so the Shadow play'd,9
When sudden halts the uncouth merriment.
Now man, in truth, draws near, man's steps invade
The men-devourers!—Snorting to the scent,
Lo, where they stretch dread necks of shaggy snow,
Grin with white fangs, and greed the blood to flow!
Grotesquely undulating, moves the flock,10
Low grumbling as the grisly ranks divide;
Some heave their slow bulk peering up the rock,
Some stand erect, and shift from side to side
The keen quick ear, the red dilating eye,
And steam the hard air with a hungry sigh.
At length unquiet and amazed—as rings11
On to their haunt direct, the dauntless stride,
With the sharp instinct of all savage things
That doubt a prey by which they are defied,
They send from each to each a troubled stare;
And huddle close, suspicious of the snare.
Then a huge leader, with concerted wile,12
Creeps lumbering on, and, to his guidance slow
The shaggèd armies move, in cautious file;
Till one by one, in ambush for the foe,
Drops into chasm and cleft,—and vanishing
With stealthy murther girds the coming King!
He comes,—the Conqueror in the Halls of Time,13
Known by his silver herald in the Dove,
By his imperial tread, and front sublime
With power as tranquil as the lids of Jove,—
All shapes of death the realms around afford:—
From Fiends God guard him!—from all else his sword
For he, with spring the huts of ice had left14
And the small People of the world of snows:
Their food the seal, their camp, at night, the cleft,
His bold Norwegians follow where he goes;
Now in the rear afar, their chief they miss,
And grudge the danger which they deem a bliss.
Ere yet the meteors from the morning sky15
Chased large Orion,—in the hour when sleep
Reflects its ghost-land stillest on the eye,
Had stol'n the lonely King; and o'er the deep
Sought, by the clue the dwarfmen-legends yield,
And the Dove's wing—the demon-guarded Shield.
The Desert of the Desolate is won.16
Still lurks, unseen, the ambush horrible—
Nought stirs around beneath the twofold sun
Save that strange Shadow, where before it fell,
Still falling;—varying, quivering to and fro,
From the black cavern on the glaring snow.
Slow the devourers rise, and peer around:17
Now crag and cliff move dire with savage life,
And rolling downward,—all the dismal ground
Shakes with the roar and bristles with the strife:
Not unprepared—(when ever are the brave?)
Stands the firm King, and bares the diamond glaive.