It made not sadness, though the calm, grave smile78
Never regain'd the flash that youth had given,—
But as some shadow from a sacred pile
Darkens the earth from shrines that speak of heaven,
That gloom the grandeur of religion wore,
And seem'd to hallow all it rested o'er.
Such Freedom is, O Slave, that would be free!79
Never her real struggles into life
Hath History told! As it hath been shall be
The Apocalypse of Nations; nursed in strife
Not with the present, nor with living foes,
But where the centuries shroud their long repose.
Out from the graves of earth's primæval bones,80
The shield of empire, patient Force must win:
What made the Briton free? not crashing thrones
Nor parchment laws. The charter must begin
In Scythian tents, the steel of Nomad spears;
To date the freedom, count three thousand years!
Neither is Freedom mirth! Be free, O slave,81
And dance no more beneath the lazy palm.
Freedom's mild brow with noble care is grave,
Her bliss is solemn as her strength is calm;
And thought mature each childlike sport debars
The forms erect whose look is on the stars.
Now as the King revived, along the seas82
Flow'd back, enlarged to life, the lapsing waters;
Kiss'd from their slumber by the loving breeze,
Glide, in light dance, the Ocean's silver daughters—
And blithe and hopeful o'er the sunny strands,
Listing the long-lost billow, rove the bands.
At length, O sight of joy!—the gleam of sails83
Bursts on the solitude! more near and near
Come the white playmates of the buxom gales.—
The whistling cords, the sounds of man, they hear.
Shout answers shout;—light sparkles round the oar—
And from the barks the boat skims on to shore.
It was a race from Rugen's friendly soil,84
Leagued by old ties with Cymri's land and king,
Who, with the spring-time, to their wonted spoil
Of seals and furs had spread the canvas wing
To bournes their fathers never yet had known;—
And found, amazed, hearts bolder than their own.
Soon to the barks the Cymrian and their bands85
Are borne: Bright-hair'd, above the gazing crews,
Lone on the loftiest deck, the leader stands,
To whom the King (his rank made known) renews
All that his tale of mortal hope and fear
Vouchsafes from truth to thrill a mortal's ear;
And from the barks whose sails the chief obey,86
Craves one to waft where yet the fates may guide.—
With rugged wonder in his large survey,
That calm grand brow the son of Ægir[8] eyed,
And seem'd in awe, as of a god, to scan
Him who so moved his homage, yet was man.
Smoothing his voice, rough with accustom'd swell87
Above the storms, and the wild roar of war,
The Northman answer'd, "Skalds in winter tell
Of the dire dwarf who guards the Shield of Thor,
For one whose race, with Odin's blent, shall be,
Lords of the only realm which suits the Free,