Through secret paths with bush and bosk o'ergrown,170
Wind round the tented hill, and win the wall;
With Arthur's name arouse the leaguer'd town,
Give the pent stream the cataract's rushing fall,
Sweep to the camp, and on the Pagan horde
Urge all of man that yet survives the sword.
Meanwhile on foot the king shall guide his band171
Round to the rearward of the vast array
Where yet large fragments of the forest stand
To shroud with darkness the avenger's way;—
Thence, when least look'd for, burst upon the foe,
On war's own heart direct the sudden blow;
Thus, front and rear assail'd, their numbers less172
(Perplex'd, distraught) avail the heathen's power.
Dire was the peril, and the sole success
In the nice seizure of the season'd hour;
The high-soul'd rashness of the bold emprise;
The fear that smites the fiercest in surprise;
Whatever worth the enchanted boons may bear,173
The hero heart by which those boons were won;
The stubborn strength of that supreme despair,
When victory lost is all a land undone;
In the Man's cause, and in the Christian's zeal,
And the just God that sanctions Freedom's steel.
Meanwhile, along a cavelike corridor174
The stranger guest the gentle abbess led;
Where the voluptuous hypocaust of yore
Left cells for vestal dreams saint-hallowèd.
Her own, austerely rude, affords the rest
To which her parting kiss consigns the guest.
But welcome not for rest that loneliness!175
The iron lamp the imaged cross displays;
And to that guide for souls, what mute distress
Lifts the imploring passion of its gaze?
Fear like remorse—and sorrow dark as sin?
Enter that mystic heart and look within!
What broken gleams of memory come and go176
Along the dark!—a silent starry love
Lighting young Fancy's virgin waves below,
But shed from thoughts that rest ensphered above!
Oh, flowers whose bloom had perfumed Carmel, weave
Wreathes for such love as lived in Genevieve!
A May noon resteth on the forest hill;177
A May noon resteth over ruins hoar;
A maiden muses on the forest hill,
A tomb's vast pile o'ershades the ruins hoar,
With doors now open to each prying blast,
Where once to rot imperial dust had pass'd;
Through those dark portals glides the musing maid,178
And slumber drags her down its airy deep.
O wondrous trance! in Druid robes array'd,
What form benignant charms the life-like sleep?
What spells low-chaunted, holy-sweet, like prayer
Plume the light soul, and waft it through the air?
Comes a dim sense as of an angel's being,179
Bathed in ambrosial dews and liquid day;
Of floating wings, like heavenward instincts, freeing
Through azure solitudes a spirit's way.—
An absence of all earthly thought, desire,
Aim—hope, save those which love and which aspire;