Then slowly turn'd, and calmly moved the sage,12
On the Bard's grave his stand the Prophet took.
High o'er the crowd in all his pomp of age
August, a glory brighten'd from his look;
Hope flash'd in eyes illumined from his own,
Bright, as if there some sure redemption shone.
Thus spoke the Seer: "Hosannah to the brave;13
Lo, the eternal heir-looms of your land!
A realm's great treasure-house! The freeman's grave
The hero creed that to the swordless hand
Thought, when heroic, gives an army's might;—
And song to nations as to plants the light!
"Cymrians, the sun yon towers will scarcely gild,14
Ere war will scale them! Here, your task is o'er.
Your walls your camp, your streets your battle-field;
Each house a fortress!—One strong effort more
For God, for Freedom—for your shrines and homes!
After the Martyr the Deliverer comes!"
He ceased; and such the reverence of the crowd,15
No lip presumed to question. Wonder hush'd
Its curious guess, and only Hope aloud
Spoke in the dauntless shout: each cheek was flush'd:
Each eye was bright;—each heart beat high; and all
Ranged in due ranks, resought the shatter'd wall:
Save only four, whom to that holy spot16
The Prophet's whisper stay'd:—of these, the one
Of knightly port and arms, was Lancelot;
But in the ruder three, with garments won
From the wild beast,—long hair'd, large limb'd, again
See Rhine's strong sons, the convert Alemen!
When these alone remain'd beside the mound,17
The Prophet drew apart the Paladin,
And said, "What time, feud, worse than famine, found
The Cymrian race, like some lost child of sin
That courts, yet cowers from death;—serene through all
The jarring factions of the maddening hall,
"Thou didst in vain breathe high rebuke to pride,18
With words sublimely proud. 'No post the man
Ennobles;—man the post! did He who died
To crown in death the end His birth began,
Assume the sceptre when the cross He braved?
Did He wear purple in the world He saved?
"'Ye clamour which is worthiest of command,—19
Place me, whose fathers led the hosts of Gaul,
Amongst the meanest children of your land;
Let me owe nothing to my fathers,—all
To such high deeds as raised, ere kings were known,
The boldest savage to the earliest throne!'
"But none did heed thee, and in scornful grief20
Went thy still footsteps from the raging hall,
Where, by the altar of the bright Belief
That spans this cloud-world when its sun-showers fall,
Assured at least thy bride in heaven to be,
Genevra pray'd—not life but death with thee.
"There, by the altar, did ye join your hands,21
And in your vow, scorning malignant Time,
Ye plighted two immortals! in those bands
Hope still wove flowers,—but earth was not their clime;
Then to the breach alone, resign'd, consoled,
Went Gaul's young hero.—Art thou now less bold?