The Enchanter, thoughtful, turn'd, and on the grave32
His look relaxing fell,—"Ah, child, lost child!
To thy young life no youth harmonious gave
Music;—no love thine exquisite griefs beguiled;
Thy soul's deep ocean hid its priceless pearl:—
And he is loved and yet repines! O churl!"
And murmuring thus, he saw below the mound33
The stoic brows of the stern Alemen,
Their gaunt limbs strewn supine along the ground,
Still as gorged lions couch'd before the den
After the feast; their life no medium knows,—
Here headlong conflict, there inert repose!
"Which of these feet could overtake the roe?34
Which of these arms could grapple with the bear?"
"My first-born," answer'd Faul, "outstrips the roe;
My youngest crushes in his grasp the bear."
"Thou, then, the swift one, gird thy loins, and rise:
See o'er the lowland where the vapour lies,
"Far to the right, a mist from Sabra's wave;35
Amidst that haze explore a creek rush-grown,
Screen'd from the waters less remote, which lave
The Saxon's anchor'd barks, and near a lone
Grey crag where bitterns boom; within that creek
Gleams through green boughs a galley's brazen peak;
This gain'd, demand the chief, a Christian knight,36
The bear's rough mantle o'er his rusted mail;
Tell him from me, to tarry till a light
Burst from the Dragon keep;—then crowd his sail,
Fire his own ship—and, blazing to the bay,
Cleave through yon fleet his red destroying way;
"No arduous feat: the galleys are unmann'd,37
Moor'd each to each; let fire consume them all!
Then, the shore won, lead hitherwards the band
Between the Saxon camp and Cymrian wall.
What next behoves, the time itself will show,
Here counsel ceases;—there ye find the foe!"
Heard the wild youth, and no reply made he,38
But braced his belt and griped his spear, and straight
As the bird flies, he flew. "My son, to thee,"
Next said the Prophet, "a more urgent fate
And a more perilous duty are consign'd;
Mark, the strong arm requires the watchful mind.
"Thou hast to pass the Saxon sentinels;39
Thou hast to thread the Saxon hosts alone;
Many are there whom thy far Rhine expels
His swarming war-hive,—and their tongue thine own;
Take from yon Teuton dead the mail'd disguise,
Thy speech their ears, thy garb shall dupe their eyes;
"The watch-pass 'Vingólf'[1] wins thee through the van,40
The rest shall danger to thy sense inspire,
And that quick light in the hard sloth of man
Coil'd, till sharp need strike forth the sudden fire.
The encampment traversed, where the woods behind
Slope their green gloom, thy stealthy pathway wind;
"Keep to one leftward track, amidst the chase41
Clear'd for the hunter's sport in happier days;
Till scarce a mile from the last tent, a space
Clasping grey crommell stones, will close the maze.
There, in the centre of that Druid ring,
Arm'd men will stand around the Cymrian King:—