Infant, who came to bid a war relent,72
And rob ambition of its carnage-prize,
Is it on thee those sombre brows are bent?
For thee the death-greed in those ravening eyes?
Thy task undone, thy gentle prayer unspoken?
Ay, press the cross: it is the martyr's token!
She press'd the cross with one firm faithful hand,73
While one—(that trembled!)—clasp'd her father's knees;
As clings a wretch, that sinks in sight of land,
To reeds swept with him down the weltering seas,
And murmur'd, "Pardon; Him whose agony
Was earth's salvation, I may not deny!
"Him who gave God the name I give to thee,74
'Father,'—in Him, in Christ, is my belief!"
Then Crida turn'd unto the priests,—"Ye see,"
Smiling, he said, "that I have done with grief:
Behold the victim! be the God obey'd!
The son of Odin dooms the Christian maid!"
He said, and from his robe he wrench'd the hand,75
And, where the gloom was darkest, stalk'd away.
But whispering low, still pause the hellish band;
And dread lest Nature yet redeem the prey,
And deem it wise against such chance to arm
The priesthood's puissance with the host's alarm;
To bruit abroad the dark oracular threats,76
From which the Virgin's blood alone can save;
Gird with infuriate fears the murtherous nets,
And plant an army to secure a grave;
The whispers cease—the doors one gleam of day
Give—and then close;—the blood-hound slinks away.
Around the victim—where with wandering hand,77
Through her blind tears, she seems to search through space
For him who had forsaken—circling stand
The solemn butchers; calm in every face
And death in every heart; till from the belt
Stretch'd one lean hand and grasp'd her where she knelt.
And her wild shriek went forth and smote the shrine,78
Which echo'd, shrilling back the sharp despair,
Through the waste gaps between the shafts of pine
To th' unseen father's ear. Before the glare
Of the weird fire, the sacrifice they chain
To stones impress'd with rune and shamble-stain.
Then wait (for so their formal rites compel)79
Till from the trance that still his senses seals,
Awakes the soothsayer of the oracle;
At length with tortured spasms, and slowly, steals
Back the reluctant life—slow as it creeps
To one hard-rescued from the drowning deeps.
And when from dim, uncertain, swimming eyes80
The gaunt long fingers put the shaggy hair,
And on the priests, the shrine, the sacrifice,
Dwelt the fix'd sternness of the glassy stare,
Before the god they led the demon-man,
And circling round the two their hymn began.
So rapt in their remorseless ecstasy,81
They did not hear the quick steps at the door,
Nor that loud knock nor that impatient cry;
Till shook,—till crash'd, the portals on the floor,—
Crash'd to the strong hand of the fiery thane;
And Harold's stride came clanging up the fane.—