A paler hue shot o'er the hardy face92
Of the great Earl, as thus the Elder spoke;
But calm he answer'd, "Summon Odin's race;
On me and mine the Teuton's wrath invoke!
Let shuddering fathers learn what priests can dream,
And warriors judge if I their Gods blaspheme!
"But peace and hearken.—To the king I speak:—93
With mine own lithsmen, and such willing aid
As Harold's tromps arouse,—yon walls I seek;
Be Cymri's throne the ransom of the maid.
On Carduel's wall if Saxon standards wave,
Let Odin's arms the needless victim save!
"Grant me till noon to prove what men are worth,94
Who serve the War God by the warlike deed;
Refuse me this, King Crida, and henceforth
Let chiefs more prized the Mercian armies lead;
For I, blunt Harold, join no cause with those
Who, wolves for victims, are as hares to foes!"
Scornful he ceased, and lean'd upon his sword;95
Whispering the Priests, and silent Crida, stood.
A living Thor to that barbarian horde
Was the bold Thane, and ev'n the men of blood
Felt Harold's loss amid the host's dismay
Would rend the clasp that link'd the wild array.
At length out spoke the priestly chief, "The gods96
Endure the boasts, to bow the pride, of men;
The Well of Wisdom sinks in Hell's abode;
The Læca shines beside the bautasten,[5]
And Truth too oft illumes the eyes that scorn'd,
By the death-flash from which in vain it warn'd.
"Be the delay the pride of man demands97
Vouchsafed, the nothingness of man to show!
The gods unsoften'd, march thy futile bands:
Till noon, we spare the victim;—seek the foe!
But when with equal shadows rests the sun—
The altar reddens, or the walls are won!"
"So be it," the Thane replied, and sternly smiled;98
Then towards the sister-twain, with pitying brow,
Whispering he came,—"Fair friend of Harold's child,
Let our own gods at least be with thee now;
Pray that the Asas bless the Teuton strife,
And guide the swords that strike for thy sweet life."
"Alas!" cried Geneviève, "Christ came to save,99
Not slay: He taught the weakest how to die;
For me, for me, a nation glut the grave!
That nation Christ's, and—No, the victim I!
Not now for life, my father, see me kneel,
But one kind look,—and then, how blunt the steel!"
And Crida moved not! Moist were Harold's eyes;100
Bending, he whisper'd in Genevra's ear,
"Thy presence is her safety! Time denies
All words but these;—hope in the brave; revere
The gods they serve;—by acts our faith we test;
The holiest gods are where the men are best."
"With this he turn'd, "Ye priests," he call'd aloud,101
"On every head within these walls, I set
Dread weregeld for the compact; blood for blood!"
Then o'er his brows he closed his bassinet,
Shook the black death-pomp of his shadowy plume,
And his arm'd stride was lost amidst the gloom.—