And still poor Geneviève with mournful eyes102
Gazed on the father, whose averted brows
Had more of darkness for her soul than lies
Under the lids of death. The murmurous
And lurid air buzzed with a ghostlike sound
From patient Murder's iron lip;—and round
The delicate form which, like a Psyche, seem'd103
Beauty sublimed into the type of soul,
Fresh from such stars as ne'er on Paphos beam'd,
When first on Love the chastening vision stole,—
The sister virgin coil'd her clasp of woe;
Ev'n as that Sorrow which the Soul must know
Till Soul and Love meet never more to part.104
At last, from under his wide mantle's fold,
The strain'd arms lock'd on his loud-beating heart
(As if the anguish which the king controll'd,
The man could stifle),—Crida toss'd on high;—
And nature conquer'd in the father's cry!
Over the kneeling form swept his grey hair;105
On the soft upturn'd eyes prest his wild kiss;
And then recoiling, with a livid stare,
He faced the priests, and mutter'd, "Dotage this!
Crida is old,—come—come;" and from the ring
Beckon'd their chief, and went forth tottering.
Out of the fane, up where the stair of pine106
Wound to the summit of the camp's rough tower,
King Crida pass'd. On moving armour shine
The healthful beams of the fresh morning hour;
He hears the barb's shrill neigh,—the clarion's swell,
And half his armies march to Carduel.
Far in the van, like Odin's fatal bird107
Wing'd for its feast, sails Harold's raven plume.
Now from the city's heart a shout is heard,
Wall, bastion, tower, their steel-clad life resume;
Far shout! faint forms! yet seem they loud and clear
To that strain'd eyeball and that feverish ear.
But not on hosts that march by Harold's side,108
Gazed the stern priest, who stood with Crida there;
On sullen gloomy groups—discatter'd wide,
Grudging the conflict they refused to share,
Or seated round rude tents and pilèd spears;
Circling the mutter of rebellious fears;
Or, near the temple fort, with folded arms109
On their broad breasts, waiting the deed of blood;
On these he gazed—to gloat on the alarms
That made him monarch of that multitude!
Not one man there had pity in his eye.
And the priest smiled,—then turn'd to watch the sky.
And the sky deepen'd, and the time rush'd on.110
And Crida sees the ladders on the wall;
And dust-clouds gather round his gonfanon;
And through the dust-clouds glittering rise and fall
The meteor lights of helms, and shields, and glaives;
Up o'er the rampires mount the labouring waves;
And joyous rings the Saxon's battle shout;111
And Cymri's angel cry wails like despair;
And from the Dragon Keep a light shines out,
Calm as a single star in tortured air,
To whose high peace, aloof from storms, in vain
Looks a lost navy from the violent main.