Come, Crida, come." Up as from heavy sleep122
The grey-hair'd giant raised his awful head;
As, after calmest waters, the swift leap
Of the strong torrent rushes to its bed,—
So the new passion seized and changed the form,
As if the rest had braced it for the storm.
No grief was in the iron of that brow;123
Age cramp'd no sinew in that mighty arm;
"Go," he said sternly, "where it fits thee, thou:
Thy post with Odin—mine with Managarm![6]
Let priests avert the dangers kings must dare;
My shrine yon Standard, and my Children—there!"
So from the height he swept—as doth a cloud124
That brings a tempest when it sinks below;
Swift strides a chief amidst the jarring crowd;
Swift in stern ranks the rent disorders grow;
Swift, as in sails becalm'd swells forth the wind,
The wide mass quickens with the one strong mind.
Meanwhile the victim, to the Demon vow'd,125
Knelt; every thought wing'd for the Angel goal,
And ev'n the terror which the form had bow'd
Search'd but new sweetness where it shook the soul.
Self was forgot, and to the Eternal Ear
Prayer but for others spoke the human fear.
And when at moments from that rapt communion126
With the Invisible Holy, those young arms
Clasp'd round her neck, to childhood's happy union
In the old days recall'd her; such sweet charms
Did Comfort weave, that in the sister's breast
Grief like an infant sobb'd itself to rest.
Up leapt the solemn priests from dull repose:127
The fires were fann'd as with a sudden wind;
While shrieking loud, "Hark, hark, the conquering foes!
Haste, haste, the victim to the altar bind!"
Rush'd to the shrine the haggard Slaughter-Chief.—
As the strong gusts that whirl the fallen leaf
I' the month when wolves descend, the barbarous hands128
Plunge on the prey of their delirious wrath,
Wrench'd from Genevra's clasp;—Lo, where she stands,
On earth no anchor,—is she less like Faith?
The same smile firmly sad, the same calm eye,
The same meek strength;—strength to forgive and die!
"Hear us, O Odin, in this last despair!129
Hear us, and save!" the Pontiff call'd aloud;
"By the Child's blood we shed, thy children spare!"
And the knife glitter'd o'er the breast that bow'd.
Dropp'd blade;—fell priest!—blood chokes a gurgling groan;
Blood,—blood not Christian, dyes the altar-stone!
Deep in the DOOMER'S breast it sank—the dart;130
As if from Fate it came invisibly;
Where is the hand?—from what dark hush shall start
Foeman or fiend?—no shape appalls the eye,
No sound the ear!—ice-lock'd each coward breath;
The Power the Deathsman call'd, hath heard him—Death!
"While yet the stupor stuns the circle there,131
Fierce shrieks—loud feet—come rushing through the doors:
Women with outstretch'd arms and tossing hair,
And flying warriors, shake the solemn floors;
Thick as the birds storm-driven on the decks
Of some lone ship—the last an ocean wrecks.