Volume Ii Part 27 (1/2)
Silent stepped the queenly slave.
Fair, by heaven! she was to meet On a midnight, near a grave, Flapping wide the winding-sheet.
XII
Death and she walked through the crowd, Out beyond the flush of light.
Ceremonious women bowed Following her: 'twas middle night.
Then the warriors each on each Spied, nor overloudly laughed; Like the victims of the leech, Who have drunk of a strange draught.
XIII
Attila remained. Even so Frowned he when he struck the blow, Brained his horse, that stumbled twice, On a b.l.o.o.d.y day in Gaul, Bellowing, Perish omens! All Marvelled at the sacrifice, But the battle, swinging dim, Rang off that axe-blow for him.
Attila, my Attila!
XIV
Brightening over Danube wheeled Star by star; and she, most fair, Sweet as victory half-revealed, Seized to make him glad and young; She, O sweet as the dark sign Given him oft in battles gone, When the voice within said, Dare!
And the trumpet-notes were sprung Rapturous for the charge in line: She lay waiting: fair as dawn Wrapped in folds of night she lay; Secret, l.u.s.trous; flaglike there, Waiting him to stream and ray, With one loosening blush outflung, Colours of his hordes of horse Ranked for combat; still he hung Like the fever dreading air, Cursed of heat; and as a corse Gathers vultures, in his brain Images of her eyes and kiss Plucked at the limbs that could remain Loitering nigh the doors of bliss.
Make the bed for Attila!
XV
Pa.s.sion on one hand, on one, Destiny led forth the Hun.
Heard ye outcries of affright, Voices that through many a fray, In the press of flag and spear, Warned the king of peril near?
Men were dumb, they gave him way, Eager heads to left and right, Like the bearded standard, thrust, As in battle, for a nod From their lord of battle-dust.
Attila, my Attila!
Slow between the lines he trod.
Saw ye not the sun drop slow On this nuptial day, ere eve Pierced him on the couch aglow?
Attila, my Attila!
Here and there his heart would cleave Clotted memory for a s.p.a.ce: Some stout chief's familiar face, Choicest of his fighting brood, Touched him, as 'twere one to know Ere he met his bride's embrace.
Attila, my Attila!
Twisting fingers in a beard Scant as winter underwood, With a narrowed eye he peered; Like the sunset's graver red Up old pine-stems. Grave he stood Eyeing them on whom was shed Burning light from him alone.
Attila, my Attila!
Red were they whose mouths recalled Where the slaughter mounted high, High on it, o'er earth appalled, He; heaven's finger in their sight Raising him on waves of dead, Up to heaven his trumpets blown.
O for the time when G.o.d's delight Crowned the head of Attila!
Hungry river of the crag Stretching hands for earth he came: Force and Speed astride his name Pointed back to spear and flag.
He came out of miracle cloud, Lightning-swift and spectre-lean.
Now those days are in a shroud: Have him to his ghostly queen.
Make the bed for Attila!
XVI
One, with winecups overstrung, Cried him farewell in Rome's tongue.
Who? for the great king turned as though Wrath to the shaft's head strained the bow.
Nay, not wrath the king possessed, But a radiance of the breast.
In that sound he had the key Of his cunning malady.
Lo, where gleamed the sapphire lake, Leo, with his Rome at stake, Drew blank air to hues and forms; Whereof Two that shone distinct, Linked as...o...b..d stars are linked, Clear among the myriad swarms, In a constellation, dashed Full on horse and rider's eyes Sunless light, but light it was - Light that blinded and abashed, Froze his members, bade him pause, Caught him mid-gallop, blazed him home.
Attila, my Attila!
What are streams that cease to flow?
What was Attila, rolled thence, Cheated by a juggler's show?
Like that lake of blue intense, Under tempest lashed to foam, Lurid radiance, as he pa.s.sed, Filled him, and around was gla.s.sed, When deep-voiced he uttered, Rome!