Volume Ii Part 28 (2/2)
Death, who says his blood she spilt!
Traitor he, who stands between!
Swift to h.e.l.l, who harms the Queen!
She, the wild contention's cause, Combed her hair with quiet paws.
Make the bed for Attila!
XXVI
Night was on the host in arms.
Night, as never night before, Hearkened to an army's roar Breaking up in snaky swarms: Torch and steel and snorting steed, Hunted by the cry of blood, Cursed with blindness, mad for day.
Where the torches ran a flood, Tales of him and of the deed Showered like a torrent spray.
Fear of silence made them strive Loud in warrior-hymns that grew Hoa.r.s.e for slaughter yet unwreaked.
Ghostly Night across the hive, With a crimson finger drew Letters on her breast and shrieked.
Night was on them like the mould On the buried half alive.
Night, their b.l.o.o.d.y Queen, her fold Wound on them and struck them through.
Make the bed for Attila!
XXVII
Earth has got him whom G.o.d gave, Earth may sing, and earth shall smart!
None of earth shall know his grave.
They that dig with Death depart.
Attila, my Attila!
XXVIII
Thus their prayer was raved and pa.s.sed: Pa.s.sed in peace their red sunset: Hewn and earthed those men of sweat Who had housed him in the vast, Where no mortal might declare, There lies he--his end was there!
Attila, my Attila!
XXIX
Kingless was the army left: Of its head the race bereft.
Every fury of the pit Tortured and dismembered it.
Lo, upon a silent hour, When the pitch of frost subsides, Danube with a shout of power Loosens his imprisoned tides: Wide around the frighted plains Shake to hear his riven chains, Dreadfuller than heaven in wrath, As he makes himself a path: High leap the ice-cracks, towering pile Floes to bergs, and giant peers Wrestle on a drifted isle; Island on ice-island rears; Dissolution battles fast: Big the senseless t.i.tans loom, Through a mist of common doom Striving which shall die the last: Till a gentle-breathing morn Frees the stream from bank to bank.
So the Empire built of scorn Agonized, dissolved and sank.
Of the Queen no more was told Than of leaf on Danube rolled.
Make the bed for Attila!
ANEURIN'S HARP
I
Prince of Bards was old Aneurin; He the grand G.o.dodin sang; All his numbers threw such fire in, Struck his harp so wild a tw.a.n.g; - Still the wakeful Briton borrows Wisdom from its ancient heat: Still it haunts our source of sorrows, Deep excess of liquor sweet!
II
Here the Briton, there the Saxon, Face to face, three fields apart, Thirst for light to lay their thwacks on Each the other with good heart.
Dry the Saxon sits, 'mid dinful Noise of iron knits his steel: Fresh and roaring with a skinful, Britons round the hirlas reel.
III
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