The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 41

And whisper'd Ludovick--"The King has fled!" 99 The Vandal stammer'd, stared, but versed in all The quick resources of a wily head, That out of evil still a good could call, He did but pause, with more effect to wing The stone that chance thus fitted to his sling.

"Saxon," he said, "thus far we had premised, 100 And if still wavering, not our heart in fault.

Three days ago, the Cymrian king, disguised, First drank our cup, and tasted of our salt, And hence our zeal to aid you we represt, Deeming your foe was still the Vandal's guest.

"Lo, while we speak, the saints the bond release; 101 Arthur hath gone from us;--the host is free."

"Arthur--the Cymrian!" cried the envoy. "Peace; In deeds, not words, men's love the Saxons see: Gone!--whither wends he? But a word I need-- Leave to the rest my bloodhounds and my steed."

Dumb sate the Vandal, dumb with fear and shame: 102 No slave to virtue, but its shade was he; A tower of strength is in an honest name-- 'Tis wise to seem what oft 'tis dull to be!

A kingly host a kingly guest betray!

The chafing Saxon brook'd not that delay--

But turn'd his sparkling eyes behind, and saw 103 His knights and squires with zeal as fierce inflamed, And out he spoke,--"The hospitable law We will not trench, whate'er the guest hath claim'd Let the host yield! forgive, that, hotly stirr'd, His course I question'd; I retract the word.

"If on your hearth he stands, protect; within 104 Your realm if wandering, guard him as you may; This hearth not ours, nor this our realm;--no sin To chase our foeman, whatsoe'er his way: Up spear--forth sword! to selle each Saxon man-- Unleash the warhounds--stay us those who can!"

Loud rang the armed tumult in the hall; 105 Rush'd to the doors the Saxon's fiery band; Yell'd the gaunt bloodhounds loosen'd from the thrall; Steeds neigh'd; leapt forth the falchion to the hand; Low on the earth the bloodhounds track'd the scent, And where they guided there the hunters went.

Amazed the Vandal with his friend debates 106 What course were best in such extremes to choose; Nicely they weigh;--the Saxons pa.s.s the gates: Finely refine;--the chase its prey pursues.

And while the chase pursues, to him, whose way The dove directs, well pleased, returns the lay.

Twilight was on the earth, when paused the King 107 Lone by the beach of far-resounding seas; Rock upon rock, behind, a t.i.tan ring, Closed round a gorge o'erhung with breathless trees, A horror of still umbrage; and, before, Wave-hollow'd caves arch'd, ruinous, the sh.o.r.e.

Column and vault, and seaweed-dripping domes, 108 Long vistas opening through the streets of dark, Seem'd like a city's skeleton; the homes Of giant races vanish'd since the ark Rested on Ararat: from side to side Moan the lock'd waves that ebb not with the tide.

Here, path forbid; where, length'ning up the land, 109 The deep gorge stretches to a night of pine, Veer the white wings; and there the slacken'd hand Guides the tired steed; deeplier the shades decline; Dull'd with each step into the darker gloom Follows the ocean's hollow-sounding boom.

Sudden starts back the steed, with bristling mane 110 And nostrils snorting fear; from out the shade Loom the vast columns of a roofless fane, Meet for some G.o.d whom savage man hath made: A mighty pine-torch on the altar glow'd And lit the G.o.ddess of the grim abode--

So that the lurid idol, from its throne, 111 Glared on the wanderer with a stony eye; The King breathed quick the Christian orison, Spurr'd the scared barb, and pa.s.s'd abhorrent by-- Nor mark'd a figure on the floor reclined: It watch'd, it rose, it crept, it dogg'd behind.

Three days, three nights, within that dismal shrine, 112 Had couch'd that man, and hunger'd for his prey.

Chieftain and priest of hordes that from the Rhine Had track'd in carnage thitherwards their way; Fell souls that still maintain'd their rites of yore, And hideous altars rank with human gore.

By monstrous Oracles a coming foe, 113 Whose steps appal his G.o.ds, hath been foretold; The fane must fall unless the blood shall flow; Therefore three days, three nights he watch'd;--behold At last the death-torch of the blazing pine Darts on the foe the lightning of the shrine!

Stealthily on, amidst the brushwood, crept 114 With practised foot and unrelaxing eye, The steadfast Murder;--where the still leaf slept The still leaf stirr'd not: as it glided by The mosses gave no echo; not a breath!

Nature was hush'd as if in league with Death!

As moved the man, so, on the opposing side 115 Of the deep gorge, with purpose like his own, Did steps as noiseless to the blood-feast glide; And as the man before his idol's throne Had watch'd,--so watch'd, since daylight left the air, A giant wolf within its leafy lair.

Whether the blaze allured, or hunger stung, 116 There still had cower'd and crouch'd the beast of prey; With lurid eyes unwinking, spell-bound, clung To the near ridge that faced the torchlit way; As the steed pa.s.s'd, it rose! On either side, Here glides the wild beast, there the man doth glide.

But all unconscious of the double foe, 117 Paused Arthur, where his resting-place the dove Seem'd to select,--his couch a mound below; A bowering beech his canopy above: From his worn steed the barded mail released, And left it, reinless, to its herbage-feast.

Then from his brow the mighty helm unbraced, 118 And from his breast the hauberk's heavy load; On the tree's trunk the trophied arms he placed, And, ere to rest the weary limbs bestow'd, Thrice sign'd the cross the fiends of night to scare, And guarded helpless sleep with potent prayer.

Then on the moss-grown couch he laid him down, 119 Fearless of night and hopeful for the morn: On Slumber's lap the head without a crown Forgot the gilded trouble it had worn; The Warrior slept--the browsing charger stray'd-- The dove, unsleeping, watch'd amidst the shade.

And now, on either hand the dreaming King 120 Death halts to strike: the crouching wild beast, here, From the close crag prepares the rus.h.i.+ng spring; There, from the thicket creeping, near and near, Steals the wild man, and listens for a sound-- Lifts the pale steel, and gathers for the bound.

But what befell? O thou, whose gentle heart 121 Lists, scornful not, this undiurnal rhyme; If, as thy steps to busier life depart, Still in thine ear rings low the haunting chime, When leisure suits once more forsake the throng, Call childhood back, and redemand the song.

NOTES TO BOOK II.

1.--Page 218, stanza iii.

_By lips as gay the Hirlas horn is quaft._

The Hirlas, or drinking-horn, made of the buffalo horn, enriched with gold or silver. The Hirlas song of "Owen Prince of Powys" is familiar to all lovers of Welch literature.

2.--Page 219, stanza viii.

_Therein Sir Brut, expell'd from flaming Troy._

Caradoc's version of the descent of Brut differs somewhat from that of Geoffrey of Monmouth, but perhaps it is quite as true. According to Geoffrey, Brut is great-grandson to aeneas, and therefore not expelled from "_flaming_ Troy." Caradoc follows his own (no doubt authentic) legends, also, as to the aboriginal population of the island, which, according to Geoffrey, were giants, not devils. The cursory and contemptuous way in which that delicious romance-writer speaks of these poor giants is inimitable--"_Albion a nemine, exceptis paucis gigantibus, inhabitabatur._"--"Albion was inhabited by n.o.body--except, indeed, a few giants!"

3.--Page 219, stanza viii.

_And bids that Saint, who now speaks Welch on high._

Saint BRAN, the founder of one of the three sacred lineages of Britain, was the first introducer of Christianity among the Cymry.

4.--Page 223, stanza x.x.xv.

_And thou, fair favourite in the Fairy court._

Gwyn-ab-nudd, the king of the fairies. He is, also, sometimes less pleasingly delineated as the king of the infernal regions; the Welch Pluto--much the same as, in the chivalric romance-writers, Proserpine is sometimes made the queen of the fairies.

5.--Page 226, stanza lv.

_"Arthur my name, from YNYS VEL I come._

Ynys Vel; one of the old Welch names for England.

6.--Page 227, stanza lxv.

_"A witch."--"All women till they're wed are witches!_

The witch MOURGE, or MORGANA (historically ANNA), was Arthur's sister.

7.--Page 228, stanza lxxiv.

_Loud neigh'd the destrier at the welcome clang._

_Destrier_;--This word has been objected to, but it is so familiarly used by our Anglo-Norman minstrels, as well as by the great Masters of romantic poetry, that I have ventured, though not without diffidence, to retain it. MONTAIGNE, in his chapter on "the Warhorses called Destriers," derives the word from the Latin _Dextrarius_.