The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 81

He ceased and laugh'd aloud, as humbled fell 69 Those greedy looks, and mutteringly replied Faint voices, "True, so said the Oracle!"

When the Arch-Elder, with an eager stride Reach'd child and sire, and cried, "See Crida, there, On the maid's breast the cross that Christians wear!"

Those looks, those voices, thrill'd through Genevieve, 70 With fears as yet vague, shapeless, undefined: "Father," she murmur'd, "Father, let us leave These dismal precincts; how those eyes unkind Freeze to my soul; sweet father, let us go; My heart to thine would speak! why frown'st thou so?"

"Tear from thy breast that sign, unhappy one! 71 Sign to thy country's wrathful G.o.ds accurst!

Back, priests of Odin, I am Odin's son, And she my daughter; in my war-s.h.i.+eld nurst, Rear'd at your altars! Trample down the sign, O child, and say--the Saxon's G.o.d is mine!"

Infant, who came to bid a war relent, 72 And rob ambition of its carnage-prize, Is it on thee those sombre brows are bent?

For thee the death-greed in those ravening eyes?

Thy task undone, thy gentle prayer unspoken?

Ay, press the cross: it is the martyr's token!

She press'd the cross with one firm faithful hand, 73 While one--(_that_ trembled!)--clasp'd her father's knees; As clings a wretch, that sinks in sight of land, To reeds swept with him down the weltering seas, And murmur'd, "Pardon; Him whose agony Was earth's salvation, I may not deny!

"Him who gave G.o.d the name I give to thee, 74 'FATHER,'--in Him, in Christ, is my belief!"

Then Crida turn'd unto the priests,--"Ye see,"

Smiling, he said, "that I have done with grief: Behold the victim! be the G.o.d obey'd!

The son of Odin dooms the Christian maid!"

He said, and from his robe he wrench'd the hand, 75 And, where the gloom was darkest, stalk'd away.

But whispering low, still pause the h.e.l.lish band; And dread lest Nature yet redeem the prey, And deem it wise against such chance to arm The priesthood's puissance with the host's alarm;

To bruit abroad the dark oracular threats, 76 From which the Virgin's blood alone can save; Gird with infuriate fears the murtherous nets, And plant an army to secure a grave; The whispers cease--the doors one gleam of day Give--and then close;--the blood-hound slinks away.

Around the victim--where with wandering hand, 77 Through her blind tears, she seems to search through s.p.a.ce For him who had forsaken--circling stand The solemn butchers; calm in every face And death in every heart; till from the belt Stretch'd one lean hand and grasp'd her where she knelt.

And her wild shriek went forth and smote the shrine, 78 Which echo'd, shrilling back the sharp despair, Through the waste gaps between the shafts of pine To th' unseen father's ear. Before the glare Of the weird fire, the sacrifice they chain To stones impress'd with rune and shamble-stain.

Then wait (for so their formal rites compel) 79 Till from the trance that still his senses seals, Awakes the soothsayer of the oracle; At length with tortured spasms, and slowly, steals Back the reluctant life--slow as it creeps To one hard-rescued from the drowning deeps.

And when from dim, uncertain, swimming eyes 80 The gaunt long fingers put the s.h.a.ggy hair, And on the priests, the shrine, the sacrifice, Dwelt the fix'd sternness of the gla.s.sy stare, Before the G.o.d they led the demon-man, And circling round the two their hymn began.

So rapt in their remorseless ecstasy, 81 They did not hear the quick steps at the door, Nor that loud knock nor that impatient cry; Till shook,--till crash'd, the portals on the floor,-- Crash'd to the strong hand of the fiery thane; And Harold's stride came clanging up the fane.--

But from his side bounded a shape as light 82 As forms that glide through Elfheim's limber air; Swift to the shrine--where on those robes of white The gloomy h.e.l.l fires scowl'd their sullen glare, Through the death-chaunting choir,--she sprang,--she prest, And bow'd her head upon the victim's breast;

And cried, "With thee, with thee, to live or die, 83 With thee, my Genevieve!" The Elders raised Their hands in wrath, when from as stern an eye And brow erect as theirs, they shrunk amazed-- And Harold spoke, "Ye priests of Odin, hear!

Your G.o.ds are mine, their voices I revere.

"Voices in winds, in groves, in hollow caves, 84 Oracular dream, or runic galdra sought; But ages ere from Don's ancestral waves Such wizard signs the Scythian Odin brought, A voice that needs no priesthood's sacred art, Some earlier G.o.d placed in the human heart.

"I bow to charms that doom embattled walls: 85 To dreams revealing no unworthy foe; A warrior's G.o.d in Glory's clarion calls; Where war-steeds snort, and hurtling standards flow; But when weak women for strong men must die, My Man's proud nature gives your G.o.ds the lie!

"If--not yon seer by fumes and dreams beguiled, 86 But Odin's self stood where his image stands, Against the G.o.d I would protect my child!

Ha, Crida!--come!--_thy_ child in chains!--those hands Lifted to smite!--and thou, whose kingly bann Arms nations,--wake, O statue, into man!"

For from his lair, and to his liegeman's side, 87 Had Crida listening strode: When ceased the Thane, His voice, comprest and tremulous, replied,-- "The life thou plead'st for doth these shrines profane.

In Odin's son a father lives no more; Yon maid adores the G.o.d our foes adore."

"And I--and I, stern king!"--Genevra cries, 88 "Her G.o.d is mine, and if that faith is crime, Be just--and take a twofold sacrifice!"

"Cease," cried the Thane,--"is this, ye Powers, a time For kings and chiefs to lean on idle blades,-- Our leaders dreamers, and our victims maids?

"Be varying G.o.ds by varying tribes addrest, 89 I scorn no G.o.ds that worthy foes adore; Brave was the arm that humbled Harold's crest, And large the heart that did his child restore.

To all the valiant Gladsheim's Halls unclose;[4]

In Heaven the comrades were on Earth the foes.

"And if our G.o.ds are wrath, what wonder, when 90 Their traitor priests creep whispering coward fears; Unnerve the arms and rot the hearts of men, And filch the conquest from victorious spears?-- Yes, reverend elders, _one_ such priest I found, And cheer'd my bandogs on the meaner hound!"

"Be dumb, blasphemer," cried the Pontiff seer, 91 "Depart, or dread the vengeance of the shrine; Depart, or armies from these floors shall hear How chiefs can mock what nations deem divine; Then, let her Christian faith thy daughter boast, And brave the answer of the Teuton host!"

A paler hue shot o'er the hardy face 92 Of the great Earl, as thus the Elder spoke; But calm he answer'd, "Summon Odin's race; On me and mine the Teuton's wrath invoke!

Let shuddering fathers learn what priests can dream, And warriors judge if _I_ their G.o.ds blaspheme!

"But peace and hearken.--To the king I speak:-- 93 With mine own lithsmen, and such willing aid As Harold's tromps arouse,--yon walls I seek; Be Cymri's throne the ransom of the maid.

On Carduel's wall if Saxon standards wave, Let Odin's arms the needless victim save!

"Grant me till noon to prove what men are worth, 94 Who serve the War G.o.d by the warlike deed; Refuse me this, King Crida, and henceforth Let chiefs more prized the Mercian armies lead; For I, blunt Harold, join no cause with those Who, wolves for victims, are as hares to foes!"

Scornful he ceased, and lean'd upon his sword; 95 Whispering the Priests, and silent Crida, stood.

A living Thor to that barbarian horde Was the bold Thane, and ev'n the men of blood Felt Harold's loss amid the host's dismay Would rend the clasp that link'd the wild array.

At length out spoke the priestly chief, "The G.o.ds 96 Endure the boasts, to bow the pride, of men; The Well of Wisdom sinks in h.e.l.l's abode; The Laeca s.h.i.+nes beside the bautasten,[5]

And Truth too oft illumes the eyes that scorn'd, By the death-flash from which in vain it warn'd.

"Be the delay the pride of man demands 97 Vouchsafed, the nothingness of man to show!

The G.o.ds unsoften'd, march thy futile bands: Till noon, we spare the victim;--seek the foe!

But when with equal shadows rests the sun-- The altar reddens, or the walls are won!"

"So be it," the Thane replied, and sternly smiled; 98 Then towards the sister-twain, with pitying brow, Whispering he came,--"Fair friend of Harold's child, Let our own G.o.ds at least be with thee now; Pray that the Asas bless the Teuton strife, And guide the swords that strike for thy sweet life."

"Alas!" cried Genevieve, "Christ came to save, 99 Not slay: He taught the weakest how to die; For me, for _me_, a nation glut the grave!

That nation Christ's, and--No, the victim _I_!

Not now for _life_, my father, see me kneel, But one kind look,--and then, how blunt the steel!"

And Crida moved not! Moist were Harold's eyes; 100 Bending, he whisper'd in Genevra's ear, "Thy presence is her safety! Time denies All words but these;--hope in the brave; revere The G.o.ds they serve;--by acts our faith we test; The holiest G.o.ds are where the men are best."

"With this he turn'd, "Ye priests," he call'd aloud, 101 "On every head within these walls, I set Dread weregeld for the compact; blood for blood!"

Then o'er his brows he closed his ba.s.sinet, Shook the black death-pomp of his shadowy plume, And his arm'd stride was lost amidst the gloom.--

And still poor Genevieve with mournful eyes 102 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'd 103 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.