Poems. Volume 2

MANFRED

IProjected from the bilious Childe,This clatterjaw his foot could setOn Alps, without a breast beguiledTo glow in shedding rascal sweat.Somewhere about his grinder teeth,He mouthed of thoughts that grilled beneath,And summoned Nature to her feudWith bile and buskin Attitude.IIConsiderably was the worldOf spinsterdom and clergy rackedWhile he his hinted horrors hurled,And she pictorially attacked.A duel hugeous.  Tragic?  Ho!The cities, not the mountains, blowSuch bladders; in their shapes confessedAn after-dinner’s indigest.

HERNANI

Cistercians might crack their sidesWith laughter, and exemption get,At sight of heroes clasping brides,And hearing—O the horn! the horn!The horn of their obstructive debt!But quit the stage, that note appliesFor sermons cosmopolitan,Hernani.  Have we filched our prize,Forgetting . . .?  O the horn! the horn!The horn of the Old Gentleman!

THE NUPTIALS OF ATTILA

IFlat as to an eagle’s eye,   Earth hung under Attila.Sign for carnage gave he none.In the peace of his disdain,Sun and rain, and rain and sun,Cherished men to wax again,Crawl, and in their manner die.On his people stood a frost.Like the charger cut in stone,Rearing stiff, the warrior host,Which had life from him alone,Craved the trumpet’s eager note,As the bridled earth the Spring.Rusty was the trumpet’s throat.He let chief and prophet rave;Venturous earth around him stringThreads of grass and slender rye,Wave them, and untrampled wave.O for the time when God did cry,   Eye and have, my Attila!IIScorn of conquest filled like sleepHim that drank of havoc deepWhen the Green Cat pawed the globe:When the horsemen from his bowShot in sheaves and made the foeCrimson fringes of a robe,Trailed o’er towns and fields in woe;When they streaked the rivers red,When the saddle was the bed.   Attila, my Attila!IIIHe breathed peace and pulled a flower.   Eye and have, my Attila!This was the damsel Ildico,Rich in bloom until that hour:Shyer than the forest doeTwinkling slim through branches green.Yet the shyest shall be seen.   Make the bed for Attila!IVSeen of Attila, desired,She was led to him straightway:Radiantly was she attired;Rifled lands were her array,Jewels bled from weeping crowns,Gold of woeful fields and towns.She stood pallid in the light.How she walked, how withered white,From the blessing to the board,She who would have proudly blushed,Women whispered, asking why,Hinting of a youth, and hushed.Was it terror of her lord?Was she childish? was she sly?Was it the bright mantle’s dyeDrained her blood to hues of griefLike the ash that shoots the spark?See the green tree all in leaf:See the green tree stripped of bark!—   Make the bed for Attila!VRound the banquet-table’s loadScores of iron horsemen rode;Chosen warriors, keen and hard;Grain of threshing battle-dints;Attila’s fierce body-guard,Smelling war like fire in flints.Grant them peace be fugitive!Iron-capped and iron-heeled,Each against his fellow’s shieldSmote the spear-head, shouting, Live,   Attila! my Attila!Eagle, eagle of our breed,Eagle, beak the lamb, and feed!Have her, and unleash us! live,   Attila! my Attila!VIHe was of the blood to shineBronze in joy, like skies that scorch.Beaming with the goblet wineIn the wavering of the torch,Looked he backward on his bride.   Eye and have, my Attila!Fair in her wide robe was she:Where the robe and vest divide,Fair she seemed surpassingly:Soft, yet vivid as the streamDanube rolls in the moonbeamThrough rock-barriers: but she smiledNever, she sat cold as salt:Open-mouthed as a young childWondering with a mind at fault.   Make the bed for Attila!VIIUnder the thin hoop of goldWhence in waves her hair outrolled,’Twixt her brows the women sawShadows of a vulture’s clawGript in flight: strange knots that spedClosing and dissolving aye:Such as wicked dreams betrayWhen pale dawn creeps o’er the bed.They might show the common pangKnown to virgins, in whom dreadHunts their bliss like famished hounds;While the chiefs with roaring roundsTossed her to her lord, and sangPraise of him whose hand was large,Cheers for beauty brought to yield,Chirrups of the trot afield,Hurrahs of the battle-charge.VIIIThose rock-faces hung with weedReddened: their great days of speed,Slaughter, triumph, flood and flame,Like a jealous frenzy wrought,Scoffed at them and did them shame,Quaffing idle, conquering nought.O for the time when God decreed   Earth the prey of Attila!God called on thee in his wrath,Trample it to mire!  ’Twas done.Swift as Danube clove our pathDown from East to Western sun.Huns! behold your pasture, gaze,Take, our king said: heel to flank(Whisper it, the war-horse neighs!)Forth we drove, and blood we drankFresh as dawn-dew: earth was ours:Men were flocks we lashed and spurned:Fast as windy flame devours,Flame along the wind, we burned.Arrow javelin, spear, and sword!Here the snows and there the plains;On! our signal: onward pouredTorrents of the tightened reins,Foaming over vine and cornHot against the city-wall.Whisper it, you sound a hornTo the grey beast in the stall!Yea, he whinnies at a nod.O for sound of the trumpet-notes!O for the time when thunder-shod,He that scarce can munch his oats,Hung on the peaks, brooded aloof,Champed the grain of the wrath of God,Pressed a cloud on the cowering roof,Snorted out of the blackness fire!Scarlet broke the sky, and down,Hammering West with print of his hoof,He burst out of the bosom of ireSharp as eyelight under thy frown,   Attila, my Attila!IXRavaged cities rolling smokeThick on cornfields dry and black,Wave his banners, bear his yoke.Track the lightning, and you trackAttila.  They moan: ’tis he!Bleed: ’tis he!  Beneath his footLeagues are deserts charred and mute;Where he passed, there passed a sea.   Attila, my Attila!X—Who breathed on the king cold breath?Said a voice amid the host,He is Death that weds a ghost,Else a ghost that weds with Death?Ildico’s chill little handShuddering he beheld: austereStared, as one who would commandSight of what has filled his ear:Plucked his thin beard, laughed disdain.Feast, ye Huns!  His arm be raised,Like the warrior, battle-dazed,Joining to the fight amain.   Make the bed for Attila!XISilent Ildico stood up.King and chief to pledge her well,Shocked sword sword and cup on cup,Clamouring like a brazen bell.Silent stepped the queenly slave.Fair, by heaven! she was to meetOn a midnight, near a grave,Flapping wide the winding-sheet.XIIDeath and she walked through the crowd,Out beyond the flush of light.Ceremonious women bowedFollowing her: ’twas middle night.Then the warriors each on eachSpied, nor overloudly laughed;Like the victims of the leech,Who have drunk of a strange draught.XIIIAttila remained.  Even soFrowned he when he struck the blow,Brained his horse, that stumbled twice,On a bloody day in Gaul,Bellowing, Perish omens!  AllMarvelled at the sacrifice,But the battle, swinging dim,Rang off that axe-blow for him.   Attila, my Attila!XIVBrightening over Danube wheeledStar by star; and she, most fair,Sweet as victory half-revealed,Seized to make him glad and young;She, O sweet as the dark signGiven him oft in battles gone,When the voice within said, Dare!And the trumpet-notes were sprungRapturous for the charge in line:She lay waiting: fair as dawnWrapped in folds of night she lay;Secret, lustrous; flaglike there,Waiting him to stream and ray,With one loosening blush outflung,Colours of his hordes of horseRanked for combat; still he hungLike the fever dreading air,Cursed of heat; and as a corseGathers vultures, in his brainImages of her eyes and kissPlucked at the limbs that could remainLoitering nigh the doors of bliss.   Make the bed for Attila!XVPassion 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 nodFrom their lord of battle-dust.   Attila, my Attila!Slow between the lines he trod.Saw ye not the sun drop slowOn this nuptial day, ere evePierced him on the couch aglow?   Attila, my Attila!Here and there his heart would cleaveClotted memory for a space:Some stout chief’s familiar face,Choicest of his fighting brood,Touched him, as ’twere one to knowEre he met his bride’s embrace.   Attila, my Attila!Twisting fingers in a beardScant as winter underwood,With a narrowed eye he peered;Like the sunset’s graver redUp old pine-stems.  Grave he stoodEyeing them on whom was shedBurning light from him alone.   Attila, my Attila!Red were they whose mouths recalledWhere the slaughter mounted high,High on it, o’er earth appalled,He; heaven’s finger in their sightRaising him on waves of dead,Up to heaven his trumpets blown.O for the time when God’s delight   Crowned the head of Attila!Hungry river of the cragStretching hands for earth he came:Force and Speed astride his namePointed 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!XVIOne, with winecups overstrung,Cried him farewell in Rome’s tongue.Who? for the great king turned as thoughWrath 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 keyOf 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 orbed stars are linked,Clear among the myriad swarms,In a constellation, dashedFull on horse and rider’s eyesSunless 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 passed,Filled him, and around was glassed,When deep-voiced he uttered, Rome!XVIIRome! the word was: and like meatFlung to dogs the word was torn.Soon Rome’s magic priests shall bleatRound their magic Pope forlorn!Loud they swore the king had swornVengeance on the Roman cheat,Ere he passed, as, grave and still,Danube through the shouting hill:Sworn it by his naked life!Eagle, snakes these women are:Take them on the wing! but war,Smoking war’s the warrior’s wife!Then for plunder! then for bridesWon without a winking priest!—Danube whirled his train of tidesBlack toward the yellow East.   Make the bed for Attila!XVIIIChirrups of the trot afield,Hurrahs of the battle-charge,How they answered, how they pealed,When the morning rose and drewBow and javelin, lance and targe,In the nuptial casement’s view!   Attila, my Attila!Down the hillspurs, out of tentsGlimmering in mid-forest, throughMists of the cool morning scents,Forth from city-alley, court,Arch, the bounding horsemen flew,Joined along the plains of dew,Raced and gave the rein to sport,Closed and streamed like curtain-rentsFluttered by a wind, and flowedInto squadrons: trumpets blew,Chargers neighed, and trappings glowedBrave as the bright Orient’s.Look on the seas that run to greetSunrise: look on the leagues of wheat:Look on the lines and squares that fretLeaping to level the lance blood-wet.Tens of thousands, man and steed,Tossing like field-flowers in Spring;Ready to be hurled at needWhither their great lord may sling.Finger Romeward, Romeward, King!   Attila, my Attila!Still the woman holds him fastAs a night-flag round the mast.XIXNigh upon the fiery noon,Out of ranks a roaring burst.’Ware white women like the moon!They are poison: they have thirstFirst for love, and next for rule.Jealous of the army, she?Ho, the little wanton fool!We were his before she squealedBlind for mother’s milk, and heeledKicking on her mother’s knee.His in life and death are we:She but one flower of a field.We have given him bliss tenfoldIn an hour to match her night:   Attila, my Attila!Still her arms the master hold,As on wounds the scarf winds tight.XXOver Danube day no more,Like the warrior’s planted spear,Stood to hail the King: in fearWestern day knocked at his door.   Attila, my Attila!Sudden in the army’s eyesRolled a blast of lights and cries:Flashing through them: Dead are ye!Dead, ye Huns, and torn piecemeal!See the ordered army reelStricken through the ribs: and see,Wild for speed to cheat despair,Horsemen, clutching knee to chin,Crouch and dart they know not where.   Attila, my Attila!Faces covered, faces bare,Light the palace-front like jetsOf a dreadful fire within.Beating hands and driving hairStart on roof and parapets.Dust rolls up; the slaughter din.—Death to them who call him dead!Death to them who doubt the tale!Choking in his dusty veil,Sank the sun on his death-bed.   Make the bed for Attila!XXI’Tis the room where thunder sleeps.Frenzy, as a wave to shoreSurging, burst the silent door,And drew back to awful deepsBreath beaten out, foam-white.  AnewHowled and pressed the ghastly crew,Like storm-waters over rocks.   Attila, my Attila!One long shaft of sunset redLaid a finger on the bed.Horror, with the snaky locks,Shocked the surge to stiffened heaps,Hoary as the glacier’s headFaced to the moon.  Insane they look.God it is in heaven who weepsFallen from his hand the Scourge he shook.   Make the bed for Attila!XXIISquare along the couch, and stark,Like the sea-rejected thingSea-sucked white, behold their King.   Attila, my Attila!Beams that panted black and bright,Scornful lightnings danced their sight:Him they see an oak in bud,Him an oaklog stripped of bark:Him, their lord of day and night,White, and lifting up his bloodDumb for vengeance.  Name us that,Huddled in the corner darkHumped and grinning like a cat,Teeth for lips!—’tis she! she stares,Glittering through her bristled hairs.Rend her!  Pierce her to the hilt!She is Murder: have her out!What! this little fist, as bigAs the southern summer fig!She is Madness, none may doubt.Death, who dares deny her guilt!Death, who says his blood she spilt!   Make the bed for Attila!XXIIITorch and lamp and sunset-redFell three-fingered on the bed.In the torch the beard-hair scantWith the great breast seemed to pant:In the yellow lamp the limbsWavered, as the lake-flower swims:In the sunset red the deadDead avowed him, dry blood-red.XXIVHatred of that abject slave,Earth, was in each chieftain’s heart.Earth has got him, whom God gave,Earth may sing, and earth shall smart!   Attila, my Attila!XXVThus their prayer was raved and ceased.Then had Vengeance of her feastScent in their quick pang to smiteWhich they knew not, but huge painUrged them for some victim slainSwift, and blotted from the sight.Each at each, a crouching beast,Glared, and quivered for the word.Each at each, and all on that,Humped and grinning like a cat,Head-bound with its bridal-wreath.Then the bitter chamber heardVengeance in a cauldron seethe.Hurried counsel rage and craftYelped to hungry men, whose teethHard the grey lip-ringlet gnawed,Gleaming till their fury laughed.With the steel-hilt in the clutch,Eyes were shot on her that frozeIn their blood-thirst overawed;Burned to rend, yet feared to touch.She that was his nuptial rose,She was of his heart’s blood clad:Oh! the last of him she had!—Could a little fist as bigAs the southern summer fig,Push a dagger’s point to pierceRibs like those?  Who else!  They glaredEach at each.  Suspicion fierceMany a black remembrance bared.   Attila, my Attila!Death, who dares deny her guilt!Death, who says his blood she spilt!Traitor he, who stands between!Swift to hell, who harms the Queen!She, the wild contention’s cause,Combed her hair with quiet paws.   Make the bed for Attila!XXVINight was on the host in arms.Night, as never night before,Hearkened to an army’s roarBreaking 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 deedShowered like a torrent spray.Fear of silence made them striveLoud in warrior-hymns that grewHoarse for slaughter yet unwreaked.Ghostly Night across the hive,With a crimson finger drewLetters on her breast and shrieked.Night was on them like the mouldOn the buried half alive.Night, their bloody Queen, her foldWound on them and struck them through.   Make the bed for Attila!XXVIIEarth has got him whom God gave,Earth may sing, and earth shall smart!None of earth shall know his grave.They that dig with Death depart.   Attila, my Attila!XXVIIIThus their prayer was raved and passed:Passed in peace their red sunset:Hewn and earthed those men of sweatWho had housed him in the vast,Where no mortal might declare,There lies he—his end was there!   Attila, my Attila!XXIXKingless was the army left:Of its head the race bereft.Every fury of the pitTortured and dismembered it.Lo, upon a silent hour,When the pitch of frost subsides,Danube with a shout of powerLoosens his imprisoned tides:Wide around the frighted plainsShake to hear his riven chains,Dreadfuller than heaven in wrath,As he makes himself a path:High leap the ice-cracks, towering pileFloes to bergs, and giant peersWrestle on a drifted isle;Island on ice-island rears;Dissolution battles fast:Big the senseless Titans loom,Through a mist of common doomStriving which shall die the last:Till a gentle-breathing mornFrees the stream from bank to bank.So the Empire built of scornAgonized, dissolved and sank.Of the Queen no more was toldThan of leaf on Danube rolled.   Make the bed for Attila!

ANEURIN’S HARP

IPrince of Bards was old Aneurin;He the grand Gododin sang;All his numbers threw such fire in,Struck his harp so wild a twang;—Still the wakeful Briton borrowsWisdom from its ancient heat:Still it haunts our source of sorrows,Deep excess of liquor sweet!IIHere the Briton, there the Saxon,Face to face, three fields apart,Thirst for light to lay their thwacks onEach the other with good heart.Dry the Saxon sits, ’mid dinfulNoise of iron knits his steel:Fresh and roaring with a skinful,Britons round the hirlas reel.IIIYellow flamed the meady sunset;Red runs up the flag of morn.Signal for the British onsetHiccups through the British horn.Down these hillmen pour like cattleSniffing pasture: grim below,Showing eager teeth of battle,In his spear-heads lies the foe.IV—Monster of the sea! we drive himBack into his hungry brine.—You shall lodge him, feed him, wive him,Look on us; we stand in line.—Pale sea-monster! foul the watersCast him; foul he leaves our land.—You shall yield us land and daughters:Stay the tongue, and try the hand.VSwift as torrent-streams our warriors,Tossing torrent lights, find way;Burst the ridges, crowd the barriers,Pierce them where the spear-heads play;Turn them as the clods in furrow,Top them like the leaping foam;Sorrow to the mother, sorrow,Sorrow to the wife at home!VIStags, they butted; bulls, they bellowed;Hounds, we baited them; oh, brave!Every second man, unfellowed,Took the strokes of two, and gave.Bare as hop-stakes in November’sMists they met our battle-flood:Hoary-red as Winter’s embersLay their dead lines done in blood.VIIThou, my Bard, didst hang thy lyre inOak-leaves, and with crimson brandRhythmic fury spent, Aneurin;Songs the churls could understand:Thrumming on their Saxon sconcesStraight, the invariable blow,Till they snorted true responses.Ever thus the Bard they know!VIIIBut ere nightfall, harper lusty!When the sun was like a ballDropping on the battle dusty,What was yon discordant call?Cambria’s old metheglin demonBreathed against our rushing tide;Clove us midst the threshing seamen:—Gashed, we saw our ranks divide!IXBritain then with valedictoryShriek veiled off her face and knelt.Full of liquor, full of victory,Chief on chief old vengeance dealt.Backward swung their hurly-burly;None but dead men kept the fight.They that drink their cup too early,Darkness they shall see ere night.XLoud we heard the yellow roverLaugh to sleep, while we raged thick,Thick as ants the ant-hill over,Asking who has thrust the stick.Lo, as frogs that Winter cumbersMeet the Spring with stiffen’d yawn,We from our hard night of slumbersMarched into the bloody dawn.XIDay on day we fought, though shattered:Pushed and met repulses sharp,Till our Raven’s plumes were scattered:All, save old Aneurin’s harp.Hear it wailing like a motherO’er the strings of children slain!He in one tongue, in another,Alien, I; one blood, yet twain.XIIOld Aneurin! droop no longer.That squat ocean-scum, we own,Had fine stoutness, made us stronger,Brought us much-required backbone:Claimed of Power their dues, and grantedDues to Power in turn, when roseMightier rovers; they that plantedSovereign here the Norman nose.XIIIGlorious men, with heads of eagles,Chopping arms, and cupboard lips;Warriors, hunters, keen as beagles,Mounted aye on horse or ships.Active, being hungry creatures;Silent, having nought to say:High they raised the lord of features,Saxon-worshipped to this day.XIVHear its deeds, the great recital!Stout as bergs of Arctic iceOnce it led, and lived; a titleNow it is, and names its price.This our Saxon brothers cherish:This, when by the worth of witsLands are reared aloft, or perish,Sole illumes their lucre-pits.XVKnow we not our wrongs, unwrittenThough they be, Aneurin?  Sword,Song, and subtle mind, the BritonBrings to market, all ignored.’Gainst the Saxon’s bone impinging,Still is our Gododin played;Shamed we see him humbly cringingIn a shadowy nose’s shade.XVIBitter is the weight that crushesLow, my Bard, thy race of fire.Here no fair young future blushesBridal to a man’s desire.Neither chief, nor aim, nor splendourDressing distance, we perceive.Neither honour, nor the tenderBloom of promise, morn or eve.XVIIJoined we are; a tide of racesRolled to meet a common fate;England clasps in her embracesMany: what is England’s state?England her distended middleThumps with pride as Mammon’s wife;Says that thus she reads thy riddle,Heaven! ’tis heaven to plump her life.XVIIIO my Bard! a yellow liquor,Like to that we drank of old—Gold is her metheglin beaker,She destruction drinks in gold.Warn her, Bard, that Power is pressingHotly for his dues this hour;Tell her that no drunken blessingStops the onward march of Power.XIXHas she ears to take forewarningsShe will cleanse her of her stains,Feed and speed for braver morningsValorously the growth of brains.Power, the hard man knit for action,Reads each nation on the brow.Cripple, fool, and petrifactionFall to him—are falling now!

MEN AND MAN

IMen the Angels eyed;And here they were wild waves,And there as marsh descried;Men the Angels eyed,And liked the picture bestWhere they were greenly dressedIn brotherhood of graves.IIMan the Angels marked:He led a host through murk,On fearful seas embarked;Man the Angels marked;To think without a nay,That he was good as they,And help him at his work.IIIMan and Angels, yeA sluggish fen shall drain,Shall quell a warring sea.Man and Angels, ye,Whom stain of strife befouls,A light to kindle soulsBear radiant in the stain.

THE LAST CONTENTION

IYoung captain of a crazy bark!O tameless heart in battered frame!Thy sailing orders have a mark,   And hers is not the name.IIFor action all thine iron clanksIn cravings for a splendid prize;Again to race or bump thy planks   With any flag that flies.IIIConsult them; they are eloquentFor senses not inebriate.They trust thee on the star intent,   That leads to land their freight.IVAnd they have known thee high peruseThe heavens, and deep the earth, till thouDidst into the flushed circle cruise   Where reason quits the brow.VThou animatest ancient tales,To prove our world of linear seed:Thy very virtue now assails,   A tempter to mislead.VIBut thou hast answer I am I;My passion hallows, bids command:And she is gracious, she is nigh:   One motion of the hand!VIIIt will suffice; a whirly tuneThese winds will pipe, and thou performThe nodded part of pantaloon   In thy created storm.VIIIAdmires thee Nature with much pride;She clasps thee for a gift of morn,Till thou art set against the tide,   And then beware her scorn.IXSad issue, should that strife befallBetween thy mortal ship and thee!It writes the melancholy scrawl   Of wreckage over sea.XThis lady of the luting tongue,The flash in darkness, billow’s grace,For thee the worship; for the young   In muscle the embrace.XISoar on thy manhood clear from thoseWhose toothless Winter claws at May,And take her as the vein of rose   Athwart an evening grey.

PERIANDER

IHow died Melissa none dares shape in words.A woman who is wife despotic lordsCount faggot at the question, Shall she live!Her son, because his brows were black of her,Runs barking for his bread, a fugitive,And Corinth frowns on them that feed the cur.IIThere is no Corinth save the whip and curbOf Corinth, high Periander; the superbIn magnanimity, in rule severe.Up on his marble fortress-tower he sits,The city under him: a white yoked steer,That bears his heart for pulse, his head for wits.IIIBloom of the generous fires of his fair SpringStill coloured him when men forbore to sting;Admiring meekly where the ordered seedsOf his good sovereignty showed gardens trim;And owning that the hoe he struck at weedsWas author of the flowers raised face to him.IVHis Corinth, to each mood subservientIn homage, made he as an instrumentTo yield him music with scarce touch of stops.He breathed, it piped; he moved, it rose to fly:At whiles a bloodhorse racing till it drops;At whiles a crouching dog, on him all eye.VHis wisdom men acknowledged; only one,The creature, issue of him, Lycophron,That rebel with his mother in his brows,Contested: such an infamous would foulPirene!  Little heed where he might houseThe prince gave, hearing: so the fox, the owl!VITo prove the Gods benignant to his rule,The years, which fasten rigid whom they cool,Reviewing, saw him hold the seat of power.A grey one asked: Who next? nor answer had:One greyer pointed on the pallid hourTo come: a river dried of waters glad.VIIFor which of his male issue promised gripTo stride yon people, with the curb and whip?This Lycophron! he sole, the father like,Fired prospect of a line in one strong tide,By right of mastery; stern will to strike;Pride to support the stroke: yea, Godlike pride!VIIIHimself the prince beheld a failing fount.His line stretched back unto its holy mount:The thirsty onward waved for him no sign.Then stood before his vision that hard son.The seizure of a passion for his lineImpelled him to the path of Lycophron.IXThe youth was tossing pebbles in the sea;A figure shunned along the busy quay,Perforce of the harsh edict for who daredAddress him outcast.  Naming it, he crossedHis father’s look with look that proved them pairedFor stiffness, and another pebble tossed.XAn exile to the Island ere nightfallHe passed from sight, from the hushed mouths of all.It had resemblance to a death: and on,Against a coast where sapphire shattered white,The seasons rolled like troops of billows blownTo spraymist.  The prince gazed on capping night.XIDeaf Age spake in his ear with shouts: Thy son!Deep from his heart Life raved of work not done.He heard historic echoes moan his name,As of the prince in whom the race had pause;Till Tyranny paternity became,And him he hated loved he for the cause.XIINot Lycophron the exile now appeared,But young Periander, from the shadow cleared,That haunted his rebellious brows.  The princeGrew bright for him; saw youth, if seeming loth,Return: and of pure pardon to convince,Despatched the messenger most dear with both.XIIIHis daughter, from the exile’s Island home,Wrote, as a flight of halcyons o’er the foam,Sweet words: her brother to his father bowed;Accepted his peace-offering, and rejoiced.To bring him back a prince the father vowed,Commanded man the oars, the white sails hoist.XIVHe waved the fleet to strain its westward wayOn to the sea-hued hills that crown the bay:Soil of those hospitable islandersWhom now his heart, for honour to his blood,Thanked.  They should learn what boons a prince confersWhen happiness enjoins him gratitude!XVIn watch upon the offing, worn with hasteTo see his youth revived, and, close embraced,Pardon who had subdued him, who had gainedSurely the stoutest battle between twoSince Titan pierced by young Apollo stainedEarth’s breast, the prince looked forth, himself looked through.XVIErrors aforetime unperceived were bared,To be by his young masterful repaired:Renewed his great ideas gone to smoke;His policy confirmed amid the surgeOf States and people fretting at his yoke.And lo, the fleet brown-flocked on the sea-verge!XVIIOars pulled: they streamed in harbour; without cheerFor welcome shadowed round the heaving bier.They, whose approach in such rare pomp and stressOf numbers the free islanders dismayedAt Tyranny come masking to oppress,Found Lycophron this breathless, this lone-laid.XVIIIWho smote the man thrown open to young joy?The image of the mother of his boyCame forth from his unwary breast in wreaths,With eyes.  And shall a woman, that extinct,Smite out of dust the Powerful who breathes?Her loved the son; her served; they lay close-linked!XIXDead was he, and demanding earth.  DemandSharper for vengeance of an instant hand,The Tyrant in the father heard him cry,And raged a plague; to prove on free HellenesHow prompt the Tyrant for the Persian dye;How black his Gods behind their marble screens.