Poems by George Meredith - LightNovelsOnl.com
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XXI
'Tis the room where thunder sleeps.
Frenzy, as a wave to sh.o.r.e Surging, burst the silent door, And drew back to awful deeps Breath beaten out, foam-white. Anew Howled and pressed the ghastly crew, Like storm-waters over rocks.
Attila, my Attila!
One long shaft of sunset red Laid a finger on the bed.
Horror, with the snaky locks, Shocked the surge to stiffened heaps, h.o.a.ry as the glacier's head Faced to the moon. Insane they look.
G.o.d it is in heaven who weeps Fallen from his hand the Scourge he shook.
Make the bed for Attila!
XXII
Square along the couch, and stark, Like the sea-rejected thing Sea-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 blood Dumb for vengeance. Name us that, Huddled in the corner dark Humped 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 big As 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!
XXIII
Torch and lamp and sunset-red Fell three-fingered on the bed.
In the torch the beard-hair scant With the great breast seemed to pant: In the yellow lamp the limbs Wavered, as the lake-flower swims: In the sunset red the dead Dead avowed him, dry blood-red.
XXIV
Hatred of that abject slave, Earth, was in each chieftain's heart.
Earth has got him, whom G.o.d gave, Earth may sing, and earth shall smart!
Attila, my Attila!
XXV
Thus their prayer was raved and ceased.
Then had Vengeance of her feast Scent in their quick pang to smite Which they knew not, but huge pain Urged them for some victim slain Swift, 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 heard Vengeance in a cauldron seethe.
Hurried counsel rage and craft Yelped to hungry men, whose teeth Hard the grey lip-ringlet gnawed, Gleaming till their fury laughed.
With the steel-hilt in the clutch, Eyes were shot on her that froze In 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 big As the southern summer fig, Push a dagger's point to pierce Ribs like those? Who else! They glared Each at each. Suspicion fierce Many 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 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
