Destroyer! art not thou God's Delegate,
To break the glassy glories of this world?
The gem-knosp'd diadem, the ivory ball,
Sceptre and sword, imperial mantle broad,
The Lord of Nations, Thundershaft of war,
Are glorious on the pale submissive earth:

Thou comest, and lo, for throne, for sword, for king,
Bare ashes and thin dust. Thou art, that aye
The rich-tower'd cities smoulder'st to pale heaps
Of lazy moss-stones, and aye after thee
Hoots Desolation, like a dank-wing'd owl
Upon the marble palaces of Kings.
Thou wert, when old Assyrian Nineveh
Sank to a pool of waters, waste and foul;
Thou, when the Median's brow the massy tiar
Let fall, and when the Grecian's brazen throne
Sever'd and split to the four winds; and now
Consummatest thy work of wreck and scorn,
Even on Rome's Cæsars, making the earth sick
Of its own hollowness. Archangel! Hail,
Vicegerent of destruction! Cupbearer,

That pour'st the bitter liquor of Heaven's wrath,
A lamentable homage pay I thee,
And sue thee tell if Britain's days are full,
Her lips for thy sad beverage ripe. Thereat
Earthward his sunny spear its lurid point
Declined, and lo, a White Horse, through the land
Ranging in stately speed; our city gates
Shrunk open at his coming, our fair fields
Wither'd before him, so his fiery breath

Flared broad amazement through the gasping land.
Triumph was in the trampling of his feet,
And the strong joy of mockery, for he trod
On broken principalities; his mane
Familiar Conquest, as a rushing wind,

Fann'd in loose brilliant streamings."-"False-lipp'd
Seer,

Thou spakest of gladness, and thy ominous tone
Is darkness and dismay."-" Hark, Warrior, hark:
That wanton mane was trail'd down to the dust,
That fiery trampling falter'd to dull dread,
That pale victorious steed Thee, Thee I saw,
Visible as thou stand'st, with mastering arm
Drag down, and on his strong and baffled neck
Full trod thy iron-sandal'd heel. The sight
Was wine unto my soul, and I laugh'd out,
And mock'd the ruinous Seraph in the clouds.

"Yet stood he in the quiet of his wrath, Angelic Expectation, that awaits Calmly till God accomplish God's high will, Full on his brow. Then stoop'd the spear again, And lo, Seven Steeds, like that pale One, bestrode The patient Isle, and they that on them rode Wore diadem and regal pall; then rose To war against those royal riders fierce, From a round table, Knights in sunlike arms, Shields bossy with rich impress quaint, and fair Their coursers, as the fire-hoof'd steeds of Morn. To white-arm'd Ladies in a stately court Bards hymn'd the deeds of that fine chivalry, And their crown'd Captain's title smote mine ear, 'Arthur of Bretagne.'-Years went rolling on,

Cloudy, discordant, and tempestuous years,
For the sword reap'd the harvest of the land,
And battle was the may-game of her sons.
And lo, a Raven o'er the Eastern sea
Swoop'd desolation on the Isle; her wings
Blasted where'er they waved, the earth wept blood
In her foul talons' gripe. But he that rode
On the White Steed, the Sovereign of the Land
(Patience, Avenger, patience!), fair was he
That Sovereign, as the virgin's spring-tide dream,
Holy as new-anointed Christian Priest,
Valiant as warrior burnish'd for the fight,
Fond and ecstatic as love-dreaming Bard,
Solemn and wise as old Philosopher,
Stately as king-born lion in the wood;

As he his fine face heavenward turn'd in prayer,
The Angels bent down from their throning clouds,
To wonder at that admirable King,
Sky-wandering voices peal'd in transport out—
Alfred the baffled Raven cower'd aloof,
The isle look'd up to heaven in peace and joy.

"Still stood he there, betwixt me and the sun,
Th' Archangel; not in sleep, nor senselessness
Absorb'd, but terrible inaction spread
Over his innate menace. Oh, I strove,

Yet dared not hope the dregs of wrath were drain'd
The mission of dismay fulfill'd and done;
Yet had those wings of fatal hue droop'd down
In folded motionlessness, wreathy light
Had crept and wound around that dusky spear,
Silvering its perilous darkness. Dropt at once
That tender light away; at once those wings
Started asunder, and spread wide and red
The rain of desolation, thicker roll'd
The pedestal of clouds whereon he stood,
As to bear up the effort of his wrath.
Again the Eastern Raven snuff'd our air,
The frantic White Horse laved his hoofs in blood,
Till from the Southern Continent sprung forth
A Leopard, on the ocean shore he ramp'd.
Woe to the White Horse, to the Raven woe,
Woe for the title of the Leopard Lord.
The Conqueror! and a Bell I heard, that sway'd
Along the isle, and froze it into peace
With its majestic tyranny of sound.

But he, upon the air, th' Archangel, he, The summons of whose eye from climes remote Beckon'd those grisly ministers of wrath, Northward he look'd, no northern ruin came. To th' East, there all was still. The South, nor shape Nor sound. The West, calm stretch'd th' unruffled see. Ha! thought I, earth hath now no ruin more. The race of havoc is extinct for us: Angel of wreck, away! thy task is o'er; Majestic Mischief, from our isle away! He went not; as an earthquake's second shock, With dreary longing watch'd I what might come: Moments were years; and lo, the Island's sons Nor Briton they, nor Saxon, nor the stock Of those new-comers, but from each had flow'd All qualities of honour and renown,

The foul dishonest dregs had fumed away, And the rich quintessence, unmix'd, unsoil'd, A harmony of energies sublime,

Knit in that high-brow'd people. Courtesy, Death-scorning valour, Fame's immortal thirst, And honour inbreathed like the life of life.

"Then rose that strong Archangel, and he smote
The bosom of the land; at once leap'd up
That mighty people. Here a Snow-white Rose,
And there a Red, with fatal blossoming,
And deadly fragrance, maddening all the land.
I heard, I saw-ah, impious sights and sounds!
Two war-cries in one tongue, two banner-rolls
Woven in one loom, two lances from one forge,
Two children from one womb in conflict met;
'Gainst brother brother's blood cried out to heaven,
And he that rent the vizor of his foe

Look'd through the shatter'd bars, and saw his son.
Ha, Britain in thine entrails dost thou flesh
Thy ravin! thy baronial castles blaze
With firebrands from their hospitable hearths.

"Mercy," I cried aloud, "thou Merciless!
Destroy no more, Destroyer! Prone I fell,
And hid mine aching eyes deep in the dust;
So from my rocking memory to shut out
Those wars unnatural. Pass'd a sound at length
As of a Wild Boar hunted to his death:

I raised mine head, still there the Archangel stood;
Another pause, another gleam of hope;
But in that quiet interval me-seem'd
Trumpetings, as of victory from the sea,
Flow'd o'er the Isle, and glories beam'd abroad
From a triumphant throne, where sate elate
A Virgin all around her Poets' harps
Strew'd flowers of amaranth blooming; and methought
Was joy and solemn welcoming in heaven
Of a pure incense, that from all the Isle
Soar'd to the unapproached throne of God.

"Then saw I through the Isle a River broad
And full, and they that drank thereof look'd up
Like children dropt forth from a nobler world,
So powerful that proud water work'd within,
Freshening the body and the soul: and each
Beauty array'd and a frank simple strength.
The river's name was Freedom: her fair tide
So pleasant thrall'd mine eye, I saw not rise
Th' Archangel's spear: th' earth's reeling woke me
then,

For lo, upon a throne, a gallant Prince,
That with misguided sceptre strove to check
That powerful stream: whereat the rebel tide
Swell'd up with indignation, and aloof

Stood gathering its high-cresting waves; down came
The deluge, that fair throne, and all its strong
Nobility of pillars, with a crash

Came to the earth, while they that drank rush'd out
Inebriate with excess of that fierce stream,
And cast a bloody sacrifice, that head
Endiadem'd with royalty, to glut

The tide implacable. 'Tis sad to hear,

Ay, Samor, what was it to see! Brave Chief,

Cold winter leads the pleasant summer on,
The night must darken ere the morning dawn;
The summer came, the morning dawn'd, I saw
The arch'd heavens open o'er the angelic shape,
And upward like a cloud he mingled in
To the sky's cloudiness. I cried aloud
'For ever!' the close settling in the heaven
Seem'd to reply For ever.' Not with him
Pass'd off my vision fair. Another throne
Stood by the venturous margin of that stream:
Then merriment, and loose-harp'd wantonness
Smoothed the late ruffled air; immodest tones,
To which fair forms in dancing motion swam:
They paused, then dark around that throne it seem'd
Whereat those holy hymns that scarce had ceased
To float up in their airy-winged course,

In faintness 'gan to tremble and break off;
That stream again upgather'd its waked wrath,
And foamy menace. When behold, a fleet
Came tilting o'er the ocean waves, and cast
A Lady and a Warrior on the shore,
And kingly crowns around their brows august
Out blossom'd; on the throne they took their seat,
Soar'd gladness on the wings of those pure hymns,
And the majestic stream in sunlight flow
And full rejoicing murmur, all its waves
Wafted around the high and steady throne.

"Now listen with thy soul, not with thine ears: Briton! beside that stream a Tree sprang out, With ever-mounting height, and amplitude Aye-spreading; deep in earth its gnarled roots Struck down, as though to strengthen this frail world: Its crown amid the clouds seem'd soaring up For calm above earth's tossing and rude stir, And its broad branching spread so wide, its shade Lay upon distant realms; one golden bright, Close by the cradle of the infant sun, And others in new western worlds remote; And from that mystic river, Freedom, flow'd A moisture like the sap of life, that fed And fertilized the spacious Tree; the gales Of ocean with a gorgeous freshness flush'd The beauty of its foliage. Blossoms rare Were on it; holy deeds, that in the airs Of heaven delicious smelt, and fruits on earth Shower'd from it, making its sad visage smile, For life and hope and bliss was in their taste. Amid the state of boughs twin Eagles hung Their eyries, Victory and Renown, and swung In rapturous sport with the tumultuous winds, But birds obscene, Dishonour, Shame, Dismay, Scared by the light of the bright leaves, aloof Far wheel'd their sullen flight, nor dared to stoop. I saw the nations graft their wasted trunks From those broad boughs of beauty and of strength, And dip their drain'd urns in that sacred stream. But in the deep peculiar shade there stood A Throne, an Altar, and a Senate-house. Upon the throne a King sate, triple-crown'd As by three kingdoms; voices eloquent

In harmony of discord fulmined forth
From that wise Senate: in swift intercourse

To and fro from heaven's crystal battlements
To that pure altar Angels stoop'd their flight.
And through the sunny boughs Philosophers
Held commerce with the skies, and drew from thence
The stars to suffer their sage scrutiny;
And Poets sent up through the bowery vault
Such lavish harmonies, the charm'd air seem'd
Forgetful of its twinkling motion dim.

"Oh, admirable Tree! thou shalt not fall
By foreign axe, or slow decay within!
The tempests strengthen thee, the summer airs
Corrupt not, but adorn. Until that tide,
Freedom, the Inexhaustible, exhaust,
Lives the coeval Immortality."

The Prophet ceased: still Samor on his face,
That in solemnity of firm appeal
Look'd heavenward, with a passionate belief
Gazed, and a glad abandonment. “Ha, Seer,
But now when thou began'st 't was noon of day,
And now deep night. Yea, Merlin, and by night
The Tamer of the White Steed must go forge
His iron curb." Forth like a cataract

He burst, and bounded down the mountain side.
"Yet once again, tumultuous world, I plunge
Amid thy mad abyss; thou proud and fierce,
I come to break and tame thee! see ye not,
Wise Hengist! strong Caswallon! how the sand
Is under your high towering thrones, the worm
Is in your showy palms.”—And then a pause
Of tumult and proud trembling in his soul,
And, "False it was not, but a gleam vouchsafed
From the eternal orb of truth, the sense
That inbred and ingrain'd with my soul's life,
Hath made of Britain to this leaping heart
A sound not merely of deep love, but pride
Intense, and inborn majesty. I feel,
And from my earliest consciousness have felt,
That in the wide hereafter, where old Fate
Broods o'er the unravelling web of human things,
Woven by the Almighty, spreads thy tissue broad
In light, among the dark and mazy threads;
Vicissitude or mutability

Quench not its desolate lustre, on it winds
Unbroken, unattainted, unobscured.”—

So pass'd he who had seen, him then had deem'd, By the proud steed-like tossing of his crest, His motion like the uncheck'd August sun Travelling the cloudless vacancy of air, A monarch for his summer pastime gone Into the shady grove, with courtier train, And plumed steed, and laden sumpter mule, Cool canopy, and velvet carpeting. But he beneath the sleety winter sky, Even his hard arms bit into by the keen And searching airs, houseless, by hazard found His coarse irregular fare, his drink, the ice Toilsomely broken from the stiff black pool. The furr'd wolf in the mossy oaken trunk Lapp'd himself from the beating snow, but on Went Samor with unshivering naked foot;

The tempest from the mountain side tore down
The pine, like a scathed trophy casting it
To moulder in the vale, but Samor's brow
Fronted the rude sky; the free torrent felt
The ice its rushing turbulence o'ergrow,
Translucent in its cold captivity

It hung, but Samor burst the invading frost
From the untamed waters of his soul, and flow'd
Fetterless on his deep unfathom'd course.

And thou, wild Deva, how hast thou foregone
Thy summer music, and thy sunny play
Of eddies whitening 'mid thy channel stones;
Bard-beloved river, on whose green-fringed brink
The fine imagining Grecian sure had feign'd
"Twixt thy smooth Naiads and the Sylvans rude
Of thy grey woods stolen amorous intercourse;
With such a slow reluctance thou delay'st
Under the dipping branches, that flap up
With every shifting motion of the wind
Thy limpid moisture, and with serpent coil
Dost seem as thou wouldst mingle with thyself
To wander o'er again the same loved course.
Now lies thy ice-bound bosom mute and flat
As marble pavement, thy o'ershadowing woods
One bare, brown leaflessness, that faintly drop
At intervals the heavy icicles,

Like tears upon a monumental stone.

But though the merry waters and brisk leaves
Are silent, with their close-couch'd birds of song,
Even in this blank dead season music loves
Thy banks, and sounds harmonious must be heard
Even o'er thy frozen waters. 'T was a hymn
From a low chapel by the river side,

Came struggling through the thick and hazy air,
And made a gushing as of tears flow o'er

The Wanderer's soul; the form winds could not bow
Nor crazing tempests, those soft sounds amate;
Those dews of music melt into the frame
Of adamant, proof against the parching frost.

Under the porch he glided in, and knelt
Unnoticed in the throng: whose motion sway'd
The beasts of ravin, he before his God
Wore nought distinctive, save of those bruised reeds
Was he the sorest bruised, and deepest seem'd
The full devotion settling round his heart.
More musical than the music on that soul,
So long inured to things tumultuous, sights
Rugged and strange, and hurrying and distract,
Came the sensation of a face beloved.
The calm of that old reverend brow, the glow
Of its thin silver locks, was like a flash
Of sunlight in the pauses of a storm.
Now hath the white-stoled Bishop lifted up
His arms, his parting benison descends

Like summer rain upon his flock. Whose ear,
Oh, holy Germain, felt thy gentle tones
As Samor's? ah, when last thy saintly brow
For him look'd heavenward, and less tremulous then
Thy voice on him breathed blessing, 't was in times
Far brighter, at that jocund bridal hour
When Emeric, rosy between shame and joy,

Stood with him by the altar side:-"Thus live
In love till life's departure ;"-Such thy prayer;
Ah, words how vain! sweet blessings unenjoy'd!

The throng hath parted; in the House of God Still knelt the armed man; with pressure strong He clasp'd old Germain's hand-"Good Bishop, thou Art skill'd in balancing our earthly sins. I was a man, whose high ambitious head Was among God's bright stars; I deem'd of earth, As of a place whose dust my feet shook off With a heaven-gifted scorn, so far, so high Seem'd I above its tainting elevate.

At midnight, on my slumber came the sin,

I will not say how exquisite and fair;
Mine eyelids sprung apart to drink it in,
My soul leap'd up to clasp it, and the folds
Of passion, like a fiery robe, wrapt in
My nature; I had fallen, but bounteous Heaven
Of its most blest permitted one t'extend

A snow-white arm of rescue."-"The hot tears
Corrode and fret the warrior's brazen helm;
I will not ask thee of thine outward eyes,
Hath thy soul wept ?"-Ay, bishop, tears of blood;
Sorrow and shame weigh'd down my nerveless arm,
And clipp'd th' aspiring plumage of my soul;
From out mine own heart scorn hiss'd at me."-"Well,
Strong Man of arms, hast fought the inward fight,
And God remit thy sins, as I remit."-

Belied the stern appearance," Priest, with him But now who parted, is my soul allied

In secret, close society; his faith

Must be my faith, his God my God."-" Fair youth,
I question not by what imperious tie

Of admiration or strong love thou'rt led;
For as the Heavens with silent power intense
Draw upward the light mists and fogs of earth,
And steeping them in glory, hang them forth
Fresh, renovate, and radiant; virtue holds
The like attractive influence, to her trains
Souls light and clayey-tinctured, till they catch
The fair contagion of her beauty, beam
With her imparted light. Hear, heathen youth,
Hear and believe."-As when beneath the nave
Tall arching, the Cathedral organ 'gins

Its prelude, lingeringly exquisite
Within retired the bashful sweetness dwells,
Anon like sunlight, or the floodgate rush
Of waters, bursts it forth, clear, solemn, full;
It breaks upon the mazy fretted roof,
It coils up round the clustering pillars tall,
It leaps into the cell-like chapels, strikes
Beneath the pavement sepulchres, at once
The living temple is instinct, ablaze
With the uncontroll'd exuberance of sound.

So saying, uprose Samor, like a star

Out of the ocean, shining his bright face

With the pure dews of penitence. But he,
The old man, fell upon his neck and wept,

As though th' endearing name, my Son, were voiced
By nature, not by saintly use, a sound
Not of the lips, but th' overflowing heart.

Theirs was a broken conference, drear thoughts Of anguish, desolation, and despair, So moulded up with recollections sweet,

They made the sunken visage smile through tears;
A few fair roses shed on a brown heath,

A little honey in deep cups of gali :
Light bridal airs broke in upon by sounds
Funereal, shouts of triumph languishing
To the faint shriek of agony, direness forced
Into the fresh bowers of delight, and death,
Th' unjoyous, in the laughing feast of joy.

"T is th' one poor luxury the wretched have, To speak of wretchedness-yet brief their speech, "Vengeance and vigilance," the stern adieu Even in that hoary Bishop's ear, he went.

But by the Bishop's side, just there where knelt Th' Avenger, a new form: 't was man in garb, But the thin fringing of the humid eye, The delicate wanderings of the rosy veins, The round full alabaster of the skin, The briefness of the modest sliding step. Something of womanly composure smooth, Even in the close and girt habiliments,

With heaven by golden chains of eloquence;
Till the mind, all its faculties and powers,
Lay floating, self-surrender'd in the deep
Of admiration. Wondrous 't was to see,
With the transitions of the Holy Creed,
The workings of that regular bright face:
Now ashy blank, now glittering bright, now dew'd
With fast sad tears, now with a weeping smile,
Now heavy with droop'd eyelids, open now
With forehead arch'd in rapture; till at last
Ensued a gasping listening without breath.
But as the voice severe wound up the strain
And from the heavenly history to enforce
The everlasting moral, 'gan extort
From the novitiate in the jealous faith
Passionless purity, and life sincere
From all the soft indulgences of sin;
Forbidden in the secret heart to shrine
A dear unlawful image, to reserve
A sad and narrow sanctuary for desire:
Then stood in speechlessness, yet suppliant,
With snowy arms outstretch'd, and quivering loose,
The veiling mantle thrown in anguish back,
Confest the Woman: starting from their band,
Like golden waters o'er a marble bed,
Flow'd out her long locks o'er her half-bare neck.

"To tell me that in such cold solemn tones, All, all unwelcome, bitter as it is,

I must believe, for its oppressive truth
Loads on my soul, and he believes it all.
To tell it me here. here, where all around

Linger his vestiges, where the warm air
Yet hath the motion of his breath, the sound
Of his departing footsteps beating yet

Upon my heart. Long sought! and found in vain!
In sunshine have I sought thee and in shade,
O'er mountain have I track'd thee, and through vale,
The clouds have wrapp'd thee, but I lost thee not,
The torrents drown'd thy track, but not from me,
I dared not meet thee, but I sought thee still;
To me forbid, alone to me, what all

The coarse and common things of nature may;
The airs of heaven may touch thee, I may not,
All human eyes behold thee-all but mine;
And thou, the senseless, enviable dust
Mayst cherish the round traces of his limbs,
His fresh fair image must away from me.
Oh, that I were the dust whereon thou treadst,
Even though I felt thee not!"-And is this she.
The virgin of the festal hall, who won
A kingdom for a smile, nor deign'd regard
Its winning, and who stoop'd to be a Queen?
And is this she, whose coming on the earth
Was like the Morn in her impearled car,
Loftiest or loveliest which, 't were bold to say?
She whose enamouring scorn fell luxury-like
On her beholders, who seem'd glad to shrink
Beneath the wreathed contempt of her full lip?
This she, the Lady of the summer bark,
To whom the sunshine and the airs, and all
Th' inconstant waters play'd the courtier smooth,
That cast a human feeling of delight
At her bewitching presence o'er the blind
Unconscious forms of nature? Is this she?
Those rich lips, for a monarch's banquet meet,
Visiting the dust with frantic kiss, thus low,
Thus desolate, thus fallen, of her fall
Careless, so deep in shame, yet unashamed!

But thou, Heaven reconciled, on earth the seal'd,
The anointed by the prophet's gladdening oils,
God's instrument, hath midnight now resumed
Its spirit-wafting function? Emeric, she
On earth so mild, in her had anger seem'd
Unnatural as a war-song on a lute,
As blood upon the pinion of a dove.
In heaven has she her heavenly qualities
Unlearnt? is she the angel now in all
But its best part, forgiveness? Can it be
Th'ungentle North, the bleak and snowy air
Estrange her now? those elements of earth
But tyrannize beneath the moon, the stars
And spirits in their nature privileged
From heat and cold, from fevering and from frost,
Their pure and constant temperament maintain,
Glide through the storm serene, and rosy warm
Rove the frore winter air. Are sounds abroad,
That Samor from his mossy pillow, stretch'd
Under the oak, uplifts his head, and then
Like one bliss-overcome, subsides again?
Half sleep, half sense he lies, his nuptial hymn,
Articulate each gay and dancing word,
Distinct each delicate and dwelling fall,
Is somewhere in the air about him; looks

Are on him of a bashful eye, too fond
To turn away, too timorous to fix
And rest unwavering. All the marriage rite
Is acting now anew; the sunlight falls
Upon the gold-clasp'd book of prayer, as then
It fell, and Germain speaks as Germain spake;
And Emeric, on her cheek the tear is there,
Where then it hung in lucid trembling bright;
The very fluttering of her yielded hand,
When gliding up her finger small, the ring
Made her his own for ever, throbs again
Upon his sensitive touch. He dares not move
Lest he should break the lovely bubble frail;
His tranced eyes stir not, lest they rove away
From that delicious sight; his open hand
Lies pulseless, lest the slightest change disturb
That exquisite sensation: so he lies,
Knowing all false, yet feeling all as true.

And it was false, yet why? that is indeed,
Which is to sense and sight. Ah, well beseems
Us, the strong insects of an Apri! morn,
Steady and constant as the thistle's down
When winds are on it, lasting as the flake
Of spring snow on the warm and grassy ground,
Well beseems us, ourselves, our forms, our lives,
The earth we tread on, and the air we breathe,
The light and glassy peopling of a dream,
T'arraign our visions for their perishing,
And on their unreality to rail,

Ungrateful to the illusion, that deceives
To rapture, and unwise to cast away
Sweet flowers because they are not amaranth.

Thou, Samor, nor ungrateful nor unwise,
That, 'scaping from this cold and dark below,
Dost spread thee out for thy peculiar joy
A land of fair imaginings, with shapes,
And sounds, and motions, and sweet stillnesses,
Dost give up all the moon beholds to woe
And tumult, but in some far quiet sphere
Findest thyself a pure companionship

With spirits thou didst love, and who loved thee While passionate and earthly sense was theirs.

BOOK IX.

WHO tracks the ship along the sea of storms? Who through the dark haste of the wintry clouds Pierceth to where the planet in retired And constant motion the blue arch of heaven Traverseth? Sometimes on the mountain top Of some huge wave the reappearing bark Takes its high stand, with pennon fluttering far And cautious sail half furl'd, yet eminent As of th' assaulting element in disdain. Sometimes amid the darkness falling off. And scattering from its crystal sphere away, Bursts out the argent orb refresh'd, and shows Its lamp unquenchable. Thou voyager