Septemque cursus flectit, et totidem refert,
Dum lassa Titan mergat Oceano juga.
Hic rupe celsa, nulla quam
Annosa fulgent templa Cenæi Jovis.
Ut stetit ad aras omne votivum pecus,
Totumque tantis gemuit armentis nemus,
Spolium leonis sordidum tabo exuit,
Posuitque clave pondus, et pharetræ graves
Laxavit humeros, veste tunc fulgens tua,
Cana revinctus populo horrentem comam,
Succendit aras. "Accipe has," inquit, "focis
Non false, messes, genitor, et largo sacer
Splendescat ignis ture, quod Phoebum colens
Dives Sabæis colligit truncis Arabs.
Pacata tellus," inquit, "et cœlum, et freta;
Feris subactis omnibus victor redii.
Depone fulmen." Gemitus in medias preces
Stupente et ipso cecidit. Hinc cœlum horrido
Clamore complet: qualis impressa fugax
Taurus bipenni vulnus et telum ferens,
Delubra vasto trepida mugitu replet;
Aut quale mundo fulmen emissum tonat.
512. Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace
The truest man that ever fed his flocks
By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly!
Thus I salute thy grave; thus do I pay
My early vows and tribute of mine eyes
To thy still-loved ashes; thus I free
Myself from all ensuing heats and fires
Of love all sports, delights, and jolly games
That shepherds hold full dear, thus I put off.
Now no more shall these smooth brows be girt
With youthful coronals, and lead the dance;
No more the company of fresh fair maids
And wanton shepherds be to me delightful,
Under some shady dell where the cool wind
Plays on the leaves. All be far away,
Since thou art far away, by whose dear side
How often have I sat crowned with fresh flowers
For summer's queen, while every shepherd's boy
Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook
And hanging scrip of finest cordevan.
But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee
And all are dead but thy dear memory:
That shall outlive thee, and shall ever spring
Whilst there are pipes or jolly shepherds sing.
513. Then turn your forces from this paltry siege,
And stir them up against a mightier task.
England, impatient of your just demands,
Hath put himself in arms; the adverse winds,
Whose leisure I have staid, have given him time
To land his legions all as soon as I:
His marches are expedient to this town,
His forces strong, his soldiers confident.
With him along is come the mother-queen,
An Até, stirring him to blood and strife;
With her her niece, the lady Blanch of Spain;
With them a bastard of the king deceased:
And all the unsettled humours of the land
Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries,
With ladies' faces, and fierce dragons' spleens,—
Have sold their fortunes at their native homes,
Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs,
To make a hazard of new fortunes here.
In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits,
Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er,
Did never float upon the swelling tide,
To do offence and scath in Christendom.
The interruption of their churlish drums
Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand,
To parley, or to fight; therefore, prepare.
514. The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May he within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou should'st never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats,
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest- if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion ;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
515. Know, then, that evermore with trembling steps
As if 'twere by compulsion, she accosts me;
A deadly paleness o'er her countenance steals;
And her fine eyes tow'rds me are never turn'd.
A few irresolute and broken words
She falters out, involved in mortal coldness;
Her eyes, eternally suffused with tears,
She fixes on the ground; in speechless grief
Her soul is buried; a pale sickliness
Dims, not annihilates, her wond'rous charms.
Behold her state. Yet of connubial rites
She speaks; and now thou would'st pronounce that
she
Desired those rites; now, that, far worse than death,
She dreaded them; now she herself assigns
The day for these, and now she puts it off.
If I inquire the reason of her grief,
Her lip denies it; but her countenance,
Of agony expressive, and of death,
Proclaims incurable despair.
Me she assures, and, each returning day,
Renews th' assurance, that I am her choice;
She says not that she loves me; high of heart,
She knows not how to feign. I wish, and fear,
To hear from her the truth; I check my tears;
I burn, I languish, and I dare not speak.
A man and maid of aspect wan and wild,
Then, side by side, by bowmen guarded, came:
Oh, wretched father! oh, unhappy child!
Them were all eyes of all the throng exploring-
Is this the daring man
Who raised his fatal hand at Arvalan?
Is this the wretch condemn'd to feel
Kehama's dreadful wrath?
Them were all hearts of all the throng deploring;
For not in that innumerable throng
Was one who lov'd the dead; for who could know
What aggravated wrong
Provoked the desperate blow!
Far, far behind, beyond all reach of sight,
In ordered files the torches flow along;
One ever lengthening line of gilding light:
Far-far behind,
Rolls on the undistinguishable clamour
Of horn, and trump, and tambour,
Incessant as the roar
Of streams which down the wintry mountain pour,
And louder than the dread commotion
Of stormy billows on a rocky shore,
When the winds rage o'er the waves,
And Ocean to the tempest raves.
Why, brother Hector,
We may not think the justness of each act
Such and no other than event doth form it;
Nor once deject the courage of our minds,
Because Cassandra's mad; her brain-sick raptures
Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel,
Which hath our several honours all engag'd
To make it gracious. For my private part,
I am no more touch'd than all Priam's sons:
And Jove forbid, there should be done amongst us
Such things as might offend the weakest spleen
To fight for and maintain !
P. Else might the world convince of levity
As well my undertakings, as your counsels:
But I attest the gods, your full consent
Gave wings to my propension, and cut off
All fears attending on so dire a project.
For what, alas, can these my single arms?
What propugnation is in one man's valour,
To stand the push and enmity of those
This quarrel would excite? Yet, I protest,
Were I alone to pass the difficulties,
And had as ample power as I have will,
Paris should ne'er retract what he hath done,
Nor faint in the pursuit.
As if the whole inhabitation perished!
Blood, death, and deathful deeds, are in that noise,
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