BOOK V.

In the high Council Hall of Carduel, Beside the absent Arthur's ivory throne ( What time the earlier shades of evening fell ), Wan-silvering through the hush, the cresset shone

O'er the arch-seer,— as,‘ mid the magnates there, Rose his large front, august with prophet care; Rose his large front above the luminous guests, The deathless TWELVE of that heroic Ring,

Which, as the belt wherein Orion rests, Girded with subject stars the starry king; Without, strong towers guard Rome's elaborate wall; Within is Manhood!— strongest tower of all.

First, Muse of Cymri, name the Council three Who, of maturer years and graver mien, Wise in the past, conceived the things to be, And temper'd impulse quick with thought serene;

Nor young, nor old — no dupes to rushing Hope, Nor narrowing to tame Fear th’ ignoble scope. Of these was Cynon of the highborn race, A cold but dauntless — calm but earnest man;

With deep eyes shining from a thoughtful face, And spare slight form, for ever in the van When ripening victories crown'd laborious deeds; Reaper of harvest — sower not of seeds;

For scarcely his the quick far-darting soul Which, like Apollo's shaft, strikes lifeless things Into divine creation; but, the whole Once rife, the skill which into concord brings

The jarring parts; shapes out the rudely wrought, And calls the action living from the thought. Next Aron see — not rash, yet gaily bold, With the frank polish of chivalric courts;

Him from the right, no fear of wrong controll'd; And toil he deem'd the sprightliest of his sports; O'er War's dry chart, or Wisdom's mystic page, Alike as smiling, and alike as sage;

With the warm instincts of the knightly heart, That rose at once if insult touch'd the realm, He spurn'd each state-craft, each deceiving art, And rode to war, no vizor to his helm;

This proved his worth, this line his tomb may boast — “Who hated Cymri, hated Aron most!” But who with eastern hues and haughty brow, Stern with dark beauty sits apart from all?

Ah, couldst thou shun thy friends, Elidir!— thou Scorning all foes, before no foe shalt fall! On thy wrong'd grave one hand appeasing lays The humble flower — oh, could it yield the bays!

Courts may have known than thou a readier tool, States may have found than thine a subtler brain, But states shall honour many a formal fool, And many a tawdry fawner courts may gain,

Ere King or People in their need shall see A soul so grand as that which fled with thee! For thou wert more than true; thou wert a Truth! Open as Truth, and yet as Truth profound;

Thy fault was genius — that eternal youth Whose weeds but prove the richness of the ground — And dull men envied thee, and false men fear'd, And where soar'd genius, there convention sneer'd.

Ah, happy hadst thou fallen, foe to foe, The bright race run — the laurel o'er thy grave! But hands perfidious strung the ambush bow, And the friend's shaft the rankling torture gave —

The last proud wish its agony to hide, The stricken deer to covert crept and died. Next came the Warrior Three.Of glory's charms ( Glory, the bride of heroes ) nobly vain,

Dark Mona's Owaineshines with golden arms, The Roland of the Cymrian Charlemain, Scath'd by the storm the holy chief survives, For Fame makes holy all its lightning rives.

Beside, with simplest garb and sober mien, Solid as iron, not yet wrought to steel, In his plain manhood Cornwall's chiefis seen, Who ( if wild tales some glimpse of truth reveal )

Gave Northern standards to the Indian sun — And wreaths from palms that shaded Evian won. Lo, he whose Fame outshines the Fabulous! Sublime with eagle front, and that grey crown

Which Age, the arch-priest, sets on laurell'd brows; Lo, Geraint, bending with a world's renown! Yet those grey hairs one ribald scoffer found;— The moon sways ocean and provokes the hound.

Next the three Chiefs of Eloquence;the kings Whose hosts are thoughts, whose realm the human mind, Who out of words evoke the souls of things, And shape the lofty drama of mankind;

Wit charms the fancy, wisdom guides the sense; To make men nobler — that is Eloquence! As from the Mount of Gold, auriferous flows The Lydian wave, thy pomp of period shines,

Resplendent Drudwas — glittering as it goes High from the mount, but labouring through the mines, And thence the tides, enriching while they run, Glass every fruit that ripens to the sun.

But, like the vigour of a Celtic stream, Eliwlod's rush of manly sense along, Fresh with the sparkles of a healthful beam, And quick with impulse like a poet's song.

How listening crowds that knightly voice delights — If from those crowds are banish'd all but knights! The third, though young, well worthy of his place, Was Gawaine, courteous, blithe, and debonnair,

Arch Mercury's wit, with careless Cupid's face; Frank as the sun, but searching as the air, Who with bland parlance prefaced doughtiest blows, And mildly arguing — arguing brain'd his foes.

Next came the three — in mystic Triads hight “The KNIGHTS OF LOVE;" some type, the name conveys, For where no lover, there methinks no knight; All knights were lovers in King Arthur's days:

Caswallawn; Trystan of the lion rock; And, leaning on his harp, calm Caradoc! Thus class'd, distinct in peace,— let war dismay, Straight in one bond the divers natures blend —

So varying tints in tranquil sunshine play, But form one iris if the rains descend; And, fused in light against the clouds that lower, Forbid the deluge while they own the shower!

On the bright group the Prophet rests his gaze, Then the deep voice sonorous thrills aloud — “In Carduel's vale the steers unheeded graze, To jocund winds the yellowing corn is bow'd,

By hearths of mirth the waves of Isca flow, And Heaven above smiles down on peace below. “But far looks forth the warder from the tower, And to the halls of Cymri's antique kings

A soul that sees the future in the hour The desolation of its burthen brings; Hollow sounds earth beneath the clanging tread: Yon fields shall yield no harvest but the Dead!

“And waves shall rush in crimson to the deep, The Meteor Horse shall pale autumnal skies — From RAURAN'S lairs the joyous wolves shall leap — From EIFLE'S crags the screaming eagles rise —

Yea! while I speak, these halls the havoc nears! Red sets the sun behind the storm of spears! “The Sons of Woden sound no tromp before Their march! No herald comes their war to tell!

No plea for slaughter, dress'd in clerkly lore, Makes death seem justice! As the rain-clouds swell, When air is stillest, in BAL HUAN'S halls; The herbage waves not till the tempest falls!

“Of old ye know them; ye the elect remains Of perish'd races — rock-saved; anchoring here The ark of empire! For your latest fanes,

For your last hearths, for all to freemen dear, And to God sacred; take the shield and brand! Accurst each Cymrian who survives hisland!” “Accursed each Cymrian who survives his land!”

Echo'd deep tones, hollow as blasts escaped From Boreal caverns, and in every hand The hilts of swords to sainted croziers shaped Were grimly griped — as by that symbol sign

Hallowing the human wrath to war divine. The Prophet mark'd the deep unclamorous vow Of the pent passion; and the morning light Of young Humanity flash'd o'er the brow

Dark with that wisdom which, like Nature's night, Communes with stars and dreams; it flash'd and waned, And the vast front its awful hush regain'd. “Princes, I am but as a voice; be you

As deeds! The wind comes through the hollow oak, And stirs the green woods that it wanders through, Now wafts the seeds, now wings the levin-stroke, Now kindles, now destroys:— that Wind am I,

Homeless on earth; the mystery of the sky! “But when the wind in noiseless air hath sunk, Behold the sower tends and rears the seeds; Behold the woodman shapes the fallen trunk;

The viewless voice hath waked the human deeds; Born of the germs, flowers bloom and harvests spring; The pine uprooted speeds the Ocean King. “Warriors, since absent ( not from wanton lust

Of errant emprize, but by Fate ordain'd, For all lone labouring, worthy of his trust ) He whose young lips in thirst of glory drain'd All that of arts Mavortian elder Rome

Taught, to assail the foe, or guard the home; “Be ye his delegates, and oft with prayer Bring angels round his wild and venturous way; As one great orb gives life and light to air,

So times there are when all a people's day Shines from a single life! This known, revere The exile; mourn not — let his soul be here. “Yours then, high chiefs, the conduct of the war,

But heed this counsel ( won or wrung from Fate ), Strong rolls the tide when curb'd its channels are, Strong flows a force that but defends a state; In Carduel's walls concentre Cymri's power,

And chain the Dragon to this charmed tower. “This night the moon should see the beacon brand Link fire to fire from Beli's Druid pile; Rock call on rock, till blazes all the land

From Sabra's wave to Mona's parent isle! Let Fredom write in characters of fire, ‘ Who climbs my throne ascends his funeral pyre!’” The Prophet ceased; and rose with stern accord

The warrior senate. Sudden every shield Leapt into lightning from the clashing sword; And choral voices consentaneous peal'd — “Hail to our guests! the wine of war is red;

Fire fight the banquet — steel prepare the bed!” While thus the peril threat'ning land and throne, Unharm'd, unheeding, dreaming goes the King, Where from the brief Elysium, Acheron

Awaits the victim whom its priest shall bring. And where art thou, meek guardian of the brave? Though fails the eagle, still the dove may save! When, lured by signs that seem'd his aid to implore,

From his good steed the lord of knighthood sprung, [ And left it wistful by the dismal door, Since the cragg'd roof too low descending hung For the great war-horse in its barb'd array;

And little dream'd he of the long delay,—] His path the dove nor favour'd nor forbade; Motionless, folding on sharp rocks its wing, With its soft eyes it watch'd, resign'd and sad,

Where fates, ordain'd for sorrow, led the King; Nor did he miss ( till earth regain'd the day ) The plumed angel vanish'd from his way. Then oft, in truth, and oft in blissful hours,

Miss'd was that faithful guide through stormier life. Ah common lot! how oft, mid summer flowers, We miss the soother of the winter strife; How oft we mourn in Fortune's sunlit vale

Some silenced heart with which we shared the gale! But absent not the dove, albeit unseen; In some still foliage it had found its nest: At night it hover'd where his steps had been,

Pale through the moonbeams in the air of rest; By the lull'd wave and shadowy banks it pass'd, Lingering where love with AEgle linger'd last. And when with chiller dawn resought the lone

And leafy gloom in which it shunn'd the day, Beneath those boughs you might have heard it moan, Low-wailing to itself its plaintive lay; Till with the sun rose all the songs that fill

Morn with delight; and then the dove was still. But now, as towards the Temple of the Shades The King went heavily — a gleam of light Shot through the gloaming of the cedarn glades,

And the dove glided to his breast: the sight Came like a smile from Heaven upon the King, And his heart warm'd beneath the brooding wing. Strange was the thrill of joy, beyond belief,

Sent from the soft touch of those plumes of down! He was not all deserted in his grief, The brows of Fate relax'd their iron frown; And his soul quicken'd to that glorious power

Which fronts the future and subdues the hour; The joy it brought, the dove refused to share; As it it felt the tempest in the sky, Trembling, it nestled to its shelter there,

Nor lifted to the light its drooping eye. Not, as its wont, to guide it came; but brave With him the ills from which it could not save. Now lost the lovelier features of the land,

Dull waves replace the fount, dark pines the bowers, Grey-streeted tombs, far stretch'd on either hand, Rear the dumb city of the Funeral Powers. Massive and huge, behold the dome of dread,

Where the stern Death-god frowns above the dead. Hewn from a rock, stand the great columns square, With triglyphs wrought and ponderous pediment; Such as yet greet the musing wanderer, where,

Near the old Fane to which Etruria sent Her sovereign twelve, the thick-sown violet blooms, In Castel d'Asso' s vale of hero-tombs. Passing a bridge that spann'd the barrier wave,

They reach'd the Thebes-like porch;— the Augur here, First entering, leaves the King. Within the nave Now swell the flutes ( which went before the bier What time the funeral chaunt of Pagan Rome

Knell'd some throne-shatterer to his six-feet home ). Jar back the portals — long, in measured line, There stand within the mute Auruspices, In each pale hand a torch; and near the shrine

Sit on still thrones, the guardian deities; Here SETHLANS,sovereign of life's fix'd domains — There fatal NORTHIA with the iron chains. Between the two the Death-god broods sublime;

On his pale brow the inexorable peace Which speaks of power beyond the shores of time; Calm, not benign like the sweet gods of Greece,— Calm as the mystery which in Memphian skies

Froze life's warm current from a sphinx's eyes. With many a grausame shape unutterable, Limn'd were the cavernous sepulchral walls; Life-like they stalk'd, the Populace of Hell,

Through the pale pomp of Acherontian halls; Distinct as when the Trojan's living breath Vex'd the wide silence in the wastes of death. Shown was the Progress of the guilty Soul

From earth's warm threshold to the throne of doom; Here the black genius to the dismal goal Dragg'd the wan spectre from the unshelt'ring tomb; While from the side it never more may warn

The better angel, sorrowing, fled forlorn. Hideous with horrent looks and goading steel The fiend drives on the abject cowering ghost Where ( closed the eighth ) sev'n yawning gates reveal

The sev'nfold anguish that awaits the Lost; By each the gryphon flaps his ravening wings, And dire Chimaera whets her hungry stings. Here, ev'n that God, of all the kindliest one,

Life of all life ( in Tusca's later creed Blent with the orient worship of the Sun, Or His who loves the madding nymphs to lead On the Fork'd Hill ), abjures his genial smile,

And, scowls transform'd, the Typhon of the Nile. Closed the eighth gate — for there, the happy dwell! No glimpse of joy beyond makes horror less. But that closed gate upon the exiled hell

Sets hell's last seal of misery — Hopelessness! Nathless, despite the Daemon's chasing thong, Here, as if hoping still, the hopeless throng. Before the northern knight each nightmare dream

Of Theban soothsayer or Chaldean mage, Thus kindling in the torches’ breathless beam, As if incarnate with resistless rage, And hell's true malice, starts from wall to wall;

He signs the cross, and looks unmoved on all. Before the inmost Penetralian doors, Holding a cypress-branch, the Augur stands; The King's firm foot strides echoless the floors,

And with dull groan the temple veil expands; Slow-moving on the brandish'd torches shine Red o'er the wave that yawns behind the shrine; Red o'er the wave, as, under vaulted rock,

Dark as Cocytus, the false smoothness flows; But where the light fades — there is heard the shock As hurrying down the headlong torrent goes; With mocking oars, a raft sways, moor'd beside —

What keel save Charon's ploughs that dismal tide? Proud Arthur smiled upon the guileful host, As welcome danger roused him and restored.— “Friend,” quoth the King, “methinks your streams might boast

A gentler margin and a fairer ford!” “As birth to man,” replied the priest, “the cave, O guest, to thee! as death to man the wave. “Doth it appal thee? thou canst yet return!

There love, there sunny life;— and yonder” — “Fame, Cymri, and God!” said Arthur. “Paynim, learn Death has two victors, deathless both — THE NAME, THE SOUL; to each a realm eternal given,

This rules the earth, and that achieves the heaven.” He said, and seized a torch with scornful hand; The frail raft rock'd to his descending tread; Upon the prow he fix'd the glowing brand,

And the raft drifted down the waves of dread. So with his fortunes went confiding forth The knightly Caesar of the Christian North. Then, from its shelter on his breast, the dove

Rose, and sail'd slow before with doubtful wing; The dun mists rolling round the vaults above, Below, the gulf with torch-fires crimsoning; Wan through the glare, or white amidst the gloom,

Glanced Heaven's mute daughter with the silver plume. Meanwhile to AEgle: from the happier trance, And from the stun of the first human ill Labouring returns her soul!— As lightnings glance

O'er battle-fields, with sated slaughter still, The fitful reason flickering comes and goes O'er the past struggle — o'er the blank repose. At length with one long, eager, searching look,

She gazed around, and all the living space With one great loss seem'd lifeless!— then she strook Her clench'd hand on her heart; and o'er her face Settled ineffable that icy gloom,

Which only falls when hope abandons doom. Why breaks the smile — why waves the exulting hand? Why to the threshold moves that step serene? The brow superb awes back the maiden band,

From the roused woman towers sublime the queen. She pass'd the isle — and beam'd upon the crowd, Bright as the May-moon when it bursts the cloud. Brief and imperious rings her question; quick

A hundred hands point, answering, to the fane. As on she sweeps, behind her, fast and thick, Gather the groups far following in her train. Behind some bird unknown, of glorious dyes,

So swarm the meaner people of the skies. Oh, the great force, that sleeps in woman's heart! She will, at least, behold that form once more; See its last vestige from her world depart,

And mark the spot to haunt and wander o'er, Rased in that impulse of the human breast All the cold lessons on its leaves impress'd;— Snapp'd in the strength of the divine desire

All the vain swathes with which convention thralls;— Nature breaks forth, and at her breath of fire The elaborate snow-pile's molten temple falls; And meaner priestcrafts fly before that Truth,

Whose name is Passion, and whose altar, Youth! Unknown the egress, dreamless of the snare, Sole aim to look the last on the adored: She gains the fane — she treads the aisle — and there

The deathlights guide her to the bridal lord; On, through pale groups around the yawning cave, She comes — and looks upon the livid wave. She comes — she sees afar amidst the dark,

That fair, serene, undaunted, godlike brow — Sees on the lurid deep the lonely bark Drift through the circling horror;— sees, and now On light's far verge it hovers, wanes, and fades,

As roars the hungering cataract up the shades. Voiceless she look'd, and voiceless look'd and smiled On her the priest: strange though the marvel seem, The old man, childless, loved her more than child;

She link'd each thought — she colour'd every dream; But Love, the varying Genius, guides, in turn, The soft to pity, to revenge the stern. Not his the sympathy which soothes the woe,

But that which, wrathful, feels, and shares, the wrong. He in the faithless view'd alone the foe; The weak he righted when he smote the strong: In one dread crime a twofold virtue seen,

Here saved the land, and there avenged the queen. So through the hush his hissing murmur stole — “Ay, AEgle, blossom on the stem of kings, Not to fresh altars glides the perjurer's soul,

Not to new maids the vows still thine he brings! No rival mocks thee from the bloodless shore, The dead, at least, are faithful evermore.” As when around the demigod of love,

Whom men Prometheus call, relentless fell The flashing fires of Zeus, and Heaven above Open'd in flame, in flame expanded Hell; While gazing dauntless on the Thunderer's frown,

Sunk from the Earth, the Earth's Light-bringer down; So, while both worlds before its sight lay bare, And o'er one ruin burst the lightning shook, Love, the Arch-Titan, in sublime despair,

Faced the rent Hades from the shatter'd rock; And saw in Heaven, the future Heaven foreshown, When Love shall reign where Force usurps the throne. The Woman heard, and gathering majesty

Beam'd on her front, and crown'd it with command; The pale priest shrunk before her tranquil eye, And the light touch of her untrembling hand — “Enjoy,” she said, with voice as clear as low,

“Enjoy thy hate; where love survives I go. “Sweetly thou smilest — sweetly, gentle Death, Kinder than life;— that severs, thou unitest! To realms He spoke of goes this living breath,

A living soul, wherever space is brightest — Fair Love — I trusted, now I claim, thy troth! Blest be thy couch, for it hath room for both!” She said, and from each hand that would restrain

Broke, in the strength of her sublime despair; Swift as the meteor on the northern main Fades from the ice-lock'd sea-kings’ livid stare — She sprang; the robe a sudden glimmer gave,

And o'er the vision swept the closing wave. Return, wild Song, to Lancelot! Behold Our Lord's lone house beside the placid mere! There pipes the careless shepherd to his fold,

Or from the crags the shy capellae peer Through the green rents of many a hanging brake, Which sends its quivering shadow to the lake. And by the pastoral margins mournfully

Wanders from dawn to eve the earnest knight; And ever to the ring he turns his eye, And ever does the ring perplex the sight; The fairy hand that knew no rest before,

Rests now as fix'd as if its task were o'er. Towards the far head of the calm water turn'd The unmoving finger; yet, when gain'd the place, No path for human foot the knight discern'd —

Abrupt and huge, the rocks enclosed the space. His scath'd front veil'd in everlasting snows, High above eagles Alpine Atlas rose. No cleft! save that a giant torrent clove,

For its fierce hurry to the lake it fed; Check'd for a while in chasms conceal'd above, Thence all its pomp the dazzling horror spread, And from the beetling ridges, smooth and sheer,

Flash'd in one mass, down-roaring to the mere. Still to that spot the fairy hand inclined, And daily there with wistful searching eyes Wander'd the knight; each day no path to find.

What step can scale that ladder to the skies? What portals yawn in those relentless walls?— Still the hand points where still the cataract falls. One noon, as thus he gazed in stern despair

On rock and torrent;— from the tortured spray, And through the mists, into cerulean air, A dove descending rush'd its arrowy way; Swift as a falling star, which, falling, brings

Woe on the helmet-crown of Dorian kings! Straight to the wanderer's hand bore down the bird, With plumage crisp'd with fear, and piercing plaint; Oft had he heedful, in his wanderings, heard

Of the great Wrong-Redresser, whom a saint In the dove's guise directed — “Hail,” he cried, “I greet the token — I accept the guide!” And sudden as he spoke, arose the wing,

( Warily veering towards the dexter flank Of the huge chasm, through which leapt thundering From Nature's heart her savage ); on the bank Of that fell stream, in root, and jag, and stone,

It traced the ladder to the glacier's throne. Slow sail'd the dove, and paused, and look'd behind, As labouring after, crag on crag, the knight ( Close on the deafening roar, and whirling wind

Lash'd from the surges ), through the vaporous night Of the grey mists, loom'd up the howling wild; Strong in the charm the fairy gave the child. With bleeding hands, that leave a moment's red

On stone and stem wash'd by the mighty spray, He gains at length the inter-alpine bed, Whose lock'd Charybdis checks the torrent's way, And forms a basin o'er abysmal caves,

For the grim respite of the headlong waves. Torrents below — the torrents still above! Above less awful — as precipitous peak And splinter'd ledge, and many a curve and cove

In the compress'd, indented margins, break That crushing sense of power, in which we see What, without Nature's God, would Nature be! Before him stretch'd the maelstrom of the abyss;

And, in the central torrent, giant pines, Uprooted from the bordering wilderness By some gone winter's blast — in flashing lines Shot through the whirl — then, pluck'd to the profound,

Vanish'd and rose, swift eddying round and round. But on the marge as on the wave thou art, O conquering Death!— what human, hueless face Rests pillow'd on a silenced human heart?

What arm still clasps in more than love's embrace That form for which yon vulture flaps its wing? Kneel, Lancelot, kneel, thine eyes behold thy King! Alas! in vain — still in the Death-god's cave,

Ere yet the torrent snatch'd the hurrying stream, Beside a crag grey-shimmering from the wave, And near the brink by which the pallid beam Show'd one pent path along the rugged verge,

By which to leave the raft and‘ scape the surge,— Alas! in vain, that haven to the ark The dove had given!— just won the refuge-place, When, thrice emerging from the sheeted dark,

White glanced a robe, and livid rose a face! He saw, he sprang, he near'd, he grasp'd the vest! And both the torrent grappled to its breast. Yet in the immense and superhuman force,

Love and despair bestow upon the bold, The strong man battled with the Titan's course, Grip'd rock and layer, and ledge, with snatching hold, Bruised, bleeding, broken, onwards, downwards driven,

No wave his treasure from his grasp had riven Saved, saved — at last before his reeling eyes ( Into the pool, that check'd the Fury, hurl'd ) Shone, as he rose, through all the hurtling skies,

The dove's white wing; and ere the maelstrom whirl'd The madden'd waters to the central shock, Show'd the gnarl'd roots of the redeeming rock. Less sense than instinct caught the wing that shone,

The crags that shelter'd;— the wild billows gave The failing limbs a force no more their own, And as he turn'd and sunk, the swerving wave Swoop'd round, dash'd on, and to the isthmus sped,

Still breast to breast, the living and the dead! Long vain were Lancelot's cares and knightly skill, Ere, through slow veins congeal'd, pulsed back the blood; The very wounds, the valour of the will,

The peaks that broke the fury of the flood Had help'd to save; alas, the strong to save! For Strength to toil, till Love re-opes the grave. Twice down the dismal path ( the dove his guide )

The fairy nursling bore his helpless load; A chamois-hunter, in the vale descried, Aided the convoy to the house of God. Dark — wroth — convulsed, the earth-bound spirit lay;

Calm from the bier beside it, smiled the clay! O Song — for Lydian elegy too stern, Song, cradled in the Celt's rough battle-shield; Rather from thee should man, the soldier, learn

To hide the wounds — heroic while conceal'd; From foes without the mean the palm may win, What tries the noble is the war within! Let the King's woe its muse in Silence claim,

When sense return'd, and solitary life Sate in the Shadow!— shade or sun the same, Toil hath brief respite; man is made for strife, Woman for rest!— rest, bright with dreams, is given,

Child of the heathen, in the Christian heaven! And to the Christian prince's plighted bride, The simple monks the Christian's grave accord, With lifted cross and swinging censer, glide

To passing bells — the hermits of the Lord; And at that hour, in her own native vale, Her own soft race their mystic loss bewail. Methinks I see the Tuscan Genius yet,

Lured, lingering by the clay it loved so well, And listening to the two-fold dirge that met In upper air;— here Nazarene anthems swell Triumphal paeans!— there, the Alps behind,

Etrurian Naeniae,load the lagging wind. Pauses the startled genius to compare The notes that mourn the life, at best so brief, With those that welcome to empyreal air

The bright escaper from a world of grief? Marvelling what creed, beyond the happy vale, Can teach the soul the loathed Styx to hail!