OR, THE STORY OF THE SWORD.
THE Chiefs had met in the high palace hall; For the great king held regal feast that night. Round him were gathered all his mighty men, Foremost in thought, or deed, through all the world; Some wise-browed, thoughtful-visaged, seamed and worn, With their long wrestle with the sleepless years; Wearers of the dread silver crown, old men, White-bearded, with calm luminous eyes, whose gaze Saw far into the future; Councillors
Were these of Arvan, highest in the realm, Who gave wise laws unto the sons of men: Others with massive fronts, and eagle eyes, And strong-set mouths, whose faces yet were full Of the red light of battle: these had been In many a deadly conflict: death had looked Into their eyes nor seen an eyelid droop.
Grand stalwart forms were theirs, towerlike and vast, That though unarmoured, in their own great strength Seemed yet arrayed for strife. Others were crowned With jewelled diadems, whose many stones,
Fired into splendour by the cresset's flame,
Blazed like star-gems upon the brow of night; For these were kings ruling o'er wide-spread lands, Over the arid regions, where the sun
Parches the earth with his too-fervent gaze; Over the northern realms, where ice eterne Fetters the lands with spring-unbroken chains; Some, lords of desolate mountains, and the reach Of lone sea-shores, or holding 'neath their sway Sea-clasped isles; others, men-ruling kings, Monarchs of populous cities, and of realms Teeming with life; yet, subject unto him, Arvan, the king, whose sceptre over all Stretched like a present fate. High on a throne Glistening with ivory, and overlaid
With curious fretted work of burning gold, Flashing forth crimson light, or sapphire blaze, Or emerald gleams, or opal iris-flash,
Or diamond splendours from a thousand gems, Sat the dread monarch in his lonely state. The majesty of power uncontrolled Was on his brow, and in his eye the strength All undisturbed of one whose will was law. Stately his form; massive and strong of limb. As that of one of those stern images, That sits in granite strength, solemn and still, On Ari's burning plains, reared up by hands That now are dead, in honour of her kings. Far o'er his shoulders flowed, in ruddy waves, The scarlet mantle, sign of sovereign sway, Crusted with gold embroidery. Its folds Parting in front, as when gold sunset clouds,
Dividing, show a glimpse of wintry sky, Revealed the warrior breast, even at the feast Bucklered with steel, that cast a chilly gleam Blue, deathlike, down the hall. Whilst at his side Shone with its own great light the diamond hilt Of the charmed sword, the sword by demons given; The sword to which he owed his mighty sway And dread renown, and victory's wreath of pine. For in the days gone by (so runs the tale), He had been hunting in the forest dim, That with primeval gloom o'erclouds the lands That front the northern seas. Then no wide realm
Was his, such as he ruled in later days,
Nor with his warrior name the high renown,
That made the word a battle-cry that drew Triumph where'er it echoed, had been linked. Only a king of winter-palsied lands
Populous, far-stretched beneath the northern heavens. Was Arvan then, mad lover of the chase, Facing all hardships when the antlered deer, Or tusky boar, or the grim sullen bear Drew him from peopled lands into the waste, And on a day, he, severed from his train, In fleet pursuit of some wind-footed stag, Had passed away, far from the haunts of men, Into the grey depths of the forest old,
That clasps the man-tilled plains. Round him vast trunks
Of mighty pines rose naked through the gloom,
Striving towards heaven's light. Their sombre crests,
High up an hundred feet in air, close-woven
One with another, a dense roof of green,
Kept off from the cold earth the rain of rays
Even of the summer sun. A temple vast
Seemed the great wood; its sombre roof upheld On countless shafts of bronze. And 'neath the shade O'er the space left betwixt the pine-trees stems, Even till the sun sunk low in the blue heavens, Rode Arvan on. Till, seeing night was near, He called his fleet hounds from their vain pursuit, Sprang from his horse, and with his front abased, Touching the ground, spread forth his suppliant hands, And prayed the sunset prayer. For in those days Men bowed yet unto the One Supreme, Nor worshipped carvèd images, nor knelt Unto vain things fashioned by hands of clay; So to the Lord of Day, and to the Moon Who silver-throned ruleth the silent hours; And to the uncounted stars, that nightly flame In the blue plains of heaven, rose all the prayers From human hearts, erring not from their path, Nor seeking unto gods, that are no gods. And Arvan, when his orisons were paid, Fastened his charger to the bared stem Of a tall tree; then laid him down to rest.
But when the first grey gleams of dawning day Uncertain glimmered through the forest shade, Showing the gaunt stems, spectre-like and vast As shadowy phantoms of the world long dead; He rose from his deep rest that knew no dreams, And through the forest wended slowly back, Seeking the peopled regions, whence he came.
Now as he wended through the sunless glades, Threading a lone vale in the mountain chain, That from the savage lands sundered his realm,
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