1 riors, filling all the North with shame, Thare, and confusion of unblest defeat.
SOL I then blend our blood with his, through whom
rhood is spilt like water on the earth?
Nay, she prayed me on bended knees,
Entreating my compassionate regard,
Love-thought and nuptial-bond, yet would I turn
From her allurements, armèd in mute hate,
Esse for her race, more strong than love for her!"
Thus spake Prince Ervar, knowing not his heart,
Weak overmuch, nor yet the Love-god's power.
Marvile he held his peace; and Mawrawh's soul
Marned at his silence, knowing not the cause.
And fast she in her heart took secret thought,
Tebating greatly how she might prevail,
Curing a ber the current of his life.
And her mmd laboured toward accomplishment
Yms her huge: even as a labouring hind,
Vi hery hands long used to great toil,
-As with much patience, seeking to deflect
memories for from its accustomed bed,
Tomas as full pianed with household herbs;
ma ahen, in the schry summer tide,
For the lack of moisture, grieved his soul;
Nu kaskich & s hoge doth prophecy,
Sa' £l va arious thoughts each neighbour's heart stage fertility,
The Push dochang, beid within her soul
Tina vichr she yet should mute abide,
Dag 11 i gods percitions power,
V SIN YUNtance of mortal life,
Nilich men an the broad earth ;
Or should she, treading down all dread of shame,
Draw back the veil of silence from her soul,
And show him, fearless, the unmaimèd truth?
"I might declare to him "-thus ran her thoughts—
"All evils that attend a servile life
In this fair Western land wherein he dwells,
Cut off from hope of freedom, and return
Unto his friends. Is not such life a grief
To all men who, once having breathed the breath,
Divinest, of soul-quickening liberty,
Stagnate in vile conditions with chained hands,
Subject to brutal scoffs of conquerors,
Hunger, and thirst, and blows from the rude lash,
Wherewith men plough their greatly-bruised sides.
Then might I shape to him that other dream,
A life bright-rosed with all delights of love;
Soft arms around him for the iron chain;
Hands, taught of love, even to his slightest needs
Ministering; for the rough prison fare-
Bread of oppression, and salt drink of tears—
Delicate cates, and wine full filled with fire,
Such as men hunger for, desiring much,
Stintless provided by my fingers soft,
That lovingly do labour for his weal.
Then for the couch of stone, hard, icy cold,
O'erstrewn with scanty sprinkling of damp straw,
Such as he sleeps on in his dungeon-cell,
A couch in silken raiment garmented,
Which should call Sleep from the extremest heaven,
Wherein she refuges from anxious hearts;
And should compel her, as a chainèd slave,
To wait upon the slumberer's utmost will.
Also for hard scoffs, and the brutal jest,
He should have pleasant words, rehearsing love,
And all things that a woman's heart might give
Unto the warrior, whose is her desire.
Then might I say to him, 'Gaze now on this,
And on that other life. Say, wilt thou choose
A life most sad, bitter with all contempt,
And weary with the grief of unearned blows.
When that fair other life attends thy will ?—
A life that might the very gods themselves
Cause to stoop down from their high thrones in heaven,
And wear awhile the robe of mortal flesh.'
Shall I say such like words? He is a man;
And such things are much prized among men.
But could I win his love buying it thus ?
Would it be love, if bought by earthly gift?
Alas! I should but seem to have his love;
For he would bow his thought but through constraint,
And through despair of heart, deeming hope lost,
With light of happier days. I would not have
Even his love, though prized more than red gold,
Or gems, or all earth's treasured things of price,
As by necessity; for to my soul
Love seemeth not love if not freely given;
But rather is it but a mockery-love,
Which profits not who giveth or receives;
Even as a crown, bestowed in utter scorn
On captive brows, giveth an evil joy
To him who crowns, and paineth him who wears.
He must yield freely to me that I crave,
Or else my wordless heart must pine in vain.".
Thus Mawrawh thought, close communing in her heart;
And still she grieved, and still her lips were dumb,
Seeing her maidenhood allowed not speech.
OVER the plains, a host of weary men,
Dragged the retreating army its slow length,
Like to a serpent which, with deadly fangs,
Having essayed, in sultry harvest time,
To slay some labourer, with hooked knife
Toiling amid the wheat, is smitten sore,
And fleeth silently; dragging his coils,
Much bruised and gashed, over the stony plains,
Seeking his caverned refuge on the cliff,
That unto heaven lifts its ambitious head.
And wheresoe'er he passeth there is left
A stain ensanguined on the herbless ground,
Which showeth to the stern pursuing foes
His fugitive path. Thus on his track amain
Passes the rustic rout, weaponed in haste
With club or implement of husbandry,
Urged on by vengeance, thinking cruel thoughts.
So past King Arvan's army on their way,
Leaving unto the river waves a stain
Redder than that which floweth from the grape,
When trodden by the vintage men. Black smoke
Involved the heavens as with a mourning garb,
Hiding their march. For, ere they northwards past,
They fired the corn stores, and the villages,
And all the woods, leaving but blood and flame
A prey unto the victors. Toilsomely
They journeyed on, bearing the gathered spoils
Of hundred cities, plundered by their hands
Upon their southward march of victory.
Even as a lion, driven by shepherd hands
Back to his lair, bears in his gory mouth
Some kid which he hath taken from the fold.
But as he, weakened by his many wounds,
Droppeth the spoil, so chanced it with the host.
The fodder failed for the many beasts;
And first they left behind the unneeded food,
Then all the curious robes woven with toil,
And silver ornaments of unknown worth,
Which they, by lavish shedding of much blood,
Had purchased to themselves. All these they flung
Away in the great horror of the flight.
At last food failed them-for the peopled land
Had been laid waste 'neath their advancing feet,
They fearing not defeat. Then Irach bent
The march through other shores, even through the world
That lieth far off toward the Western sea,
Hoping to baffle thus the avenger's sword,
And win refreshment for the needy host.
But wheresoe'er they came fresh foes arose,
As from the earth forthspringing, as green blades
Spring up uncounted in the ploughed fields
When early rains fall softly, and the sun
Looks forth at intervals from out the door
Of his cloud-tent, and woos them unto life.
Still dragged the host its wounded length along
Through swarming foes, and over desert plains,
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