VI. My dream had never died or lived again. For so it seemed, or so they said to me, That all things grew more tragic and more strange; The Prince is slain. My father heard and ran And grovelled on my body, and after him But high upon the palace Ida stood With Psyche's babe in arm: there on the roofs "Our enemies have fallen, have fallen: the seed, "Our enemies have fallen, have fallen: they came; The leaves were wet with women's tears: they heard A noise of songs they would not understand. They marked it with the red cross to the fall, And would have strown it, and are fallen themselves. "Our enemies have fallen, have fallen: they came, The woodmen with their axes: lo the tree! But we will make it fagots for the hearth, And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor, And boats and bridges for the use of men. "Our enemies have fallen, have fallen: they struck; With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knew There dwelt an iron nature in the grain: The glittering axe was broken in their arms, Their arms were shattered to the shoulder blade. "Our enemies have fallen, but this shall grow "And now, O maids, behold our sanctuary Is violate, our laws broken: fear we not To break them more in their behoof, whose arms Their statues, borne aloft, the three: but come, The brethren of our blood and cause, that there Lie bruised and maimed, the tender ministries She spoke, and with the babe yet in her arms, Descending, burst the great bronze valves, and led A hundred maids in train across the Park. Some cowled, and some bare-headed, on they came, Through open field into the lists they wound That holds a stately fretwork to the Sun, To where her wounded brethren lay; there stayed; and prest Their hands, and called them dear deliverers, And happy warriors, and immortal names, And said, "You shall not lie in the tents, but here, And nursed by those for whom you fought, and served With female hands and hospitality." Then, whether moved by this, or was it chance, She past my way. Up started from my side The old lion, glaring with his whelpless eye, Silent; but when she saw me lying stark, Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the blood When the good queen, her mother, shore the tress Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all, Her iron will was broken in her mind; Her noble heart was molten in her breast; She bowed, she set the child on the earth; she laid A feeling finger on my brows, and presently "O Sire," she said, "he lives: he is not dead: O let me have him with my brethren here In our own palace: we will tend on him |