Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce, The Abbot seemed with eye severe But twice his courage came and sunk, Confronted with the hero's look; And from his pale blue eyes were cast Strange rays of wild and wandering light; Uprise his locks of silver white, Flushed is his brow; through every vein In azure tide the currents strain, And undistinguished accents broke The awful silence ere he spoke. But, like the Midianite of old, I feel within mine aged breast It burns, it maddens, it constrains!De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow . Hath at God's altar slain thy foe: O'ermastered yet by high behest, I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed!" He spoke, and o'er the astonished throng Was silence, awful, deep, and long. Again that light has fired his eye, vigorous manhood's lofty tone: A hunted wanderer on the wild, Blessed in the hall and in the field, De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful Lord, Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame, What lengthened honors wait thy name! In distant ages, sire to son Shall tell thy tale of freedom won, The Power, whose dictates swell my breast, Hath blessed thee, and thou shalt be blessed!" "Let the men of lore appear, The wisest of the earth, Chaldæa's seers are good, But here they have no skill; Are wise and deep in lore; A captive in the land, A stranger and a youth, - The morrow proved it true. "Belshazzar's grave is made, His kingdom passed away, He in the balance weighed, Is light and worthless clay. The shroud, his robe of state; His canopy, the stone; The Mede is at his gate! The Persian on his throne!" BYRON. SIR PAVON AND ST. PAVON. PART I. ST. MARK's hushed abbey heard, Through prayers, a roar and din; A brawling voice did shout, "Knave shaveling, let me in!" The cagèd porter peeped, All fluttering, through the grate, Like birds that hear a mew. A knight was at the gate. His left hand reined his steed, Still smoking from the ford; His crimson right, that dangled, clutched Half of his broken sword. His broken plume flapped low; "Now wilt thou let me in, Or shall I burst the door?" The grating bolts ground back; the knight Lay swooning in his gore. As children, half afraid, Draw near a crushèd wasp, Look, touch, and twitch away Their hands, then lightly grasp, — Him to their spital soon The summoned brethren bore, And searched his wounds. He woke, And roundly cursed and swore. The younger friar stopped his ears; His gummy plasters at his mouth, But, faint and weak, when, left He viewed the valley, framed within His window's carven stone, He learned anew to weep, To see the smoke-wreaths from his towers Climb up the clouds among. The abbot came to bring A balsam to his guest, On soft feet tutored long To break no sufferer's rest, And heard his sobbing heart Drink deep in draughts of woe; Then "Benedicite, my son," He breathed, in murmurs low. Right sharply turned the knight But changed his shaggy face, as when, Down through a stormy sky, |