("Qu'Est-Ce Que Sigismond Et Ladislas Ont Dit.") [Bk. Xv. Iii. 1.] I. The Adventurer Sets Out. What Was It Sigismond And Ladisl'Us Said? I Know Not If The Rock, Or Tree O'Erhead, Had Heard Their Speech; - But When The Two Spoke Low, Among The Trees, A Shudder Seemed To Go Through All Their Branches, Just As If That Way A Beast Had Passed To Trouble And Dismay. More Dark The Shadow Of The Rock Was Seen, And Then A Morsel Of The Shade, Between The Sombre Trees, Took Shape As It Would Seem Like Spectre Walking In The Sunset'S Gleam. It Is Not Monster Rising From Its Lair, Nor Phantom Of The Foliage And The Air, It Is Not Morsel Of The Granite'S Shade That Walks In Deepest Hollows Of The Glade. 'Tis Not A Vampire Nor A Spectre Pale But Living Man In Rugged Coat Of Mail. It Is Alsatia'S Noble Chevalier, Eviradnus The Brave, That Now Is Here. The Men Who Spoke He Recognized The While He Rested In The Thicket; Words Of Guile Most Horrible Were Theirs As They Passed On, And To The Ears Of Eviradnus One - One Word Had Come Which Roused Him. Well He Knew The Land Which Lately He Had Journeyed Through. He Down The Valley Went Into The Inn Where He Had Left His Horse And Page, Gasclin. The Horse Had Wanted Drink, And Lost A Shoe; And Now, "Be Quick!" He Said, "With What You Do, For Business Calls Me, I Must Not Delay." He Strides The Saddle And He Rides Away. Ii. Eviradnus. Eviradnus Was Growing Old Apace, The Weight Of Years Had Left Its Hoary Trace, But Still Of Knights The Most Renowned Was He, Model Of Bravery And Purity. His Blood He Spared Not; Ready Day Or Night To Punish Crime, His Dauntless Sword Shone Bright In His Unblemished Hand; Holy And White And Loyal All His Noble Life Had Been, A Christian Samson Coming On The Scene. With Fist Alone The Gate He Battered Down Of Sickingen In Flames, And Saved The Town. 'Twas He, Indignant At The Honor Paid To Crime, Who With His Heel An Onslaught Made Upon Duke Lupus' Shameful Monument, Tore Down, The Statue He To Fragments Rent; Then Column Of The Strasburg Monster Bore To Bridge Of Wasselonne, And Threw It O'Er Into The Waters Deep. The People Round Blazon The Noble Deeds That So Abound From Altorf Unto Chaux-De-Fonds, And Say, When He Rests Musing In A Dreamy Way, "Behold, 'Tis Charlemagne!" Tawny To See And Hairy, And Seven Feet High Was He, Like John Of Bourbon. Roaming Hill Or Wood He Looked A Wolf Was Striving To Do Good. Bound Up In Duty, He Of Naught Complained, The Cry For Help His Aid At Once Obtained. Only He Mourned The Baseness Of Mankind, And - That The Beds Too Short He Still Doth Find. When People Suffer Under Cruel Kings, With Pity Moved, He To Them Succor Brings. 'Twas He Defended Alix From Her Foes As Sword Of Urraca - He Ever Shows His Strength Is For The Feeble And Oppressed; Father Of Orphans He, And All Distressed! Kings Of The Rhine In Strongholds Were By Him Boldly Attacked, And Tyrant Barons Grim. He Freed The Towns - Confronting In His Lair Hugo The Eagle; Boldly Did He Dare To Break The Collar Of Saverne, The Ring Of Colmar, And The Iron Torture Thing Of Schlestadt, And The Chain That Haguenau Bore. Such Eviradnus Was A Wrong Before, Good But Most Terrible. In The Dread Scale Which Princes Weighted With Their Horrid Tale Of Craft And Violence, And Blood And Ill, And Fire And Shocking Deeds, His Sword Was Still God'S Counterpoise Displayed. Ever Alert More Evil From The Wretched To Avert, Those Hapless Ones Who 'Neath Heaven'S Vault At Night Raise Suppliant Hands. His Lance Loved Not The Plight Of Mouldering In The Rack, Of No Avail, His Battle-Axe Slipped From Supporting Nail Quite Easily; 'Twas Ill For Action Base To Come So Near That He The Thing Could Trace. The Steel-Clad Champion Death Drops All Around As Glaciers Water. Hero Ever Found Eviradnus Is Kinsman Of The Race Of Amadys Of Gaul, And Knights Of Thrace, He Smiles At Age. For He Who Never Asked For Quarter From Mankind - Shall He Be Tasked To Beg Of Time For Mercy? Rather He Would Girdle Up His Loins, Like Baldwin Be. Aged He Is, But Of A Lineage Rare; The Least Intrepid Of The Birds That Dare Is Not The Eagle Barbed. What Matters Age, The Years But Fire Him With A Holy Rage. Though Late From Palestine, He Is Not Spent, - With Age He Wrestles, Firm In His Intent. Iii. In The Forest. If In The Woodland Traveller There Had Been That Eve, Who Lost Himself, Strange Sight he'd Seen. Quite In The Forest'S Heart A Lighted Space Arose To View; In That Deserted Place A Lone, Abandoned Hall With Light Aglow The Long Neglect Of Centuries Did Show. The Castle-Towers Of Corbus In Decay Were Girt By Weeds And Growths That Had Their Way. Couch-Grass And Ivy, And Wild Eglantine In Subtle Scaling Warfare All Combine. Subject To Such Attacks Three Hundred Years, The Donjon Yields, And Ruin Now Appears, E'En As By Leprosy The Wild Boars Die, In Moat The Crumbled Battlements Now Lie; Around The Snake-Like Bramble Twists Its Rings; Freebooter Sparrows Come On Daring Wings To Perch Upon The Swivel-Gun, Nor Heed Its Murmuring Growl When Pecking In Their Greed The Mulberries Ripe. With Insolence The Thorn Thrives On The Desolation So Forlorn. But Winter Brings Revenges; Then The Keep Wakes All Vindictive From Its Seeming Sleep, Hurls Down The Heavy Rain, Night After Night, Thanking The Season'S All-Resistless Might; And, When The Gutters Choke, Its Gargoyles Four From Granite Mouths In Anger Spit And Pour Upon The Hated Ivy Hour By Hour. As To The Sword Rust Is, So Lichens Are To Towering Citadel With Which They War. Alas! For Corbus - Dreary, Desolate, And Yet Its Woes The Winters Mitigate. It Rears Itself Among Convulsive Throes That Shake Its Ruins When The Tempest Blows. Winter, The Savage Warrior, Pleases Well, With Its Storm Clouds, The Mighty Citadel, - Restoring It To Life. The Lightning Flash Strikes Like A Thief And Flies; The Winds That Crash Sound Like A Clarion, For The Tempest Bluff Is Battle'S Sister. And When Wild And Rough, The North Wind Blows, The Tower Exultant Cries "Behold Me!" When Hail-Hurling Gales Arise Of Blustering Equinox, To Fan The Strife, It Stands Erect, With Martial Ardor Rife, A Joyous Soldier! When Like Yelping Hound Pursued By Wolves, November Comes To Bound In Joy From Rock To Rock, Like Answering Cheer To Howling January Now So Near - "Come On!" The Donjon Cries To Blasts O'Erhead - It Has Seen Attila, And Knows Not Dread. Oh, Dismal Nights Of Contest In The Rain And Mist, That Furious Would The Battle Gain, 'The Tower Braves All, Though Angry Skies Pour Fast The Flowing Torrents, River-Like And Vast. From Their Eight Pinnacles The Gorgons Bay, And Scattered Monsters, In Their Stony Way, Are Growling Heard; The Rampart Lions Gnaw The Misty Air And Slush With Granite Maw, The Sleet Upon The Griffins Spits, And All The Saurian Monsters, Answering To The Squall, Flap Wings; While Through The Broken Ceiling Fall Torrents Of Rain Upon The Forms Beneath, Dragons And Snak'D Medusas Gnashing Teeth In The Dismantled Rooms. Like Armored Knight The Granite Castle Fights With All Its Might, Resisting Through The Winter. All In Vain, The Heaven'S Bluster, January'S Rain, And Those Dread Elemental Powers We Call The Infinite - The Whirlwinds That Appall - Thunder And Waterspouts; And Winds That Shake As 'Twere A Tree Its Ripened Fruit To Take. The Winds Grow Wearied, Warring With The Tower, The Noisy North Is Out Of Breath, Nor Power Has Any Blast Old Corbus To Defeat, It Still Has Strength Their Onslaughts Worst To Meet. Thus, Spite Of Briers And Thistles, The Old Tower Remains Triumphant Through The Darkest Hour; Superb As Pontiff, In The Forest Shown, Its Rows Of Battlements Make Triple Crown; At Eve, Its Silhouette Is Finely Traced Immense And Black - Showing The Keep Is Placed On Rocky Throne, Sublime And High; East, West, And North And South, At Corners Four, There Rest Four Mounts; Aptar, Where Flourishes The Pine, And Toxis, Where The Elms Grow Green And Fine; Crobius And Bleyda, Giants In Their Might, Against The Stormy Winds To Stand And Fight, And These Above Its Diadem Uphold Night'S Living Canopy Of Clouds Unrolled. The Herdsman Fears, And Thinks Its Shadow Creeps To Follow Him; And Superstition Keeps Such Hold That Corbus As A Terror Reigns; Folks Say The Fort A Target Still Remains For The Black Archer - And That It Contains The Cave Where The Great Sleeper Still Sleeps Sound. The Country People All The Castle Round Are Frightened Easily, For Legends Grow And Mix With Phantoms Of The Mind; We Know The Hearth Is Cradle Of Such Fantasies, And In The Smoke The Cotter Sees Arise From Low-Thatched But He Traces Cause Of Dread. Thus Rendering Thanks That He Is Lowly Bred, Because From Such None Look For Valorous Deeds. The Peasant Flies The Tower, Although It Leads A Noble Knight To Seek Adventure There, And, From His Point Of Honor, Dangers Dare. Thus Very Rarely Passer-By Is Seen; But - It Might Be With Twenty Years Between, Or Haply Less - At Unfixed Interval There Would A Semblance Be Of Festival. A Seneschal And Usher Would Appear, And Troops Of Servants Many Baskets Bear. Then Were, In Mystery, Preparations Made, And They Departed - For Till Night None Stayed. But 'Twixt The Branches Gazers Could Descry The Blackened Hall Lit Up Most Brilliantly. None Dared Approach - And This The Reason Why. Iv. The Custom Of Lusace. When Died A Noble Marquis Of Lusace 'Twas Custom For The Heir Who Filled His Place Before Assuming Princely Pomp And Power To Sup One Night In Corbus' Olden Tower. From This Weird Meal He Passed To The Degree Of Prince And Margrave; Nor Could Ever He Be Thought Brave Knight, Or She - If Woman Claim The Rank - Be Reckoned Of Unblemished Fame Till They Had Breathed The Air Of Ages Gone, The Funeral Odors, In The Nest Alone Of Its Dead Masters. Ancient Was The Race; To Trace The Upward Stem Of Proud Lusace Gives One A Vertigo; Descended They From Ancestor Of Attila, Men Say; Their Race To Him - Through Pagans - They Hark Back; Becoming Christians, Race They Thought To Track Through Lechus, Plato, Otho To Combine With Ursus, Stephen, In A Lordly Line. Of All Those Masters Of The Country Round That Were On Northern Europe'S Boundary Found - At First Were Waves And Then The Dykes Were Reared - Corbus In Double Majesty Appeared, Castle On Hill And Town Upon The Plain; And One Who Mounted On The Tower Could Gain A View Beyond The Pines And Rocks, Of Spires That Pierce The Shade The Distant Scene Acquires; A Walled Town Is It, But 'Tis Not Ally Of The Old Citadel'S Proud Majesty; Unto Itself Belonging This Remained. Often A Castle Was Thus Self-Sustained And Equalled Towns; Witness In Lombardy Crama, And Plato Too In Tuscany, And In Apulia Barletta; - Each One Was Powerful As A Town, And Dreaded None. Corbus Ranked Thus; Its Precincts Seemed To Hold The Reflex Of Its Mighty Kings Of Old; Their Great Events Had Witness In These Walls, Their Marriages Were Here And Funerals, And Mostly Here It Was That They Were Born; And Here Crowned Barons Ruled With Pride And Scorn; Cradle Of Scythian Majesty This Place. Now Each New Master Of This Ancient Race A Duty Owed To Ancestors Which He Was Bound To Carry On. The Law'S Decree It Was That He Should Pass Alone The Night Which Made Him King, As In Their Solemn Sight. Just At The Forest'S Edge A Clerk Was Met With Wine In Sacred Cup And Purpose Set, A Wine Mysterious, Which The Heir Must Drink To Cause Deep Slumber Till Next Day'S Soft Brink. Then To The Castle Tower He Wends His Way, And Finds A Supper Laid With Rich Display. He Sups And Sleeps: Then To His Slumbering Eyes The Shades Of Kings From Bela All Arise. None Dare The Tower To Enter On This Night, But When The Morning Dawns, Crowds Are In Sight The Dreamer To Deliver, - Whom Half Dazed, And With The Visions Of The Night Amazed, They To The Old Church Take, Where Rests The Dust Of Borivorus; Then The Bishop Must, With Fervent Blessings On His Eyes And Mouth, Put In His Hands The Stony Hatchets Both, With Which - Even Like Death Impartially - Struck Attila, With One Arm Dexterously The South, And With The Other Arm The North. This Day The Town The Threatening Flag Set Forth Of Marquis Swantibore, The Monster He Who In The Wood Tied Up His Wife, To Be Devoured By Wolves, Together With The Bull Of Which With Jealousy His Heart Was Full. Even When Woman Took The Place Of Heir The Tower Of Corbus Claimed The Supper There; 'Twas Law - The Woman Trembled, But Must Dare. V. The Marchioness Mahaud. Niece Of The Marquis - John The Striker Named - Mahaud To-Day The Marquisate Has Claimed. A Noble Dame - The Crown Is Hers By Right: As Woman She Has Graces That Delight. A Queen Devoid Of Beauty Is Not Queen, She Needs The Royalty Of Beauty'S Mien; God In His Harmony Has Equal Ends For Cedar That Resists, And Reed That Bends, And Good It Is A Woman Sometimes Rules, Holds In Her Hand The Power, And Manners Schools, And Laws And Mind; - Succeeding Master Proud, With Gentle Voice And Smile She Leads The Crowd, The Sombre Human Troop. But Sweet Mahaud On Evil Days Had Fallen; Gentle, Good, Alas! She Held The Sceptre Like A Flower; Timid Yet Gay, Imprudent For The Hour, And Careless Too. With Europe All In Throes, Though Twenty Years She Now Already Knows, She Has Refused To Marry, Although Oft Entreated. It Is Time An Arm Less Soft Than Hers - A Manly Arm - Supported Her; Like To The Rainbow She, One Might Aver, Shining On High Between The Cloud And Rain, Or Like The Ewe That Gambols On The Plain Between The Bear And Tiger; Innocent, She Has Two Neighbors Of Most Foul Intent: For Foes The Beauty Has, In Life'S Pure Spring, The German Emp'Ror And The Polish King. Vi. The Two Neighbors. The Difference This Betwixt The Evil Pair, Faithless To God - For Laws Without A Care - One Was The Claw, The Other One The Will Controlling. Yet To Mass They Both Went Still, And On The Rosary Told Their Beads Each Day. But None The Less The World Believed That They Unto The Powers Of Hell Their Souls Had Sold. Even In Whispers Men Each Other Told The Details Of The Pact Which They Had Signed With That Dark Power, The Foe Of Human Kind; In Whispers, For The Crowd Had Mortal Dread Of Them So High, And Woes That They Had Spread. One Might Be Vengeance And The Other Hate, Yet Lived They Side By Side, In Powerful State And Close Alliance. All The People Near From Red Horizon Dwelt In Abject Fear, Mastered By Them; Their Figures Darkly Grand Had Ruddy Reflex From The Wasted Land, And Fires, And Towns They Sacked. Besides The One, Like David, Poet Was, The Other Shone As Fine Musician - Rumor Spread Their Fame, Declaring Them Divine, Until Each Name In Italy'S Fine Sonnets Met With Praise. The Ancient Hierarch In Those Old Days Had Custom Strange, A Now Forgotten Thing, It Was A European Plan That King Of France Was Marquis, And Th' Imperial Head Of Germany Was Duke; There Was No Need To Class The Other Kings, But Barons They, Obedient Vassals Unto Rome, Their Stay. The King Of Poland Was But Simple Knight, Yet Now, For Once, Had Strange Unwonted Right, And, As Exception To The Common State, This One Sarmatian King Was Held As Great As German Emperor; And Each Knew How His Evil Part To Play, Nor Mercy Show. The German Had One Aim, It Was To Take All Land He Could, And It His Own To Make. The Pole Already Having Baltic Shore, Seized Celtic Ports, Still Needing More And More. On All The Northern Sea His Crafts Roused Fear: Iceland Beheld His Demon Navy Near. Antwerp The German Burnt; And Prussias Twain Bowed To The Yoke. The Polish King Was Fain To Help The Russian Spotocus - His Aid Was Like The Help That In Their Common Trade A Sturdy Butcher Gives A Weaker One. The King It Is Who Seizes, And This Done, The Emp'Ror Pillages, Usurping Right In War Teutonic, Settled But By Might. The King In Jutland Cynic Footing Gains, The Weak Coerced, The While With Cunning Pains The Strong Are Duped. But 'Tis A Law They Make That Their Accord Themselves Should Never Break. From Arctic Seas To Cities Transalpine, Their Hideous Talons, Curved For Sure Rapine, Scrape O'Er And O'Er The Mournful Continent, Their Plans Succeed, And Each Is Well Content. Thus Under Satan'S All Paternal Care They Brothers Are, This Royal Bandit Pair. Oh, Noxious Conquerors! With Transient Rule Chimera Heads - Ambition Can But Fool. Their Misty Minds But Harbor Rottenness Loathsome And Fetid, And All Barrenness - Their Deeds To Ashes Turn, And, Hydra-Bred, The Mystic Skeleton Is Theirs To Dread. The Daring German And The Cunning Pole Noted To-Day A Woman Had Control Of Lands, And Watched Mahaud Like Evil Spies; And From The Emp'Ror'S Cruel Mouth - With Dyes Of Wrath Empurpled - Came These Words Of Late: "The Empire Wearies Of The Wallet Weight Hung At Its Back - This High And Low Lusace, Whose Hateful Load Grows Heavier Apace, That Now A Woman Holds Its Ruler'S Place." Threatening, And Blood Suggesting, Every Word; The Watchful Pole Was Silent - But He Heard. Two Monstrous Dangers; But The Heedless One Babbles And Smiles, And Bids All Care Begone - Likes Lively Speech - While All The Poor She Makes To Love Her, And The Taxes Off She Takes. A Life Of Dance And Pleasure She Has Known - A Woman Always; In Her Jewelled Crown It Is The Pearl She Loves - Not Cutting Gems, For These Can Wound, And Mark Men'S Diadems. She Pays The Hire Of Homer'S Copyists, And In The Courts Of Love Presiding, Lists. Quite Recently Unto Her Court Have Come Two Men - Unknown Their Names Or Native Home, Their Rank Or Race; But One Plays Well The Lute, The Other Is A Troubadour; Both Suit The Taste Of Mahaud, When On Summer Eve, 'Neath Opened Windows, They Obtain Her Leave To Sing Upon The Terrace, And Relate The Charming Tales That Do With Music Mate. In August The Moravians Have Their F'Te, But It Is Radiant June In Which Lusace Must Consecrate Her Noble Margrave Race. Thus In The Weird And Old Ancestral Tower For Mahaud Now Has Come The Fateful Hour, The Lonely Supper Which Her State Decrees. What Matters This To Flowers, And Birds, And Trees, And Clouds And Fountains? That The People May Still Bear Their Yoke - Have Kings To Rule Alway? The Water Flows, The Wind In Passing By In Murmuring Tones Takes Up The Questioning Cry. Vii. The Banquet Hall. The Old Stupendous Hall Has But One Door, And In The Dusk It Seems That More And More The Walls Recede In Space Unlimited. At The Far End There Is A Table Spread That In The Dreary Void With Splendor Shines; For Ceiling We Behold But Rafter Lines. The Table Is Arranged For One Sole Guest, A Solitary Chair Doth Near It Rest, Throne-Like, 'Neath Canopy That Droopeth Down From The Black Beams; Upon The Walls Are Shown The Painted Histories Of The Olden Might, The King Of The Wends Thassilo'S Stern Fight On Land With Nimrod, And On Ocean Wide With Neptune. Rivers Too Personified Appear - The Rhine As By The Meuse Betrayed, And Fading Groups Of Odin In The Shade, And The Wolf Fenrir And The Asgard Snake. One Might The Place For Dragons' Stable Take. The Only Lights That In The Shed Appear Spring From The Table'S Giant Chandelier With Seven Iron Branches - Brought From Hell By Attila Archangel, People Tell, When He Had Conquered Mammon - And They Say That Seven Souls Were The First Flames That Day. This Banquet Hall Looks An Abyss Outlined With Shadowy Vagueness, Though Indeed We Find In The Far Depth Upon The Table Spread A Sudden, Strong, And Glaring Light Is Shed, Striking Upon The Goldsmith'S Burnished Works, And On The Pheasants Killed By Traitor Hawks. Loaded The Table Is With Viands Cold, Ewers And Flagons, All Enough Of Old To Make A Love Feast. All The Napery Was Friesland'S Famous Make; And Fair To See The Dishes, Silver-Gilt And Bordered Round With Flowers; For Fruit, Here Strawberries Were Found And Citrons, Apples Too, And Nectarines. The Wooden Bowls Were Carved In Cunning Lines By Peasants Of The Murg, Whose Skilful Hands With Patient Toil Reclaim The Barren Lands And Make Their Gardens Flourish On A Rock, Or Mountain Where We See The Hunters Flock. Gold Fountain-Cup, With Handles Florentine, Shows Acteons Horned, Though Armed And Booted Fine, Who Fight With Sword In Hand Against The Hounds. Roses And Gladioles Make Up Bright Mounds Of Flowers, With Juniper And Aniseed; While Sage, All Newly Cut For This Great Need, Covers The Persian Carpet That Is Spread Beneath The Table, And So Helps To Shed Around A Perfume Of The Balmy Spring. Beyond Is Desolation Withering. One Hears Within The Hollow Dreary Space Across The Grove, Made Fresh By Summer'S Grace, The Wind That Ever Is With Mystic Might A Spirit Ripple Of The Infinite. The Glass Restored To Frames To Creak Is Made By Blustering Wind That Comes From Neighboring Glade. Strange In This Dream-Like Place, So Drear And Lone, The Guest Expected Should Be Living One! The Seven Lights From Seven Arms Make Glow Almost With Life The Staring Eyes That Show On The Dim Frescoes - And Along The Walls Is Here And There A Stool, Or The Light Falls O'Er Some Long Chest, With Likeness To A Tomb. Yet Was Displayed Amid The Mournful Gloom Some Copper Vessels, And Some Crockery Ware. The Door - As If It Must, Yet Scarcely Dare - Had Opened Widely To The Night'S Fresh Air. No Voice Is Heard, For Man Has Fled The Place; But Terror Crouches In The Corners' Space, And Waits The Coming Guest. This Banquet Hall Of Titans Is So High, That He Who Shall With Wandering Eye Look Up From Beam To Beam Of The Confused Wild Roof Will Haply Seem To Wonder That The Stars He Sees Not There. Giants The Spiders Are, That Weave With Care Their Hideous Webs, Which Float The Joists Amid, Joists Whose Dark Ends In Griffins' Jaws Are Hid. The Light Is Lurid, And The Air Like Death, And Dark And Foul. Even Night Holds Its Breath Awhile. One Might Suppose The Door Had Fear To Move Its Double Leaves - Their Noise To Hear. Viii. What More Was To Be Seen. But The Great Hall Of Generations Dead Has Something More Sepulchral And More Dread Than Lurid Glare From Seven-Branched Chandelier Or Table Lone With Stately Da'S Near - Two Rows Of Arches O'Er A Colonnade With Knights On Horseback All In Mail Arrayed, Each One Disposed With Pillar At His Back And To Another Vis-'-Vis. Nor Lack The Fittings All Complete; In Each Right Hand A Lance Is Seen; The Armored Horses Stand With Chamfrons Laced, And Harness Buckled Sure; The Cuissarts' Studs Are By Their Clamps Secure; The Dirks Stand Out Upon The Saddle-Bow; Even Unto The Horses' Feet Do Flow Caparisons, - The Leather All Well Clasped, The Gorget And The Spurs With Bronze Tongues Hasped, The Shining Long Sword From The Saddle Hung, The Battle-Axe Across The Back Was Flung. Under The Arm A Trusty Dagger Rests, Each Spiked Knee-Piece Its Murderous Power Attests. Feet Press The Stirrups - Hands On Bridle Shown Proclaim All Ready, With The Visors Down, And Yet They Stir Not, Nor Is Audible A Sound To Make The Sight Less Terrible. Each Monstrous Horse A Frontal Horn Doth Bear, If E'Er The Prince Of Darkness Herdsman Were, These Cattle Black Were His By Surest Right, Like Things But Seen In Horrid Dreams Of Night. The Steeds Are Swathed In Trappings Manifold, The Armed Knights Are Grave, And Stern, And Cold, Terrific Too; The Clench'D Fists Seem To Hold Some Frightful Missive, Which The Phantom Hands Would Show, If Opened Out At Hell'S Commands. The Dusk Exaggerates Their Giant Size, The Shade Is Awed - The Pillars Coldly Rise. Oh, Night! Why Are These Awful Warriors Here? Horses And Horsemen That Make Gazers Fear Are Only Empty Armor. But Erect And Haughty Mien They All Affect And Threatening Air - Though Shades Of Iron Still. Are They Strange Larvae - These Their Statues Ill? No. They Are Dreams Of Horror Clothed In Brass, Which From Profoundest Depths Of Evil Pass With Futile Aim To Dare The Infinite! Souls Tremble At The Silent Spectre Sight, As If In This Mysterious Cavalcade They Saw The Weird And Mystic Halt Was Made Of Them Who At The Coming Dawn Of Day Would Fade, And From Their Vision Pass Away. A Stranger Looking In, These Masks To See, Might Deem From Death Some Mandate There Might Be At Times To Burst The Tombs - The Dead To Wear A Human Shape, And Mustering Ranks Appear Of Phantoms, Each Confronting Other Shade. Grave-Clothes Are Not More Grim And Sombre Made Than Are These Helms; The Deaf And Sealed-Up Graves Are Not More Icy Than These Arms; The Staves Of Hideous Biers Have Not Their Joints More Strong Than Are The Joinings Of These Legs; The Long Scaled Gauntlet Fingers Look Like Worms That Shine, And Battle Robes To Shroud-Like Folds Incline. The Heads Are Skull-Like, And The Stony Feet Seem For The Charnel House But Only Meet. The Pikes Have Death'S-Heads Carved, And Seem To Be Too Heavy; But The Shapes Defiantly Sit Proudly In The Saddle - And Perforce The Rider Looks United To The Horse! The Network Of Their Mail Doth Clearly Cross. The Marquis' Mortar Beams Near Ducal Wreath, And On The Helm And Gleaming Shield Beneath Alternate Triple Pearls With Leaves Displayed Of Parsley, And The Royal Robes Are Made So Large That With The Knightly Harness They Seem To O'Ermaster Palfreys Every Way. To Rome The Oldest Armor Might Be Traced, And Men And Horses' Armor Interlaced Blent Horribly; The Man And Steed We Feel Made But One Hydra With Its Scales Of Steel. Yet Is There History Here. Each Coat Of Mail Is Representant Of Some Stirring Tale. Each Delta-Shaped Escutcheon Shines To Show A Vision Of The Chief By It We Know. Here Are The Blood-Stained Dukes' And Marquis' Line, Barbaric Lords, Who Amid War'S Rapine Bore Gilded Saints Upon Their Banners Still Painted On Fishes' Skin With Cunning Skill. Here Geth, Who To The Slaves Cried "Onward Go," And Mundiaque And Ottocar - Plato And Ladisl'Us Kunne; And Welf Who Bore These Words Upon His Shield His Foes Before; "Nothing There Is I Fear." Otho Blear-Eyed, Zultan And Nazamustus, And Beside The Later Spignus, E'En To Spartibor Of Triple Vision, And Yet More And More As If A Pause At Every Age Were Made, And Antaeus' Fearful Dynasty Portrayed. What Do They Here So Rigid And Erect? What Wait They For - And What Do They Expect? Blindness Fills Up The Helm 'Neath Iron Brows; Like Sapless Tree No Soul The Hero Knows. Darkness Is Now Where Eyes With Flame Were Fraught, And Thrice-Bored Visor Serves For Mask Of Naught. Of Empty Void Is Spectral Giant Made, And Each Of These All-Powerful Knights Displayed Is Only Rind Of Pride And Murderous Sin; Themselves Are Held The Icy Grave Within. Rust Eats The Casques Enamoured Once So Much Of Death And Daring - Which Knew Kiss-Like Touch Of Banner - Mistress So August And Dear - But Not An Arm Can Stir Its Hinges Here; Behold How Mute Are They Whose Threats Were Heard Like Savage Roar - Whose Gnashing Teeth And Word Deadened The Clarion'S Tones; The Helmets Dread Have Not A Sound, And All The Armor Spread, The Hauberks, That Strong Breathing Seemed To Sway, Are Stranded Now In Helplessness Alway To See The Shadows, Still Prolonged, That Seem To Take At Night The Image Of A Dream. These Two Great Files Reach From The Door Afar To Where The Table And The Da'S Are, Leaving Between Their Fronts A Narrow Lane. On The Left Side The Marquises Maintain Their Place, But The Right Side The Dukes Retain, And Till The Roof, Embattled By Spignus, But Worn By Time That Even That Subdues, Shall Fall Upon Their Heads, These Forms Will Stand The Grades Confronting - One On Either Hand. While In Advance Beyond, With Haughty Head - As If Commander Of This Squadron Dread - All Waiting Signal Of The Judgment Day, In Stone Was Seen In Olden Sculptors' Way Charlemagne The King, Who On The Earth Had Found Only Twelve Knights To Grace His Table Round. The Crests Were An Assembly Of Strange Things, Of Horrors Such As Nightmare Only Brings. Asps, And Spread Eagles Without Beak Or Feet, Sirens And Mermaids Here And Dragons Meet, And Antlered Stags And Fabled Unicorn, And Fearful Things Of Monstrous Fancy Born. Upon The Rigid Form Of Morion'S Sheen Winged Lions And The Cerberus Are Seen, And Serpents Winged And Finned; Things Made To Fright The Timid Foe, Alone By Sense Of Sight. Some Leaning Forward And The Others Back, They Looked A Growing Forest That Did Lack No Form Of Terror; But These Things Of Dread That Once On Barons' Helms The Battle Led Beneath The Giant Banners, Now Are Still, As If They Gaped And Found The Time But Ill, Wearied The Ages Passed So Slowly By, And That The Gory Dead No More Did Lie Beneath Their Feet - Pined For The Battle-Cry, The Trumpet'S Clash, The Carnage And The Strife, Yawning To Taste Again Their Dreadful Life. Like Tears Upon The Palfreys' Muzzles Were The Hard Reflections Of The Metal There; From Out These Spectres, Ages Past Exhumed, And As Their Shadows On The Roof-Beams Loomed, Cast By The Trembling Light, Each Figure Wan Seemed Growing, And A Monstrous Shape To Don, So That The Double Range Of Horrors Made The Darkened Zenith Clouds Of Blackest Shade, That Shaped Themselves To Profiles Terrible. All Motionless The Coursers Horrible, That Formed A Legion Lured By Death To War, These Men And Horses Masked, How Dread They Are! Absorbed In Shadows Of The Eternal Shore, Among The Living All Their Tasks Are O'Er. Silent, They Seem All Mystery To Brave, These Sphinxes Whom No Beacon Light Can Save Upon The Threshold Of The Gulf So Near, As If They Faced The Great Enigma Here; Ready With Hoofs, Between The Pillars Blue To Strike Out Sparks, And Combats To Renew, Choosing For Battle-Field The Shades Below, Which They Provoked By Deeds We Cannot Know, In That Dark Realm Thought Dares Not To Expound False Masks From Heaven Lowered To Depths Profound. Ix. A Noise On The Floor. This Is The Scene On Which Now Enters In Eviradnus; And Follows Page Gasclin. The Outer Walls Were Almost All Decayed, The Door, For Ancient Marquises Once Made - Raised Many Steps Above The Courtyard Near - Commanded View Of The Horizon Clear. The Forest Looked A Great Gulf All Around, And On The Rock Of Corbus There Were Found Secret And Blood-Stained Precipices Tall. Duke Plato Built The Tower And Banquet Hall Over Great Pits, - So Was It Rumor Said. The Flooring Sounds 'Neath Eviradnus' Tread Above Abysses Many. "Page," Said He, "Come Here, Your Eyes Than Mine Can Better See, For Sight Is Woman-Like And Shuns The Old; Ah! He Can See Enough, When Years Are Told, Who Backwards Looks. But, Boy, Turn Towards The Glade And Tell Me What You See." The Boy Obeyed, And Leaned Across The Threshold, While The Bright, Full Moon Shed O'Er The Glade Its White, Pure Light. "I See A Horse And Woman On It Now," Said Gasclin, "And Companions Also Show." "Who Are They?" Asked The Seeker Of Sublime Adventures. "Sir, I Now Can Hear Like Chime The Sound Of Voices, And Men'S Voices Too, Laughter And Talk; Two Men There Are In View, Across The Road The Shadows Clear I Mark Of Horses Three." "Enough. Now, Gasclin, Hark!" Exclaimed The Knight, "You Must At Once Return By Other Path Than That Which You Discern, So That You Be Not Seen. At Break Of Day Bring Back Our Horses Fresh, And Every Way Caparisoned; Now Leave Me, Boy, I Say." The Page Looked At His Master Like A Son, And Said, "Oh! If I Might Stay On, For They Are Two." "Go - I Suffice Alone!" X. Eviradnus Motionless. And Lone The Hero Is Within The Hall, And Nears The Table Where The Glasses All Show In Profusion; All The Vessels There, Goblets And Glasses Gilt, Or Painted Fair, Are Ranged For Different Wines With Practised Care. He Thirsts; The Flagons Tempt; But There Must Stay One Drop In Emptied Glass, And 'Twould Betray The Fact That Some One Living Had Been Here. Straight To The Horses Goes He, Pauses Near That Which Is Next The Table Shining Bright, Seizes The Rider - Plucks The Phantom Knight To Pieces - All In Vain Its Panoply And Pallid Shining To His Practised Eye; Then He Conveys The Severed Iron Remains To Corner Of The Hall Where Darkness Reigns; Against The Wall He Lays The Armor Low In Dust And Gloom Like Hero Vanquished Now - But Keeping Pond'Rous Lance And Shield So Old, Mounts To The Empty Saddle, And Behold! A Statue Eviradnus Has Become, Like To The Others In Their Frigid Home. With Visor Down Scarce Breathing Seemed Maintained Throughout The Hall A Death-Like Silence Reigned. Xi. A Little Music. Listen! Like Hum Froth Unseen Nests We Hear A Mirthful Buzz Of Voices Coming Near, Of Footsteps - Laughter - From The Trembling Trees. And Now The Thick-Set Forest All Receives A Flood Of Moonlight - And There Gently Floats The Sound Of A Guitar Of Inspruck; Notes Which Blend With Chimes - Vibrating To The Hand - Of Tiny Bell - Where Sounds A Grain Of Sand. A Man'S Voice Mixes With The Melody, And Vaguely Melts To Song In Harmony. "If You Like We'Ll Dream A Dream. Let Us Mount On