Classic Poem

16.

" Follow me, Lord! " he yell'd aloud;
And Konig, fearless, follow'd him,
Entering the forest's mazes dim,
In sadness bow'd.
They travers'd realms of verdant night,
And many a treeless isle of light,
Whose peaceful bliss the eyes of Love
Watch'd fondly through the blue above;
A wilderness of shaded flowers;
A wilderness of virgin-bowers;
Of beauty (calm, not passionless,)
And lonely song, a wilderness;
For on, on, far and long, they went
Through paths of green bewilderment,
Where oft the ouzle, perch'd on high,
Beneath his clouds, above his woods,
Pour'd his full notes in gushing floods,
Flattering the woodrill tunefully;
Then, listen'd to its still reply,
In all a bard's regality,
And seem'd sole lord of earth and sky.
Soul-meekening sadness sweetly crept
The region o'er — and Konig wept:
His sighs to echoes soft replied;
He knew not why — but still he sigh'd.
They reach'd, at last, the mount where stood
The Father of the boundless wood,
An oak, before whose vastness man,
Dwarf'd to a gnat's dimensions, shrunk.
Twelve full-siz'd men had fail'd to span,
With outstretch'd arms, his giant trunk.
One mighty limb, extended forth,
Might have a war-ship's frame supplied;
One shoulder, twisted to the north,
A thousand winters had defied;
(All eldest things had even told
The hoary ages, as they roll'd,
That he alone on earth was old;)
And still the knotted hands prepar'd
Their time-tried wrists and knuckles bar'd,
The storms of centuries to dare.
The tree was call'd the Wizard's chair;
And in his hollow trunk the gloom
Reveal'd an uncouth banquet-room:
Perchance, in after ages dined
In such a tree stout Robin Hood,
Amid the depths of Barnesdale Wood
Feasting his men on hart and hind.
" Here enter! " growl'd the maniac grim
And Konig enter'd — following him
Into the god-made forest-hall,
With the mute step of funeral.
Slowly undarken'd then the gloom.
They stood within a living tomb,
Before a form — a lifeless one —
Whose lifted head long hair had on;
Black, it descended like a yeil,
Half hiding features fix'd and pale;
The light, if light it were, of eyes;
And the still shape of lifeless thighs.
Alone uncloth'd by that sad vest
Were two fair shoulders, one round breast,
Snow-sculptur'd legs, with small thin feet,
White as a winding sheet,
Or stainless ivory:
And fingers, taper'd slenderly,
Which — when the fond enamour'd breeze
Puls'd gently through surrounding trees —
Seem'd dallying with the long loose hair.
Erect, as if she stood in pray'r,
The beauteous Horror glimmer'd there!
" How dost thou like her? " whisper'd then
The seeming cruelest of men:
One groan replied! a low dull sound
Follow'd; and on the ground,
At Adwick's feet, lord Konig lay
Blackening, and senseless as the clay.

" Dog! that fear'st bones! " said Adwick. " Thou
Shalt do the outcast's bidding now.
Who now shall say to Adwick, " Stand
Apart from blessing! let no hand
Touch him or his! no living thing
Approach his withering?"
Soon, all shall know me. Heav'n is mine!
The priests are mine, their altars mine,
To work for good, not ill:
Their sov'reign shall be Telmarine,
And she shall do my will;
For earth and heav'n are mine.
Am I not God? Sweet Etheline
Shall be God's God! heav'n's queen and mine.
I am of Kings the King.
Deny'st thou this, mine enemy?
Ha! — shape abhorr'd! lord Konig's Lord!
Laugh'st thou in hell-black mockery?
Laugh — but the mercy of my might
Shall smite thy blackness into light;
Frown — Aye, with thunder bridge thine eyes,
Swell, if thou wilt, to mountain-size,
And with a look eclipse the skies!
But — Ah! again? What form, what face
Fold'st thou within thy vast embrace?
Oh, those dear locks! those lips of snow,
Those eyes of death, and cheeks of woe!
They freeze me into stone!
Yet triumph not, All-evil Thing!
The king of priests, and thou his king,
And all your instruments of ill,
Shall do my will,
And work for good alone. "