 | The Emperor's Vigil, and The Waves And The War |  |
8
II. The Baltic.
There's a gateway vast in the northern seas,
Its piers are the rocks of granite,
Its rampart bold is the mountain old,
With the storms of heaven to man it.
Its piers are the rocks of granite,
Its rampart bold is the mountain old,
With the storms of heaven to man it.
Behind that ancient gateway high,
The waves of the North Sea breasting,
The Danish Isles on the Baltic lie,
Like knights on their blue shields resting.
The waves of the North Sea breasting,
The Danish Isles on the Baltic lie,
Like knights on their blue shields resting.
And all within through a circle wide
The azure tides are sleeping;
A gallant field for a tournay's pride,
Where monarchs the lists are keeping.
The azure tides are sleeping;
A gallant field for a tournay's pride,
Where monarchs the lists are keeping.
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The mountains hoar on the girdling land,
That rise in their vast gradations,
The mighty seats of that theatre grand,
Are crowded with watching nations.
That rise in their vast gradations,
The mighty seats of that theatre grand,
Are crowded with watching nations.
The Heralds that open and close the lists,
Are the cloudy children of heaven:
They come in the spring in a robe of mists,
In cars by the West Wind driven.
Are the cloudy children of heaven:
They come in the spring in a robe of mists,
In cars by the West Wind driven.
In a crystal grave is buried the wave,
In a pall of white snow folden;
The great ships rest on its heaveless breast,
By the hand of winter holden:
In a pall of white snow folden;
The great ships rest on its heaveless breast,
By the hand of winter holden:
But so loud a blast those Heralds cast
To the billows beneath them lying,
They rise like the dead from their icy bed,
To the voice of their God replying.
To the billows beneath them lying,
They rise like the dead from their icy bed,
To the voice of their God replying.
10
The avalanche falls from the distant hill;
The tomb of the sea is broken;
The great ships bound and the white sails fill:
'Tis thus that the lists they open.
The tomb of the sea is broken;
The great ships bound and the white sails fill:
'Tis thus that the lists they open.
But when the battle is doomed to cease,
And the sun to the south is clinging,
The East Wind comes like the Herald of Peace,
The angels of Mercy bringing.
And the sun to the south is clinging,
The East Wind comes like the Herald of Peace,
The angels of Mercy bringing.
He comes with the delicate spirits of air
That sit in the North's clear portals,
And weave, from the dew and the starlight fair,
The tissue called snow by mortals.
That sit in the North's clear portals,
And weave, from the dew and the starlight fair,
The tissue called snow by mortals.
On threads of invisible frost they glide,
Their fairy footfalls beaming
In thin white flakes, like the light that breaks
From the moon at morning gleaming.
Their fairy footfalls beaming
In thin white flakes, like the light that breaks
From the moon at morning gleaming.
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The boldest pirate that ploughs the brine
With red hand reeking from slaughter,
Flies, when he sees that gentle sign
Come stealing over the water.
With red hand reeking from slaughter,
Flies, when he sees that gentle sign
Come stealing over the water.
The bursting fire and the red ball's ire
The strongest of walls may shatter;
But the flakes of snow those spirits throw
His navies like dry leaves scatter.
The strongest of walls may shatter;
But the flakes of snow those spirits throw
His navies like dry leaves scatter.
The war's red rack and the battery black,
With ghastly trophies laden,
Their passage light leaves pure and white
As the thought of a spotless maiden.
With ghastly trophies laden,
Their passage light leaves pure and white
As the thought of a spotless maiden.
All night they sit on the helm and prow,
Calling the North Light nigher;
Rocking the great ship to and fro,
And stilling its heart of fire.
Calling the North Light nigher;
Rocking the great ship to and fro,
And stilling its heart of fire.
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Their cold thin fingers of hoar-frost sere
On the cannon's black lip laying:
'Tis hushed!—and the morn sees a trembling tear
Where the fires of death were playing.
On the cannon's black lip laying:
'Tis hushed!—and the morn sees a trembling tear
Where the fires of death were playing.
'Tis thus the East Wind comes in the night,
God's truce in his white flag waving,
The pride of the conqueror putting to flight,
But the wreck of the conquered saving.
God's truce in his white flag waving,
The pride of the conqueror putting to flight,
But the wreck of the conquered saving.
O'er the desolate slain his wreath is cast,
Of Death's pale winter-roses:
For a Herald of Peace the East Wind passed:
'Tis thus that the lists he closes.
Of Death's pale winter-roses:
For a Herald of Peace the East Wind passed:
'Tis thus that the lists he closes.
| The Emperor's Vigil, and The Waves And The War | |