The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark, A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. 'Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came; The leaves were wet with women's tears: they heard A noise of songs they would not understand. They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall, And would have strown it, and are fall'n themselves. 'Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came, The woodmen with their axes: lo the tree! But we will make it faggots for the hearth, And boats and bridges for the use of men. 'Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: 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 shatter'd to the shoulder blade. 'Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall grow A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power; and roll'd With music in the Æonian breeze of Time, The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs Shall move the stony bases of the world. '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, Let them not lie in the tents with coarse mankind, Ill nurses; but descend, and proffer these The brethren of our blood and cause, that there Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender ministries Of female hands and hospitality.' 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 cowl'd, and some bare-headed, on they came, Steps with a tender foot, light as on air, To where her wounded brethren lay; there stay'd; Knelt on one knee, - the child on one, and prest Their hands, and call'd them dear deliverers, And happy warriors, and immortal names, And said, 'You shall not lie in the tents but here, With female hands and hospitality.' Then, whether moved by this, or was it chance, She past my way. Up started from my side Tortured her mouth and o'er her forehead past A shadow, and all her hue changed, and she said: When the good Queen, her mother, shore the tress With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche: And then once more she look'd at my pale face: Till understanding all the foolish work 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 bow'd, 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 Like one of these; if so, by any means, To lighten this great clog of thanks, that makes |