With slow and sullen step, the fatal pow'r, Mista, the minister of Odin's wrath, Beheld, and thither bent her rapid flight, In form like Elidure, his friend belov'd, Friend of his youth, who knew, and knowing shar'd His sorrows, and with his resentments glow'd. "And whither does my friend," the goddess said, "Now bend his steps? Shall dark despair invade The noble breast? Does vengeance wake no more?" "Think not," he cried, and from his flashing eyes Shot lightnings, "that the hope of dear revenge Burns here no more. Upon this hated earth, This earth, the kingdom of my foe accurst, I drag a load of miserable life, While partial heav'n retards th' expected hour." Arraign not heav'n," the dreadful pow'r replies, "This is the ready colouring of fear, That shrinks at fancied danger; while the brave Does not that hand with never-erring aim Speed the swift arrow's flight? And now the king Unarm'd, and unsuspicious, vainly deems No danger near, and for the feast prepares. Th' expected hour is come; and lo, the gods, Reaches to heav'n, and to his wond'ring eyes Blazes a comet with portentous fires. Across her shoulders hangs her horrid shield, And in her mighty hand the pond'rous spear The king that instant, in the golden bowl Rais'd high the sparkling wine, and bad his guests Indulge the feast, and give a loose to joy. His throat receives the deadly weapon; prone He falls, and spurns the earth, and dying, grasps With agonizing hands the bloody dust. Amazement, fear, confusion, seiz'd on all! And fierce reproach, and furious threats arise. And fit their helms, and lift their pond'rous shields. Disclaims the treason, and attests the skies. When lo! before their wond'ring eyes appears, Sisilius, glorying in the bloody deed: "Warriors," he cried, "suspend your frantic strife. By me the shaft was sped. The festal board, Th' assembled chiefs beheld the brutal wrong; İs full, and honour from my brighten'd crest Shines forth with beams unsullied. I have liv'd Enough to vengeance, and with daring hand Have seiz'd reluctant fame. Now welcome death." So saying, with indignant foot he spurn'd The breathless carcase, and the pointed dart, With steady hand against his breast impell'd, Remains, that speaks the triumph of his soul. Now all the camp resounds with loud lament; And rumour spreads abroad the dreadful tale. The wretched Guendolen, who sat retir'd And torn with grief alternate, and disdain, Too soon to learn the utmost rage of fate. For now her careful eyes afar descry With slow and solemn march the martial train Advancing through the gloom; their spears revers'd Are trail'd along, their banners sweep the ground, The moon pale glimmers on their burnish'd arms, And mournful music loads the passing gale. And now with boding fears her bosom heaves. Had fall'n. More near the sad procession now Reveals it horrors. There a breathless corse Extended lies; and soon the well-known arms She arm'd her hero for the sanguine field, Flash on her sight. She shrieks, and shrieking falls; The shades of death her swimming eyes surround. Her weeping damsels with assiduous care Recall her fleeting spirits. Some apply The living freshness of the crystal spring; Some wake the gentle breeze. Returning life |