And Cyril, one. my dream

Yea, let me make

All that I would. But that largemoulded man,

His visage all agrin as at a wake, Made at me thro' the press, and, staggering back

With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, came

As comes a pillar of electric cloud, Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains,

And shadowing down the champaign till it strikes

On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and cracks, and splits,

And twists the grain with such a roar that Earth

Reels, and the herdsmen cry; for everything

Gave way before him: only Florian, he That loved me closer than his own right eye,

Thrust in between; but Arac rode him down:

And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the Prince,

With Psyche's color round his helmet, tough,

Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at

Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die.'

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Call'd him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place,

Lightly to the warrior stept
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her kneeLike summer tempest came her tears"Sweet my child, I live for thee."

My dream had never died or lived again.

As in some mystic middle state I lay; Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard: Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me all

So often that I speak as having seen.

For so it seem'd, or so they said to

me,

That all things grew more tragic and more strange;

That when our side was vanquish'd and my cause

For ever lost, there went up a great cry,

The Prince is slain. My father heard and ran

In on the lists, and there unlaced my casque

And grovell'd on my body, and after him

Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglaïa.

But high upon the palace Ida stood With Psyche's babe in arm: there on the roofs

Like that great dame of Lapidoth she sang.

"Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: the seed,

The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark,
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side
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,

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,

Their feet in flowers, her loveliest: by them went

The enamor'd air sighing, and on their curls

From the high tree the blossom wavering fell,

And over them the tremulous isles of light

Slided, they moving under shade: but

And nursed by those for whom you fought, and served

With female hands and hospitality."

Then, whether moved by this, or was it chance,

She past my way. Up started from my side

The old lion, glaring with his whelpless eye,

Silent; but when she saw me lying stark,

Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly

pale,

The sacred mother's bosom, panting, burst

The laces toward her babe; but she nor cared

Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida heard,

Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, stood

Erect and silent, striking with her glance

The mother, me, the child; but he that lay

Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, Trail'd himself up on one knee: then he drew

Her robe to meet his lips, and down she look'd

At the arm'd man sideways, pitying as it seem'd,

Or self-involved; but when she learnt his face,

Remembering his ill-omen'd song,

arose

Once more thro' all her height, and o'er him grew

Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sand When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said:

"O fair and strong and terrible! Lioness

That with your long locks play the Lion's mane!

But Love and Nature, these are two more terrible

And stronger. See, your foot is on our necks,

We vanquish'd, you the Victor of your will.

What would you more? give her the

child! remain

Orb'd in your isolation: he is dead, Or all as dead: henceforth we let you be:

Win you the hearts of women; and beware

Lest, where you seek the common love of these,

The common hate with the revolving wheel

Should drag you down, and some great Nemesis

Break from a darken'd future, crown'd with fire,

And tread you out for ever: but howsoe'er

Fix'd in yourself, never in your own

arms

To hold your own, deny not hers to her,

Give her the child! O if, I say, you keep

One pulse that beats true woman, if you loved

dled you,