VI

     He was of the blood to shine
     Bronze in joy, like skies that scorch. 
     Beaming with the goblet wine
     In the wavering of the torch,
     Looked he backward on his bride. 
     Eye and have, my Attila! 
     Fair in her wide robe was she: 
     Where the robe and vest divide,
     Fair she seemed surpassingly: 
     Soft, yet vivid as the stream
     Danube rolls in the moonbeam
     Through rock-barriers:  but she smiled
     Never, she sat cold as salt: 
     Open-mouthed as a young child
     Wondering with a mind at fault. 
     Make the bed for Attila!

     VII

     Under the thin hoop of gold
     Whence in waves her hair outrolled,
     ’Twixt her brows the women saw
     Shadows of a vulture’s claw
     Gript in flight:  strange knots that sped
     Closing and dissolving aye: 
     Such as wicked dreams betray
     When pale dawn creeps o’er the bed. 
     They might show the common pang
     Known to virgins, in whom dread
     Hunts their bliss like famished hounds;
     While the chiefs with roaring rounds
     Tossed her to her lord, and sang
     Praise of him whose hand was large,
     Cheers for beauty brought to yield,
     Chirrups of the trot afield,
     Hurrahs of the battle-charge.

     VIII

     Those rock-faces hung with weed
     Reddened:  their great days of speed,
     Slaughter, triumph, flood and flame,
     Like a jealous frenzy wrought,
     Scoffed at them and did them shame,
     Quaffing idle, conquering nought. 
     O for the time when God decreed
     Earth the prey of Attila! 
     God called on thee in his wrath,
     Trample it to mire!  ’Twas done. 
     Swift as Danube clove our path
     Down from East to Western sun. 
     Huns! behold your pasture, gaze,
     Take, our king said:  heel to flank
     (Whisper it, the war-horse neighs!)
     Forth we drove, and blood we drank
     Fresh as dawn-dew:  earth was ours: 
     Men were flocks we lashed and spurned: 
     Fast as windy flame devours,
     Flame along the wind, we burned. 
     Arrow javelin, spear, and sword! 
     Here the snows and there the plains;
     On! our signal:  onward poured
     Torrents of the tightened reins,
     Foaming over vine and corn
     Hot against the city-wall. 
     Whisper it, you sound a horn
     To the grey beast in the stall! 
     Yea, he whinnies at a nod. 
     O for sound of the trumpet-notes! 
     O for the time when thunder-shod,
     He that scarce can munch his oats,
     Hung on the peaks, brooded aloof,
     Champed the grain of the wrath of God,
     Pressed a cloud on the cowering roof,
     Snorted out of the blackness fire! 
     Scarlet broke the sky, and down,
     Hammering West with print of his hoof,
     He burst out of the bosom of ire
     Sharp as eyelight under thy frown,
     Attila, my Attila!