IX

     Ravaged cities rolling smoke
     Thick on cornfields dry and black,
     Wave his banners, bear his yoke. 
     Track the lightning, and you track
     Attila.  They moan:  ’tis he! 
     Bleed:  ’tis he!  Beneath his foot
     Leagues are deserts charred and mute;
     Where he passed, there passed a sea. 
     Attila, my Attila!

     X

— Who breathed on the king cold breath?  Said a voice amid the host, He is Death that weds a ghost, Else a ghost that weds with Death?  Ildico’s chill little hand Shuddering he beheld:  austere Stared, as one who would command Sight of what has filled his ear:  Plucked his thin beard, laughed disdain.  Feast, ye Huns!  His arm be raised, Like the warrior, battle-dazed, Joining to the fight amain.  Make the bed for Attila!

     XI

     Silent Ildico stood up. 
     King and chief to pledge her well,
     Shocked sword sword and cup on cup,
     Clamouring like a brazen bell. 
     Silent stepped the queenly slave. 
     Fair, by heaven! she was to meet
     On a midnight, near a grave,
     Flapping wide the winding-sheet.

     XII

     Death and she walked through the crowd,
     Out beyond the flush of light. 
     Ceremonious women bowed
     Following her:  ’twas middle night. 
     Then the warriors each on each
     Spied, nor overloudly laughed;
     Like the victims of the leech,
     Who have drunk of a strange draught.

     XIII

     Attila remained.  Even so
     Frowned he when he struck the blow,
     Brained his horse, that stumbled twice,
     On a bloody day in Gaul,
     Bellowing, Perish omens!  All
     Marvelled at the sacrifice,
     But the battle, swinging dim,
     Rang off that axe-blow for him. 
     Attila, my Attila!

     XIV

     Brightening over Danube wheeled
     Star by star; and she, most fair,
     Sweet as victory half-revealed,
     Seized to make him glad and young;
     She, O sweet as the dark sign
     Given him oft in battles gone,
     When the voice within said, Dare! 
     And the trumpet-notes were sprung
     Rapturous for the charge in line: 
     She lay waiting:  fair as dawn
     Wrapped in folds of night she lay;
     Secret, lustrous; flaglike there,
     Waiting him to stream and ray,
     With one loosening blush outflung,
     Colours of his hordes of horse
     Ranked for combat; still he hung
     Like the fever dreading air,
     Cursed of heat; and as a corse
     Gathers vultures, in his brain
     Images of her eyes and kiss
     Plucked at the limbs that could remain
     Loitering nigh the doors of bliss. 
     Make the bed for Attila!

     XV