Passion on one hand, on one,
     Destiny led forth the Hun. 
     Heard ye outcries of affright,
     Voices that through many a fray,
     In the press of flag and spear,
     Warned the king of peril near? 
     Men were dumb, they gave him way,
     Eager heads to left and right,
     Like the bearded standard, thrust,
     As in battle, for a nod
     From their lord of battle-dust. 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     Slow between the lines he trod. 
     Saw ye not the sun drop slow
     On this nuptial day, ere eve
     Pierced him on the couch aglow? 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     Here and there his heart would cleave
     Clotted memory for a space: 
     Some stout chief’s familiar face,
     Choicest of his fighting brood,
     Touched him, as ’twere one to know
     Ere he met his bride’s embrace. 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     Twisting fingers in a beard
     Scant as winter underwood,
     With a narrowed eye he peered;
     Like the sunset’s graver red
     Up old pine-stems.  Grave he stood
     Eyeing them on whom was shed
     Burning light from him alone. 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     Red were they whose mouths recalled
     Where the slaughter mounted high,
     High on it, o’er earth appalled,
     He; heaven’s finger in their sight
     Raising him on waves of dead,
     Up to heaven his trumpets blown. 
     O for the time when God’s delight
     Crowned the head of Attila! 
     Hungry river of the crag
     Stretching hands for earth he came: 
     Force and Speed astride his name
     Pointed back to spear and flag. 
     He came out of miracle cloud,
     Lightning-swift and spectre-lean. 
     Now those days are in a shroud: 
     Have him to his ghostly queen. 
     Make the bed for Attila!

     XVI

     One, with winecups overstrung,
     Cried him farewell in Rome’s tongue. 
     Who? for the great king turned as though
     Wrath to the shaft’s head strained the bow. 
     Nay, not wrath the king possessed,
     But a radiance of the breast. 
     In that sound he had the key
     Of his cunning malady. 
     Lo, where gleamed the sapphire lake,
     Leo, with his Rome at stake,
     Drew blank air to hues and forms;
     Whereof Two that shone distinct,
     Linked as orbed stars are linked,
     Clear among the myriad swarms,
     In a constellation, dashed
     Full on horse and rider’s eyes
     Sunless light, but light it was —
     Light that blinded and abashed,
     Froze his members, bade him pause,
     Caught him mid-gallop, blazed him home. 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     What are streams that cease to flow? 
     What was Attila, rolled thence,
     Cheated by a juggler’s show? 
     Like that lake of blue