intense,
     Under tempest lashed to foam,
     Lurid radiance, as he passed,
     Filled him, and around was glassed,
     When deep-voiced he uttered, Rome!

     XVII

     Rome! the word was:  and like meat
     Flung to dogs the word was torn. 
     Soon Rome’s magic priests shall bleat
     Round their magic Pope forlorn! 
     Loud they swore the king had sworn
     Vengeance on the Roman cheat,
     Ere he passed, as, grave and still,
     Danube through the shouting hill: 
     Sworn it by his naked life! 
     Eagle, snakes these women are: 
     Take them on the wing! but war,
     Smoking war’s the warrior’s wife! 
     Then for plunder! then for brides
     Won without a winking priest! —
     Danube whirled his train of tides
     Black toward the yellow East. 
     Make the bed for Attila!

     XVIII

     Chirrups of the trot afield,
     Hurrahs of the battle-charge,
     How they answered, how they pealed,
     When the morning rose and drew
     Bow and javelin, lance and targe,
     In the nuptial casement’s view! 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     Down the hillspurs, out of tents
     Glimmering in mid-forest, through
     Mists of the cool morning scents,
     Forth from city-alley, court,
     Arch, the bounding horsemen flew,
     Joined along the plains of dew,
     Raced and gave the rein to sport,
     Closed and streamed like curtain-rents
     Fluttered by a wind, and flowed
     Into squadrons:  trumpets blew,
     Chargers neighed, and trappings glowed
     Brave as the bright Orient’s. 
     Look on the seas that run to greet
     Sunrise:  look on the leagues of wheat: 
     Look on the lines and squares that fret
     Leaping to level the lance blood-wet. 
     Tens of thousands, man and steed,
     Tossing like field-flowers in Spring;
     Ready to be hurled at need
     Whither their great lord may sling. 
     Finger Romeward, Romeward, King! 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     Still the woman holds him fast
     As a night-flag round the mast.

     XIX

     Nigh upon the fiery noon,
     Out of ranks a roaring burst. 
     ’Ware white women like the moon! 
     They are poison:  they have thirst
     First for love, and next for rule. 
     Jealous of the army, she? 
     Ho, the little wanton fool! 
     We were his before she squealed
     Blind for mother’s milk, and heeled
     Kicking on her mother’s knee. 
     His in life and death are we: 
     She but one flower of a field. 
     We have given him bliss tenfold
     In an hour to match her night: 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     Still her arms the master hold,
     As on wounds the scarf winds tight.

     XX