Over Danube day no more,
     Like the warrior’s planted spear,
     Stood to hail the King:  in fear
     Western day knocked at his door. 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     Sudden in the army’s eyes
     Rolled a blast of lights and cries: 
     Flashing through them:  Dead are ye! 
     Dead, ye Huns, and torn piecemeal! 
     See the ordered army reel
     Stricken through the ribs:  and see,
     Wild for speed to cheat despair,
     Horsemen, clutching knee to chin,
     Crouch and dart they know not where. 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     Faces covered, faces bare,
     Light the palace-front like jets
     Of a dreadful fire within. 
     Beating hands and driving hair
     Start on roof and parapets. 
     Dust rolls up; the slaughter din.
     — Death to them who call him dead! 
     Death to them who doubt the tale! 
     Choking in his dusty veil,
     Sank the sun on his death-bed. 
     Make the bed for Attila!

     XXI

     ’Tis the room where thunder sleeps. 
     Frenzy, as a wave to shore
     Surging, burst the silent door,
     And drew back to awful deeps
     Breath beaten out, foam-white.  Anew
     Howled and pressed the ghastly crew,
     Like storm-waters over rocks. 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     One long shaft of sunset red
     Laid a finger on the bed. 
     Horror, with the snaky locks,
     Shocked the surge to stiffened heaps,
     Hoary as the glacier’s head
     Faced to the moon.  Insane they look. 
     God it is in heaven who weeps
     Fallen from his hand the Scourge he shook. 
     Make the bed for Attila!

     XXII

     Square along the couch, and stark,
     Like the sea-rejected thing
     Sea-sucked white, behold their King. 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     Beams that panted black and bright,
     Scornful lightnings danced their sight: 
     Him they see an oak in bud,
     Him an oaklog stripped of bark: 
     Him, their lord of day and night,
     White, and lifting up his blood
     Dumb for vengeance.  Name us that,
     Huddled in the corner dark
     Humped and grinning like a cat,
     Teeth for lips!—­’tis she! she stares,
     Glittering through her bristled hairs. 
     Rend her!  Pierce her to the hilt! 
     She is Murder:  have her out! 
     What! this little fist, as big
     As the southern summer fig! 
     She is Madness, none may doubt. 
     Death, who dares deny her guilt! 
     Death, who says his blood she spilt! 
     Make the bed for Attila!

     XXIII

     Torch and lamp and sunset-red
     Fell three-fingered on the bed. 
     In the torch the beard-hair scant
     With the great breast seemed to pant: 
     In the yellow lamp the limbs
     Wavered, as the lake-flower swims: 
     In the sunset red the dead
     Dead avowed him, dry blood-red.