XXIV

     Hatred of that abject slave,
     Earth, was in each chieftain’s heart. 
     Earth has got him, whom God gave,
     Earth may sing, and earth shall smart! 
     Attila, my Attila!

     XXV

     Thus their prayer was raved and ceased. 
     Then had Vengeance of her feast
     Scent in their quick pang to smite
     Which they knew not, but huge pain
     Urged them for some victim slain
     Swift, and blotted from the sight. 
     Each at each, a crouching beast,
     Glared, and quivered for the word. 
     Each at each, and all on that,
     Humped and grinning like a cat,
     Head-bound with its bridal-wreath. 
     Then the bitter chamber heard
     Vengeance in a cauldron seethe. 
     Hurried counsel rage and craft
     Yelped to hungry men, whose teeth
     Hard the grey lip-ringlet gnawed,
     Gleaming till their fury laughed. 
     With the steel-hilt in the clutch,
     Eyes were shot on her that froze
     In their blood-thirst overawed;
     Burned to rend, yet feared to touch. 
     She that was his nuptial rose,
     She was of his heart’s blood clad: 
     Oh! the last of him she had! —
     Could a little fist as big
     As the southern summer fig,
     Push a dagger’s point to pierce
     Ribs like those?  Who else!  They glared
     Each at each.  Suspicion fierce
     Many a black remembrance bared. 
     Attila, my Attila! 
     Death, who dares deny her guilt! 
     Death, who says his blood she spilt! 
     Traitor he, who stands between! 
     Swift to hell, who harms the Queen! 
     She, the wild contention’s cause,
     Combed her hair with quiet paws. 
     Make the bed for Attila!

     XXVI

     Night was on the host in arms. 
     Night, as never night before,
     Hearkened to an army’s roar
     Breaking up in snaky swarms: 
     Torch and steel and snorting steed,
     Hunted by the cry of blood,
     Cursed with blindness, mad for day. 
     Where the torches ran a flood,
     Tales of him and of the deed
     Showered like a torrent spray. 
     Fear of silence made them strive
     Loud in warrior-hymns that grew
     Hoarse for slaughter yet unwreaked. 
     Ghostly Night across the hive,
     With a crimson finger drew
     Letters on her breast and shrieked. 
     Night was on them like the mould
     On the buried half alive. 
     Night, their bloody Queen, her fold
     Wound on them and struck them through. 
     Make the bed for Attila!

     XXVII

     Earth has got him whom God gave,
     Earth may sing, and earth shall smart! 
     None of earth shall know his grave. 
     They that dig with Death depart. 
     Attila, my Attila!

     XXVIII