The monarch placed his steel-gloved hand Upon a crystal pillar near, In mockful jest was his demand, The answer came, low, serious, clear: "Yes, father, God is even here, And if He choose this very hour Can strike us dead, with ghastly fear, And vindicate His name and power."
"Where is this God? Now let us see." He spumed the pillar with his foot, Down, down it tumbled, like a tree Severed by axes from the root, And from within, with horrid clang That froze the blood in every vein, A stately sable warrior sprang, Like some phantasma of the brain.
He had a lion head and eyes, A human body, feet and hands, Colossal,--such strange shapes arise In clouds, when Autumn rules the lands! He gave a shout;--the boldest quailed, Then struck the tyrant on the helm, And ripped him down; and last, he hailed Prehlad as king of all the realm!
A thunder clap--the shape was gone! One king lay stiff, and stark, and dead, Another on the peacock throne Bowed reverently his youthful head. Loud rang the trumpets; louder still A sovereign people's wild acclaim. The echoes ran from hill to hill, "Kings rule for us and in our name."
Tyrants of every age and clime Remember this,--that awful shape Shall startle you when comes the time, And send its voice from cape to cape. As human, peoples suffer pain, But oh, the lion strength is theirs, Woe to the king when galls the chain! Woe, woe, their fury when he dares!
Three happy children in a darkened room! What do they gaze on with wide-open eyes? A dense, dense forest, where no sunbeam pries, And in its centre a cleared spot.--There bloom Gigantic flowers on creepers that embrace Tall trees; there, in a quiet lucid lake The white swans glide; there, "whirring from the brake," The peacock springs; there, herds of wild deer race; There, patches gleam with yellow waving grain; There, blue smoke from strange altars rises light, There, dwells in peace, the poet-anchorite. But who is this fair lady? Not in vain She weeps,--for lo! at every tear she sheds Tears from three pairs of young eyes fall amain, And bowed in sorrow are the three young heads. It is an old, old story, and the lay Which has evoked sad Sîta from the past Is by a mother sung.... 'Tis hushed at last And melts the picture from their sight away, Yet shall they dream of it until the day! When shall those children by their mother's side Gather, ah me! as erst at eventide?