He breathed peace and pulled a flower. Eye and have, my Attila! This was the damsel Ildico, Rich in bloom until that hour: Shyer than the forest doe Twinkling slim through branches green. Yet the shyest shall be seen. Make the bed for Attila! IV. Seen of Attila, desired, She was led to him straightway: Radiantly was she attired; Rifled lands were her array, Jewels bled from weeping crowns, Gold of woeful fields and towns. She stood pallid in the light. How she walked, how withered white, From the blessing to the board, She who should have proudly blushed, Women whispered, asking why, Hinting of a youth, and hushed. Was it terror of her lord? Was she childish? was she sly? Was it the bright mantle's dye Drained her blood to hues of grief Like the ash that shoots the spark? See the green tree all in leaf: See the green tree stripped of bark!-- Make the bed for Attila! V. Round the banquet-table's load Scores of iron horsemen rode; Chosen warriors, keen and hard; Grain of threshing battle-dints; Attila's fierce body-guard, Smelling war like fire in flints. Grant them peace be fugitive! Iron-capped and iron-heeled, Each against his fellow's shield Smote the spear-head, shouting, Live, Attila! my Attila! Eagle, eagle of our breed, Eagle, beak the lamb, and feed! Have her, and unleash us! live, Attila! my Attila! VI. He was of the blood to shine Bronze in joy, like skies that scorch. Beaming with the goblet wine In the wavering of the torch, Looked he backward on his bride. Eye and have, my Attila! Fair in her wide robe was she: Where the robe and vest divide, Fair she seemed surpassingly: Soft, yet vivid as the stream Danube rolls in the moonbeam Through rock-barriers: but she smiled Never, she sat cold as salt: Open-mouthed as a young child Wondering with a mind at fault. Make the bed for Attila! VII. Under the thin hoop of gold Whence in waves her hair outrolled, 'Twixt her brows the women saw Shadows of a vulture's claw Gript in flight: strange knots that sped Closing and dissolving aye: Such as wicked dreams betray When pale dawn creeps o'er the bed. They might show the common pang Known to virgins, in whom dread Hunts their bliss like famished hounds; While the chiefs with roaring rounds Tossed her to her lord, and sang Praise of him whose hand was large, Cheers for beauty brought to yield, Chirrups of the trot afield, Hurrahs of the battle-charge. VIII.