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