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! 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. Here we suffer with her, so plainly does the figure of the girl appear before us, silent and white with little shadows of pain coming and going upon her young forehead, while all about her shakes the ground under the hoofs of the battle-horses, under the thunder roar of the songs and the clashing of steel on steel. These roaring horsemen are singing of other things than the past and the present; they are clamouring for the future, for more war, more slaughter, more destruction; they are shouting that even their horses are hungry for war. Whisper it (the war signal), you sound a horn To the grey beast in the stall! Yea, he whinnies at a nod. O, for sound of the trumpet-notes! O, for the time when thunder-shod, He that scarce can munch his oats, Hung on the peaks, brooded aloof, Champed the grain of the wrath of God, Pressed a cloud on the cowering roof, Snorted out of the blackness fire! Scarlet broke the sky, and down, Hammering West with print of his hoof, He burst out of the bosom of ire, Sharp as eyelight under thy frown, Attila! my Attila! Ravaged cities rolling smoke Thick on cornfields dry and black, Wave his banners, bear his yoke. Track the lightning, and you track Attila. They moan: 'tis he! Bleed: 'tis he! Beneath his foot Leagues are deserts charred and mute; Where he passed, there passed a sea. Attila! my Attila!