"Can such things be below and God above?" 47 Falter'd the King;--Replied the Genius--"Nay, This is the state that sages most approve; This is Man civilized!--the perfect sway Of Merchant Kings;--the ripeness of the Art Which cheapens men--the Elysium of the Mart. "Twixt want and wealth is placed the Reign of Gold; 48 The reign for which each race advancing sighs, And none so clamour to be bought or sold As those gaunt shadows--Trade's grim merchandize. Dread not their curse--for their delirious sight Hails in the yellow pest 'The march of Light.'" "Better for nations," cried the wrathful King. 49 "The antique chief, whose palace was the glen, Whose crown the plumage of the eagle's wing, Whose throne the hill-top, and whose subjects--men, Than that last thraldom which precedes decay, For Avarice reigns not till the hairs are grey. "Is it in marts that manhood finds its worth? 50 When merchants reign'd--what left they to admire? Which hath bequeath'd the nobler wealth to earth, The steel of Sparta, or the gold of Tyre? Beneath the night-shade let the mandrakes grow-- Hide from my sight that Lazar-house of woe." So, turn'd with generous tears in manly eyes 51 The hardy Lord of heaven-taught Chivalry; Lo the third arch and last!--In moonlight, rise The Cymrian rocks dark-shining from the sea, And all those rocks, some patriot war, far gone, Hallows with grassy mound and starlit stone. And where the softest falls the loving light, 52 He sees himself, stretch'd lifeless on the sward, And by the corpse, with sacred robes of white Leans on his ivory harp a lonely Bard; Yea, to the Dead the sole still watchers given Are the Fame-Singer and the Hosts of Heaven. But on the kingly front the kingly crown 53 Rests;--the pale right hand grasps the diamond glaive; The brow, on which ev'n strife hath left no frown, Calm in the halo Glory gives the Brave. "Mortal, is _this_ thy choice?" the Genius cried. "Here Death; there Pleasure; and there Pomp!--decide!" "Death," answer'd Arthur, "is nor good nor ill 54 Save in the ends for which men die--and Death Can oft achieve what Life may not fulfil, And kindle earth with Valour's dying breath; But oh, one answer to one terror deign, My land--my people!--is that death in vain?" Mute droop'd the Genius, but the unquiet form 55 Dreaming beside its brother king, arose. Though dreaming still: as leaps the sudden storm On sands Arabian, as with spasms and throes Bursts the Fire-mount by soft Parthenope, Rose the veil'd Genius of the Things to be!