Blithe from the turf the Dove the blessed leaves[10] 40 That heal the slow plague of the sunless dearth Bears to each sufferer whom the curse bereaves Ev'n of all hope, save graves in that dear earth. Woo'd by the kindly King they taste, to know How to each ill God plants a cure below. Long mused the anxious hero, if to dare 41 Once more the fearful sea--or from the bark Shape ragged huts, and wait, slow-lingering there, Till Eos issuing from the gates of Dark Unlock the main? dread choice on either hand-- The liquid Acheron, or the Stygian land. At length, resolved to seize the refuge given, 42 Once more he leads the sturdiest of the crew Back to the wreck--the planks, asunder riven, And such scant stores as yet the living few May for new woes sustain, are shoreward borne; And hasty axes shape the homes forlorn. Now, every chink closed on the deathful air, 43 In the dark cells the weary labourers sleep; Deaf to the fierce roar of the hungering bear, And the dull thunders clanging on the deep-- Till on their waking sense the discords peal, And to the numb hand cleaves unfelt the steel. What boots long told the tale of life one war 44 With the relentless iron Element? More, day by day, the mounting snows debar Ev'n search for food,--yet oft the human scent Lures the wild beast, which, mangling while it dies, Bursts on the prey, to fall itself the prize! But as the winter deepens, ev'n the beast 45 Shrinks from its breath, and with the loneliness To Famine leaves the solitary feast. Suffering halts patient in its last excess. Closed in each tireless, lightless, foodless cave Cowers a dumb ghost unconscious of its grave. Nature hath stricken down in that waste world 46 All--save the Soul of Arthur! _That_, sublime, Hung on the wings of heavenward faith unfurl'd, O'er the far light of the predicted Time; Believe thou hast a mission to fulfil, And human valour grows a Godhead's will! Calm to that fate above the moment given 47 Shall thy strong soul divinely dreaming go, Unconscious as an eagle, entering heaven, Where its still shadow skims the rooks below; High beyond this, its actual world is wrought, And its true life is in its sphere of thought. Yet who can 'scape the infection of the heart? 48 Who, though himself invulnerably steel'd, Can boast a breast indifferent to the dart That threats the life his love in vain would shield? When some large nature, curious, we behold How twofold comes it from the glorious mould!