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Of a white figure in the twilight air, Gazing intent, as one who with surprise His form and features seemed to recognize;

And in a whisper to the king he said: "What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead,

Is watching me, as if he sought to trace In the dim light the features of my face?"

The king looked, and replied: "I know him well;

It is the Angel men call Azrael, 'Tis the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear?"

And the guest answered: "Lest he should come near,

And speak to me, and take away my breath!

Save me from Azrael, save me from death!

O king, that hast dominion o'er the wind, Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind.'

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"Not so," the eager Poet said;
"At least, not so before I tell
The story of my Azrael,
An angel mortal as ourselves,
Which in an ancient tome I found
Upon a convent's dusty shelves,
Chained with an iron chain, and bound
In parchment, and with clasps of brass,
Lest from its prison, some dark day,
It might be stolen or steal away,
While the good friars were singing mass.

"It is a tale of Charlemagne,
When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers
And sweeps from mountain-crest to
coast,

With lightning flaming through its showers,

He swept across the Lombard plain,
Beleaguering with his warlike train
Pavía, the country's pride and boast,
The City of the Hundred Towers."

Thus heralded the tale began, And thus in sober measure ran.

THE POET'S TALE.

CHARLEMAGNE.

OLGER the Dane and Desiderio,
King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower
Stood gazing northward o'er the rolling
plains,

League after league of harvests, to the foot

Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw approach

A mighty army, thronging all the roads

That led into the city. And the King

Said unto Olger, who had passed his youth

As hostage at the court of France, and knew

The Emperor's form and face : "Is Charlemagne

Among that host?" And Olger answered: "No."

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"This must be Charlemagne !" and as before

Did Olger answer: "No; not yet, not yet."

And then appeared in panoply complete The Bishops and the Abbots and the Priests

Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts; And Desiderio could no more endure The light of day, nor yet encounter death,

But sobbed aloud and said: "Let us go down

And hide us in the bosom of the earth, Far from the sight and anger of a foe So terrible as this!" And Olger said : "When you

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behold the harvests in the

fields Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino

Lashing the city walls with iron waves, Then may you know that Charlemagne is come."

And even as he spake, in the northwest, Lo! there uprose a black and threatening cloud,

Out of whose bosom flashed the light of

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The Lombard King o'ercome with terror

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cried :

streets.

The Paladins of France; and at the sight

This at a single glance Olger the Dane Saw from the tower, and turning to the King

Exclaimed in haste: "Behold! this is the man

You looked for with such eagerness!" and then

Fell as one dead at Desiderio's feet.

INTERLUDE.

WELL pleased all listened to the tale,
That drew, the Student said, its pith
And marrow from the ancient myth
Of some one with an iron flail;
Or that portentous Man of Brass
Hephaestus made in days of yore,
Who stalked about the Cretan shore,
And saw the ships appear and pass,
And threw stones at the Argonauts,
Being filled with indiscriminate ire
That tangled and perplexed his thoughts;
But, like a hospitable host,

When strangers landed on the coast,
Heated himself red-hot with fire,

And hugged them in his arms, and pressed

Their bodies to his burning breast.

The Poet answered: "No, not thus
The legend rose; it sprang at first
Out of the hunger and the thirst
In all men for the marvellous.
And thus it filled and satisfied
The imagination of mankind,
And this ideal to the mind
Was truer than historic fact.
Fancy enlarged and multiplied
The terrors of the awful name
Of Charlemagne, till he became
Armipotent in every act,

And, clothed in mystery, appeared
Not what men saw, but what they
feared.*

The Theologian said: "Perchance
Your chronicler in writing this
Had in his mind the Anabasis,
Where Xenophon describes the advance
Of Artaxerxes to the fight;
At first the low gray cloud of dust,
And then a blackness o'er the fields
As of a passing thunder-gust,
Then flash of brazen armor bright,

Bowmen and troops with wicker shields,
And cavalry equipped in white,
And chariots ranged in front of these
With scythes upon their axle-trees."

To this the Student answered: "Well,
I also have a tale to tell

Of Charlemagne ; a tale that throws
A softer light, more tinged with rose,
Than your grim apparition cast
Upon the darkness of the past.
Listen, and hear in English rhyme
What the good Monk of Lauresheim
Gives as the gossip of his time,
In mediæval Latin prose."

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And mingled love and reverence in his look,

Or hear the cloister and the court repeat The measured footfalls of his sandaled feet,

Or watch him with the pupils of his school,

And ranks of men, and spears up-thrust, Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule.

*See page 340.

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