the bridge of the dragon.
51
From fields of silence, yet be this the gloryLeading me to those quaint days, and to my story!
Summer was flaunting wide, when sudden blight Paled all; the leaf, the grain; the autumn fruitSet in the stalk; as on a perfect night The nightingale, mid-song, struck sudden mute.Margaret, in sad disquiet at the sight, Wept for her people, wept for the poor bruteChained to the stall: alas! and none could tellWhat malady it was which thus befell.
Wild, they implored the saints—the Christ, all pale, All powerful, drooping from the awful rood;—But ah, what dismal, broken-hearted wail Was there—what bitter freezing in the blood,When tidings came, that prone across their vale, Long leagues away in the primeval wood,With breath secreting pestilential dew,His hideous bulk of ill, the Dragon threw!
