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THE SPRING FRESHETS 57
Corpse-pale turned the heavens, as quaking upon
them he gazed,
Riven the mountains sank, then fell the raven-
black night;
But an unending host,
Above and below,
Forth from the mountains, up from the hills,
Emerged, streamed onward, marched,
The whole of the groaning earth
‘Pravailed:.’?..
Out from the east there gleamed in the darkness
On its need and its terror a beckoning light;
Forward it leaped, mightily waxing,
Building a bridge through the tempest-tossed air,
Over which to his vision marched a procession
Of holy men and white-clad children,
Chanting hymns to bells soft chiming,
Bearing torches, wreaths, and crosses.
Thereafter soldiers, tall and hardened,
Bearing weapons, shields, and banners,
And he saw in the inmost circle
Clearly the King on a milk-white charger—
The cross before him, skalds about him,
Endless the following army.
Sun-burnt was he, and seated firmly,
With gleaming eye, and fair hair falling,
And ruddily o’er his breast-plate bearded.
Mighty he sat,
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