of the fate that this palace must bear, Of the ruin of Knossos goes there. 

 ***** 

*****

 For on such a night, when the moon is dark, And all of the stars are dumb, With a sudden flare by the sea-ward gate Shall the doom of Knossos come; For a cry will shatter the brooding hush, And the crickets and mice shall wake To clatter and clash and shout and cry, And the stumble of frenzied feet going by Death's stride will overtake. 

 For into the glare of a new-lit torch That shakes in a shaking grasp, Sweat-streaked, wild-eyed, and dark with blood Shall a runner break, and gasp Of a burning harbour, of silent ships, Of men sprung out of the night— Is it men or devils?—He moans, and reels Shoulder to wall, and a red stain steals Down the frescoes gay and bright. 

 And hard on the word they hear approach The surge of the battle near, And to whistle of arrows, and clang of bronze The palace awakes in fear. Light! Light! and torches, like waking eyes Leap from each darkened door; And the guard at the sea-ward gate go down In the vast black sea of men, and drown, While sweeps the torrent o'er. 

 What door shall hold, or what walls withstand The roll of a full spring-tide, With an on-shore wind? And the gates of bronze Ring, rock, and are flung aside; And a myriad unknown raiders burst Into the hall of the King, Where Minos on his carved, stone seat Beheld the nations at his feet, Watched each its tribute bring. 

 Minos is slain; his guards are slain; Which of his sons shall live In this pillared Hall of the Double Axe The word of the Kings to give? Which of his sons? Shall they know his sons In this sudden terror sprung On sleeping men? Half-armed they stand, Foot pressed to foot, hand tense to hand, And muscles iron-strung. 

 The flame of the torches in the wind Of their struggle blackens the wall, And the floor is sticky with blood, and heaped With the bodies of those that fall. What if a son of Minos live? In that horror of blood and gloom, What of the noble, what of the brave? Better to die, than endure as a slave The days after Knossos' doom. 

 But above the scuffle of sandalled feet, And the breath of men hard-pressed, And the clash of bronze, and the gasp and thud As the point goes through the breast, And above the startled hoot of owls, And the rattle of shield and spear, The wailing voices of women rise As their men are stricken before their eyes And they 

 Prev. P 11/29 next