 | Idyls of Norway and other poems |  |
101
THE ELF-MAIDENS.
I.
And it was young Sir Hermod, in scarlet clad and gold,
Rode forth to woo fair Ragna, the maid of Kirtley Wold.
Rode forth to woo fair Ragna, the maid of Kirtley Wold.
Swift through the castle-gate rang the hoof-beat of his steed;
Then struck with muffled rhythm o'er the greensward of the mead.
Then struck with muffled rhythm o'er the greensward of the mead.
Now, hie thee, young Sir Hermod, nor pause, nor look askance,
For 'neath the misty summer moon the elf-maidens dance.
For 'neath the misty summer moon the elf-maidens dance.
And like a dream they drift o'er the silvery lakes of wheat,
The slender ears scarce dip 'neath the pressure of their feet.
The slender ears scarce dip 'neath the pressure of their feet.
102
They lightly sway and rock in their undulating flight,
With gleams of dimpling limbs and of bosoms of delight.
With gleams of dimpling limbs and of bosoms of delight.
Now from the grove they float, and across the meadow's floor,
Scarce nod the drooping blue-bells when brush their garments o'er.
Scarce nod the drooping blue-bells when brush their garments o'er.
And from beneath the mist-veils that flutter in the dance
Grave, yearning eyes flash forth with a tender radiance.
Grave, yearning eyes flash forth with a tender radiance.
O help thee God, Sir Hermod! Now spur thy goodly steed,
And list not to those sighs and the luring tones that plead.
And list not to those sighs and the luring tones that plead.
Gaze not on snowy bosoms that in the moon's pale beam
Weave subtle charms, and strangely with lustrous dimness gleam.
Weave subtle charms, and strangely with lustrous dimness gleam.
103
That hand upon thy shoulder, so slender, soft and white,
Is Death's cold hand, outstretched thy fair youth and strength to blight.
Is Death's cold hand, outstretched thy fair youth and strength to blight.
Those soft, alluring voices that hover thee around,
Delicious, languid, vague, like a poppy's breath in sound,
Delicious, languid, vague, like a poppy's breath in sound,
Would lull thy soul full gently, amid the forest's gloom,
Into a sleep more dread than the slumber of the tomb.
Into a sleep more dread than the slumber of the tomb.
Those locks that faintly glimmer—a maze of tawny gold—
Would tangle thee full swiftly in meshes manifold.
Would tangle thee full swiftly in meshes manifold.
Those lips that blush so warmly beneath the moon's dim light
Would blot from out thy soul the dear name of Christ the white.
Would blot from out thy soul the dear name of Christ the white.
104
Then hie thee, young Sir Hermod, nor pause nor look askance,
Where 'neath the misty summer moon the elf-maidens dance.
Where 'neath the misty summer moon the elf-maidens dance.
II.
The winds that sang in tree-tops, and hummed the rose new-blown
Sweet airy tales, now swelled to a wild and wondrous moan.
Sweet airy tales, now swelled to a wild and wondrous moan.
Weird clouds with horrid faces, with fierce and breathless haste,
And sable arms extended, across the heavens chased.
And sable arms extended, across the heavens chased.
The lily maid, fair Ragna, stood on the castle's height,
And watched the clouds and listened to the voices of the night.
And watched the clouds and listened to the voices of the night.
She listened to the clang of swift hoof-beats from afar;
She heard the drowsy warden the heavy gate unbar.
She heard the drowsy warden the heavy gate unbar.
105
And down the winding stairway with wingéd steps she flew—
The world was filled with music and all things fairer grew.
The world was filled with music and all things fairer grew.
She cried her eager welcome to the knight who rigid sat;
Nor stirred he in the saddle, nor raised his crested hat.
Nor stirred he in the saddle, nor raised his crested hat.
Then with a dread foreboding across the court she sped;
She seized Sir Hermod's hand—but the hand was cold and dead.
She seized Sir Hermod's hand—but the hand was cold and dead.
She started back and tottered, but grasped the bridle's ring:
“Woe! Thou hast heard, belovéd, the elf-maidens sing.
“Woe! Thou hast heard, belovéd, the elf-maidens sing.
“Now comfort Christ thy spirit, bestead in evil chance,
For thou hast seen at even-tide the elf-maidens dance.”
For thou hast seen at even-tide the elf-maidens dance.”
| Idyls of Norway and other poems | |