The poems of Madison Cawein

And one, perchance, will read and sigh:
“What aimless songs! Why will he sing
Of nature that drags out her woe
Through wind and rain, and sun and snow,
From miserable spring to spring?”
Then put me by.

And one, perhaps, will read and say:
“Why write of things across the sea,
Of men and women, far and near,
When we of things at home would hear—
Well! who would call this poetry?”
Then toss away.

A hopeless task have we, meseems,
At this late day; whom fate hath made
Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled
With kindred yearnings, try to build
A tower like theirs, that will not fade,
Out of our dreams.

219

ACCOLON OF GAUL

Prelude

O wondrous legends from the storied wells
Of lost Baranton! where old Merlin dwells,
Nodding a white poll and a grave, gray beard,
As if some Lake Ladyé he, listening, heard,
Who spake like water, danced like careful showers
With blown gold curls through drifts of wild-thorn flowers;
Loose, lazy arms upon her bosom crossed,
An instant seen, and in an instant lost,
With one peculiar note, like that you hear
Dropped by a reed-bird when the night is near,
A vocal gold blown through the atmosphere.

Lo! dreams from dreams in dreams remembered. Naught
That matters much, save that it seemed I thought
I wandered dim with some one, but I knew

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Not whom; most beautiful, and young, and true,
And pale through suffering: with curl-crowned brow
Soft eyes and voice, so strange, they haunt me now—
A dream, perhaps, in dreamland.

Seemed that she
Led me along a flower-showered lea
Trammeled with puckered pansy and the pea;
Where poppies spread great blood-red stain on stain,
So gorged with sunlight and the honeyed rain
Their hearts were weary; roses lavished beams;
Roses, wherein were huddled little dreams
That laughed coy, sidewise merriment, like dew,
Or from fair fingers fragrant kisses blew.
And suddenly a river cleft the sward;
And o'er it lay a mist: and it was hard
To see whence came it; whitherward it led;
Like some wild, frightened thing, it foamed and fled,
Sighing and murmuring, from its fountain-head.

221

And following it, at last I came upon
The Region of Romance,—from whence were drawn
Its wandering waters,—and the storied wells
Of lost Baranton, where old Merlin dwells,
Nodding a white poll and a great, gray beard.
And then, far off, a woman's voice I heard,
Wilder than water, laughing in the bowers,
Like some strange bird: and then, through wild-thorn flowers,
I saw her limbs glance, twinkling as spring showers;
And then, with blown gold curls, tempestuous tossed,
White as a wood-nymph, she a vista crossed,
Laughing that laugh wherein there was no cheer,
But soulless scorn. And so to me drew near
Her sweet lascivious brow's white wonderment,
And gray, great eyes, and hair which had the scent
Of all the wild Brécèliande's perfumes
Drowned in it; and, a flame in gold, one bloom's
Blood-point thrust deep. And, “Viviane! Viviane!”

222

The wild seemed crying, as if swept with rain;
And all the young leaves laughed; and surge on surge
Swept the witch-haunted forest to its verge,
That shook and sighed and stammered, as, in sleep,
A giant half-aroused: and, with a leap,
That samite-hazy creature, blossom-white,
Showered mocking kisses down; then, like a light
Beat into gusty flutterings by the dawn,
Then quenched, she glimmered and, behold, was gone;
And in Brécèliande I stood alone
Gazing at Merlin, sitting on a stone;
Old Merlin, charmed there, dreaming drowsy dreams;
A wondrous company; as many as gleams
That stab the moted mazes of a beech.
And each grave dream, behold, had power to reach
My mind through magic; each one following each
In dim procession; and their beauty drew
Tears down my cheeks, and Merlin's gray cheeks, too,—

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One in his beard hung tangled, bright as dew.—
Long pageants seemed to pass me, brave and fair,
Of courts and tournaments, with silvery blare
Of immaterial trumpets high in air;
And blazoned banners, shields, and many a spear
Of Uther, waved an incorporeal fear:
And forms of Arthur rose and Guenevere,
Of Tristram and of Isoud and of Mark,
And many others; glimmering in the dark
Of Merlin's mind, they rose and glared and then,—
The instant's fostered phantoms,—passed again.
Then all around me seemed a rippling stir
Of silken something,—wilier, lovelier
Than that witch-mothered beauty, Viviane,—
Approaching with dead knights amid her train,
Pale through the vast Brécèliande. And then
A knight, steel-helmeted, a man of men,
Passed with a fool, King Arthur's Dagonet,
Who on his head a tinsel crown had set
In mockery. And as he went his way,
Behind the knight the leaves began to sway,
Then slightly parted—and Morgane le Fay,

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With haughty, wicked eyes and lovely face,
Studied him steadily a little space.

I

“Again I hold thee to my heart, Morgane;
Here where the restless forest hears the main
Toss as in troubled sleep. Now hear me, sweet,
While I that dream of yesternight repeat.”

“First let us find some rock or mossed retreat
Where we may sit at ease.—Why dost thou look
So serious? Nay! learn lightness from this brook,
And gladness from these flowers, my Accolon.
See the wild vista there! where purpling run
Long woodland shadows from the sinking sun;
Deeper the wood seems there, secluded as
The tame wild-deer that, in the moss and grass,
Gaze with their human eyes. Where grow those lines
Of pale-starred green; and where yon fountain shines,
Urned deep in tremulous ferns, let's rest upon
Yon oak-trunk by the tempest overthrown

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Years, years ago. See, how 'tis rotted brown!
But here the red bark's firm and overgrown
Of trailing ivy darkly berried. Share
My throne with me. Come, cast away thy care!
Sit here and breathe with me this wildwood air,
Musk with the wood's decay that fills each way;
As if some shrub, while dreaming of the May,
In longing languor weakly tried to wake
Its perished blossoms and could only make
Ghosts of such dead aromas as it knew,
And shape a spectre of invisible dew
To haunt these sounding miles of solitude.”

“Still, thou art troubled, Morgane! and the mood,
Deep in thy fathomless eyes, glows.—Canst not keep
Mine eyes from seeing!—Dark thy thought and deep
As that of some wild woman,—found asleep
By some lost knight upon a precipice,—
Whom he hath wakened with a sudden kiss:
As that of some frail elfin lady,—light
As are the foggy moonbeams,—filmy white,

226

Who waves diaphanous beauty on a cliff,
That, drowsing, purrs with moon-drenched pines; but if
The lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and drag
Him crashing down, while she, tall on the crag,
Triumphant, mocks him with glad sorcery
Till all the wildwood echoes shout with glee.”

“Follow thy figure further, Accolon.
Right fair it is. Too soon, alas! art done,”
Said she; and tossing back her heavy hair,
Said smilingly, yet with a certain air
Of hurt impatience, “Why dost not compare
This dark expression of my eyes, ah me!
To something darker? say, it is to thee
As some bewildering mystery of a tarn,
A mountain water, that the mornings scorn
To anadem with fire and leave gray;
To which a champion cometh when the day
Hath tired of breding for the twilight's head
Flame-petaled blooms, and, golden-chapleted,
Sits waiting, rosy with deep love, for night,
Who cometh sandaled with the moon; the light
Of the auroras round her; her vast hair

227

Tortuous with stars,—that burn, as in a lair
The eyes of hunted wild things glare with rage,—
And on her bosom doth his love assuage.”

“Yea, even so,” said Accolon, his eyes
Searching her face: “the knight, as I surmise,
Who cometh heated to that haunted place,
Stoops down to lave his forehead, and his face
Meets fairy faces; elfins in a ring
That shadow upward, smiling, beckoning
Down, down to wonders, magic built of old
For some dim witch.—A city walled with gold,
With beryl battlements and paved with pearls;
Its lambent towers wrought of foamy swirls
Of alabaster; and that witch to love
More beautiful than any queen above.—
He pauses, troubled: but a wizard power,
In all his bronzen harness, that mad hour
Plunges him—whither? What if he should miss
Those cloudy beauties and that creature's kiss?—
Ah, Morgane, that same power Accolon
Found potent in thine eyes, and it hath drawn

228

And plunged him—whither? yea, to what far fate?
To what dim end? what veiled and future state?”

With shadowy eyes long, long she gazed in his,
Then whispered dreamily the one word, “Bliss.”
And like an echo on his sad mouth sate
The answer:—“Bliss?—deep have we drunk of late!
But death, I feel, some stealthy-footed death
Draws near! whose claws will clutch away—whose breath? . . .
I dreamed last night thou gather'dst flowers with me,
Fairer than those of earth. And I did see
How woolly gold they were, how woven through
With fluffy flame, and webby with spun dew:
And ‘Asphodels’ I murmured: then, ‘These sure
Are Eden amaranths, so angel pure
That love alone may touch them.’—Thou didst lay
The flowers in my hands; alas! then gray

229

The world grew; and, meseemed, I passed away.
In some strange manner on a misty brook,
Between us flowing, striving still to look
Beyond it, while, around, the wild air shook
With torn farewells of pensive melody,
Aching with tears and hopeless utterly;
So merciless near, meseemed that I did hear
That music in those flowers, and yearned to tear
Their ingot-cored and gold-crowned hearts, and hush
Their voices into silence and to crush:
Yet o'er me was a something that restrained:
The melancholy presence of two pained
And awful, burning eyes that cowed and held
My spirit while that music died or swelled
Far out on shoreless waters, borne away—
Like some wild-bird, that, blinded with the ray
Of dawn it wings tow'rds, lifting high its crest,
The glory round it, sings its heavenliest,
When suddenly all's changed; with drooping head,
Daggered of thorns it plunged on, fluttering, dead,

230

Still, still it seems to sing, though wrapped in night,
The slow blood beading on its breast of white.—
And then I knew the flowers which thou hadst given
Were strays of parting grief and waifs of heaven
For tears and memories. Importunate
They spoke to me of loves that separate!—
But, God! ah God! my God! thus was I left!
And these were with me who was so bereft.
The haunting torment of that dream of grief
Weighs on my soul and gives me no relief.”

He bowed and wept into his hands;and she,
Sorrowing beheld. Then, resting at her knee,
Raised slow her oblong lute and smote some chords.
But ere the impulse saddened into words,
Said: “And didst love me as thy lips would prove,
No visions wrought of sleep might move thy love.
Firm is all love in firmness of his power;
With flame, reverberant, moated stands his tower;

231

So built as not to admit from fact a beam
Of doubt, and much less of a doubt from dream:
All such th' alchemic fire of love's desires,—
That moats its tower with flame,—turns to gold wires
To chord the old lyre new whereon he lyres.”
She ceased; and then, sad softness in her eye,
Sang to his dream a questioning reply:—

“Will love be less, when dead the roguish Spring,
Who, with white hands, sowed violets, whispering?
When petals of her cheeks, wan-wasted through
Of withering grief, are laid beneath the dew,
Will love be less?

“Will love be less, when comes the Summer tall?
Her throat a lily, long and spiritual:
When like a poppied swath,—hushed haunt of bees,—
Her form is laid in slumber on the leas,
Will love be less?

232

“Will love be less, when Autumn, sighing there,
Droops with long frost streaks in her dark, dark hair?
When her grave eyes are closed to heaven above,
Deep, lost in memory's melancholy, love,
Will love be less?

“Will love be less, when Winter at the door
Shakes from gray locks th' icicles, long and hoar?
When Death's eyes, hollow o'er his shoulder, dart
Dark looks that wring with tears, then freeze the heart,
Will love be less?”

And in her hair wept softly, and her breast
Rose and was wet with tears—as when, distressed,
Night steals on day, rain sobbing through her curls.—

“Though tears become thee even as priceless pearls,
Weep not, Morgane.—Mine no gloom of doubt,

233

But grief for sweet love's death I dreamed about,”
He said. “May love, the flame-anointed, be
Lord of our hearts, and king eternally!
Love, ruler of our lives, whose power shall cease
No majesty when we are laid at peace;
But still shall reign, when souls have loved thus well,
Our god in Heaven or our god in Hell.”

So they communed. Afar her castle stood,
Its slender towers glimmering through the wood:
A forest lodge rose, ivy-buried, near
A woodland vista where faint herds of deer
Stalked like soft shadows: where, with many a run,
Mavis and throstle caroled in the sun:
And where through trees was seen a surf-white shore.
For this was Morgane's realm, embowered Gore;
And that her castle, sea-built Chariot,
That rooky pile, where, she a while forgot
Urience, her husband, now at Camelot.

234

Hurt in that battle where King Arthur strove
With the Five Heathen Kings, and, slaying, drove
The Five before him, Accolon was borne
To a gray castle on his shield one morn;—
A castle like a dream, set high in scorn
Above the world and all its hungry herds,
Belted with woods melodious with birds,
Far from the rush of spears and roar of swords,
And the loud shields of battle-bloody lords,
And fields of silent slain where Havoc sprawled
Gorged to her eyes with carnage.—Dim, high-halled,
And hushed it rose; and through the granite-walled
Huge gate, and court, up stairs of marble sheen,
Six damsels bore him, tiremaids of a queen,
Stately and dark, who moved as if a flame
Of starlight shone around her; and who came
With healing herbs and searched his wounds. A dame,
So radiant in raiment silvery,
So white, that she attendant seemed to be
On that high Holy Grail, which evermore

235

The Table Round hath sought by wood and shore;
The angel-guarded cup of mystery,
That but the pure in body and soul may see;—
Thus not for him, a worldly one, to love,
Who loved her even to wonder; skied above
His worship as the moon above the main,
That strives and strives to reach her, pale with pain,
She with her peaceful, pitiless, virgin cheer
Watching his suffering year on weary year.—
To Accolon such seemed she: Then, too late,
His heart's ideal, merciless as fate!
For whom his soul must yearn till death; and wait
And dream of; evermore with sighs and tears,
Through the long waste of unavailing years,
Seeing her ever luminously stand
In luminous heavens, beckoning with her hand:
Before which vision heart and soul were weak,
And dumb with love, that would, yet could not speak.—
Her beauty filled him with divine despair.
Around his heart she seemed to wrap her hair,
Her raven hair, and drag him to his doom;
Her looks were splendid daggers in the gloom

236

Of his sick soul, his heart's invaded tower,
Stabbing, yet never slaying, every hour.
Thus worshiping that queen, Morgane le Fay,
For many a day within his room he lay,
Longing to live now, then again to die,
As now her face, or now her glancing eye,
Bade his heart hope, with smiled approval of
His passion; now despair, with scorn of love;
His love, that dragged itself before her feet,
Dog-like, to whom even a blow were sweet.
Ah, never dreamed he of what was to be,—
Nay, nay! how could he? while the agony
Of his unworth possessed his soul so much,
He never thought such loveliness and such
Perfection ever could stoop from its heaven,
Far as his world, and to his arms be given.

One night a tempest tore and tossed and lashed
The writhing forest, and deep thunders dashed
Sonorous shields together; and anon,
Vast in the thunder's pause, the sea would groan
Like some enormous curse a knight hath lured
From where it soared to maim it with his sword.
And Accolon, from where he lay, could see
The stormy, wide-wrenched night's immensity

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Yawn hells of golden ghastliness, and sweep
Distending foam, tempestuous, up each steep
Of raucous iron. In a fever-fit,
He seemed to see, on crags the lightning lit,
With tangled hair wild-blown, nude mermaids sit,
Singing, and beckoning with foam-white arms
Some far ship struggling with the strangling storm's
Resistless exultation. And there came
One breaker, mountained heavenward, all aflame
With glow-worm green, that boomed against the cliff
Its bulkéd thunder—and there, pale and stiff,
Tumbled in eddies of the howling rocks,
His dead, drawn face, with lidless eyes, and locks
Oozed close with brine; hurled upward streamingly
To streaming mermaids. Then he seemed to see
The vampire echoes of the hoarse wood, who,
With hooting, sought him: down the casement drew
Wet, shuddering, hag-like fingers; and, at last,
Thronged up the turrets with an elfin blast

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Of baffled mockery, and whirled wildly off,
Back to the forest with a maniac scoff.—
Then, far away, hoofs of a hundred gales,
As wave rams wave up windy bluffs of Wales,
Loosed from the battlemented hills, the loud
Herders of tempest drove their herds of cloud,
That down the rocking night rolled, with the glare
Of swimming eyeballs, and the hurl of hair,
Blown, black as rain, from misty-manéd brows,
And mouths of bellowing storm; in mad carouse,
With whips of wind, rolling and ruining by,
Headlong, along the wild and headlong sky.

Once when the lightning made the casement glare,
Squares touched to gold, athwart it swept her hair,
As if a raven's wing had cut the storm
Death-driven seaward. And the vague alarm
Of her swift coming filled his soul with hope
And wild surmise, that winged beyond the scope
Of all his dreams had dreamed of, when he saw
'Twas she, the all-adored. He felt no awe

239

When low she kneeled beside him, beautiful
As some lone star and white, and said, “To lull
Thy soul to sleep, lo, I have come to thee.—
Didst thou not call me?”—

“Yea;” he said. “Maybe
Thou heard'st my heart, that calls continually:
But with my lips I called thee not. But, stay!
The night is wild. Thou wilt not go away!
The night is wild, and it is long till day!
To see thee like a benediction near,
To hear thy voice, to have thy cool hand here
Smoothing my feverish brow and matted curls;
To see thy white throat, whiter than its pearls,
Lean o'er me breathing; feel the influence
Of thy large eyes, like stars, whose sole defence
Against all storm is beauty,—is to see
And feel a portion of divinity,
My heart's high dream come true, my dream of dreams!—”
Then paused and said, “See, how the tempest streams!
How sweeps the tumult! and the thunder gleams
As, when King Arthur charged on battle-fields

240

Of Humber, glared the fiery spears and shields
Of all his knights!—when the Five Kings went down!
In the wild hurl of onset overthrown. . . .
But thy white presence, like the moon, has sown
This room with calm; and all the storm in me,
The tempest of my soul, dies utterly.
So let me feel thy hand upon my cheek.
And speak! I love thy voice: belovéd, speak.”

“Thou lov'st a thing of air, fond Accolon!
Is thy love then so spiritual? Nay! anon
'T will change, methinks. Whatever may befall,
Earth-love, thou 'lt find, is better, after all.”—
She smiled; and, sudden, through the moon-rent wall
Of storm, baptizing moonlight, foot and face,
Bathed and possessed her, as his soul the grace
And sweetness of her smile, whose life was brief,
But long enough to heal him of his grief.

“Now rest,” she said; “I love thee with much love!—

241

Thou didst not know I loved: but God above,
He knew and had divinement.—Winds may blow!—
To lie by thee to-night my mind is. So,”—
She laughed,—“sleep well!—For me . . . give me thy word
Of knighthood!—look thou! . . . and this naked sword
Laid here betwixt us! . . . Let it be a wall
Strong between love and lust an lov'st me all in all.”

Then she unbound the gold that clasped her waist:
Undid her hair: and, like a flower faced,
Stood sweet an unswayed stem that ran to bud
In bloom and beauty of young womanhood.
And fragrance was to her as natural
As odor to the rose. And white and tall,
All ardor and all fervor, through the room
She moved, a presence as of pale perfume.
And all his eyes and lips and limbs were fire:
His tongue, delirious, babbled of desire;
Cried, “Thine is devil's kindness, which is even

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Worse than fiend's fury, since the soul sees Heaven
Among eternal torments unforgiven.
Temptation neighbored, like a bloody rust
On a bright blade, leaves ugly stains; and lust
Is love's undoing when love's limbs are cast
Naked before desire. What love so chaste
But that such nearness of what should be hid
Makes it a lawless love?—But thou hast bid.
Rest thou. I love thee; love thee as dost know,
And all my love shall battle with love's foe.”

“Thy word,” she said. And pure as peaks that keep
Snow-drifted crowns, upon him seemed to sweep
An avalanche of virtue in one look.
And he, whose very soul within him shook,
Exclaimed, “'T is thine!”—And hopes, that in his brain
Had risen with rainbow gleams, set sad as rain
At that high look she gave of chastest pain.
Then turned, his face deep in his hands: and she
Laid the broad blade between them instantly.

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And so they lay its iron between them twain:
Unsleeping he, for all the brute disdain
Of passion in him struggled up and stood
A rebel wrangling with the brain and blood.
An hour stole by: she slept, or seemed to sleep.
The winds of night blew vigorous from the deep
With rain-scents of storm-watered wood and wold,
And breathed of ocean breakers moonlight-rolled.
He drowsed; and time passed stealing as for one
Whose life is but a dream in Avalon.
Vast bulks of black, wind-shattered rack went by
The casement's square of heaven,—a crystal dye,
A crown of moonlight, round each cloudy head,—
That seemed the ghosts of giant kings long-dead.
And then he thought she lightly laughed and sighed,
So soft a taper had not bent aside,

244

And leaned her warm face, seen through loosened hair,
Above him, whispering, soft as is a prayer,
“Behold! the sword! I take the sword away!”

It curved and clashed where the strewn rushes lay;
Shone glassy, glittering like a watery beam
Of moonlight, in the moonlight. He did deem
She moved in sleep and dreamed perverse nor wist
The thing she did, until two hot lips kissed
His wondering eyes to knowledge of her thought.
Then said he, “Love, my word! is it then naught?”
But now he felt fierce kisses over and over,
And laughter of “Thy word?—Art thou my lover?—
Kisses are more than words!—Come, give them me!—
As for thy word—I give it back to thee!”

Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits,
Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits;
From out her form a pearly light is shed,

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As, from a lily in a lily-bed,
A firefly's gleam. Her face is pale as stone,
Uncertain as a cloud that lies alone
In empty heaven; her diaphanous feet
Are easy as the dew or opaline heat
Of summer meads. With ears—aurora-pink
As dawn's—she leans and listens on the brink
Of being, dark with dreadfulness and doubt,
Wherein vague lights and shadows move about,
And palpitations beat—like some huge heart
Of Earth—the surging pulse of which we're part.
One hand, that hollows her divining eyes,
Glows like the curved moon over twilight skies;
And with her gaze she fathoms life and death—
Gulfs, where man's conscience, like a restless breath
Of wind, goes wandering; whispering low of things,
The irremediable, where sorrow clings.
Around her limbs a veil of woven mist
Wavers, and turns from fibered amethyst
To textured crystal; through which symboled bars

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Of silver burn, and cabalistic stars
Of nebulous gold. Shrouding her feet and hair,
Within this woof, fantastic, everywhere,
Dreams come and go: the instant images
Of things she sees and thinks; realities,
Shadows, with which her heart and fancy swarm,
That in the veil take momentary form:
Now picturing heaven in celestial fire,
And now the hell of every soul's desire;
Hinting at worlds, God wraps in mystery,
Beyond the world we touch and know and see.

No, never,—no!—would they forget that night.—
Too soon the sleepy birds awoke the light!
Too soon, for them, trailing gray skirts of breeze,
The drowsy dawn came wandering through the trees.
“Too soon,” she sighed; and he, “Alas! too soon!”
But at their scutcheoned casement, overstrewn

247

Of dew and dreams, the dim wind knocked and cried,
“Arise! come forth, O bridegroom, and O bride!”

II

Morn; and the Autumn, dreaming, sat among
His ancient hills; Autumn, who now was wrung
By crafty ministers, sun, rain, and frost,
To don imperial pomp at any cost.
On each wild hill he reared his tents of war,
Flaunting barbaric standards wide and far,
Around which camp-fires of the red leaves raged:
His tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged,
Who, in a little fretful while, would soon
Work red rebellion under some wan moon:
Pluck his old beard, deriding; shriek and tear
His royalty; and scatter through the air
His tattered majesty: then from his head
Dash down its golden crown; and in its stead
Set up a death's-head mockery of snow,
And leave him stripped, a beggar bowed with woe.

248

Blow, wood wind, blow! the day is fair and fine
As autumn skies can make it; brisk as brine
The air is, rustling in the underbrush,
'Mid which the stag-hounds leap, the huntsmen rush.
Hark to the horns! the music of the bows!
À mort! à mort!—The hunt is up and goes,
Beneath the acorn-dropping oaks, in green,—
Dark woodland green,—a boar-spear held between
His selle and hunter's head; and at his thigh
A good broad hanger; and one hand on high
To wind his horn, that startles many a wing,
And makes the forest echoes reel and ring.
Away, away they flash, a belted band
From Camelot, through the haze-haunted land:
With many a leamer leashed, and many a hound,
With mouths of bell-like music, now that bound,
Uncoupled, forward; for, behold! the hart,
A ten-tined buck, doth from the covert dart.
And the big stag-hounds swing into the chase,
The wild horns sing. The pryce seems but a pace

249

On ere 'tis wound. But, see! where interlace
The dense-briared thickets, now the hounds have lost
The slot, there where their woodland way is crossed
By intercepting waters full of leaves.

Beyond, the hart a tangled labyrinth weaves
Through deeper boscage; and it seems the sun
Makes many shadowy stags of this wild one,
That lead in different trails the foresters:
And in the trees the ceaseless wind, that stirs,
Seems some strange witchcraft, that, with baffling mirth,
Mocks them the unbayed hart, and fills the earth
With rustling sounds of running.—Hastening thence,
Galloped King Arthur and King Urience,
With one small brachet-hound. Now far away
They heard their fellowship's faint horns; and day
Wore on to noon; yet, there before them, they
Still saw the hart plunge bravely through the brake,
Leaving the bracken shaking in his wake:

250

And on they followed; on, through many a copse,
Above whose brush, close on before, the tops
Of the great antlers swelled anon, then, lo,
Were gone where beat the heather to and fro.
But still they drave him hard; and ever near
Seemed that great hart unwearied, and 'twas clear
The chase would yet be long, when Arthur's horse
Gasped mightily and, lunging in his course,
Lay dead, a lordly bay; and Urience
Reined his gray hunter, laboring. And thence
King Arthur went afoot. When suddenly
He was aware of a wide waste of sea,
And, near the wood, the hart upon the sward,
Bayed, panting unto death and winded hard.
So with his sword he slew him; then the pryce
Wound loudly on his hunting-bugle thrice.

As if each echo, which that wild horn's blast
Roused from its sleep,—the solitude had cast
For ages on it,—had, a silvery band
Of moving sounds of gladness, hand in hand
Arisen,—each a visible delight,—

251

Came three fair damsels, sunny in snowy white,
From the red woodland gliding. They the knight,—
For so they deemed the King, who came alone,—
Graced with obeisance. And, “Our lord,” said one,
“Tenders you courtesy until the dawn,
The Earl, Sir Damas. For the day is gone,
And you are weary. Safe in his strong keep,
Led thither with due worship, you shall sleep.”
And so he came, o'erwearied, to a hall,
An owlet-haunted pile, whose weedy wall
Towered, rock on rock; its turrets, crowding high,
Loomed, ancient as the crags, against a sky
Wherein the moon hung, owl-eyed, round and full:
An old, gaunt giant-castle, like a gull
Hung on the weedy cliffs, where broke the dull
Vast monotone of ocean, that uprolled
Its windy waters; and where all was old,
And sad, and swept of winds, and slain of salt,
And haunted grim of ruin: where the vault
Of heav'n bent ever, clamorous as the rout
Of the defiant headlands, stretching out

252

Into the night, with their voluminous shout
Of wreck and wrath forever. Arthur then,
Among the gaunt Earl's followers, swarthy men,
Ate in the wild hall. Then a damsel led,
With flaring torch, the tired King to bed,
Down lonely labyrinths of that corridored keep.
And soon he rested, sunk in heavy sleep.

Then suddenly he woke; it seemed, 'mid groans
And dolorous sighs: and round him lay the bones
Of many men, and bodies mouldering.
And he could hear the wind-swept ocean swing
Its sighing surge above. And so he thought,
“It is some nightmare weighing me, distraught
By that long hunt.” And then he sought to shake
The horror off and to himself awake.
But still he heard sad groans and whispering sighs:
And gaunt, from iron-ribbéd cells, the eyes
Of pale, cadaverous knights regarded him,
Unhappy: and he felt his senses swim
With foulness of that dungeon.—“What are ye?

253

Ghosts? or chained champions? or a company
Of fiends?” he cried. Then, “Speak! if speak ye can!
Speak, in God's name! for I am here—a man!”
Then groaned the shaggy throat of one who lay,
A wasted nightmare, dying day by day,
Yet once a knight of comeliness, and strong
And great and young, but now, through hunger long,
A skeleton with hollow hands and cheeks:—
“Sir knight,” said he, “know that the wretch who speaks
Is only one of twenty knights entombed
By Damas here; the Earl who so hath doomed
Us in this dungeon, where starvation lairs;
Around you lie the bones, whence famine stares,
Of many knights. And would to God that soon
My liberated ghost might see the moon
Freed from the horror of this prisonment!”
With that he sighed, and round the dungeon went
A rustling sigh, as of the damned; and so
Another dim, thin voice complained their woe:

254

“Know, he doth starve us to obtain this end:
Because not one of us his strength will lend
To battle for what still he calls his rights,
This castle and its lands. For, of all knights,
He is most base; lacks most in hardihood.
A younger brother, Ontzlake, hath he; good
And courteous; withal most noble; whom
This Damas hates—yea, even seeks his doom;
Denying him to his estate all right
Save that he holds by main of arms and might.
Through puissance hath Ontzlake some few fields
And one right sumptuous manor, where he deals
With knights as knights should, with an open hand,
Though ill he can afford it. Through the land
He is far-famed for hospitality.
Ontzlake is brave, but Damas cowardly.
For Ontzlake would decide with sword and lance,
Body to body, this inheritance:
But Damas, vile as he is courageless,
Doth on all knights, his guests, lay this duress,
To fight for him or starve. For you must know
That in this country he is hated so

255

There is no champion who will take the fight.
Thus fortunes it our plight is such a plight.”
Quoth he and ceased. And, wondering at the tale,
The King lay silent, while each wasted, pale,
Poor countenance perused him; then he spake:
“And what reward if one this cause should take?”—
“Deliverance for all if of us one
Consent to be his party's champion.
But treachery and he are so close kin
We loathe the part as some misshapen sin;
And here would rather with the rats find death
Than, serving him, serve wrong, and save our breath,
And on our heads, perhaps, bring down God's curse.”

“May God deliver you in mercy, sirs,
And help us all!” said Arthur. At which word
Straightway a groaning sound of iron was heard,
Of chains rushed loose and bolts jarred rusty back,
And hoarse the gate croaked open; and the black

256

Of that rank cell astonished was with light,
That danced fantastic with the frantic night.
One high torch, sidewise worried by the gust,
Sunned that dark den of hunger, death and dust;
And one tall damsel, vaguely vestured, fair,
With shadowy hair, poised on the rocky stair:
And laughing on the King, “What cheer?” said she.
“God's life! the keep stinks vilely! And to see
Such noble knights endungeoned, starving here,
Doth pain me sore with pity. But, what cheer?”
“Thou mockest us. For me, the sorriest
Since I was suckled; and of any quest
This is the most imperiling and strange.—
But what wouldst thou?” said Arthur. She, “A change
I offer thee; through thee to these with thee,
If thou wilt promise, in love's courtesy,
To fight for Damas and his brotherhood.
And if thou wilt not—look! behold this brood
Of lean and dwindled bellies, spectre-eyed,—
Keen knights once,—who refused me. So decide.”

257

Then thought the King of the sweet sky, the breeze
That blew delirious over waves and trees;
Thick fields of grasses and the sunny Earth,
Whose beating heat filled the high heart with mirth,
And made the world one sovereign pleasure-house
Where king and serf might revel and carouse:
Then of the hunt on autumn-plaintive hills;
Lone forest lodges by their radiant rills;
His palace at Caerleon upon Usk,
And Camelot's loud halls that through the dusk
Blazed far and bloomed, a rose of revelry;
Or, in the misty morning, shadowy
Loomed, grave with audience. And then he thought
Of his Round Table, and the Grael wide sought
In haunted holds by many a haunted shore.
Then marveled of what wars would rise and roar
With dragon heads unconquered and devour
This realm of Britain and crush out that flower
Of chivalry whence ripened his renown:

258

And then the reign of some besotted crown,
Some bandit king of lust, idolatry—
And with that thought for tears he could not see.—
Then of his best-loved champions, King Ban's son,
And Galahad and Tristram, Accolon:
And then, ah God! of his loved Guenevere:
And with that thought—to starve 'mid horrors here!—
For, being unfriend to Arthur and his Court,
Well knew he this grim Earl would bless that sport
Of fortune which had fortuned him so well
As t' have his King to starve within a cell,
In the entombing rock beside the deep.—
And all the life, large in his limbs, did leap
Through eager veins and sinews, fierce and red,
Stung on to action; and he rose and said:
“That which thou askest is right hard, but, lo!
To rot here, harder. I will fight his foe.
But, mark, I have no weapons and no mail;
No steed against that other to avail.”

She laughed again; “If we must beg or hire,
Fear not for that: these thou shalt lack not, sire.”

259

And so she led the way; her torch's fire
Sprawling with spidery shadows at each stride
The cob-webbed coignes of scowling arches wide.
At length they reached an iron-studded door,
Which she unlocked with one harsh key she bore
'Mid many keys bunched at her girdle; thence
They issued on a terraced eminence.
Below, the sea broke sounding; and the King
Breathed open air again that had the sting
And scent of brine, the far, blue-billowed foam:
And in the east the second dawning's gloam,
Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaks
Red as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks.
And so, within that larger light of dawn
It seemed to Arthur now that he had known
This maiden at his Court, and so he asked.
But she, well tutored, her real person masked,
And answered falsely, “Nay, deceive thee not.
Thou saw'st me ne'er at Arthur's Court, I wot.
For here it likes me best to sing and spin,
And needle hangings, listening to the din
Of ocean, sitting some high tower within.
No courts or tournaments or hunts I crave,

260

No knights to flatter me! For me—the wave,
The cliffs, the sea and sky, in calm or storm;
My garth, wherein I walk at morn; the charm
Of ocean, redolent at bounteous noon,
And sprayed with sunlight; night's free stars and moon:
White ships that pass, some several every year;
These ancient towers; and those wild mews to hear.”
“An owlet maid,” the King laughed.—But untrue
Was she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew,
Deep in intrigues, even for the slaying of
The King, her brother, whom she did not love.—
And presently she brought him where, in state,
This swarthy Damas, 'mid his wildmen sate.
[OMITTED]
And Accolon, at Castle Chariot still,
Had lost long weeks in love. Her husband ill,
Morgane, perforce, must leave her lover here
Among the hills of Gore. A lodge stood near
A cascade in the forest, where their wont

261

Was to sit listening the falling fount,
That, through sweet talks of many idle hours
On moss-banks, varied with the violet flowers,
Had learned the lovers' language,—sighed above,—
And seemed, in every fall, to whisper, “love”;
That echoed through the lodge, her hands had draped
With curious hangings; where were worked and shaped
Remembered hours of pleasure, body and soul;
Imperishable passions, which made whole
The past again in pictures; and could mate
The heart with loves long dead; and re-create
The very kisses of those perished knights
With woven records of long-dead delights.
Below the lodge within an urnéd shell
The water pooled, and made a tinkling well,
Then, slipping thence, through dripping shadows fell
From rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon,
With Morgane's hollow lute, as eve drew on
Came all alone: not ev'n her brindled hound
To bound before him o'er the gleaming ground;
No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair,
Or paging dwarf in purple with him there;

262

Only her lute, about which her perfume
Clung, odorous of memories, that made bloom
Her absent features, making them arise,
Like some rich flower, before his memory's eyes,
That seemed to see her lips and to surmise
The words they fashioned; then the smile that drank
Her soul's deep fire from eyes wherein it sank
And slowly waned away to deeper dreams,
Fathomless with thought, down in their dove-gray streams.
And so for her imagined eyes and lips,
Heart-fashioned features, all the music slips
Of all his soul, himseems, into his voice,
To sing her praises. And, with nervous poise,
His fleet, trained fingers waken in her lute
Such mellow riot as must make envy-mute
The nightingale that listens quivering.
And well he hopes that, winging thence, 'twill sing
A similar song;—whose passions burn and pain
Its anguished soul, now silent,—not in vain
Beneath her casement, in that garden old
Dingled with heavy roses; in the gold
Of Camelot's stars and pearl-encrusted moon:

263

And still he hopes the heartache of the tune
Will clamor secret memories in her ear,
Of life, less dear than death with her not near;
Of love, who longs for her, to have her here:
Till melt her eyes with tears; and sighs and sobs
O'erwhelm her soul, and separation throbs
Hard at her heart, that, longing, lifts to death
A prayerful pleading, crying, “But a breath,
One moment of real heaven, there! in his arms!
Close, close! And, for that moment, then these charms,
This body, hell, canst have forevermore!”
And sweet to know, perhaps its song will pour
Into the dull ear of her drowsy lord
A vague suspicion of some secret word,
Borne by the bird,—love's wingéd messenger,—
To her who lies beside him; even her,
His wife, whom still he loves; whom Accolon
Thus sings of where the woods of Gore grow wan:—

“The thought of thy white coming, like a song
Breathed soft of lovely lips and lute-like tongue,

264

Sways all my bosom with a sweet unrest;
Makes wild my heart that oft thy heart hath pressed.—
Come! press it once again, for it is strong
To bear that weight which never yet distressed.

“O come! and straight the woodland is stormed through
With wilder wings, and brighter with bright dew:
And every flow'r, where thy fair feet have passed,
Puts forth a fairer blossom than the last,
Thrilled of thine eyes, those arsenals of blue,
Wherein the arrows of all love are cast.

“O Love, she comes! O Love, I feel her breath,
Like the soft South, that idly wandereth
Through musical leaves of laughing laziness,
Page on before her, how sweet,—none can guess:
Sighing, ‘She comes! thy heart's dear life and death;
In whom is all thy bliss and thy distress.’

265

“She comes! she comes! and all my mind doth rave
For words to tell her how she doth enslave
My soul with beauty: then o'erwhelm with love
That loveliness, no words can tell whereof;
Words, words, like roses, every path to pave,
Each path to strew, and no word sweet enough!

“She comes!—Thro' me a passion—as the moon
Works wonder in the sea—through me doth swoon
Ungovernable glory; and her soul
Seems blent with mine; and now, to some bright goal,
Compels me, throbbing like a tender tune,
Exhausting all my efforts of control.

“She comes! ah, God! ye little stars that grace
The fragmentary skies, and scatter space,
Brighter her steps that golden all my gloom!
Ah, wood-indulging, violet-vague perfume,
Sweeter the presence of her wild-flower face,
That fragrance-fills my life, and stars with bloom!

266

“Oh, boundless exultation of the blood!
That now compels me to some higher mood,
Diviner sense of something that outsoars
The Earth—her kiss! that all love's splendor pours
Into me; all delicious womanhood,
So all the heart that hesitates—adores.

“Sweet, my soul's victor! heart's triumphant Sweet!
Within thy bosom Love hath raised his seat;
There he sits crowned; and, from thy eyes and hair,
Shoots his soft arrows,—as the moonbeams fair,—
That long have laid me supine at thy feet,
And changed my clay to ardent fire and air.

“My love! my witch! whose kiss, like some wild wine,
Has subtly filled me with a flame divine,
An aspiration, whose fierce pulses urge
In all my veins, with rosy surge on surge,
To hurl me in that heaven, all which is mine,
Thine arms! from which I never would emerge.”

267

His ecstasy the very foliage shook;
The wood seemed hushed to hear, and hushed the brook;
And even the heavens, wherein one star shone clear,
Seemed leaning nearer, his glad song to hear,
To which its wild star throbbed, all golden-pale:
And after which, deep in the purple vale,
Awoke the passion of the nightingale.

III

As one hath seen a green-gowned huntress fair,
Morn in her cheeks and midnight in her hair;
Keen eyes as gray as rain, young limbs as lithe
As the wild fawn's; and silvery voice as blithe
As is the wind that breathes of flowers and dews,
Breast through the bramble-tangled avenues;
Through brier and thorn, that pluck her gown of green,
And snag it here and there,—through which the sheen
Of her white skin gleams rosy;—eyes and face,

268

Ardent and flushed, fixed on the lordly chase:
So came the Evening to that shadowy wood,
Or so it seemed to Accolon, who stood
Watching the sunset through the solitude.
So Evening came; and shadows cowled the way
Like ghostly pilgrims who kneel down to pray
Before a wayside shrine: and, radiant-rolled,
Along the west, the battlemented gold
Of sunset walled the opal-tinted skies,
That seemed to open gates of Paradise
On soundless hinges of the winds, and blaze
A glory, far within, of chrysoprase,
Towering in topaz through the purple haze.
And from the sunset, down the roseate ways,
To Accolon, who, with his idle lute,
Reclined in revery against the root
Of a great oak, a fragment of the west,
A dwarf, in crimson satin tightly dressed,
Skipped like a leaf the early frosts have burned,
A red oak-leaf; and like a leaf he turned,
And danced and rustled. And it seemed he came
From Camelot; from his belovéd dame,
Morgane le Fay. He on his shoulder bore

269

A mighty blade, wrought strangely o'er and o'er
With mystic runes, drawn from a scabbard which
Glared venomous, with angry jewels rich.
He, louting to the knight, “Sir knight,” said he,
“Your Lady, with all tenderest courtesy,
Assures you—ah, unworthy bearer I
Of her good message!—of her constancy.”
Then, doffing the great baldric, with the sword,
To him he gave them, saying, “From my lord,
King Arthur: even his Excalibur,
The magic blade which Merlin gat of her,
The Ladye of the Lake, who, as you wot,
Fostered in infanthood Sir Launcelot,
Upon some isle in Briogne's tangled lands
Of meres and mists; where filmy fairy bands,
By lazy moons of summer, dancing, fill
With rings of morrice every grassy hill.
Through her fair favor is this weapon sent,
Who begged it of the King with this intent:
That, for her honor, soon would be begun
A desperate battle with a champion,
Of wondrous prowess, by Sir Accolon:
And with the sword, Excalibur, more sure
Were she that he against him would endure.

270

Magic the blade, and magic, too, the sheath,
Which, while 'tis worn, wards from the wearer death.”
He ceased: and Accolon held up the sword
Excalibur and said, “It shall go hard
With him through thee, unconquerable blade,
Whoe'er he be, who on my Queen hath laid
Insult or injury! And hours as slow
As palsied hours in Purgatory go
For those unmassed, till I have slain this foe!—
Here, page, my purse.—And now, to her who gave,
Despatch! and say: To all commands, her slave,
To death obedient, I!—In love or war
Her love to make me all the warrior.—
Bid her have mercy, nor too long delay
From him, who dies an hourly death each day
Till, her white hands kissed, he shall kiss her face,
Through which his life lives on, and still finds grace.”
Thus he commanded. And, incontinent,
The dwarf departed, like a red shaft sent
Into the sunset's sea of scarlet light

271

Burning through wildwood glooms. And as the night
With votaress cypress veiled the dying strife
Sadly of day, and closed his book of life
And clasped with golden stars, in dreamy thought
Of what this fight was that must soon be fought,
Belting the blade about him, Accolon,
Through the dark woods tow'rds Chariot passed on.
[OMITTED]
And it befell him thus, the following dawn,
As he was wandering on a dew-drenched lawn,
Glad with the freshness and elastic health
Of sky and earth, that lavished all their wealth
Of heady winds and racy scents,—a knight
And gentle lady met him, gay bedight,
With following of six esquires; and they
Held on gloved wrists the hooded falcon gray,
And rode a-hawking o'er the leas of Gore
From Ontzlake's manor, where he languished; sore
Hurt in the lists, a spear wound in his thigh:
Who had besought—for much he feared to die—
This knight and his fair lady, as they rode

272

To hawk near Chariot, Morgane's abode,
That they would beg her in all charity
To come to him (for in chirurgery
Of all that land she was the greatest leach),
And her for his recovery beseech.
So, Accolon saluted, they drew rein,
And spake their message, for, right over fain
Were they toward their sport,—that he would bear
Petition to that lady. But, not there
Was Arthur's sister, as they well must wot;
But now a sennight lay at Camelot,
The guest of Guenevere; and with her there
Four other queens of Farther Britain were:
Isoud of Ireland, she of Cornwall Queen,
King Mark's wife,—who right rarely then was seen
At Court for jealousy of Mark, who knew
Her to that lance of Lyonesse how true
Since mutual quaffing of a philter; while
How guilty Guenevere on such could smile:—
She of Northgales and she of Eastland; and
She of the Out Isles Queen. A fairer band,
For sovereignty and love and loveliness,
Was not in any realm to grace and bless.
So Accolon informed them. In distress

273

Then quoth that knight: “Ay? see how fortune turns
And varies like an April day, that burns
Now welkins blue with calm; now scowls them down,
Revengeful, with a black storm's wrinkled frown.
For, look! this Damas, who so long hath lain
A hiding vermin, fearful of all pain,
Dark in his bandit towers by the deep,
Wakes from a five years' torpor and a sleep,
And sends despatch a courier to my lord,
Sir Ontzlake, with, ‘To-morrow, with the sword,
Earl Damas and his knight, at point of lance,
Decides the issue of inheritance,
Body to body, or by champion.’—
Right hard to find such ere to-morrow dawn.
Though sore bestead lies Ontzlake, if he could,
He would arise and save his livelihood.”

Then thought Sir Accolon: “One might suppose,
So soon this follows on her message, those
Same things befall through Morgane's arts—who knows?—
Howe'er it be, as 'twere for her own sake,

274

This battle I myself will undertake.”
Then said to those, “I know the good Ontzlake.
If he be so conditioned, harried of
Estate and life,—in knighthood and for love
Of justice I his quarrel will assume.
My limbs are keen for armor. Let the groom
Prepare my steed. Right good 'twill be again
To feel him under me.”—Then, of that train,
Asked that one gentleman with him remain,
And men to squire his horse and arms. And then,
When this was granted, mounted with his men
And thence departed. And, ere noontide, they
Came to a lone, dismantled priory
Hard by a castle 'gainst whose square, grey towers,
Machicolated, mossed, in forest bowers,
Full many a siege had beat and onset rushed:
A forest fortress, old and deep-imbushed
In wild and woody hills. And then one wound
A hoarse slug-horn, and at the savage sound
The drawbridge rumbled moatward, clanking, and
Into a paved court rode that little band.
[OMITTED]

275

When all the world was morning, gleam and glare
Of autumn glory; and the frost-touched air
Rang with the rooks as rings a silver lyre
Swept swift of minstrel fingers, wire on wire;
Ere that fixed hour of prime, came Arthur, armed
For battle royally. A black steed warmed
A keen impatience 'neath him, cased in mail
Of foreign make; accoutered head and tail
In costly sendal; rearward, wine-dark red,
Amber as sunlight to his fretful head.
Blue armor of linked steel had Arthur on,
Beneath a robe of honor made of drawn,
Ribbed satin, diapered and purfled deep
With lordly gold and purple; whence did sweep
Two acorn-tufted bangles of fine gold:
And at his thigh a falchion, battle-old
And triple-edged; its rune-stamped scabbard, of
Cordovan leather, baldric'd rich above
With new-cut deer-skin, that, laborious wrought,
And curiously, with slides of gold was fraught,
And buckled with a buckle white, that shone,

276

Tongued red with gold, and carved of walrus' bone.
And, sapphire-set, a burgonet of gold,—
Whereon a wyvern sprawled, whose jaws unrolled
A tongue of garnet agate, of great prize;
Its orbs of glaring ruby, great in size,—
Incased his head and visor-barred his eyes.
And in his hand a wiry lance of ash,
Lattened with sapphire silver, like a flash,
A splinter of sunlight, in the morning's zeal
Glittered, its point, as 'twere, a star of steel.—
A squire attended him; a youth, whose head
Waved many a jaunty curl; whereon a red
Cock-feathered cap shone brave: 'neath which, as keen
As some wild hawk's, his green-gray eyes were seen:
And parti-colored leather shoes he had
Upon his feet; his legs were silken clad
In hose of rarest Totness: and a spear,
Bannered and bronzen, dappled as a deer,
One hand upheld, like some bright beam of morn;
And round his neck was hung a bugle-horn.

277

So with his following, while, bar on bar,
The blue mist lay on woodside and on scar,
Through mist and dew, through shadow and through ray,
Joustward Earl Damas led the forest way.
Then to King Arthur, when arrived were these
Where bright the lists shone, bannered, through the trees,
A wimpled damsel with a falchion came,
Mounted upon a palfrey, all aflame
With sweat and heat of hurry; and, “From her,
Your sister, Morgane, your Excalibur!
With tender greeting. For you well may need
Its aid in this adventure. So, God speed!”
Said and departed suddenly: nor knew
The King that this was not his weapon true:
A brittle forgery, in likeness of
That blade, of baser metal;—in unlove
And treason made by her, of all his kin
The nearest, Morgane; who, her end to win,
Stopped at no thing; thinking, with Arthur dead,
The crown would grace her own and Accolon's head.

278

Then, heralded, into the lists he rode.
Opposed flashed Accolon, whose strength bestrode,
Exultant, strong in talisman of that sword,
A dun horse lofty as a haughty lord,
White-pasterned, and of small, impatient hoof:
Both knight and steed shone armed in mail of proof,
Of yellow-dappled, variegated plate
Of Spanish laton. And of sovereign state
His surcoat robe of honor,—white and black,
Of satin, crimson-orphreyed,—at his back
The wind made billow: and, from forth this robe,
Excalibur,—a throbbing golden globe
Of vicious jewels,—thrust its splendid hilt;
Its broad belt, tawny and with goldwork gilt,
An eyelid clasped, black, of the black seahorse,
Tongued red with rosy gold. And pride and force
Sat on his wingéd helmet, plumed, of rich
Bronze-hammered laton; blazing upon which
A hundred brilliants glittered, thick as on
A silver web bright-studding dews of dawn:
Its crest, a taloned griffin, high that ramped;

279

In whose horned brow one blood-red gem was stamped.
A spear of ash, long-shafted, overlaid
With azure silver, whereon colors played,
Firm in his iron gauntlet lithely swayed.

Intense on either side the champions stood,
Shining as serpents that, with spring renewed,
In gleaming scales, meet on a wild-wood way,
Their angry tongues flickering at poisonous play.
Then clanged a herald's trumpet: and harsh heels,
Sharp-thrust, each courser felt; the roweled steels
Spurred forward; and the couched and fiery spears,
Flashed, as two bolts of storm the tempest steers
With adverse thunder; and, in middle course,
Crashed full the unpierced shields, and horse from horse
Lashed, madly pawing.—And a hoarse roar rang
From the loud lists, till far the echoes sang
Of hill and rock-hung forest and wild cliff.

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Rigid the champions rode where, standing stiff,
Their esquires tendered them the spears they held.
Again the trumpet blew, and, firmly selled,
Forward they galloped, shield to savage shield,
And crest to angry crest: the wyvern reeled,
Towering, against the griffin: scorn and scath
Upon their fiery fronts and in the wrath
Of their gem-blazing eyes: each figure stood
A symbol of the heart beneath the hood.—
The lance of Accolon, as on a rock
The storm-launched foam breaks baffled, with the shock,
On Arthur's sounding shield burst splintered force;
But him resistless Arthur's,—high from horse
Uplifted,—headlong bore, and crashed him down;
A long sword's length unsaddled. Accolon
For one stunned moment lay. Then, rising, drew
The great sword at his hip that shone like dew
Smitten with morn. “Descend!” he grimly said,
“To proof of better weapons, head to head!

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Enough of spears! to swords!”—And from his height
The King clanged down. And quick, like some swift light,
His moon-bright brand unsheathed. And, hollowed high,
Each covering shield gleamed, slantwise, to'ards the sky,
A blazoned eye of bronze: and underneath,
As 'neath two clouds, the lightning and the death
Of the fierce swords played. Now a shield descends—
A long blade leaps;—and now, a fang that rends,
Another blade, loud as a battle word,
Beats downward, trenchant; and, resounding heard,
A shield's fierce face replies: again a sword
Swings for a giant blow, and, balked again,
Burns crashing from a sword. Thus, o'er the plain,
Over and over, blade on baleful blade;
Teeth clenched; and eyes, behind their visors' shade,
Like wild beasts' eyes in caverns; shield to shield,

282

The champions strove, each scorning still to yield.

Then Arthur drew aside to rest upon
His falchion for a space. But Accolon,
As yet,—through virtue of that magic sheath,—
Fresh and almighty, and no nearer death
Now than when first the fight to death begun,
Chafed at delay. But Arthur, with the sun,
His heavy mail, his wounds, and loss of blood,
Made weary, ceased and for a moment stood
Leaning upon his sword. Then, “Dost thou tire?”
Sneered Accolon. And then, with fiercer fire,
“Defend thee! yield thee! or die recreant!”
And at the King aimed a wild blow, aslant,
That beat a flying fire from the steel.
Stunned by that blow, the King, with brain a-reel,
Sank on one knee; then rose, infuriate,
Nerved with new vigor; and with heat and hate
Gnarled all his strength into one blow of might,
And in both fists his huge blade knotted tight,
And swung, terrific, for a final stroke,—

283

And,—as the lightning flames upon an oak,—
Boomed on the burgonet his foeman wore;
Hacked through and through its crest, and cleanly shore,
With hollow clamor, from his head and ears,
The brag and boasting of that griffin fierce:
Then, in an instant, as if made of glass,
That brittle blade burst, shattered; and the grass
Shone, strewn with shards; as 'twere a broken ray,
It fell and bright in feverish fragments lay.
Then groaned the King, disarmed. And straight he knew
This sword was not Excalibur: too true
And perfect tempered, runed and mystical,
That weapon of old wars! and then withal,
Looking upon his foe, who still with stress
Fought on, untiring, and with no distress
Of wounds or heat, he thought, “I am betrayed!”
Then as the sunlight struck along that blade,
He knew it, by the hilt, for his own brand,
The true Excalibur, that high in hand
Now rose avenging. For Sir Accolon
In madness urged th' unequal battle on
His King defenseless; who, the hilted cross

284

Of that false weapon grasped, beneath the boss
Of his deep-dented shield crouched; and around,
Like some great beetle, labored o'er the ground,
Whereon the shards of shattered spears and bits
Of shivered steel and gold made sombre fits
Of flame, 'mid which, hard-pressed and cowering
Beneath his shield's defense, the dauntless King
Crawled still defiant. And, devising still
How to secure his sword and by what skill,
Him thus it fortuned when most desperate:
In that close chase they came where, shattered late,
Lay, tossed, the truncheon of a bursten lance,
Which, deftly seized, to Accolon's advance
He wielded with effect. Against the fist
Smote, where the gauntlet clasped the nervous wrist,
That heaved Excalibur for one last blow;
Sudden the palsied sinews of his foe
Relaxed in effort, and, the great sword seized,
Was wrenched away: and straight the wroth King eased

285

Himself of his huge shield, and hurled it far;
And clasping in both arms of wiry war
His foe, Sir Accolon,—as one hath seen
A strong wind take an ash tree, rocking green,
And swing its sappy bulk, then, trunk and boughs,
Crash down its thundering height in wild carouse
And wrath of tempest,—so King Arthur shook
And headlong flung Sir Accolon. Then took,
Tearing away, that scabbard from his side
And hurled it through the lists, that far and wide
Gulped in the battle breathless. Then, still wroth,
He seized Excalibur; and grasped of both
Wild hands, swung trenchant, and brought glittering down
On rising Accolon. Steel, bone and brawn
That blow hewed through. Unsettled every sense.
Bathed in a world of blood, his limbs lay tense
A moment, then grew limp, relaxed in death.
And bending o'er him, from the brow beneath,
The King unlaced the helm. When dark, uncasqued,

286

The knight's slow eyelids opened, Arthur asked:
“Say, ere thou diest, whence and who thou art!
What king, what court is thine? And from what part
Of Britain dost thou come? Speak!—for, methinks,
I have beheld thee—where? Some memory links
Me strangely with thy face, thy eyes . . . thou art—
Who art thou?—speak!”—

He answered, slow, then short,
With labored breathing: “I?—one, Accolon,—
Of Gaul—a knight of Arthur's court—anon—
But to what end—yea, tell me—am I slain?”—
Then bent King Arthur nearer and again
Drew back: then, anguish in his utterance, sighed:
“One of my Table!”—Then asked softly, “Say,
Whence hadst thou this, my sword? say, in what way

287

Thou cam'st by it?”—But, wandering, that knight
Heard with dull ears, divining but by sight
The question asked; and answered, “Woe!—the sword!—
Woe worth the sword!—Lean down!—Canst hear my word?—
From Morgane! Arthur's sister, who had made
Me king of all this kingdom, so she said—
Hadst thou not 'risen, accurséd, like a fate,
To make our schemes miscarry!—Wait! nay, wait!—
A king! dost hear?—a gold and blood-crowned king,
I!—Arthur's sister, queen!—No bird can wing
Higher than her ambition! that resolved
Her brother's death was needed, and evolved
Plots that should ripen with the ripening year,
And here be reaped, perhaps—nay, nay! not here!—
Farewell, my Morgane!—Yea, 'twas she who schemed
While there at Chariot we loved and dreamed
Gone some six months.—There nothing gave us care.

288

Each morning was a liberal almoner
Prodigal of silver to the earth and air:
Each eve, a fiery dragon, cloud-enrolled,
Convulsive, dying overwhelmed with gold;
On such an eve it was, that, redolent,
She sat by me and said,—‘My message sent,
Some night—within the forest—thou, my knight!
Thou and the king!—my men—the forest fight!—
Murder perhaps.—But, well?—who is to blame?’ . . .
So with her blood-red thoughts to me she came.
To me! that woman, brighter than a flame,
And wooed my soul to hell, with love accurs'd;
With harlot lips, from which my being first
Drank hell and heaven. She, who was in sooth
My heaven and hell.—But now, behind her youth
She shrivels to a hag!—I see the truth!—
Harlot!—nay, spouse of Urience, King of Gore!—
Wanton!—nay, witch! sweet witch!—what wouldst thou more?—

289

Hast thou not had thy dream? and wilt thou grieve
That death so ruins it?—Thou dost perceive
How I still love thee! witness bear this field,
This field and he to whom I would not yield!—
Would thou wert here to kiss me ere I die!”—

Then anger in the good King's gloomy eye
Glowed, instant-embered, as one oft may see
A star blaze up in heaven, then cease to be.
Slow from his visage he his visor raised,
And on the dying knight a moment gazed;
Then grimly said, “Look on me, Accolon!
I am thy King!” He, with an awful groan,
Blade-battered as he was, beheld and knew;
Strained to his tottering knees; and, gasping, drew
Up full his armored height and hoarsely cried,
“The King!” and at his mailed feet crashed and died.

Then came a world of anxious faces, pressed
About King Arthur; who, though sore distressed,
Bespake that multitude: “While breath and power

290

Remain, judge we these brothers: This hard hour
Hath given to Damas all this rich estate:
So it is his; allotted his by fate
And force of arms. So let it be to him.
For, stood our oath on knighthood not so slim
But that it hath this strong conclusiön.
This much by us as errant knight is done.—
Now our decree, as King of Britain, hear:
We do command Earl Damas to appear
No more upon our shores, or any isles
Of farthest Britain in its many miles.
One week be his, no more! then will we come,
Even with an iron host, to seal his doom:
If he be not departed overseas,
With all his men and all his outlawries,
From his own towers, around which sea-birds clang,
Alive and naked shall he starve and hang
And rot! vile food for kites and carrion crows.
Thus much for him! . . . But all our favor goes
Toward Sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the King
To take into his knightly following
Of the Round Table. Bear to him our word.
But I am over weary. Take my sword.—
Unharness me, for more and more I tire;

291

And all my wounds are so much aching fire.
Yea; help me hence. To-morrow I would fain
To Glastonbury and with me the slain.”
So bore they then the wounded King away,
The dead behind, as closed the autumn day.
[OMITTED]
But when, within that abbey, he waxed strong,
The King, remembering the marauder wrong
Which Damas had inflicted on that land,
Commanded Lionell, with a stanch band,
To stamp this weed out if still rooted there.
He, riding thither to that robber lair,
Led Arthur's hopefulest helms, when, thorn on thorn,
Reddened an hundred spears one winter morn:
And found—a ruin of fire-blackened rock,
Of tottering towers, that shook to every shock
Of the wild waves; and loomed above the bents
Turrets and cloudy-clustered battlements,
Wailing with wind that swept those clamorous lands:
Above the foam, that climbed with haling hands,
Desolate and gaunt; reflected in the flats;
Hollow and huge, the haunt of owls and bats.

292

IV

Hate, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime,
In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of Time,
Artificer of God, had coined our world
Within the formless void, and round it furled
Its lordly raiment of the day and night,
And germed its womb with beauty and delight:
And Hell sent Hate to Earth, that it might use
And serve Hell's ends, filling with flame its cruse. . . .

For her half-brother Morgane had conceived
Unnatural hatred; so much so, she grieved,
Envious and jealous, for the high renown
And might the King had gathered round his crown
Through truth and honor. And who was it said,
“Those nearest to the crown are those to dread”?—
Warm in your breast a serpent, it will sting
The breast that warms it: and albeit the King
Knew of his sister's hate, he passed it by,
Thinking that love and kindness gradually

293

Would win her heart to him. He little knew
The witch he dealt with, beautiful to view,
And all the poison she could stoop to brew.
She, who, well knowing how much mightier
The King than Accolon, rejoiced that her
Wits had secured from him Excalibur,
Without which, she was certain, in the joust
The King were as a foe unarmed. Her trust
Smiled, confident of conclusion: eloquent,
Within her, whispered of success, that lent
Her heart a lofty hope; and at large eyes
Piled up imperial dreams of power and prize.
And in her carven chamber, oaken-dark,
Traceried and arrased,—when the barren park
Dripped, drenched with autumn,—for November lay
Swathed frostily in fog on every spray,—
She at her tri-arched casement sate one night,
Ere yet came courier from that test of might.
Her lord in slumber and the castle full
Of drowsy silence and the rain's dull lull:
“The King removed?—my soul!—he is removed!
Ere now dog-dead he lies. His sword hath proved
Too much for him. Yet! let him lie in state,
The great king, Arthur!—But, regenerate,

294

Now crown our other monarch, Accolon!
And, with him, Love, the ermined! balmy son
Of gods, not men; and nobler hence to rule.
Love, Love almighty; beautiful to school
The hearts and souls of mortals!—Then this realm's
Iron-huskéd flower of war,—that overwhelms
The world with havoc,—will explode and bloom
The amaranth, peace, with love for its perfume.
And then, O Launcelots and Tristrams, vowed
To Gueneveres and Isouds,—now allowed
No pleasure but what hour by stolen hour,
In secret places, brings to flaming flower,—
You shall have feasts of passion evermore!
And out-thrust Love, now shivering at the door,
No more shalt stand neglected and cast off,
Insulted and derided; and the scoff
Of War, the bully, whose hands of insult fling
Off, for the iron of arms, thy hands that cling
About his brutal feet, that crush thy face,
Bleeding, into the dust.—Here, in War's place,
We will erect a shrine of sacrifice;
Love's sacrifice; a shrine of purest price;

295

Where each shall lay his heart and each his soul
For Love, for earthly Love! who shall control
The world, and make it as the Heaven whole;
Being to it its stars and moon and sun,
Its firmament and all its lights in one.
And if by such Love Heaven should be debarred,
Its God, its spheres, with spiritual love instarred,
Hell will be Heaven, our Heaven, while Love shall thus
Remain earth Love, that God encouraged in us.

“And now for Urience, my gaunt old lord!—
There lies my worry.—Yet, hath he no sword
No dangerous dagger I, hid softly here,
Sharp as an adder's fang? or for his ear
No instant poison to insinuate
Ice in his pulses, and with death abate?”
So did she then determine; on that night
Of lonely autumn, when no haggard, white,
Wan, watery moon dreamed on the streaming pane;
But, on the leads, beat the incessant rain,
And the lamenting wind wailed wild among
The trees and turrets, like a phantom throng.

296

So grew her face severe as skies that take
Suggestions of far storm whose thunders shake
The distant hills with wrath, and cleave with fire
A pine the moaning forest mourns as sire—
So touched her countenance that dark intent:
And in still eyes her thoughts were evident,
As in dark waters, luminous and deep,
The heavens glass themselves when o'er them sweep
The clouds of storm and austere stars they keep,—
Ghostly and gray,—locked in their steadfast gloom.
Then, as if some great wind had swept the room,
Silent, intense, she rose up from her seat.
As if dim arms had made her a retreat,
Secret as thought to move in, like a ghost,
Noiseless as sleep and subtle as the frost,
Poised like a light and borne as carefully,
She trod the gusty hall where shadowy
The hangings rolled a dim Pendragon war.
And there the mail of Urience shone. A star,
Glimmering above, a dying cresset dropped

297

From the stone vault and flared. And here she stopped,
And took the sword, fresh-burnished by his page,
Long as a flame of pale, arrested rage.—
For she had thought that, when they found him dead,
His sword laid by him on the bloody bed
Would be convictive that his own hand had
Done him this violence when fever-mad.
The sword she took; and to the chamber, where
King Urience slept, she glided; like an air,
Smooth in seductive sendal; or a fit
Of faery song, a wicked charm in it,
That slays; an incantation full of guile.
She paused upon his threshold; for a while
Listened; and, sure he slept, stole in and stood
Crouched o'er his couch. About her heart the blood
Caught, strangling; then rose throbbing, thud on thud,
Up to her wide-stretched eyes, and up and up,
As wine might, whirling wildly in a cup.

298

Then came rare Recollection, with a mouth.
Sweet as the honeyed sunbeams of the South
Trickling through perplexed ripples of the leaves;
To whose faint form a veil of starshine cleaves
Intricate gauze from memoried eyes to feet—
Feet softer than the sifted snows and fleet
To come and go and airy anxiously.
She, trembling to her, like a flower a bee
Nests in and makes an audible mouth of musk,
Lisping a downy message to the dusk,
Laid lips to ears and languaged memories of
Now hateful Urience:—How her maiden love
Had left Caerleon secretly for Gore,
With him, one day of autumn. How a boar,
Wild as the wildness of the solitude,
Raged at her from a cavern of the wood,
That, crimson-creepered, yawned the bristling curse
Murderous upon her. As her steed grew worse
And, terrified, fled snorting down the dell,
How she had flung herself from out the selle,
In fear, upon a bank of springy moss,
Where she lay swooning: in an utter loss
Of mind and limbs; wherein she seemed to see,

299

Or saw in horror, half unconsciously,—
As one who pants beneath an incubus
And strives to shriek or move, delirious,—
The monster-thing thrust tow'rds her, tusked and fanged,
And hideous snouted: how the whole wood clanged
And buzzed and boomed a hundred sounds and lights
Lawless about her brain,—like leaves wild nights
Of hurricane harvest, shouting.—Then it seemed
A fury thundered 'twixt them—and she screamed
As round her flew th' uprooted loam that held
Leaves, twigs and matted moss; and, clanging, swelled
Continual echoes with the thud of strife,
And groan of man and brute that warred for life:
How all the air, gone mad with foam and forms,
Spun froth and, 'twixt her, wrestled hair and arms,
And hoofs and feet that crushed the leaves and shred,

300

Whirling them wildly, brown, and yellow, and red.
And how she rose and leaned her throbbing head,
With all its uncoifed braids of raven hair
Disheveled, on one arm,—as white and fair
And smooth as milk,—and saw, as through a haze,
The brute thing throttled and the frowning face
Of Urience bent above it, browed with might;
One red swol'n arm, that pinned the hairy fright,
Strong as a god's, iron at the gullet's brawn:
Dug in its midriff, the close knees, updrawn,
Wedged, as with steel, the glutton sides that strove,—
A shaggy bulk,—with hoofs that drove and drove.
And then she saw how Urience swiftly slipped
One arm, the monster's tearing tusks had ripped
And ribboned redly, to the dagger's hilt,—
Which at his hip hung long, its haft gold-gilt;—
Flame-like it flashed; and then, as bright as ice,

301

Plunged, and replunged; again, now twice, now thrice;
And the huge boar, stretched out in sullen death,
Lay, bubbling blood, with harsh, laborious breath.
Then how he brought her water from a well,
That rustled freshly near them as it fell
From its full-mantled urn, in his deep casque,
And begged her drink; then bathed her brow, a task
That had accompanying tears of joy and vows
Of love, and intercourse of eyes and brows,
And many kisses: then, beneath the boughs,
His wound dressed, and her steed still violent
From fear, she mounted and behind him bent
And clasped him on the same steed; and they went
On through the gold wood tow'rds the golden west,
Till, on one low hill's forest-covered crest,
Gray from the gold, his castle's battlements pressed.
And then she felt she'd loved him till had come
Fame of the love of Isoud, whom, from home,
Tristram had brought across the Irish foam;
And Guenevere's for Launcelot of the Lake:

302

Then how her thought from these did seem to take
Reflex of longing; and within her wake
Desire for some great lover who should slake;
And such found Accolon.

And then she thought
How far she'd fallen, and how darkly fraught
With consequence was this. Then what distress
Were hers and his—her lover's—and success
How doubly difficult if, Arthur slain,
King Urience lived to assert his right to reign.
So she stood pondering with the sword; her lips
Breathless, and tight as were her finger-tips
About the weapon's hilt. And so she sighed,
“Nay, nay! too long hast lived who shouldst have died
Even in the womb, my sorrow! who for years
Hast leashed my life to thine, a bond of tears,
A weight of care, a knot that thus I part!
Thus harshly sever! Ugly that thou art
Into the elements naked!”

O'er his heart
The long blade paused and—then descended hard.

303

Unfleshed, she flung it by her murdered lord,
And watched the blood spread darkly through the sheet,
And drip, a horror, at impassive feet
Pooling the polished oak. Regretless she
Stood, and relentless; in her ecstasy
A lovely devil: demon crowned, that cried
For Accolon, with passion that defied
Control in all her senses; clamorous as
A torrent in a cavernous mountain pass
That sweeps to wreck and ruin; at that hour
So swept her longing tow'rds her paramour.
Him whom, King Arthur had commanded when
Borne from the lists, she should receive again;
Her lover, her dear Accolon, as was just,
As was but due her for her love—and lust.
And while she stood revolving if her deed's
Secret were safe, behold! a noise of steeds,
Arms, jingling stirrups, voices loud that cursed
Fierce in the northern court. To her, athirst
For him her lover, war and power it spoke,
Him victor and so king. And then awoke
Desire to see and greet him: and she fled,
Like some wild spectre, down the stairs; and, red,
Burst on a glare of links and glittering mail,

304

That shrunk her eyes and made her senses quail.
To her a bulk of iron, bearded fierce,
Down from a steaming steed into her ears,
“This from the King, O Queen!” laughed harsh and hoarse:
Two henchmen beckoned, who pitched sheer, with force,
Loud clanging at her feet, hacked, hewn, and red,
Crusted with blood, a knight in armor—dead:
Her Accolon, flung in his battered arms
By what to her seemed fiends and demon forms,
Wild-torched, who mocked; then, with the parting scoff,
“This from the King!” phantoms in fog, rode off.
[OMITTED]
And what remains?—From Camelot to Gore
That night she, wailing, fled; thence, to the shore,—
As old romances tell,—of Avalon;
Where she hath majesty gold-crowned and wan:
Clothed dark in cypress, still her lovely face

305

Is young and queenly; sweeter though in grace,
And softer for the sorrow there; the trace
Of immemorial tears as for some crime,
Attempted or committed at some time,
Some old, unhappy time of long ago,
That haunts her eyes and fills them with its woe:
Sad eyes, dark, future-fixed, expectant of
That far-off hour awaited of her love,
When the forgiving Arthur cometh and
Shall rule, dim King, o'er all that golden land,
That Isle of Avalon, where none grows old,
Where spring is ever, and never a wind blows cold;
That lifts its mountains from forgotten seas
Of surgeless turquoise deep with mysteries.—
And so was seen Morgana nevermore,
Save once, when from the Cornwall coast she bore
The wounded Arthur from that last fought fight
Of Camlan in a black barge into night.
But some may see her, with a palfried band
Of serge-stoled maidens, through the drowsy land
Of autumn glimmer,—when are sadly strewn

306

The red leaves, and, broad in the east, the moon
Hangs, full of frost, a lustrous globe of gleams,—
Faint on the mooning hills as shapes in dreams.

307

PEREDUR, THE SON OF EVRAWC

Beyond the walls, past wood and twilight field,
The Usk slipped onward under wharf and wall
Of old Caerleon, rolling down, it seemed,—
Incarnadined with splendor of the west,—
The heathen blood of all of Arthur's wars.
So she had left him; and he stood alone
Within the carven casement, where a ray
Of sunset laid a bleeding spear athwart
The dark oak hall, and, on the arras gaunt
A crimson blade of battle red that dripped.—
And now life's bitterness took Peredur
By all his heart's strings, smiting. He would go,
Equipped for quest, through all the savagery
Of mountain and of forest. And this girl?—
Forget her! and her game of shuttlecock,
Of battledore and shuttlecock with his heart,
This Angharad! this child the Court had spoiled!

308

Now he remembered how he once had ridd'n,
Spurring his piebald stallion down the square,
Upon the King's quest, and a girl had laughed
From some be-dragoned balcony of walls
That faced the gateway; and in passing he
Had glimpsed her beauty. It was she. And then
He thought how she had haunted him for days,
For weeks; and how, returning to Caerleon,
His long quest ended, how it thus befell:
Deep snow had fallen and the winter wood
Lay carpeted with silence. And he rode
Into a vista where a raven lay
Slain of a hawk; some blood-drops dyed the snow.
He lost himself in quaint comparisons
Of how the sifted drift was as her skin;
The raven's feathers as her heavy hair;
And in her cheeks the health of maidenhood
Red as the blood-drops. So he sat and dreamed:
When one rode up in angry steel and spoke
Thrice to no answer, and in anger dashed
A gauntlet in his face and made at him:
And how he slew him and rode over him,
Fiercer than fire; then how he returned
To find her fairer than their Gwenddolen,—

309

Who, ere the coming of this loveliness,
Divided all men's hearts with Gwenhwyvar:—
Crowned beauty of the beautiful at Court,
With Gwenhwyvar, and fair among the fair.

Thus while he mused he thought he heard her voice:
Or was it fancy? teasing him with sounds
Of music and of words: or did he hear
Her lute below the creepered walls? whose leaves,
Crimson with autumn, reddened all the court,
Burning continual sunset, where she sat
Beside the ceaseless whisper of the foam
Of one faint fountain. Sweeter mockery
Had never held him: and he heard her sing:—

“Ask me not now to sing to thee
Songs I have loved to sing before.
I love thee not; it can not be:
The dream is done; the song is o'er.

“Come, hold my hands: look deep into
The heartbreak of my eyes that bore
Glad welcome erst and now adieu;
Adieu, adieu forevermore!

310

“Once more shalt kiss my mouth and brow;
Once more my hair,—as oft of yore
When it was love and I and thou,—
Then nevermore! ah, nevermore!

“Thou must not weep; I can not weep:
I love thee not; should I regret?—
Nay! go; forget my face and sleep,
Sleep and forget! sleep and forget!”

“Aye! that I will! thy face, thy form, thy voice,
O bird of spring! whose beak is in my heart.
Take out thy beak, and sing me back my soul!
O bird of spring,” he said, “when flowers are dead
Thy wing will winter underneath the pine,
And hunger, for the summer that is gone,
Will slay thy music with the memory.
God give thou find no winter in thy heart
Whenas dost find the frost invades thy voice!
Ah, lovelier than thy song, there's that in me
That harps and sings of thee; that troubadours
Thy beauty! ballades, sonnets it! and makes
A lyric of each heart-beat—all in vain:
Thou dost not heed, thou wilt not hear it sing.
Or, if thou dost, 'tis but in wantonness,
Indifference pretending interest: then praise,

311

A moiety, in mockery. And this
To one who'd love thee over all belief,
Above all women and beyond all men.”

She strummed her lute. He listened, and then laughed,
“God's life! our Dagonet might teach me sense,
The folly that I am!—What? have I slept
A sennight in the taking of the moon,
Or danced, sleep-footed, with the forest fays?—
One would imagine . . . No! . . . O silken Lust,
O Wantonness! whose soft, voluptuous skirts
Trail sweet contamination through these halls!
O lawless Love, whose evil influence
Haunts and parades Caerleon corridors!
O Vanity and Falsehood, throned within
The faithless Court, here is another soul,
Fresh, fragrant, like a wild-flower of the woods,
Ready and willing to be plucked and worn,
And placed among those soiled and hothouse flowers,
You long have worn, Isolt and Gwenhwyvar!
The forest flower, innocent as yet,—
The fairest, hence the more to be desired,

312

The quickest, too, to wither,—whose sweet name
Is Angharad! . . . Ho! page! my horse! my mail!—
God's wounds! my horse! my arms!—I will away!”

And many knights he passed, nor saw; who asked
What quest he rode. Inscrutable deeds behind
His visor, and along his sullen spear
Adventure bitter as a burning ray,
Into the night he galloped with the stars.
[OMITTED]
And one lone night, two years thereafter,—lost
Within a forest wilder than wild Dean;
Where neither wind nor water shook the leaves,
That hung as turned to stone above the moss
And grass, that wrapped the scaly rocks, death-dry,
And barren torrents; where he had not found
Or man or hut, or slot of boar or deer,
Through miles and miles of lamentable trees
And twisted thorns; beneath the autumn moon,—

313

(Pale as a nun's face seen in cloistered walks)—
Above dead tree-tops, like the rugged rock
Of melancholy cliffs, he saw wild walls
Of some vague castle thrust gray battlements
And hoary towers, like a wizard's dream.
Great greedy weeds and burrs and briers packed
Its moat and roadway: at the very gate
Weeds higher than a man; their ancient stalks
Devoured with the dust and spider-webs,
Or smothered with the slime where croaked the toad.
And Peredur against the portal rode,
And with his spear-point beat upon its bolts
A sounding minute. But no wolf-hound bayed;
Only dull echoes of interior walls
And hollow rock that arched the empty halls.
And once again his truncheon shook the gate
And roused a round-eyed owl that screamed and blinked,
Like some fierce gargoyle, on the bartizan;
And from a crevice, like an omen, hurled
A frantic bat. And then he heard a grate,
Concealed within the gloomy battlements,

314

Slide slowly; and a lean, gaunt, red-haired youth,
Lit with a link, addressed him. And he saw
That famine had sunk hollows in his cheeks,
And fixed gaunt misery in mouth and eyes.
“What knight art thou?” he asked. “And whence dost come?”—
And Peredur replied, “First let me in.
I am of Arthur's Court. Long have I ridd'n
Through miles and miles of melancholy woods.
The night begins to storm. And I would rest.”
Then said the youth, sad mirth about his mouth,
“Rest shalt thou; yea: and since thou, haply, hast
Fasted all day, thou shalt break bread with us.”—
Then he retired from the grated slide:
Undid harsh chains and shot back stubborn bolts;
And, stiff with rust, the snarling hinges swung.
And Peredur rode armed into a court,
Neglected, and pathetic with strewn leaves
And offal, where the weed and wire-grass
Creviced with wisps the loose and broken stones:

315

And overhead, around the mournful walls,
Huge oaks thrust ancient boughs of mistletoe
And withered leaves, whose twisted wildness seemed
The beckoning arms of hunger, and the hands,
Hooked and distorted, darkly threatening,
Of murder; enemies that, pitiless,
Had laid long siege to that old forest hold.

And he dismounted. And in clanking mail
Strode down the hall. And in the hall beheld
Youths, lean and auburn-haired, around the hearth;
Some eighteen of an equal height, and clad
Alike in dingy garments that looked worn
And old. And these were like to him who first
Had bid him welcome. And they greeted him
And took his arms; and bade him to a seat.
And then an inner door flung wide; and, lo,
Five maidens, like five forest flowers, came;
Dark-eyed, dark-haired. Behold, the queen of these
Was Angharad. Clad in a ragged robe
Of faded satin that had once been rich.

316

She looked at Peredur, and he at her:
And with glad eyes once more his soul beheld
The hair far blacker than the bird that wings
Athwart the milk-white moon: the matchless skin,
Inviolably white as wind-flowers blown
Among the mighty gospels of the trees:
And in her cheeks, the rose of maidenhood
Red as round berries winter bushes dot
The dimpled drift with under loaded boughs.
She knew him not, or seemed to; or forgot
To speak his name whenas she looked at him
And, blushing, welcomed.

And they sat and talked
Until the night waxed late. And as they talked
He marked that hunger had made hollow haunts
Of all their eyes; and so he longed to ask,
But courtesy forbade him. Late it grew,
And late and later; and at last there came
A knocking, and, as shadowy as two ghosts,
Two nuns came gliding; sandalled silence in
Frail footsteps, and pale caution on pale lips.
One brought a jar of wine, and one brought bread,

317

Six loaves of wheaten flour. And these said,
“God bear us witness, Lady, this is all!
Now is our Convent barren as thy board;”
And so departed. And they sat and ate.
[OMITTED]

The wind upon the forest and the rain
Upon the turrets. Had he heard a sigh
Or was it but the echo of his own,
Born of great weariness, that broke his rest?—
A dream! a dream!—The autumn storm is on,
And sows the wood with witchcraft, and the leaves
Are chased by imps of darkness through the hail
And hurling rain. The wind is wild with leaves.
Again he slept.

The rain among the trees,
The wind upon the turrets. Had he moaned,
Now that he lay awake and heard the wind
Hoot on the towers like a green-eyed owl?
The rain and wind. The night is black with rain.

318

Within the forest like a voice the wind;
And on the turrets, like swift feet, the rain.
Now was he sure 'twas weeping; and arose,
And found her at his door; and took her hand,
That like a soft persuasion lay in his.
He felt long sobbings shake it. And he said,
“Tell me, my sister, wherefore dost thou weep?”
And Angharad, “Yea; I will tell it thee.—
My name is Angharad. My father held
An Earldom under Arthur, yea, the first
In all his Kingdom: and this Castle, too,
Was his with cantrevs to the west and east.
When I was but a girl Earl Addanc met
And loved me. Once, when hunting, he came here
And sought my father and demanded me.
He said he loved me, and would have but me
To grace his bed and board, this Earl! But I—
I did not love him, being but a child,
My father's only child; I could not love.
And so my father said this should not be.
The Earl was wroth. I heard his furious stride
Beneath my casement; double demons pinched

319

His evil eyes and twenty gnarled his face.
He cursed us ere he rode beyond our walls
Then to Caerleon was I sent; and there
Became a woman of young Gwenhwyvar,
Until my father's death two years agone,
When I returned, a Countess, to find war
And Addanc here around beleaguered walls.
So hath he stripped me of my appanage;
Save this one keep, whose strength hath held out long,
Manned by my foster brothers, brave and young,
Strong to endure, but lacking still in arms;
No match for knights like Addanc. Thou hast met
The eighteen youths whose valor will not yield.
But what avail their valor and their will
Against hard hunger, now our larder lacks,
And lacks the Convent, too, whereon we leaned?
And Addanc comes to-morrow morn; the truce
For our one day's deliberation done.
If he prevail—the thought is like hot hands
Here on my brain!—his oath is ‘that the night
Shall see me given over to his grooms.’”

320

She wept with tremblings. Then said Peredur:
“Go, dry thy tears, my sister. And this Earl—
If he be early, call me not too late.
Fear not. I will not go until my sword
Hath crossed the sword of so much wickedness,
And proved this base ambition. Go and sleep.”
[OMITTED]
A morning gray with mist that gathered drops
Of drizzle on the ever dripping leaves.
And then the mist divided: ghostly mail,
Spears and limp pennons, and the shadowy steeds
Of shadowy knights and chieftains. And it seemed
A host of phantoms come to lay dim siege
To phantom walls whose warriors were ghosts.
Afar a bugle flourished in the fog,
Disconsolate; no echo of the wood
To bear its music burden. To the moat
Advanced a herald. And within the wall
The grate was opened; and the gaunt-eyed youth
Held parley with him: “How the Earl would make
End of the long dispute to-day, and leave,
'Twixt three a single combat to decide.”

321

So Peredur bade arm him, and prepare
His horse for battle; and bade give the Earl
His answer for the Castle: “That one knight
Would try the hauberks of the banded three.”
And he rode forth: and one rode up and scoffed,—
A knight in russet armor with loud words,—
“Small means to large results, forsooth! Thou boast!
A vicious palate hath thy appetite
That feasted long with hunger and must now
Conclude the banquet with three deaths!—Sir Death,
Here is thy death!” and hacked at Peredur
A heavy stroke that gashed his chain camail.
But, rising in stiff stirrups, ere he passed,
Two-handed swung the sword of Peredur,
And helm and head of him who fell were twain,
Halved like an apple. And the walls were glad.

Then came another, clad in silver mail,
As he were Galahad; and in the mist
Glimmered like moonlight. And with levelled spear

322

Demanded: “Whence and what art thou? this stroke
Was never fathered by long fasting.”—Then
Quoth Peredur, “I am Arthur's Court.”—
Then sneered the other with a mocking laugh,
“A goodly service truly that of his,
Since all his knights, whom I have met, have died!”—
Quoth Peredur: “Thy falsehood choke thee dead!
Within thy throat thus do I nail thy lie!”
And at his gorget hurled his ponderous spear,
Ere that one met him, spurring at full speed,
Disdainful. And the desperate stroke of him
Who had wrought havoc with the Table Round,
Glanced shattering from the sloping shield, while he,
Bent backwards o'er his saddle, rolled—his tongue
Cleft at the root. And all the walls were glad.

Now came a third: a black knight and a black
Enormous steed. No words he wasted. But,
The fierce spears splintered, from the baldrics burned

323

Swift blades: and Battle held his breath a while
To see the great shields rock beneath great blows,
Oppose, deploy, as hilt to hilt they hewed
At heaume and gorget. While the conflict dripped
Between the splintered greaves from many wounds.
Then Peredur, his whole strength wrenching at
Unyielding shelter of his foeman's shield,
Beat down his guard and smote.—And Addanc lay
Beneath the son of Evrawc, whose swift hands
Razed off his casque and laid a blind blade bare
Across hot eyes, and set a heel of steel
Upon his throat and said: “Thou coward curse!
What woman wilt thou war with now?—'Tis well
Thy features are thus evil and might breed
Nightmares among the kestrels, kites, and crows,
Else hadst thou been, ere this,—so says my sword,—

324

A head the shorter! and that head hung high
Upon the highest battlement. What now!
What wilt thou do for thy vile life? what now!
Speak! or I smite! O thou base villainy,
Out on thy ugly mouth!—Speak!” Cursing, he,
A stricken bulk, growled, “Let me live! And I,
Upon my knighthood, swear that I will make
Unto this woman, Angharad, returns
For all her losses. Let me live.”—And so
The sword slid from his eyes and from his neck
The heel. And he arose—to make in full
Due restitution of her lands to her
He had so robbed and harassed. And in time
This was fulfilled.

But Peredur remained,—
For, to be near her and to do for her
Was all his happiness,—until the land
Acknowledged her with all obedience.
Her rights established, what more now remained
To lend excuse unto his long delay?—
And so he went to her, and led her from
Amid her maidens, and bespoke her how

325

“He would ride hence and would but say farewell.”

A while she gazed at him. And when she spoke
The springs of tears seemed starting in her throat,
Crystal and quivering. But with steady gaze,
“Dost thou, my knight, desire then to go?
Methought that thou wouldst tarry yet a while.—
A little while.—Well hast thou fought for me.”

A moment was he silent; turning then,
Ground iron strides along the lofty hall,
And so returned with iron strides and said:
“Ay, by my God! Who knows I have not fought
For thee but still against thee. 'Tis my curse,
To love thee, love thee, love thee all these years!—
I came not here to woo. Thou wouldst but laugh.—
Haply thou hast forgotten me—thou hast!—
Yea, hast forgotten, aye long, long ago,
That son of Evrawc, Evrawc of the North,

326

Who wooed thee once! . . . Hast memory of him yet? . . .
Look in his eyes once more and say farewell.”

“My soul, my soul!” she said; “O my true soul!
This shall not be, my soul!”—He heard her low
Voice pleading softly, and, deep in his heart,
New life leapt up, and sang in every pulse,
“She loves me! yea, she loves me!”—And it seemed
He heard her as men hear the voice of hope
Upon despair's black brink; and see one star
Bloom, like a lily with a heart of fire
Throbbing within it, slowly out of night.
Each syllable the petal of a flower,
A rose of music, welcome as the star,
The first the eve gives silvery utterance to;
Or as the firstling bud, the wildwood rose,
Dropped from the rosy lips of laughing Spring;—
“I have remembered. Think'st thou I have not?—
O son of Evrawc, thou who couldst not see,
'Neath bells of folly and a merry mask,
A girl's dear secret through her tinsel acts.—

327

Or was thy love but fancy?—Ah, too soon,
I heard the vapid ending of a tale
Coquetry had begun for other end.—
But, if thou wilt, we can resume the tale;
The beautiful story of true love.—Tell on!
Tell on, my heart! Or have we reached the end?
And is it wedlock?—Both were wrong. The one:
Because his love was blind, impetuous,
Nor saw the love that would have proved 'twas love,
Not lust, before surrender. The other: that
She sought for wisdom in the frivolous,
And so made falsehood of her dearest truth,
Deceived more than deceiving.—Wilt thou go?”

He had no rhetoric to make reply:
Only his arms about her, and his eyes
Upon her eyes, and kisses on her mouth.
Long time they stood.—Outside, the sunset flung
Barbaric glory in the autumn wood.—
And lifting up her face he said to her:
“Hast thou thy lute still? Then come sing to me;

328

That song again, that pleased me once so ill—
Two years ago at parting. If it please
No better now, straightway I will depart,
And—thou with me. Yea, on one steed, if needs,
We will ride forth together to the Queen,
To old Caerleon, and King Arthur's Court;
And Gwenhwyvar shall kiss thee and confess
Thou art her loveliest flower, my own wild rose,
And give thee to me who will wear thee here.”

329

ISOLT

“But when the queen, La beale Isoude heard these tidings shee made such sorrow that shee was full nigh out of her minde, and so upon a day she thought to slay herselfe, and never for to live after Sir Tristram's death.”—

Le Morte d'Arthure.

I

The wild dawn flares o'er wood and vale,
O'er all the world she used to love:
Low on her couch it finds her pale,
The dawn that breaks with flame above.
Her lute, that once was all her care,
To which her love had often sung,
Upon a damask-covered chair
Now lies neglected and unstrung.
Back from her face her hair she throws,
Her heavy hair that falls and slips,
Then, rising, to the casement goes
With languid eyes and pallid lips.

330

II

With feverish face from morn till noon,
And noon to middle-night she stoops
From her high lattice; late and soon
In search for him among the troops
That come and go or loiter by.
For there had come a dame, in garb
Of pearls and samite, green of dye,
A stately woman on a barb,
From Camelot, who, looking round,
Had sneered, “'Mid herdsmen and such craft
This Tristram lives like any hound.”
Then as she shook her curls and laughed,
And flashed on Isolt looks of scorn,
Trailing her glimmering jewels past,
“I met a madman yestermorn
Within the forest. Wild, aghast
He stood, all naked in the rain,
'Twas Tristram, he of Lyonesse,
A good knight once, but now—” Again
She laughed, then sneered.—And one might guess
The thing she hinted in disdain.

III

So Isolt watched now: long she leant
From her high tower that hapless dawn:

331

Above her bloomed the firmament,
Below, the world was dewy wan.
She saw a long lake where the stags
Came down to drink: and woods of pines
Beyond which mountains loomed, whose crags,—
Gaunt guardians of Mark's boundary lines,—
Gray watch-towers, hawk-like, overhung;
And 'mid the pines, wild, ivy-clung,
She saw a castle lift its old
Green walls of ruin, now a cave
For bandits, and a robber-hold
Of lust, beside a torrent's wave.
Then o'er a bridge, whose granite arched
The torrent's foam, she saw a knight,—
Behind whom spear-armed followers marched,—
Like Galahad, in glittering white,
Ride from the forest-covered height.

IV

High on a barb whose trappings shone
Inlaid with a laton, gold of hue,
Star-bright amid the dawn and dew;
Proud on his lordly-stepping roan
He rode, and seemed of chivalry
The star, until he stood alone

332

Before the Court and spoke his lie,
And said,—(for him, too, heart and tongue,
Mark's gold had bought)—“I saw him die.
Alas! for one so brave and young!
But better so than still to be
A madman and a mockery!”—
Then smiled around the questioning Court
As one who brought no ill report. . . .
And she believed. And front to front
With all her misery that eve,—
Which, sombre-visaged, o'er the mount,
Above Day's burning bier did grieve
And bow her melancholy star,—
With tearful eyes she watched the light
Streak all the heaven with blood afar;
And lingered far into the night,
Lamenting at her casement-bar.

V

“Oh, I'm like one who o'er her light,
Her lamp of love, bends down, when, lo!
All on a sudden, out of night,
Dashing it down, there comes a blow
That leaves all darkness; and she hears
A demon whispering in the gloom,
That shuts her in with all her fears,”
So thought she, lonely in her room.

333

Then took her lute and touched such airs
As Tristram loved, sad songs of Breön,
She once had heard, all unawares,
Sir Launcelot sing in old Caerleön,
To Guinevere upon the stairs,
The terrace stairs, beside the Usk,
Deep in the nightingale-haunted dusk.
Then ceased, and wept until the stars,
Seen through her tears, made heaven all tears,
On fire with tears, that left their scars
Upon its face; and all the years
Of grief and love seemed in their spheres:
And reaching out her arms she cried,
“O God! O God! that I had died!
O Tristram! Tristram! art thou near?
O love, be near me in this hour!
This hour of anguish and of fear!
Which,—(like yon fountain's ceaseless foam,
Unseen, beneath this starlit tower,
Deep in the shadow of its dome),—
Throbs on and on within my life,
The utter darkness of its woe.—
O hour of grief! O hour of strife!
Why must my young heart suffer so?
Why must my sick soul sigh and sigh,
And God not hear nor let me die?”

334

VI

When rose the moon, and far away
A nightingale beneath the tower,
Heard through the fountain's falling spray,
Made lonelier yet that lonely hour;
And 'twixt the nodding grove and lake
A glimmering fawn stalked through the night,
And snuffed the wind, then bent to slake
Its thirst; she veiled her face,—as white
As death's,—and said: “The way is clear!
There is no use in waiting here!
Come! let me cure this heart that bursts!
This pain is more than I can bear!—
Come! let me still this soul that thirsts! . . .
Upon the lake, as thick as stars
In heav'n, the lilies lie asleep.—
There lies a way beyond these bars,
These walls of flesh that hold and keep!
The nightingale shall find its mate,
The fawn its fellow, and must I,
The spouse of grief, the wife of hate,
Live on alone until I die?—
How long, how long, O God, to wait!” . . .
Far through the darkness went her cry.

335

THE DREAM OF SIR GALAHAD

With the knights Peredur and Gawain he sits, in a chapel in Lyonesse, speaking while the dawn slowly reddens on the sea, gray-seen through the open door.

I

Cast on sleep there came to me
Three great angels, o'er the sea
Moaning near the priory:
Cloudy clad in awful white,
Each one's face, a lucid light,
Rayed and blossomed out of night.

II

In my sleep I saw them rest,
Each, a long hand on her breast,
Like the new-moon in the west:
And their hair like sunset rolled
Down their shoulders, burning cold,
An insufferable gold.

336

III

Flaming round each high brow bent
Fourfold starry gold, that sent
Light before them as they went:
'Neath their burning crowns their eyes
Shone like awful stars the skies
Rock in shattered storm that flies.

IV

Dark their eyes were, lurid dark;
And within their eyes a spark
Like the opal's burned: my sark
Seemed to shrivel 'neath their gaze;
As, with marvel and amaze,
All my soul it seemed to raise.

V

And I saw their mouths were fire,
Ruby-red as the desire
Of the Sanc Graal: fair and dire
Were their lips, whereon the kiss
Of all Heaven lay; the bliss
Of all happiness that is.

337

VI

Calm as Beauty lying dead,
Tapers lit at feet and head,
Were they, round whom prayers seemed said:
Fragrant as that woman who,
Born of blossoms and of dew
And of magic, wedded Llew.

VII

And the first one said to me:—
“Thou hast slept thus holily
While seven sands ran shadowy;
Earth hath served thee like a slave,
Serving us who found thee brave,
Pure of life and great to save:

VIII

“Know!”—She touched my brow: a pain
As of arrows pierced my brain:
Ceased: and earth, both sea and plain,
Vanished: and I stood where thought
Stands, and worship, spirit-fraught,
Watching how the heavens are wrought.

338

IX

Then the second said to me:
“Thou hast come all sinlessly
Thro' life's sin-enveloped sea:
Know the things thou hast not seen:
Filling all the soul with sheen;
Meaning more than earth may mean:

X

“See!”—Her voice sang like a lyre,
Comprehending all desire
In its gamut's throbbing fire:—
And my inner eyelids,—which
Dimmed clairvoyance,—raised: and rich,
As one chord's vibrating pitch,

XI

Grew my soul with light: that saw
The embodiment of awe,
Love, divinity, and law,
Orbed and eöned: and the power,
Circumstance, like some vast flower;
From which time fell, hour on hour.

339

XII

'Neath the third one's mighty will
All my soul lay very still,
Feeling all its being thrill
As she, smiling, said to me:
“Thou dost know, and thou canst see:
What thou art arise and be!”

XIII

To my lips her lips she pressed;
And my new-born soul, thrice-blessed,
Clasped her radiance and caressed:
Mounted and, in glory clad,
Soared with them who chorused glad:
“Christ awaits thee, Galahad!”

340

AFTER THE TOURNAMENT

The good Knight, Sir Lionell de Ganis, wounded unto death, addresses his Lady, Evalott, in the Forest of Dean, whither he has been borne on his shield.

I

And shall it be, when white thorns flake
With blossoms all the Maytime brake,
The rustle of a flower or leaf
Will let thee know
That I am near thee, as thy grief,
As long ago?

II

Or shall it be, when blows and dies
The wood-anemone, two eyes
Will gaze in thine, as faint as frost?
And thou, in dreams,
Wilt hear the sigh of one long lost,
Who near thee seems.

341

III

Or shall it be, where waters soothe
The stillness, thou wilt hear the smooth
Dim notes of a familiar lute,
And in thine ears
Old Provence melodies, long mute,
Like falling tears? . .

IV

Now doff my helm.—Loop thy white arm
Beneath my hair. So. Let thy warm
Blue eyes gaze in mine for a space,
A little while . . .
Love, it will rest me . . . And thy face—
Ah, let it smile.

V

Now art thou thou. Yet—let thy hair,
A golden wonder, fall; thy fair
Full throat bend low; thy kiss be hot
With love, not dry
With anguish.—Sweet, my Evalott!
Now let me die.

342

THE DARK TOWER

“Childe Rowland to the dark tower came.”
—King Lear.

The hills around were iron,
The sky, a boundless black,
Where wells of the lightning opened
And boiled with blazing rack,
When he came to the giant castle,
The wild rain on his back.

Huge in the night and tempest,
Over the cataract's bed,
Its windows, ulcers of fire,
Its gate, a hell-lit red,
The Dark Tower loomed; and wildly
A voice sang overhead.

Thrice, under its warlock turrets,
Where the causeway of rock was laid;
Thrice, there at its owlet portal,
His scornful bugle brayed;

343

And the drawbridge clanged at his summons,
And he rode in unafraid.

The heavens were riven asunder,
One glare of blinding storm;
And the blackness, chasmed with thunder,
Blazed form on demon form,
As he rode in the court of the castle,
The shield upon his arm.

His sword unsheathed and open
The vizor of his casque,
Childe Rowland entered the donjon
His gauntlet should unmask:
But naught, save night and silence,
He found, and none to ask.

His heel on the stair crashed iron,
His hand on the door clashed steel—
In the hall, the roar of the torrent,
In the turret, the thunder's peal—
And there in the highest turret
She sat at a spinning-wheel.

She spun the flax of a spindle,
All in a magic space;
She spun with her head bent downward,
His Lady, fair of face;

344

She spun, all wildly singing,
All spellbound in that place.

Again, when he gazed on her beauty,
The heart in his breast was wax;
Again, when he heard her singing,
The thews of his limbs grew lax—
She spun, nor saw him, spinning
A spindle of blood-red flax.

And now the flax was fire,
That wrapped her, skein on skein;
And now a flaming serpent,
And now a blazing chain;
But he seized the enchanted spindle,
And all its spells were vain.

She looked upon Childe Rowland,
And never a word she said,
But kissed his mouth and forehead,
And leaned on his breast her head . . .
She smiled upon Childe Rowland,
And into the night they fled.

345

THE BLIND HARPER

And so it came that I was led
To wizard walls that haggard hung
Old as their rock, black-mossed and dead,
Wild-swarmed with towers; and, flaming flung
Around them,—far, a moat of red,—
A million poppies sprung.

And here I harped.—All seemed asleep;
Till, hoarse beneath, harsh hinges gnarred
And iron clanged within the Keep:
And then from one gaunt casement, barred
With night, a woman, dim and deep,
Gazed at me long and hard.

To her I sang. And as she leaned
In beauty to me, dark and tall,
And loud I sang of Love, I gleaned
An inkling of her Court withal:
For, lo, above her, watched a Fiend,
Wolf-eyeballed, on the wall.

346

Still, still I sang. And then she laughed,
Laughed loud and long and evilly;
And in her face I saw was craft
And hate and all the sins that be:
And overhead, with pointed shaft,
The Fiend glared down on me.

Still, still I harped. Then up she leapt,
When loud I sang of Ermengard,
The Queen of Love, whose Court is kept
At Anjou, I, who am her bard!
And from her side a raven swept,
While loud she laughed and hard.

Its iron beak had pierced my eyes
Before my mind had half divined
That those wild walls that touched the skies
With Hell-built towers, terror-lined,
Were Lilith's,—mother of lusts and lies,—
Love's foe, who left me blind.

347

CHILDE RONALD

Childe Ronald rode adown the wood,
His spear upon his knee;
When, lo, he saw a girl who stood
Beneath an old oak tree.

And when Childe Ronald saw her there,
So fair and fresh of hue—
“Ten tire-maids wait to comb thy hair,
And ten to latch thy shoe;

“A gown of sendal, gold and pearl,
And pearls for neck and ear—”
“But I am but a low-born girl
Who wait my lover here!”

Childe Ronald took her by the hand
And drew her to his side—
“Thou shalt be a Lady of the land.—
Now mount by me and ride.”

348

She needs must mount; and through the wood
They rode unto the sea:
When in his towers at last she stood
A pale-faced girl was she.

“Unbusk, unbusk her, tire-girls!
Take off these rags,” quoth he;
“And clothe her body in silk and pearls,
And red gold, neck and knee.”

They busked her in a shift of silk,
And in a samite gown:
They looped her throat with pearls like milk,
And crowned her with a crown.

They brought her in unto the priest—
She saw nor priest nor groom:—
They married her and made a feast,
Then led her to her room. . . .

“Unbusk, unbusk me, tire-maids,
Now it hath come to lie.
Comb down my locks in simple braids,
A simple maid am I.

“Unbusk, unbusk me, handmaidens;
Long will I lie a-bed:

349

And when Childe Ronald lies by me,
'Twill be when I am dead.

“When I am cold and dead, sweethearts,
And song be turned to sigh—
No love of mine hath he, sweethearts,
And a wretched bride am I.

“A harper harped in the banquet hall;
An ancient man was he;
The song he sang was sweet to all,
But it was sad to me.

“He sang and harped of a maiden fair,
Whose face was like the morn,
Who gave her lover a token there
Beneath the trysting thorn.

“He harped and sang of a damosel
Who swore she would be true:
And then of a heart as false as Hell,
He cursed with curses two.

“And at the first curse, note for note,
My roses turned to rue:
Or ever the second curse he smote
No more of earth I knew.

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“And, ‘See!’ they cried, ‘her eyes, how wide!
And, lo, her face—how wan!’—
And they shall see me paler-eyed
Or ever the night be gone!

“Unbusk, unbusk me, tire-maids,
For now 'tis time to lie.
Let down my locks in simple braids,
A simple maid am I.” . . .

And there is wonder and there is wail,
And pale is every guest;
Childe Ronald, too, is pale, is pale,
Far paler than the rest.

The guests are gone: all wild and wan
He saw the guests depart:
But she is wanest of the wan,
A dagger in her heart.

Within the room Childe Ronald stands,
Then sinks upon his knees—
He stares with horror on his hands,
Then rises up and flees.

He rises from his knees with dread,
He flies that room unblest—

351

Oh, can it be he sees the dead,
The blood upon her breast?

“Now saddle me my horse, my horse!
For I must ride, must ride!”—
But by his side—is it Remorse
That follows, stride for stride?

Within the wood, the dark pine-wood,
He rides with closéd ears—
But evermore the ceaseless thud
Of following hoofs he hears.

With close-shut eyes and down-bowed head
He rides among the trees—
But evermore the restless dead
There at his side he sees.

And evermore the autumn blast
Above him sobs and sighs,
“Who rides so far, who rides so fast,
With closéd ears and eyes?”

He hears it not: he gallops on:
The rain cries in the trees—
“Who is this rides so wild and wan?
And what is that he flees?

352

“Oh, who are they? and whither away?
Oh, whither do they ride?”—
“Across the world till Judgment Day,
Childe Ronald and his bride!”

353

MORGAN Le FAY

In dim samite was she bedight,
And on her hair a hoop of gold,
Like foxfire, in the tawn moonlight,
Was glimmering cold.

With soft gray eyes she gloomed and glowered;
With soft red lips she sang a song:
What knight might gaze upon her face,
Nor fare along?

For all her looks were full of spells,
And all her words, of sorcery;
And in some way they seemed to say,
“Oh, come with me!

“Oh, come with me! oh, come with me!
Oh, come with me, my love, Sir Kay!”—
How should he know the witch, I trow,
Morgan le Fay?

354

How should he know the wily witch,
With sweet white face and raven hair?
Who, through her art, bewitched his heart
And held him there.

Eftsoons his soul had waxed amort
To wold and weald, to slade and stream;
And all he heard was her soft word
As one adream.

And all he saw was her bright eyes,
And her fair face that held him still:
And wild and wan she led him on
O'er vale and hill.

Until at last a castle lay
Beneath the moon, among the trees:
Its gothic towers old and gray
With mysteries.

Tall in its hall an hundred knights
In armor stood with glaive in hand:
The following of some great king,
Lord of that land.

Sir Bors, Sir Balin, and Gawain,
All Arthur's knights, and many mo;

355

But these in battle had been slain
Long years ago.

But when Morgan with lifted hand
Moved down the hall, they louted low:
For she was Queen of Shadowland,
That woman of snow.

Then from Sir Kay she drew away,
And cried on high all mockingly:—
“Behold, sir knights, the knave I bring,
Who lay with me.

“Behold! I met him 'mid the furze:
Beside him there he made me lie:
Upon him, yea, there rests my curse:
Now let him die!”

Then as one man those shadows raised
Their brands, whereon the moon glanced gray:
And clashing all strode from the wall
Against Sir Kay.

And on his body, bent and bowed,
The hundred blades as one blade fell:
While over all rang long and loud
The mirth of Hell.

356

THE LADY OF THE HILLS

Though red my blood hath left its trail
For five far miles, I will not fail,
As God in Heaven wills!
The way was long through that black land.—
With sword on hip and horn in hand,
At last before thy walls I stand,
O Lady of the Hills!

No seneschal shall put to scorn
The summons of my bugle-horn!
No warder stern shall stay!
Yea! God hath helped my strength too far,
By bandit-caverned wood and scar,
To give it pause now, or to bar
My all-avenging way!

This hope still gives my body strength—
To kiss thy mouth and eyes at length
Where all thy kin can see:
Then, 'mid thy towers of crime and gloom,

357

Sin-haunted as the Halls of Doom,
To strike thee dead in that wild room
Red-lit with revelry.

Madly I rode; nor once looked back,
Before my face the world reeled, black
With nightmare wind and rain.
Witch-lights flared by me on the fen;
And through the forest—was it then
The eyes of wolves? or ghosts of men,
That flamed and fled again?

Still on I rode. My way was clear
From that wild time when, spear to spear,
Deep in the wind-torn wood,
I met him! . . . Dead he lies beneath
Your trysting oak. I clenched my teeth
And rode. My wound scarce let me breathe,
That filled my eyes with blood.

And here I am. The blood may blind
My eyesight still! . . . but I will find
Thee through some inner eye!
For God—He hath this thing in care!—
Yea! I will kiss again thy hair,
Then tell thee of thy leman there,
And smite thee dead—and die.

358

THE DEMON LOVER

The moon looks cold
On the withered wold;
The wind blows fierce and free:
The thin snow sifts
And stings and drifts,
Blown by the haunted tree.

The gnarled tree groans;
And sighs and moans,
And shudders to its roots:
Is it the fear
Of a footstep near?
Or the owl in its top that hoots?

Is it a gust
Of thin snow-dust,
The wind sweeps from the plain?—
Is it a breeze
That wails and drees?—
Christ sain thee, Floramane!

359

The moon hangs white
In the winter night:
The wind blows fierce and free:
And Floramane
Her place hath ta'en
Beneath the haunted tree.

What is it whines?
What is it shines
With owlet-eldritch light?—
With raven plume
Forth from the gloom
A man stalks, still and white.

His face is dim;
His sword swings grim;
His long cloak flutters wide:
His kiss falls bleak
On her mouth and cheek,
As he folds her to his side.

What is it gleams?
What is it streams
So wan on Floramane?—
The moonlit breeze?
Or his heart, she sees
Through the stab, like a burning stain?

360

A PRINCESS OF THULE

In a kingdom of mist and moonlight,
Or ever the world was known,
Past leagues of unsailed water
There reigned a king whose daughter
Was fair as a starry stone.

The Northern Lights were daylight,
And day was twilight there:
The king was wise and hoary,
And his daughter, like the glory
Of seven kingdoms, fair.

The day was dim as moonlight;
The night was misty gray,
With slips of dull stars, bluer
Where the princess met her wooer,
A page like the month of May.

His face was white as moonlight,
His hair, a crumpled gold:

361

Oh, she was wise as youth is,
And he was young as truth is,
And the king was old, was old.

When day grew out of the moonlight,
Across the misty wold,
A-hunting or a-hawking
They rode, forever mocking
The good gray king and old.

At night, in mist and moonlight,
Where hung the horns and whips,
In courts to the kennels leading,
Or where the hounds were feeding,
He kissed her eyes and lips.

They whispered in the moonlight,
And kissed in moon and mist:—
“Enough! we're done with hiding!”—
There came the old king riding,
The hawk upon his wrist.

Oh, fain was she and eager,
And he was over fain;—
“His cup and couch are ready.”—
“Then let thy hand be steady—
And he'll not wake again.”

362

Is it the mist or moonlight?
Or a dead face staring up?—
The old king's couch was ready,
And his daughter's hand was steady
Giving the poisoned cup.

363

THE DAUGHTER OF MERLIN

For the mountains' hoarse greetings came hollow
From stormy wind-chasms and caves;
And I heard their wild cataracts wallow;
Like monsters, the white of their waves:
And that shadow said, “Lo! you must follow!
And our path is o'er myriads of graves.”

Then I felt that the black earth was porous
And rotten with dust and with bones;
And I knew that the ground that now bore us
Was cadaverous with death as with stones;
And I saw burning eyes, heard sonorous
And dolorous sighings and groans.

But the night of the tempest and thunder,
The might of the terrible skies,
And the fire of Hell, that,—coiled under
The hollow Earth,—smoulders and sighs,
And the laughter of stars and their wonder,
Mingled and mixed in her eyes.

364

And we clomb—and the moon, old and sterile,
Clomb with us o'er torrent and scar:
And I yearned for her oceans of beryl,
Wan mountains and cities of spar:
“'Tis not well,” then she said; “you're in peril
Of falling and failing your star.”

And we clomb—through a murmur of pinions,
And rattle of talons and plumes;
And a sense as of darkest dominions,
Deep, lost, of the dead and their tombs,
Swam round us, with all of their minions
Of dreads and of dreams and of dooms.

And we clomb—till we stood at the portal
Of the uttermost point of the peak;
And she led, with a step more than mortal,
On, upward, where glimmered a streak,
A star, a presence immortal,
A planet, whose light was still weak.

And we clomb—till the limbo of spirits
Of lusts and of sorrows below
Swung nebular; and we were near its
Starred summit, its glory of glow.
And we entered its light and could hear its
White music of silence and snow.

365

TRISTRAM TO ISOLT

Yea, there are some who always seek
The love that lasts an hour;
And some who in love's language speak,
Yet never know his power.

Of such was I, who knew not what
Sweet mysteries can rise
Within the heart when 'tis its lot
To love and realize.

Of such was I, Isolt! till, lo,
Your face on mine did gleam,
And changed that world, I used to know,
Into an evil dream.

That world wherein, on hill and plain,
Great blood-red poppies bloomed;
Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain,
And sleepily perfumed.

366

Above, below, on every part,
A crimson shadow lay;
As if the red sun streamed athwart,
And sunset was alway.

I know not how; I know not when;
I only know that there
She met me in the haunted glen,
A poppy in her hair.

Her face seemed fair as Mary's is,
That knows nor sin nor wrong;
Her presence filled the silences
As music fills a song.

And she was clad like the Mother of God,
As 'twere for Christ's sweet sake;
But when she moved and where she trod
A hiss went of a snake.

Though seeming sinless, till I die
I shall not know for sure
Why to my soul she seemed a lie
And otherwise than pure.

Nor why I kissed her soon and late,
And for her felt desire,

367

While loathing of her passion ate
Into my heart like fire.

Was it because my soul could tell
That, like the poppy-flower,
She had no soul? a thing of Hell,
That o'er mine had no power.

Or was it that your love at last,
My soul so long had craved,
From that sweet sin which held me fast
At that last moment, saved?

368

THE KNIGHT-ERRANT

The witch-elm shivers in the gale;
The thorn-tree's top is bowed:
The night is black with rain and hail,
And mist and cloud.

The winds, upon the woods and fields,
Are swords two fiends unsheathe,
Two fiends, that snarl behind their shields
And grind their teeth.

The foxfire, in the marshy place,
As he rides on and on,
Gleams, ghastly as a deadman's face,
And then is gone.

The owl shrieks from the splintered pine
Demonic ridicule:
He hears the werewolf howl and whine
And lap the pool.

369

Black bats beat blindly by his eyes,
Like Death's own horrible hands:
His quest leads under haunted skies
To haunted lands.

He rides with fire upon his casque,
And fire upon his spear,
The roadway of his soul's set task,
Without a fear.

Right steels the sinews of his steed,
And tempers his straight sword:
He rides the causeway of his creed
Without a word.

No man shall make the iron pause
In gauntlet and in thew:
He rides the highway of his cause
To die or do.

His purpose leads him, like a flame,
Through forest and through fen,
To castle walls of wrong and shame
And blood-stained men.

Hope's are the lips that wind the horn
Before the gates of lust:

370

Though fifty dragons hiss him scorn,
Still will he trust.

Strength's is the hand that thunders at
The entrances of night:
Though ten-score demons crush him flat
Still will he fight.

Love's is the heart that finds a way
To dungeons vast of sin:
A thousand deaths may rise to slay,
Still will he win.

371

THE FORESTER

I met him here at Ammendorf one spring.
It was the end of April and the Harz,
Treed to their ruin-crested summits, seemed
One pulse of tender green and delicate gold,
Beneath a heaven that was like the face
Of girlhood waking into motherhood.
Along the furrowed meadow, freshly ploughed,
The patient oxen, loamy to the knees,
Plodded or lowed or snuffed the fragrant soil;
And in each thorn-tree hedge the wild bird sang
A song to spring, full of its own wild self
And soul, that heard the blossom-laden May's
Heart beating like a star at break of day,
As, kissing red the roses, she drew near,
Her mouth's ripe rose all dewdrops and perfume.
Here at this inn and underneath this tree
We took our wine, the morning prismed in its
Flame-crystalled gold.—A goodly vintage that!
Tang with the ripeness of full twenty years.
Rare! I remember! wine that spurred the blood,

372

That brought the heart glad to the songful lip,
And made the eyes unlatticed casements whence
A man's true soul smiled, breezy as the blue.
As royal a Rhenish, I will vouch to say,
As that, old legends tell, which Necromance
And Magic keep, gnome-guarded, in huge casks
Of antique make deep in the Kyffhäuser,
Webbed, frosty gray, with salt-petre and mold,
The Cellar of the Knights near Sittendorf.—

So solaced by that wine we sat an hour
He told me his intent in coming here.
His name was Rudolf; and his native place,
Franconia; but no word of parentage:
Only his mind to don the buff and green
And live a forester with us and be
Enfellowed in the Duke of Brunswick's train,
And for the Duke's estate even now was bound.

Tall was he for his age and strong and brown,
And lithe of limb; and with a face that seemed
Hope's counterpart—but with the eyes of doubt:
Deep stealthy disks, instinct with starless night,
That seemed to say, “We're sure of Earth—at least

373

For some short while, my friend; but afterward—
Nay! ransack not to-morrow till to-day
Lest it engulf thy joy before it is!”—
And when he spoke, the fire in his eyes
Worked restless as a hunted animal's;
Or like the Count von Hackelnburg's,—the eyes
Of the Wild Huntsman,—his that turn and turn
Feeling the unseen presence of a fiend.

And then his smile! a thrust-like thing that curled
His lips with heresy and incredible lore
When Christ's or th' Virgin's holy name was said,
Exclaimed in reverence or admonishment:
And once he sneered,—“What is this God you mouth,
Employ whose name to bless yourselves or damn?
A curse or blessing?—It hath passed my skill
T' interpret what He is. And then your faith—
What is this faith that helps you unto Him?
Distinguishment unseen, design unlawed.

374

Why, earth, air, fire, and water, heat and cold,
Hint not at Him: and man alone it is
Who needs must worship something. And for me—
No God like that whom man hath kinged and crowned!
Rather your Satan cramped in Hell—the Fiend!
God-countenanced as he is, and tricked with horns.
No God for me, bearded as Charlemagne,
Throned on a tinsel throne of gold and jade,
Earth's pygmy monarchs imitate in mien
And mind and tyranny and majesty,
Aping a God in a sonorous Heaven.
Give me the Devil in all mercy then,
Bad as he is! for I will none of such!”
And laughed an oily laugh of easy jest
To bow out God and let the Devil in.

Then, as it chanced, old Kurt had come that morn
With some six of his jerkined foresters
From the Thuringian forest; wet with dew,
And fresh as morn with early travel; bound
For Brunswick, Dummburg and the Hakel passed.

375

Chief huntsman he then to our lord the Duke,
And father of the loveliest maiden here
In Ammendorf, the sunny Ilsabe:
Her mother dead, the gray-haired father prized
His daughter more than all that men hold dear;
His only happiness, who was beloved
Of all as Lora of Thuringia was,
For gentle ways that spoke a noble soul,
Winning all hearts to love her and to praise,
As might a great and beautiful thought that holds
Us by the simplest words.—Blue were her eyes
As the high glory of a summer day.
Her hair,—serene and braided over brows
White as a Harz dove's wing,—an auburn brown,
And deep as mists the sun has drenched with gold:
And her young presence, like embodied song,
Filled every heart she smiled on with sweet calm,
Like some Tyrolean melody of love,
Heard on an Alpine path at close of day

376

When homing shepherds pipe to tinkling flocks:
Being with you a while, so, when she left,—
How shall I say it?—'twas as when one hath
Beheld an Undine on the moonlit Rhine,
Who, ere the mind adjusts a thought, is gone,
And to the soul it seems it was a dream.

Some thirty years ago it was;—and I,
Commissioner of the Duke—(no sinecure
I can assure you)—had scarce reached the age
Of thirty,—that we sat here at our wine;
And 't was through me that Rudolf,—whom at first,
From some rash words dropped then in argument,
The foresterhood was like to be denied,—
Was then enfellowed. “Yes,” said I, “he's young.
Kurt, he is young: but look you! what a man!
What arms! what muscles! what a face—for deeds!
An eye—that likes me not; too quick to turn!—
But that may be the restless soul within:
A soul perhaps with virtues that have been
Severely tried and could not stand the test;

377

These be thy care, Kurt: and if not too deep
In vices of the flesh, discover them,
As divers bring lost riches up from ooze.—
Thou hast a daughter; let him be thy son.”

A year thereafter was it that I heard
Of Rudolf's passion for Kurt's Ilsabe;
Then their betrothal. And it was from this,—
(How her fair memory haunts my old heart still!—
Sweet Ilsabe! whose higher womanhood,
True as the touchstone which philosophers feign
Transmutes to gold base metals it may touch,
Had turned to good all evil in this man,)—
Surmised I of the excellency which
Refinement of her purer company,
And contact with her innocence, had resolved
His fiery nature to, conditioning slave.
And so I came from Brunswick—as, you know,
Is custom of the Duke or, by his seal
Commissioned proxy, his commissioner—
To test the marksmanship of Rudolf, who
Succeeded Kurt with marriage of his child,
An heir of Kuno.—He?—Great-grandfather
To Kurt; and of this forest-keepership

378

The first possessor; thus established here—
Or this the tale they tell on winter nights:—

Kuno, once in the Knight of Wippach's train,
Rode on a grand hunt with the Duke, who came,—
Grandfather of the father of our Duke,—
With much magnificence of knights and squires,
Great velvet-vestured nobles, cloaked and plumed,
To hunt Thuringian deer. Then morn,—so rathe
To bid good-morrow to the husbandman
Heavy with slumber,—was too slow for these,
And on the wind-trod hills recumbent yawned
Aroused an hour too soon: ashamed, disrobed,
Rubbed the stiff sleep from eyes that still would close;
Like some young milkmaid whom the cock hath waked,
Who sits within her loft and, half asleep,
Stretches and hears the house below her stir,
Yet sits and yawns, reluctant still to rise.—
Horns sang and deer-hounds tugged a whimpering leash,

379

Or, loosened, bounded through the baying glens:
And ere the mountain mists, compact of white,
Broke wild before the azure spears of day,
The far-off hunt, that woke the woods to life,
Seemed but the heart-beat of the ancient hills.

And then, near noon, within a forest brake,
The ban-dogs roused a red gigantic stag,
Lashed to whose back with gnarly-knotted cords,
And borne along like some pale parasite,
A man shrieked: tangle-bearded, and his hair
A mane of forest-burrs. The man himself,
Emaciated and half-naked from
The stag's mad flight through headlong rocks and trees,
One bleeding bruise, his eyes two holes of fire.
For such the law then: when the peasant chased
Or slew the dun deer of his tyrant lords,
If caught, as punishment the withes and spine
Of some strong stag, a gift to him of game
Enough till death—death in the antlered herd,
Or slow starvation in the haggard hills.
Then was the great Duke glad, and forthwith cried

380

To all his hunting-train a rich reward
For him who slew the stag and saved the man,
But death for him who slew both man and beast.
So plunged the hunt after the hurrying slot,
A shout and glimmer through the sounding woods,—
Like some wild torrent that the hills have loosed,
Death for its goal.—'Twas late; and none had yet
Risked that hard shot,—too desperate the risk
Beside the poor life and a little gold,—
When this young Kuno, with hot eyes, wherein
Hunt and impatience kindled reckless flame,
Cried, “Has the dew made wet each powder-pan?
Or have we left our marksmanship at home?
Here's for its heart! the Fiend direct my ball!”—
And fired into a covert packed with briers,
An intertangled wall of matted night,
Wherein the eye might vainly strive and strive
To pierce one fathom, gaze one foot beyond:
But, ha! the huge stag staggered from the brake,

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Heart-hit, and fell: and that wan wretch, unbound,
Rescued, was cared for. Then his grace, the Duke,
Charmed with the eagle aim, called Kuno up,
And there to him and his forever gave
The forest-keepership.

But envious tongues
Were soon at wag; and whispered went the tale
Of how the shot was “free”; and how the balls
Used by young Kuno were “free” bullets—which
To say is: Lead by magic molded, in
The presence and directed of the Fiend.
Of some effect these tales, and of some force
Even with the Duke, who lent an ear so far
As to ordain Kuno's descendants all
To proof of skill ere their succession to
The father's office. Kurt himself hath shot
The silver ring out o' the popinjay's beak—
A good shot he, you see, who would succeed.

The Devil guards his secrets close as God.
For who can say what elementaries,

382

Demonic, lurk in desolate dells and hills
And shadowy woods? malignant forces who,
Malicious vassals of satanic power,
Are agents to that Evil none may name,
Who signs himself, through these, a slave to those,
Those mortals who call in the aid of Hell,
And for some earthly, transitory gift,
Barter their souls and all their hopes of Heaven.

Of these enchanted bullets let me speak:
There may be such: our earth hath things as strange,
Perhaps, and stranger, that we doubt not of,
While we behold,—not only 'neath the thatch
Of Ignorance's hovel,—but within
The stately halls of Wisdom's palaces,
How Superstition sits an honored guest.

A cross-way, so they say, among the hills;
A cross-way in a solitude of pines;
And on the lonely cross-way you must draw
A bloody circle with a bloody sword;
And round the circle, runic characters,
Weird and symbolic: here a skull, and there

383

A scythe, and cross-bones, and an hour-glass here:
And in the centre, fed with coffin-wood,
Stolen from the grave of—say a murderer,
A fitful fire. Eleven of the clock
The first ball leaves the mold—the sullen lead
Mixed with three bullets that have hit their mark,
And blood the wounded Sacramental Host,
Stolen, and hence unhallowed, oozed when shot
Fixed to a riven pine. Ere midnight strike,
With never a word until that hour sound,
Must all the balls be cast; and these must be
In number three and sixty; three of which
The Fiend's dark agent, demon Sammael,
Claims for his master and stamps for his own
To hit aside their mark, askew for harm.
The other sixty shall not miss their mark.

No cry, no word, no whisper, even though
Vague, gesturing shapes, that loom like moonlit mists,
Their faces human but of animal form,
Whinnying and whining lusts, faun-faced, goat-formed,
Rise thick around and threaten to destroy.

384

No cry, no word, no whisper should there come,
Weeping, a wandering shadow like the girl
You love, or loved, now lost to you, her eyes
Hollow with tears; sad, palely beckoning
With beautiful arms, or censuring; her face
Wild with despondent love: who, if you speak
Or waver from that circle—hideous change!—
Shrinks to a wrinkled hag, whose harpy hands
Shall tear you limb from limb with horrible mirth.
Nor be deceived if some far midnight bell
Strike that anticipated hour; nor leave
By one short inch the circle, for, unseen
Though now they be, Hell's minions still are there,
Watching with flaming eyes to seize your soul.
But when the hour of midnight sounds, will come
A noise of galloping hoofs and outriders,
Shouting: six midnight steeds,—their nostrils, pits
Of burning blood,—postilioned, roll a stage,
Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire:

385

“Room there!—What, ho!—Who bars the mountain way?—
On over him!”—But fear not, nor fare forth;
'Tis but the last trick of your bounden slave.
And ere the red moon rushes from the clouds
And dives again, high the huge leaders leap,
Their fore-hoofs flashing and their eyeballs flame,
And, spun a spiral spark into the night,
Hissing the phantasm flies and fades away.
Some say there comes no stage; that Hackelnburg,
Wild-Huntsman of the Harz, comes dark as storm,
With rain and wind and demon dogs of Hell;
The terror of his hunting-horn, an owl,
And the dim deer he hunts, rush on before:
The forests crash, and whirlwinds are the leaves,
And all the skies a-thunder, as he hurls,
Straight on the circle, horse and hounds and stag.
And at the last, plutonian-cloaked, there comes,—
Infernal fire streaming from his eyes,—
Upon a stallion gaunt and lurid black,
The minister of Satan, Sammael,

386

Who greets you, and informs you, and assures.

Enough! these wives' tales told, to what I've seen:
To Ammendorf I came; and Rudolf here
With Kurt and his assembled men in buff
And woodland green were gathered at this inn.
The abundant Year—like some sweet wife,—a-smile
At her brown baby, Autumn, in her arms,
Stood 'mid the garnered harvests of her fields
Dreaming of days that pass like almoners
Scattering their alms in minted gold of flowers;
Of nights, that forest all the skies with stars,
Wherethrough the moon—bare-bosomed huntress—rides,
One cloud before her like a flying fawn.
Then I proposed the season's hunt; till eve
The test of Rudolf's skill postponed; at which
He seemed embarrassed. And 'twas then I heard
How he an execrable marksman was;
And tales that told of close, incredible shots,
That missed their mark; or how the flint-lock oft

387

Flamed harmless powder, while the curious deer
Stood staring, as in pity of such aim,
Or as inviting him to try once more.
Howbeit, he that day acquitted him
Of all this gossip; in that day's long hunt
Missing no shot, however rashly made
Or distant through the intercepting trees.
And the piled, various game brought down of all
Good marksmen of Kurt's train had not sufficed,
Doubled, nay, trebled, there to match his heap.
And marvelling the hunters saw, nor knew
How to excuse them. My indulgence giv'n,
Some told me that but yesterday old Kurt
Had made his daughter weep and Rudolf frown,
By vowing end to their bethrothéd love,
Unless that love developed better skill
Against the morrow's test; his ancestors'
High fame should not be tarnished. So he railed;
Then bowed his gray head and sat moodily:
But, looking up, forgave all when he saw
Tears in his daughter's eyes and Rudolf gone
Out in the night, black with approaching storm.

388

Before this inn, crowding the green, they stood,
The holiday village come to view the trial:
Fair maidens and their comely mothers with
Their sweethearts and their husbands. And I marked
Kurt and his daughter here; his florid face
All creased with smiles at Rudolf's great success;
Hers, radiant with happiness; for this
Her marriage eve—so had her father said—
Should Rudolf come successful from the hunt.

So pleased was I with what I'd seen him do,
The trial of skill superfluous seemed; and so
Was on the bare brink of announcing, when
Out of the western heaven's deepening red,—
Like a white message dropped of scarlet lips,—
A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there,
Upon that limb, a peaceful moment sat.
Then I, “Thy rifle, Rudolf! pierce its head!”
Cried pointing, “and chief-forester art thou!”
Why did he falter with a face as strange
And strained as terror's? did his soul divine
What was to be, with tragic prescience?—
What a bad dream it all seems now!—Again

389

I see him aim. Again I hear her cry,
“My dove! O Rudolf, do not kill my dove!”
And from the crowd, like some sweet dove herself,
A fluttering whiteness, rushed our Ilsabe—
Too late! the rifle cracked. . . . The unhurt dove
Rose, beating frightened wings—but Ilsabe! . . .
My God! the sight! . . . fell smitten; sudden red,
Sullying the whiteness of her bridal bodice,
Showed where the ball had pierced her innocent heart.

And Rudolf?—Ah, of him you still would know?
—When he beheld this thing which he had done,
Why, he went mad—I say—but others not.
An hour he raved of how her life had paid
For the unholy missiles he had used,
And how his soul was three times lost and damned.
I say that he went mad and fled forthwith
Into the haunted Harz.—Some say, to die
The prey of demons of the Dummburg ruin.

390

I,—one of those less superstitious,—say,
He in the Bodé—from that blackened rock,—
Whereon were found his hunting-cap and horn,—
The Devil's Dancing Place, did leap and die.

391

THE MOATED MANSE

I

And now once more we stood within the walls
Of that old manor near the riverside;
Dead leaves lay rotting in its empty halls,
And here and there the ivy could not hide
The year-old scars, made by the Royalists' balls,
Around the doorway, where so many died
In that last effort to defend the stair,
When Rupert, like a demon, entered there.

II

The basest Cavalier who e'er wore spurs
Or drew a sword, I count him; with his grave
Eyes 'neath his plumed hat like a wolf's whom curs
Rouse, to their harm, within a forest cave;
And hair like harvest; and a voice like verse

392

For smoothness. Ay, a handsome man and—brave!—
Brave?—who would question it! yea! tho' 'tis true
He warred with one weak woman and her few.

III

Lady Isolda of the Moated Manse,
Whom here, that very noon, it happened me
To meet near her old home. A single glance
Showed me 'twas she. I marveled much to see
How lovely still she was! as fair, perchance,
As when Red Rupert thrust her brutally,—
Her long hair loosened,—down the shattered stair,
And cast her, shrieking, 'mid his followers there.

IV

“She is for you! Take her! I promised it!
Take her, my bullies!”—shouting so, he flung
Her in their midst. Then, on her poor hands (split,
And beaten by his dagger when she clung
Resisting him) and knees, she crept a bit

393

Nearer his feet and begged for death. No tongue
Can tell the way he turned from her and cursed,
Then bade his men draw lots for which were first.

V

I saw it all from that low parapet,
Where, bullet-wounded in the hip and head,
I lay face-upward in the whispering wet,
Exhausted 'mid the dead and left for dead.
We had held out two days without a let
Against these bandits. You could trace with red
From room to room how we resisted hard
Since the great door crashed in to their petard.

VI

The rain revived me, and I leaned with pain
And saw her lying there, pale, soiled and splashed
And miserable; on her cheek a stain,
A dull red bruise, made when his mad hand dashed
And struck her to the stones; the wretched rain

394

Dripped from her dark hair; and her hands were gashed.—
Oh, for a musket or a petronel
With which to send his devil's soul to hell!

VII

But helpless there I lay, no weapon near,
Only the useless sword I could not reach
His traitor's heart with, while I chafed to hear
The laugh, the insult and the villain speech
Of him to her.—Oh, God! could I but clear
The height between and, hanging like a leech,
My fingers at his throat, tear out his base
Vile tongue! yea, tear, and lash it in his face!

VIII

But, badly wounded, what could I but weep
With rage and pity of my helplessness
And her misfortune! Could I only creep
A little nearer so that she might guess
I was not dead; that I my life would keep,
Dedicate to revenge!—Oh, the distress
Of that last moment when, half-dead, I saw
Them mount and bear her swooning through the shaw.

395

IX

Long time I lay unconscious. It befell
Some woodsmen found me, having heard the sound
Of fighting cease that, for two days, made hell
Of that wild region; ventured on the ground
For plunder: and it had not then gone well
With me, I fear, had not their leader found
That in some way I would repay his care;
So bore me to his hut and nursed me there.

X

How roughly kind he was! For weeks I hung
'Twixt life and death; health, like a varying, sick
And fluttering pendulum, now this way swung,
Now that, until at last its querulous tick
Beat out life's usual time, and slowly rung
The long, loud hours, that exclaimed, “Be quick!—
Arise!—Go forth!—Hear how her black wrongs call!—
Make them the salve to cure thy wounds withal!”—

396

XI

They were my balsam: for, ere autumn came,
Weak still, but over eager to be gone,
I took my leave of him. A little lame
From that hip wound, and somewhat thin and wan,
I sought the village. Here I heard her name
And shame's made one. How Rupert passed one dawn;
How she among his troopers rode—astride
Like any man—pale-faced and feverish-eyed.

XII

Which way these took they pointed, and I went
Like fire after. Oh, the thought was good
That they were on before! And much it meant
To know she lived still; she, whose image stood
Like flame before me, making turbulent
Each heart-beat with her wrongs, that were fierce food
Unto my hate that, “Courage!” cried, “Rest not!
Think of her there, and let thy haste be hot!”

397

XIII

But months went by and still I had not found:
Yet, here and there, as wearily I sought,
I caught some news: how he had held his ground
Against the Roundhead troops; or how he'd fought
Then fled—returned and conquered. Like a hound
Questing a boar, I followed; but was brought
No nearer to my quarry. Day by day
It seemed that Satan kept him from my way.

XIV

A woman rode beside him, so they said,
A fair-faced wanton, mounted like a man—
Isolda!—my Isolda!—Better dead,
Yea, dead and damned! than thus—the courtezan
Bold, unreluctant, to such men! A dread,
That such should be, unmanned me. Doubt began
To whisper at my heart.—But I was mad,
To insult her with such thoughts, whose love I had.

398

XV

At last one day I rested in a glade
Near that same woodland which I lay in when
Sore wounded: and, while sitting in the shade
Of an old beech—what! did I dream? or men
Like Rupert's own ride near me? and a maid—
Isolda or her double!—Wildly then
I rose and, shouting, leapt upon my horse;
Unsheathed my sword and rode across their course.

XVI

Mainly I looked for Rupert, and by name
Challenged him forth:—“Dog! dost thou hide behind?—
Insulter of women! Coward! save where shame
And rapine call thee! God at last is kind,
And my sword waits!”—Like an upbeating flame,
My voice rose to a windy shout; and blind
I seemed to sit, till, with an outstretched hand,
Isolda rode before me from that band.

399

XVII

“Gerald!” she cried; not as a soul surprised
With gladness that the loved, deemed dead, still lives;
But like the soul that long hath realized
Only misfortune and to fortune gives
No confidence, though it be recognized
As good. She spoke: “Lo, we are fugitives.
Rupert is slain. And I am going home.”
Then like a child asked simply, “Wilt thou come? . . .

XVIII

“Oh, I have suffered, Gerald! Oh, my God!
What shame! What torture! Once my soul was clean—
Stained and defiled behold it!—I have trod
Sad ways of hell and horror. I have seen
And lived all depths of lust. Yet, oh, my God!
Blameless I hold myself of what hath been,
Though through it all, yea,—this thou too must know,—
I loved him, my betrayer and thy foe!”

400

XIX

Sobbing she spoke as if but half awake,
Her eyes far-fixed beyond me, far beyond
All hope of mine.—So! it was for his sake,
His love, that she had suffered! . . . Blind and fond,
For what return! . . . And I—to nurse a snake,
And never dream its nature would respond
With some such fang of venom! 'Twas for this
That I had ventured all—to find her his!

XX

At first half-stunned I stood; then blood and brain,
Like two stern judges, who had slept, awoke,
Rose up and thundered, “Slay her!” Every vein
And nerve responded, “Slay her at a stroke!”—
And I had done it, but my heart again,
Like a strong captain in a tumult, spoke,
And the fierce discord fell. And quietly
I sheathed my sword and said, “I'll go with thee.”

401

XXI

But this was my reward for all I'd borne,
My loyalty and love! To see her eyes
Hollow from tears for him; her thin cheeks worn
With grief for him; to know them all for lies,
Her vows of faith to me; to come forlorn,
Where I had hoped to come on Paradise,
On Hell's black gulf; and, as if not enough,
Soiled as she was and outcast, still to love!

XXII

Then rode one ruffian from the rest, clay-flecked
From spur to plume with hurry; seized my rein,
And—“What art thou,” demanded, “who hast checked
Our way and challenged?”—Then, with some disdain,
Isolda, “Sir, my kinsman did expect
Your captain here. What honor may remain
To me I pledge for him. Hold off thy hands!
He but attends me to the Moated Manse.”

402

XXIII

We rode in silence. And at evening came
Unto the Moated Manse.—Great clouds had grown
Up in the west, on which the sunset's flame
Lay like the hand of slaughter.—Very lone
Its rooms and halls: a splintered door that, lame,
Swung on one hinge; a cabinet o'erthrown;
Or arras torn; or blood-stain turning wan,
Showed us the way the battle once had gone.

XXIV

We reached the tower-chamber towards the west,
In which on that dark day she thought to hide
From Rupert when, at last, 'twas manifest
We could not hold the Manse. There was no pride
In her deep eyes now; nor did scorn invest
Her with such dignity as once defied
Him bursting in to find her standing here
Prepared to die like some dog-hunted deer.

403

XXV

She took my hand, and, as if naught of love
Had ever been between us, said,—“All know
The madness of that hour when with his glove
He struck, then slew my brother, and brought woe
On all our house: and thou, incensed above
The rest, came here, and made my foe thy foe.
But he had left. 'Twas then I promised thee
My hand, but, ah! my heart was gone from me.

XXVI

“Yea, he had won me, this same Rupert, when
He was our guest.—Thou know'st how gallantry
And recklessness make heroes of most men
To us weak women!—And so secretly
I vowed to be his wife. It happened then
My brother found him in some villainy;
The insult followed: Guy was killed . . . and thou
Dost still remember how I made a vow.—

XXVII

“But still this man pursued me, and I held
Firm to my vow, albeit I loved him still,

404

Unknown to all, with all the love unquelled
Of first impressions, and against my will.
At last despair of winning me compelled
Him to the oath he swore: He would not kill,
But take me living and would make my life
A living death. No man should make me wife.

XXVIII

“The war, that now consumes us, did, indeed,
Give him occasion.—I had not been warned,
When down he came against me in the lead
Of his marauders. With thy help I scorned
His mad attacks two days. I would not plead
Nor parley with him, who came hoofed and horned,
Like Satan's self in soul, and, with Hell's aid,
Took this strong house and kept the oath he made.

XXIX

“Months passed. Alas! it needs not here to tell
What often thou hast heard: Of how he led
His ruffians here now there; or what befell
Me of dishonor. Oft I wished me dead,
Loathing my life,—than which the nether Hell
Hath less of horror!—So we fought or fled

405

From place to place until a year had passed,
And Parliament forces hemmed us in at last.

XXX

“Yea, I had only lived for this—to right
With death my wrongs sometime. And love and hate
Contended in my bosom when, that night
Before the fight that should decide our fate,
I entered where he slept. There was no light
Save of the stars to see by. Long and late
I leaned above him there, yet could not kill—
Hate raised the dagger but love held it still.

XXXI

“The woman in me conquered. What a slave
To our emotions are we! To relent
At this long-waited moment!—Wave on wave
Of pitying weakness swept me, and I bent—
And kissed his face. Then prayed to God; and gave
My trust to God; and left to God th' event.—
I never looked on Rupert's face again,
For in the morning's combat—he was slain.

406

XXXII

“Out of defeat escaped some scant three score
Of all his followers. And night and day
We fled; and while the Roundheads pressed us sore,
And in our road, good as a fortress, lay
The Moated Manse,—where our three-score or more
Might well hold out,—I pointed them the way.
And we are come, amid its wrecks to end
The crime begun here.—Thou must go, my friend!

XXXIII

“Go quickly! For the time approaches when
Destruction must arrive.—Oh, well I know
All thou wouldst say to me.—What boots it then?—
I tell thee thou must go! that thou must go!—
Yea, dost thou think I'd have thee die 'mid men
Like these, for such an one as I?—No! no!—
Thy life is clean. Thou shalt not cast away
Thy clean life for my soiled one!” . . . “I will stay!”

407

XXXIV

I said.—Then spoke . . . . I know not what it was.
And seized her hand and kissed it and then said,—
“Thou art my promised wife. Thou hast no cause
That is not mine. I love thee. We will wed.
Isolda, come!”—A moment did she pause,
Then shook her head and sighed, “My heart is dead.
This can not be. Behold, that way is thine.
I will not let thee share the way that's mine.”

XXXV

Then turning from me ere I could prevent
Passed like a shadow from the shadowy room,
Leaving my soul in shadow. . . . Naught was meant
By my sweet flower of love then! bloom by bloom
I'd watched it wither; then its fragrance went,
And dust it was now. . . . It was dark as doom,
And bells seemed ringing far off in the rain,
When from that house I turned my face again.

408

XXXVI

Then in the night a trumpet; and the dull
Close thud of horse and clash of spurs and arms;
And glimmering helms swept by me.—Sorrowful
I stood and waited till against the storm's
Black breast, the Manse,—a burning carbuncle,—
Blazed like a battle-beacon, and alarms
Of onslaught clanged around it.—Then, like one,
Who bears with him God's curse, I galloped on.

409

AN OLD TALE RETOLD

From the terrace here, where the hills indent,
You can see the uttermost battlement
Of the castle there: the Clifford's home
Where the seasons go and the seasons come
And never a footstep else doth fall
Save the prowling fox's; the ancient hall
Echoes no voice save the owlet's call:
Its turret chambers are homes for the bat;
And its courts are tangled and wild to see;
And where in the cellar was once the rat,
The viper and toad move stealthily.
Long years have passed since the place was burned,
And he sailed to the wars in France and earned
The name that he bears of the bold and true
On his tomb.—Long years, since my lord, Sir Hugh,
Lived, and I was his favorite page,
And the thing then happened; and he of an age
When a man will love and be loved again,

410

Or off to the wars or a monastery;
Or toil till he deaden his heart's hard pain;
Or drink and forget it and finally bury.

I was his page. And often we fared
Through the Clare demesne, in autumn, hawking—
If the Baron had known, how they would have glared,
'Neath their bushy brows, those eyes of mocking!—
That last of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean—
And growling some six of his henchmen lean
To mount and after this Clifford and hang
With his crop-eared page to the nearest oak,
How he would have cursed us while he spoke!
For Clare and Clifford had ever a fang
In the other's side . . . And I hear the clang
Of his rage in the hall when the hawker told—
If he told!—how we met on the autumn wold
His daughter, sweet Clara of Clare, the day
Her hooded tiercel its brails did burst,
And trailing its jesses, came flying our way—
An untrained haggard the falconer cursed
While he tried to secure:—as the eyas flew

411

Slant, low and heavily over us, Hugh,—
Who saw it coming, and had just then cast
His peregrine hawk at a heron quarry,—
In his saddle rising thus, as it passed
By the jesses caught, and to her did carry,
Where she stood near the wood. Her face flushed rose
With the glad of the meeting.—No two foes
Her eyes and my lord's, I swear, who saw
'Twas love from the start.—And I heard him speak;
Dismount, then kneel—and the sombre shaw,
With the sad of the autumn waste and bleak,
Grew spring with her smile, as the hawk she took
On her slender wrist, where it pruned and shook
Its callowness. Then I saw him seize
The hand that she reached to him, long and white,
As she smilingly bade him rise from his knees—
When he kissed her fingers her eyes grew bright.
But her cheeks were pallid when, lashing through
The thicket there, his face a-flare

412

With the sting of the wind, and his gipsy hair
Flying, the falconer came, and two
Or three of the people of Castle Clare.
And the leaves of the autumn made a frame
For the picture there in the morning's flame.

What was said in that moment I do not know,
That moment of meeting between those lovers:
Whatever it was, 't was whispered low,
Soft as a leaf that swings and hovers,
A twinkling gold, when the woods are yellow.
And her face with the joy was still aglow
When out of the wood that burly fellow
Came with his frown, and made a pause
In the pulse of their words.—My lord, Sir Hugh,
Stood with the soil on his knee. No cause
Had he, but his hanger he partly drew,
Then clapped it sharp in its sheath again,
And bowed to my lady, and strode away;
And vaulting his horse, with a loosened rein
Rode with a song in his heart all day.

He loved and was loved, I knew; for, look!
All other sports for the chase he forsook.
And strange that he never went to hawk,
Or hunt, but Clara would meet him there

413

In the Strongbow forest!—I know the rock,
With its ferns and its moss, by the bramble lair,
Where oft and often he met—by chance,
Shall I say?—the daughter of Clare; as fair
Of face as a queen in an old romance,
Who waits expectant and pale; her hair
Night-deep; and eyes dove-gray with dreams;—
By the fountain-side where the statue gleams
And the moonbeam lolls in the lily white,—
For her knightly lover who comes at night.

Heigh-ho! they ceased, those meetings. I wot,
Betrayed to the Baron by some of his crew
Of menials who followed and saw and knew.
For she loved too well to have once forgot
The time and the place of their trysting true.
“Why and when?” would ask Sir Hugh
In the labored letters he used to lock
—The lovers' post—in a coigne of that rock.
She used to answer, but now did not.
But, nearing Yule, love gat them again
A twilight tryst—through frowardness sure!—
They met. And the day was gray with rain,
And snow: and the wind did ever endure

414

A long bleak moaning through the wood,
That chapped i' the cheek and smarted the blood;
And a burne in the forest went throb and throb,
And over it all was the wild-beast sob
Of the rushing boughs like a thing pursued.
And then it was that he learned how she,
(God's blood! how it makes my old limbs quiver
To think what a miserable tyrant he—
The Baron Richard—aye and ever
To his daughter was!) forsooth! must wed
With an eastern earl—a Lovell: to whom
(Would God o' His mercy had struck him dead!)
Clara of Clare when merely a child,—
With a face like a flower, that blows in the wild
Of the hills, and a soul like its soft perfume,—
Was given—say, sealed—to strengthen some ties
Of power and wealth—say bartered, then,
Like the veriest chattel. With tearful eyes
And lips a-tremble she spoke. And when
My lord, her lover, had learned and heard,—
He'd have had her flee with him then, 'sdeath!

415

In spite of them all! Let her say the word,
They would fly together: the baron's men
Might follow; and if . . . and he touched his sword—
It should answer! But she, while she seemed to stay,
With a hand on her bosom, her heart's quick breath,
Replied to his heat: “They would take and slay
Thee who art life of my life!—Not thus
Will we fly!—There's another way for us;
A way that is sure; an only way;
I have thought on it this many a day.”—
The words that she spake how well I remember!
As well as the mood o' that day of December,
That bullied and blustered and seemed in league,
Like a spiteful shrew, with the wind and the snow,
To drown the words of their sweet intrigue,
With the boom of the boughs tossed to and fro,
That the storm swept through with its wildbeast low.

416

Her last words these, “By curfew sure,
On Christmas eve, at the postern door.”
[OMITTED]

And we were there; with a led horse too;
Armed for a journey—I hardly knew
Whither, but why, you well may guess.
For often he whispered a certain name,
The talisman dear of his happiness,
That warmed his blood like a Yule-log's flame.
While we waited there, till its owner came,
We saw how the castle's baronial girth,
Like a giant's, loosed for revelling more,
Shone; and we heard the wassail and mirth
Where the mistletoe hung in the hearth's red roar,
And the holly brightened the weaponed wall
Of carven oak in the banqueting hall.
And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turned
O'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burned,
Where the whole wild-boar and the deer were roasted,
And the half of an ox and the roe-buck's haunches;
While tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted,
And casks of sack, were broached for paunches
Of vassals who revelled in stable and hall.

417

The song of the minstrel; the yeomen's quarrel
O'er the dice and the drink; and the huntsman's bawl
In the baying kennels, its hounds a-snarl
O'er the bones of the feast; now loud, now low,
We could hear where we crouched in the drifting snow.

Was she long? did she come? . . . By the postern we
Like shadows waited. My lord, Sir Hugh,
Spoke, pointing a tower: “That casement, see?
When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue
And signals thrice slowly, thus—'t is she.”
And close to his breast his gaberdine drew,
For the wind it whipped and the snow beat through.
Did she come?—We had waited an hour or twain,
When the taper flashed in the central pane,
And flourished three times and vanished so.
And under the arch of the postern's portal,
Crouched down by the horses we stood in the snow,

418

Stiff with the cold.—Ah, me! immortal
Minutes we waited, breath-bated, and listened
Shivering there in the hurl of the gale:
The parapets whistled, the angles glistened,
And the night around seemed one black wail
Of death, whose ominous presence over
The snow-swept battlements seemed to hover.
Said my lord, Sir Hugh,—to himself he spoke,—
“She feels for the spring in the sliding panel
'Neath the arras, hid in the carven oak.
It opens. The stair, like a well's dark channel,
Yawns, and the draught makes her taper slope.
Wrapped deep in her mantle of fur, she puts
One foot on the stair: now a listening pause
As nearer and nearer the mad search draws
Of the thwarted castle. No smallest hope
That they find her now that the panel shuts!
If the wind, that howls like a tortured thing,
Would throttle itself with its cries, then I
Might hear how her hurrying footsteps ring
Down the secret . . . there! 'tis her fingers try
The postern's bolts that the rust makes cling.”—
But 'twas only some whim of the wind that shook

419

A clanging ring on a creaking hook
In the buttress or wall. And we waited, numb
With the cold, till dawn—but she did not come.

I must tell you why and have done: 'Tis said,
On the eve of the marriage she fled the side
Of the guests and the bridegroom there: she fled
With a mischievous laugh,—“I'll hide! I'll hide!
A kiss for the one who shall find!”—and led
A long search after her; but defied
All search for—a score and ten long years.
Well, the laughter of Yule was turned to tears
For them as for us. We saw the glare
Of torches that hurried from chamber to stair;
And we heard the castle reëcho her name,
But she laughed no answer and never came,
And that was the last of Clara of Clare.

That winter it was, a month thereafter,
That the home of the Cliffords, roof and rafter,
Burned.—I could swear 'twas the Strongbow's doing,

420

Were I sure that he knew of the Clifford's wooing
His daughter; and so, by the Rood and Cross!
Made a torch of Hugh's home to avenge his loss.—
So over the Channel to France with his King,
The Black Prince, sailed to the wars—to deaden
The ache of the mystery—Hugh that spring
And fell at Poitiers; for his loss lay leaden
O' his heart; and his life was a weary sadness,
So he flung it away in a moment's madness.
And the baron died. And the bridegroom?—well,
Unlucky was he in truth!—to tell
Of him there is nothing.—The baron died,
The last of the Strongbows he—gramercy!
And the Clare estate with its wealth and pride
Devolved to the Bloets, Walter and Percy.

And years went by. And it happened that they
Ransacked the old castle; and so, one day,
In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest,
From Flanders; of ebon, and wildly carved
All over with masks: a sinister crest
'Mid gargoyle faces distorted and starved:

421

Fast-fixed with a spring, which they forced and, lo!
When they opened it—Death, like a lady dressed,
Grinned up at their terror!—but no, not so!
Fantastic a skeleton, jeweled and wreathed
With flowers of dust; and a miniver
Around it clasped, that the ruin sheathed
Of a once rich raiment of silk and of fur.

I'd have given my life to hear him tell,
The courtly Clifford, how this befell!
He'd have known how it was: For, you see, in groping
For the secret spring of that panel, hoping
And fearing as nearer and nearer drew
The search of retainers, why, out she blew
The tell-tale taper; and seeing this chest,
Would hide her a minute in it, mayhap,
Till the hurry had passed; but the death-lock, pressed
By the lid's great weight, shut down with a snap,
And her life went out in the hellish trap.

422

MY LADY OF VERNE

It all comes back as the end draws near;
All comes back like a tale of old!
Shall I tell you what? Will you lend an ear?
You, with your face so stern and cold;
You, who have found me dying here. . . .

Lady Valora's villa at Verne—
You have walked its terraces, where the fount
And statue gleam and the fluted urn;
Its world-old elms, that are avenues gaunt
Of shadow and flame when the west is a-burn.

'Tis a lonely region of tarns and trees,
And hollow hills that circle the west;
Haunted of rooks and the far-off sea's
Immemorial vague unrest;
A land of sorrowful memories.

A gray sad land, where the wind has its will,
And the sun its way with the fruits and flowers;

423

Where ever the one all night is shrill,
And ever the other all day brings hours
Of glimmering hush that dead dreams fill.

A gray sad land, where her girlhood grew
To womanhood proud, that the hill-winds seemed
To give their moods, like melody, to;
And the stars, their thoughts, like dreams love dreamed—
The only glad thing that the sad land knew.

My Lady, you know, how nobly born!
Greatly born, with a head that rose
Like a dream of empire; love and scorn
Made haunts of her eyes; and her lips—twin bows
Of bloom, where wit was a pleasant thorn.

And I—oh, I was nobody: one
Her worshiper merely; who chose to be
Silent, seeing that love alone
Was his only badge of nobility,
Set in his heart's escutcheon.

How long ago does the springtime look,
When we wandered away to the hills! the hills,—

424

Like the land in the tale in the Fairy-book,—
Gold with the gold of the daffodils,
And gemmed with the crocus by bank and brook!

When I gathered a branch from a hawthorn tree,
For her hair or bosom, from boughs that hung
Odorous of Heaven and purity;
She thanked me smiling; then merrily sung
This song while she laughingly looked at me:—

“There dwelt a princess over the sea—
Oh fair was she, right fair was she—
Who loved a squire of low degree,
Of low degree,
But wedded a king of Brittany—
Ah, woe is me! is me!

“And it came to pass on the wedding day—
So people say, I have heard say—
That they found her dead in her bridal array,
Her bridal array,
And dead her lover beside her lay—
Ah, well-away! away!

425

“A sour stave for your sweets,” she said,
Pressing the blossoms against her lips:
Then petal by petal the branch she shred,
Snowing the blooms from her finger-tips,
Tossing them down for her feet to tread.

What to her was the look I gave
Of love despised!—Though she seemed to start,
Seeing; and said, with a quick hand-wave,
“Why, one would think that that was your heart,”
While her face with a sudden thought grew grave.

But I answered nothing. And so to her home
We came in the eve; slow-falling, clear
With a few first stars and a crescent of foam,
The twilight dusked; and we heard from the mere
The distant boom of a bittern come.

Would you think that she loved me?—Who could say?—
What a riddle unread was she to me!—
When I kissed her fingers and turned away
I wanted to speak, but—what cared she,

426

Though her eyes looked soft and she bade me stay!

Though she lingered to watch me—That might be
A slim moonbeam or a shred of haze,—
But never my Lady's drapery
Or wistful face!—in the woodbine maze.
Valora of Verne—why, what cared she!

So the days went by, and the Summer wore
Its hot heart out; and, a mighty slayer,
The Autumn harried the land and shore,
And the world grew red with its wrecks; then grayer
Than ghosts of the dreams of the nevermore.

The sheaves of the Summer had long been bound;
The harvests of Autumn had long been past;
And the snows of the Winter lay deep around,
When the hard news came and I knew at last;
And the reigning woe of my heart was crowned.

So I sought her here: the old Earl's bride:
In the ancient room, at the oriel dreaming,

427

Pale as the blooms in her hair; and, wide,
The dented satin, flung stormily, gleaming
Like beaten silver, twilight-dyed.

I marked as I stole to her side that tears
Were vaguely large in her beautiful eyes;
That the loops of pearls on her throat, and years-
Old lace on her bosom were heaved with sighs:
And I said to her softly:—“It appears”—

Then stopped with, it seemed, my soul in my eyes—
“That you are not happy, Valora of Verne!
There is that at your heart which—well, denies
These mocking mummeries.—Live and learn!—
And is it the truth or only lies?—

“You must hear me now! whom I oft with my heart,—
In words of the soul, that are silent in speech,—
Whispered my love; too sacred for art;
But yours never heard—for I could not reach
Yours in that world of which you are part.

428

“That world, where I saw you as one afar
Sees palms and waters, and knows that sands,
Pitiless sands, before him are;
Yet follows ever with reaching hands
Till he sinks at last.—You were my star,

“My hope, my heaven!—I loved you! . . . Life
Is less than nothing to me!” . . . She turned,
With a wild look, saying—“Now I am his wife
You come and tell me!—Indeed you are learned
In the unheard language of hearts!” . . . A knife,

As she ceased and leaned on a cabinet,—
A curve of scintillant steel keen, cold,—
Fell, icily clashing: a curio met
Among Asian antiques, bronze and gold,
Mystical; curiously graven and set.

A Bactrian dagger, whose slightest prick,
Through its ancient poison, was death, I knew.—
If true that she loved me—then!—And quick

429

To the unspoken thought she replied, “'Tis true!
I have loved you long, and my soul was sick,

“Sick for the love that has made me weak,
Weak to your will even now!”—And more
She said, in my arms, that I will not speak—
And the dagger there on the polished floor
Ever her eyes, while she spoke, would seek.

“‘And it came to pass on the wedding-day’”—
Then my lips for a moment were crushed to hers—
“‘That they found her dead in her bridal array,’”
She sang; then said, “You finish the verse!
Finish the song, for you know the way.”

And I whispered “yes,” for my heart had thought
Her own thought through—that life were a hell
To us so asunder.—And the blade I caught
With a sudden hand; and she leaned; and—well,
What a little wound, and the blood it brought

430

To crimson her bosom!—I set her there
In that carven chair; then turned the blade,—
With its white-gold handle thick with the glare,
Barbaric, of jewels, wildly inlaid,—
To my breast, for the poisonous point rent bare.

A stain of blood on her breast, and one
Black red o'er my heart, you see.—'Tis good
To die with her here! . . . Does the sinking sun,
Through the dull deep west burst, banked with blood?—
Or is it that life will at last have done? . . .

So you are her husband? and—well, you see,
You see she is dead . . . and her face—how white!
Fate bungled the cards!—did this have to be?—
What matters it now!—For at last the night
Falls and the darkness covers me.

431

GERALDINE

Ah, Geraldine, my Geraldine,
That night of love when last we met,
You have forgotten, Geraldine—
I never dreamed you would forget.

Ah, Geraldine, my Geraldine,
More lovely than that Asian queen,
Scheherazade, the beautiful,
Who in her orient palace cool
Of India, for a thousand nights
And one, beside her monarch lay,
Telling—while sandal-scented lights
And music stole the soul away—
Love tales of old Arabia,
Full of enchantments and emprise—
But no enchantments like your eyes.

Ah, Geraldine, loved Geraldine,
Less lovely were those maids, I ween,
Pampinea and Lauretta, who,

432

In gardens old of dusk and dew,
Sat with their lovers, maid and man,
In stately days Italian,
And in quaint stories, that we know
Through grace of good Boccaccio,
Told of fond loves,—some false, some true,—
But, Geraldine, none false as you.

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine,
That night of love, when last we met,
You have forgotten, Geraldine—
I never dreamed you would forget.
'Twas summer; and the moon swam high,
A great pale pearl within the sky:
And down that purple night of love
The stars, concurrent spark on spark,
Seemed moths of flame that swarmed above:
And through the roses, o'er the park,
Star-like the fireflies sowed the dark:
A mocking-bird in some deep tree,
Drowsy with dreams and melody,—
Like a magnolia bud, that, dim,
Opens and pours its soul in musk,—
Gave to the moonlight and the dusk
Its heart's pure song, its evening hymn.

433

Oh, night of love! when in the dance
Your heart thrilled rapture into mine,
As, in a state of necromance,
A mortal hears a voice divine.
Oh, night of love! when from your glance
I drank sweet death as men drink wine.

You wearied of the waltz at last.
I led you out into the night.
Warm in my hand I held yours fast.
Your face was flushed; your eyes were bright.
The moon hung like a shell of light
Above the lake, the tangled trees;
And borne to us with fragrances
Of roses that were ripe to fall,
The soul of music from the hall
Beat in the moonlight and the breeze,
As youth's wild heart grown weary of
Desire and its dream of love.

I held your arm and, for a while,
We walked along the balmy aisle
Of blossoms that, like velvet, dips
Unto the lake which lilies tile
With stars; and hyacinths, with strips
Of heaven. And beside a fall,
That down a ferned and mossy wall

434

Fell in a lake,—deep, woodbine-wound,—
A latticed summer-house we found;
A green kiosk; through which the sound
Of waters and of zephyrs swayed,
And honeysuckle bugles played
Soft serenades of perfume sweet,—
Around which ran a rustic seat.
And seated in that haunted nook,—
I know not how it was,—a word,
A touch, perhaps, a sigh, a look,
Was father to the kiss I took;
Great things grow out of small I've heard.
And then it was I took between
My hands your face, loved Geraldine,
And gazed into your eyes, and told
The story ever new though old.
You did not look away, but met
My eyes with eyes whose lids were wet
With tears of truth; and you did lean
Your cheek to mine, my Geraldine.—
I never dreamed you would forget.

The night-wind and the water sighed:
And through the leaves, that stirred above,
The moonbeams swooned with music of
The dance—soft things in league with love:
I never dreamed that you had lied.

435

How all comes back now, Geraldine!
The melody; the glimmering scene;
Your angel face; and ev'n,—between
Your lawny breasts,—the heart-shaped jewel,—
To which your breath gave fluctuant fuel,—
A rosy star of stormy fire;
The snowy drift of your attire,
Lace-deep and fragrant: and your hair,
Disordered in the dance, held back
By one gemmed pin,—a moonbeam there,
Half-drowned within its night-like black.—
And I who sat beside you then
Seemed blessed above all mortal men.

I loved you for the way you sighed;
The way you said, “I love but you;”
The smile with which your lips replied;
Your lips, that from my bosom drew
The soul; your looks, like undenied
Caresses, that seemed naught but true:
I loved you for the violet scent
That clung about you as a flower;
Your moods, where grief and gladness blent,
An April-tide of sun and shower;
You were my creed, my testament,
Wherein I met with God's high power.

436

Was it because the loving see
Only what they desire shall be
There in the well-belovéd's soul,
Passion and heart's affinity,
That I beheld in you the whole
Of my love's image? and believed
You loved as I loved? nor perceived
Yours was a mask, a mockery!

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine,
That night of love, when last we met,
You have forgotten, Geraldine—
I never dreamed you would forget.

437

AT THE CORREGIDOR'S

The young advocate Don Sebastian Lopez, between three pinches of snuff, lays the facts of the case before his friend, Don Emanuel de Cordova, chief magistrate of the City of Valladolid.

To Don Odora said Donna De Vine,
“I yield to thy long endeavor!—
At my balcony be on the stroke of nine,
And, Señor, I'm thine forever!” . . .

This beauty at first had the Don descried
As she quit the confessional: followed:
“What a face! what a form! what a foot!” he sighed,
And more that he, smiling, swallowed.

And with vows as soft as his oaths were sweet
Her heart he barricaded;
And pressed this point with a present meet,
And that point serenaded.

438

What else could the enemy do but yield
To such handsome importuning?
A gallant blade with a lute for shield
All night at her lattice mooning!

“Que es estrella! thou star of all girls!
Here's that for thy fierce duenna:
A purse of pistoles and a rosary o' pearls,
And gold as yellow as henna.

“She will drop from thy balcony's rail, my sweet,
My seraph! this silken ladder:
And then—sweet then!—my soul at thy feet,
What angel in Heaven gladder!”

And the end of it was—But I will not say
How he won to the room of the lady.—
Ah! to love is to live! and with youth—why, hey!
For the rest,—a maravedi!

Now comes her betrothed from the wars; and he,
A Count of the Court Castilian,
A Don Diabolus! sword at knee,
And face and hair—vermilion.

439

And his is a jealous love; and—for
The story grows sadder and sadder—
He watches, and sees—a robber? to her,
Or gallant? ascend a ladder.

So he pushes inquiry into her room;
With his naked sword demanding:
An alguazil, with a face like doom,
Sure of a stout withstanding.

And weapon to weapon they foined and fought:
The Count's first thrusts were vicious:
Three thrusts to the floor Odora had brought:
And one through the white, capricious.

The naked bosom of Donna De Vine—
And this is the Count's condition. . . .
Was he right? was he wrong?—the question is mine;—
To judge—for the Inquisition.

440

AN EPISODE

A woman speaks. Year 1218; war of the Albigenses.

I

Saint Dominick, Pope Innocent,
Thou holy host Lyons once bent
On Languedoc, may God the Father
Plunge you in everlasting Hell!
And may the blood of those who fell
At Béziers together gather
In torrents of eternal pain,
And on your souls beat boiling rain!

II

And Mountfort!—it was given me,
(For I had prayed incessantly),
To be the David to this giant.—
An Albigensian warrior

441

My husband was. He, in the war,
The Pope had thundered on defiant
Thoulouse and outlawed Languedoc,
Stood with Earl Raymond like a rock.

III

The walls of Béziers cried loud,
And Carcassonne's, red in their cloud
Of blood, disease, and conflagration,
For vengeance!—When he left me here,
With my two babes, I felt no fear.
The crusade's excommunication
Poured down its holy Catholics
To crush and burn us heretics.

IV

At Carcassonne he fell. And there
My babes died famished. And despair
And hell were mine within their prison,
Till Mother of our God portrayed
This Mountfort's death. On me were laid
Blessed hands of power in a vision.
A call, my soul could not refuse,
Compelled me to besieged Thoulouse.

442

V

No arrow mine, no arbalist;
A sling, a stone, a woman's wrist
God and His virgin Mother aided.—
Their engines rocked our walls. I felt
The time had come and, praying, knelt;
Then, from the sling my hair had braided,
Launched at De Mountfort's bassinet
The rock where eyebrow eyebrow met.

VI

Thus Mountfort died. Of Carcassonne
Our Lady 'twas who aimed the stone,
That slew this monster that was master:—
For I— I was the instrument,
Saint Dominick and Innocent,
That hurled on you and yours disaster!
Two armies saw me whirl the sling
While Heaven stood by me—white of wing.

443

THE SLAVE

He waited till within her tower
Her taper signalled him the hour.

He was a prince both fair and brave.
What hope that he would love her slave!

He of the Persian dynasty;
And she a Queen of Araby!—

No Peri singing to a star
Upon the sea were lovelier.

I helped her drop the silken rope.
He clomb, aflame with love and hope.

I drew the dagger from my gown
And cut the ladder, leaning down.

Oh, wild his face, and wild the fall:
Her face was wilder than them all.

444

I heard her cry, I heard him groan,
And stood as merciless as stone.

The eunuchs came: fierce scimitars
Stirred in the torch-lit corridors.

She spoke like one who prays in sleep,
And bade me strike or she would leap.

I bade her leap; the time was short;
And kept the dagger for my heart.

She leapt. I put their blades aside
And smiling in their faces—died.

445

THE ROSICRUCIAN

I

The tripod flared with a purple spark,
And the mist hung emerald in the dark:
Now he stooped to the lilac flame
Over the glare of the amber embers,
Thrice to utter no earthly name;
Thrice, like a mind that half remembers;
Bathing his face in the magic mist
Where the brilliance burned like an amethyst.

II

“Sylph, whose soul was born of mine,
Born of the love that made me thine,
Once more flash on the flesh! Again
Be the loved caresses taken!
Lip to lip let our mouths remain!—
Here in the circle of sense, awaken!
Ere spirit meets spirit, the flesh laid by,
Let me know thee, and let me die!”

446

III

Sunset heavens may burn, but never
Know such splendor! There bloomed an ever
Opaline orb, where the sylphid rose
A shape of luminous white; diviner
White than the essence of light that sows
The moons and suns through space; and finer
Than radiance born of a shooting-star,
Or the wild Aurora that streams afar.

IV

“Look on the face of the soul to whom
Thou givest thy soul like added perfume!
Thou, who heard'st me, who long had prayed,
Waiting alone at evening's portal!—
Thus on thy lips let my lips be laid,
Love, who hast made me all immortal!
Give me thine arms now! Come and rest
Happiness out on my beaming breast!”

V

Was it her soul? or the sapphire fire
That sang like the note of a Seraph's lyre?
Out of her mouth there came no word—
She spake with her soul, as a flower speaketh

447

Fragrant messages none hath heard,
Which the sense divines when the spirit seeketh. . . .
And he seemed alone in a place so dim
That the spirit's face, who was gazing at him,
For its burning eyes he could not see:
Then he knew he had died; that she and he
Were one; and he saw that this was she.

448

THE NORMAN KNIGHT

Within the castle chamber
The Norman knight lay dead;
The quarterings of the casement
Shone holy round his head.

And first there came a maiden;
Her face was wet and white:
She kissed his mouth and murmured,
“Thou wast my own true knight.”

Within the arrased chamber
The Norman knight lay dead;
And tapers four and twenty
Burnt at his feet and head.

And next there came a friar
And prayed beside the bier:
“Thou art a blesséd angel,
Who wast so noble here.”

449

Within the lofty chamber
The Norman knight lay dead;
Dim through the carven casement
The moonbeams lit his head.

And then there came a varlet—
Loud laughed he in his face:
“Thus do I spit upon thee,
Thee and thy curséd race!”

Within the silent chamber
The Norman knight lay dead—
Nor Norman knight nor Saxon serf
Heard aught the dead man said.

450

THE KHALIF AND THE ARAB

Among the tales, wherein it hath been told,
In golden letters in a book of gold,
Of Hatim Tai's hospitality,
Who, substanceless and dead and shadowy,
Made men his guests upon a mountain top
Whereon his tomb grayed from a thistle crop;—
A tomb of rock where women, hewn of stone,
Rude figures, spread dishevelled hair, whose moan
From dark to daybreak made the silence sigh,
At which the camel-drivers, tented nigh,
“Ghouls or hyenas” shuddering would say,
But only granite women find at day:—
Among such tales—who questions of their truth?—
One tale still haunts me from my earliest youth;
Of that lost city, Sheddad son of Aad
Built 'mid the Sebaa sands,—a king who had

451

Dominion over many lands and kings,—
That city, built in pride and pow'r, of things
Unstable of the earth. For he had read
Of Paradise and to himself had said,
“Now in this life the like of Paradise
I'll build me and the Prophet's may despise,
Having no need of that he promises.”
So for this city taxed the lands and seas,
And columned Irem, on a blinding height,
Blazed in the desert like a chrysolite;
The manner of its building, it is told,
Alternate bricks of silver and of gold.
But Sheddad with his women and his slaves,
His thousand viziers, armored troops, as waves
Of ocean countless, God with awful flame—
Shot sheer in thunder on him—overcame,
Confounded, and abolished; (ere his eyes
Had glimpsed bright follies of that paradise)
And blotted to a wilderness the land
Wherein accursed it lies and lost in sand.—
Sad tales and glad; and 'mid them one, in sooth,
That is recorded of an Arab youth.

The Khalif Hisham ben Abdulmelik,
Hunting one day, through some unusual freak
Rode, parted from his retinue, and gave

452

Chase to an antelope. Without a slave,
Vizier or amir to a pasture place
Of sheep he came, where dark, in tattered grace,
Watched one, an Arab youth. And as it came
The antelope drew off, with words of flame,
On fire with rage, unto the youth he turned,
Shouting, “Thou slave! ho, hast thou not discerned
The antelope escapes me? Up, dog, run!
Head him back this way!”

Rising in the sun,
The Arab flamed, “O ignorant of worth!
Unworthy of respect!—though high thy birth,—
In that thou look'st upon me,—vile of heart!—
As one fit for contempt, thou lack'st no part
Of my disdain!—Allah! I would not own
A dog of thine for friend, no other known!
Poor though I be, thou tyrant mixed with ass!”
And flung him, rags and rage, into the grass.

Incensed, astonished, frowning furiously,
Said Hisham, “Slave! thou know'st me not, I see!”

453

Calmly the youth, “Aye, verily I know!—
O mannerless! who would command me so,
Except thyself, ere he said ‘Peace to thee’?
Well art thou known, aye! all too well of me!”

“O dog! I am thy Khalif! by a hair
Thy life hangs raveling.”

“Though it dangle there
And rot to nothing, still upon thy head
Would curses shower!—Of thy dwelling place
Would Allah be forgetful!—Go thy ways,
Hisham ben Merwan, king of many words,
Few generosities!” . . .

A flash of swords
In drifts of dust and, lo! the Khalif's troops
Around them rode.—As when a merlin stoops
Some stranger quarry, prey that swims the wind,
Heron or eagle; kenning not its kind
There, whence 'tis cast, until it, towering, feels
An eagle's tearing talons, and still deals
Blow upon blow, though hopeless;—so the youth,—
An Arab, fearless as the face of Truth,

454

Of all that made him certain of his death,—
Waited with eyes indifferent, equal breath.

The palace reached, “Bring me the prisoner,”
Commanded Hisham. And he came as were
He in no wise concerned; with eyes intent
On some far thing; and on the floor a bent
Dark gaze of scornful freedom unafraid,
Till at the Khalif's throne his steps were stayed:
And, unsaluting, standing head held down,
An armed attendant blazed him with a frown,
“Dog of a Bedouin! may thy eyes rot out!
Insulter! art thou blind? and must I shout
‘Thou stand'st before the Sultan! bend thy knee’?”
To him the Arab, sneering, “Verily,
Packsaddle of an ass! it well may be!
I kneel to none but God.”

The Khalif's rage
Exceeded now, and, “By my realm and age!
Arab, thy hour is come, thy very last!”
Then said, “Call in the headsman.—Fool, thou hast
Cast thy young life away. Its thread is past.”

The shepherd answered, “Aye?—by Allah, then,

455

If through thy means it might be stretched again,
Unscissored of what Destiny ordain,
Back in thy face I'd fling it as in vain.”

Then the chief Chamberlain: “O vilest one
Of all the Arabs! wilt thou not be done
Bandying thy baseness with the Ruler of
The Faithful? thou, with wordy filth enough
Within thy madman mouth to fill a jakes!
Viler than dirt that one from out it rakes,
Here's more for thee!” and spat into his face.

And the dark Arab, with that last disgrace
All fire, answered: “Thou, perhaps, hast heard
The Koran text that says—'tis God's own word!—
‘The day will come when each soul shall be prompt
To bow before Me and to give accompt.’”

Then wroth indeed was Hisham: fiercely said,
“He braves us!—Headsman, ho! his peevish head!
See: canst thou medicine its speech anew;
Doctor its multiplying words to few:
Divorce them well.”

456

So, where the Arab stood,
Bound him; made kneel upon the cloth of blood.
With curving sword the headsman leaned, at pause,
And,—as 'tis custom, made of Moslem laws,—
To the descendant of the Prophet quoth,
“O Khalif, shall I strike?”

“By Iblis' oath!
Strike!” answered Hisham. But again the slave
Questioned; and yet again the Khalif gave
His nodded “yea”; and for the third time then
He asked: and knowing neither men nor Jinn
Might save him if the Khalif spake assent,
Signalled the sword, the youth with body bent
Laughed—till the wang-teeth of each jaw appeared;
Laughed—as with scorn the King of kings he'd beard,
Deriding Death. So, with redoubled spleen,
Roared Hisham, rising, “It is truly seen
This one is mad who mocks at Azrael!”

457

Then said the Arab: “Listen!—Once befell,
Commander of the Faithful, that a hawk,
A hungry hawk, pounced on a sparrow-cock;
And winging nestward with his meal in claw,
To him the sparrow,—for the creature saw
The hawk's conceit,—addressed this slyly, ‘Oh,
Most great, most royal, there is not, I know,
Aught in me that will stay thy stomach's stress:
I am too paltry for thy mightiness!’
With which the hawk was pleased, and flattered so
That, in a while, he let the sparrow go.”

Then smiled the Khalif Hisham: and a sign
Staying the scimitar, that hung malign,
A threatening crescent, said: “God bless, preserve
The Prophet whom all true believers serve!—
Now, by my kinship to the Prophet! and
Had he at first but spake us thus this hand
Had ne'er been wrathful; and, instead of hate,
He had had all—except the Khalifate.”
Bade stuff his mouth with jewels and entreat
Him courteously, then from the palace beat.

458

ARABAH

“The third of these heroes, the blind Arabah.”—
Gibbon.

And one brought pearls and one brought passion-flowers
To blind Arabah as he lay in dreams,
And one brought visions of the after hours.
And he beheld the rainbow-rolling streams
Of Eden on harmonious sands of gold,
And battlements, builded of prismatic beams.
He was not sightless now, nor weak, nor old;
For lo! the dark-eyed girls of Paradise
Rained on him gifts and kisses.

And 'tis told
How blind Arabah rose with unsealed eyes,
With seeing eyes; he who to Allah gave
All that he had; which happened in this wise:—
“Who's this that lies upon the mosque's cold pave?”—

459

“A blind man, whom an angel's hand shall lead.”—
“A beggar, richer than the rich who have.”—
“Behold the lesson, such as Sufis feed
The soul upon!—O faith, blind-praying, see,
Out of thyself how God repays indeed,
Ten-thousandfold, one generosity!” . . .

All Baghdad knew how, at the hour of prayer,
A slave beneath each shoulder, it was he,
Old, blind Arabah, whom a suppliant there,
Footsore and hungry, met and asked for bread.
“Alas! my son, God's poor are everywhere,”—
Hoar as a Koreish priest, Arabah said;—
“Richer than thou am I though poor indeed!
Take thou my slaves and sell, and buy thee bread.”—
Thrust him his slaves and said, “Great is thy need.
Refuse, and I renounce them!”—And the wall
Struck with his staff, saying, “This now shall lead.”
—While from the mosque rang the muezzin's call,
“God is most mighty! Allah seeth all!”

460

THE SEVEN DEVILS

There is a legend, lost in some old dusty
Tome of the East,—and who will question it?—
Concluding ancient wisdom, rather musty,
Wherein much war and wickedness and wit,
Insult and wrath and love and shame are writ:
Wherein is written that, when Mahomet
Fled out of Mecca from the people's wrath,
He met a shadow standing in his path,
A naked horror, blacker than hewn jet.

It in one hand held out a flaming jewel,
Wherein fierce colors burnt and blent like eyes
Of seven fires, merciless as cruel:
The horror said, “God cursed them for their lies.
These are the seven devils of the wise,

461

And I am Satan!” And the prophet saw
How he might punish Mecca for its pride;
And, gazing on the Fiend, “Allah,” he cried,
“Let them be free!” His word, like God's, was law.

Since then these seven devils have descended
From nation unto nation, past the ken
Of Mahomet, who left earth undefended
Of any amulet of tongue or pen
'Gainst demons boring at the brains of men:
Demons, whose names I dare not breathe or write,
For fear of fear, despair and madness, born
Of horror, and of frenzy all forlorn,
And shadowy evils of the day and night.

462

THAMUS

And it is said that Thamus sailed
Off islands of Ægean seas
No seaman yet had ever hailed;
No vessel touched, no ship of Greece,
Phœnician or the Chersonese.

And, lying all becalmed, 'tis told
How wonderful with peace that night
Rolled out of dusk and dreamy gold
One star, whose splendor seemed to light
The world with majesty and might.

Like shadows on a shadow-ship
The dark-haired, dark-eyed sailors lay;
When from the island seemed to slip,
Borne overhead and far away,
A voice that “Thamus!” seemed to say.

Then silence: and the languid Greek,
The lounging Cretan, watched the sky,

463

Or, in carousal, ceased to speak
And sing. Again came rolling by
The voice, and “Thamus!” in its cry.

All were awake: tall, swarthy men
With bated breath stood listening,
Or gravely scanned the shore. And then,
Although they saw no living thing,
Again they heard the summons ring.

And “Thamus!” sounded shore and sea:
And at the third call leaned the Greek,
Full facing toward the isle; and he
Cried to the voice and bade it speak
The mission, message it would seek.

“Thou shalt sail on to such a place
Among the pagan seas,” it said;
“To such a land: and thou shalt face
Against it when the east is red,
And cry aloud, ‘Great Pan is dead!’” . . .

As fearful of unholy word
Their souls stood stricken with strange fear.
Then Thamus said, “Yea, I have heard.
Yet 'tis my purpose still to steer
Straight on. That land shall never hear!”

464

And so they sailed that night; and came
Into an unknown sea; and there
The east burnt like a sword of flame
A Cyclops forges: straight the air
Fell sick with calm: the morn was fair.

Then double dread was theirs; and dread
Was Thamus'; and he raised his hand
And shouted, “Pan! great Pan is dead!”
And all the twilight-haunted land
Cried, “Pan is dead!” from peak to strand.

They saw pale shrines and temples nod
Among the shaken trees: and pale
Wild forms of goddess and of god
Crawl forth with crumbling limbs and trail
Woe, till the dim land grew one wail.—

What tripods groaned?—Serapis first
Within Canopus' temples heard
The word, and his brute granite burst
Its monster bulk. Dodona stirred
And bowed its oaks before the word

That left them thunder-riv'n; then passed
To Aphaca where, marble-hewn,

465

Venus possessed a well that glassed
Her form, white-burning, like the moon—
And lo! her loveliness lay strewn.

Then o'er Cilicia swept, and bent
Sarpedon's oracle with scorn,
Apollo.—Yea! the gods lay rent
And Delphos dumb. And, lo! the morn
Flamed o'er the world where Christ lay born.

466

THE MAMELUKE

I

She was a queen. 'Midst mutes and slaves,
A mameluke, he loved her.—Waves
Dashed not more hopelessly the paves
Of her high marble palace-stair
Than lashed his love his heart's despair.—
As souls in Hell dream Paradise,
He suffered yet forgot it there
Beneath Rommanch's houri eyes.

II

With passion eating at his heart
He served her beauty, but dared dart
No look at her or word impart.—
Taïfi leather's perfumed tan
Beneath her, on a low divan
She lay 'mid cushions stuffed with down;
A slave-girl with an ostrich fan
Sat by her in a golden gown.

467

III

She bade him sing; fair lutanist
She loved his voice: with one white wrist,
Hooped with a blaze of amethyst,
She raised her ruby-crusted lute:
Gold-welted stuff, like some rich fruit,
Her raiment, diamond-showered, rolled
Folds pigeon-purple, whence one foot
Drooped in an anklet-twist of gold.

IV

He stood and sang with all the fire
That boiled within his blood's desire,
That made him all her slave yet higher:
And, at the end, his passion durst
Quench with one burning kiss its thirst.—
O eunuchs! did her face show scorn
When through his heart your daggers burst?
And dare you say he died forlorn?

468

ROMAUNT OF THE ROSES

A jongleur tells to the Viscountess of Ventadour,—wife of the Seigneur of the Château de Ventadour, in Limousin,—how the troubadour Bernard, her former lover, met his death. Time, the middle of the 12th century.

All the night was drowned in dreaming;
And, above the terraced height,
Hung the moon, a sinking crescent,
In the ocean mirrored white;
And a breath of distant music
And of fragrance filled the night.

Dripped the musk of myriad roses
From a million heavy sprays;
And the nightingales were sobbing
'Mid the roses, where the haze
And the purple mists of midnight
Caught the moonlight's rippled rays.

469

And the towers of the palace,
'Mid its belt of ancient trees,
On the mountain rose, romantic,
White as foam of summer seas;
And the murmur of the ocean
Made a harp of every breeze.

Where the moon shone on the terrace
And its fountains' falling foam;
Where the marble urns of flowers
Spilled their perfume in the gloam;
By the alabaster Venus
Stood her troubadour come home.

Bernard, he who was my master
And your lover, Ventadour;
There to meet her by commandment,
She the lovely Eleanor;
She of Normandy the Duchess,
He a simple troubadour.

And she met him by the statue,
By the marble Venus there,—
Like a moonbeam 'mid the roses,
Who their crimson hearts laid bare,
Breathing out their lives in fragrance,
At her naked feet and fair.—

470

Then she told him she was Queen now,
That her husband now was King,
King of England; and to-morrow
She would sail. And then a ring
From her hand she took and gave him;
For the last time bade him sing.

And he sang. Below, the dingles,
Where the lazy vapors lolled,
Where the torrent flashed its cascade,
Touched with amethyst and gold,
Echoed; where the wild deer glimmered
By the ruin gray and old.

From the Venus then, or roses,
Struck a dagger; snake that stung,
Laid him dead who'd tuned her heart's strings
Till for him alone they sung:
Stilled the heart of him who only
From her heart one note had wrung.

And the nightingales kept singing
'Mid the roses, while, like stone,
Eleanor sank pale beside him,
And unto the palace lone
Stole a shadow with a dagger,
Who shall sit upon a throne.

471

THE PORTRAIT

In some quaint Nürnberg maler-atelier
Uprummaged. When and where was never clear
Nor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom
'Twas painted—who shall say? itself a gloom
Resisting inquisition. I opine
It is a Dürer. Mark that touch, this line,
Are they deniable?—Distinguished grace
And the pure oval of the noble face
Tarnished in color badly. Half in light
Extend it so. Incline. The exquisite
Expression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn;
Imperial beauty; each, an icy thorn
Of light, disdainful eyes and . . . well! no use!
Effaced and but beheld! a sad abuse
Of patience.—Often, vaguely visible,
The portrait fills each feature, making swell
The heart with hope: avoiding face and hair
Start out in living hues; astonished, “There!

472

The woman lives,” your soul exults, when, lo!
You hold a blur; an undetermined glow
Dislimns a daub.—Restore?—Ah, I have tried
Our best restorers, but it has defied.

Storied, mysterious, say, perhaps, a ghost
Lives in the canvas; hers, some artist lost;
A duchess', haply. Her he worshiped; dared
Not tell he worshiped. From his window stared,
Of Nuremberg, one sunny morn when she
Passed paged to Court. Her cold nobility
Loved, lived for like a purpose. Seized and plied
A feverish brush—her face!—Despaired and died.

The narrow Judengasse: gables frown
Around a humpbacked usurer's, where brown
And dirty in a corner long it lay,
Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as—say,
Retables done in tempora and old
Panels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings cold
Of martyrs and apostles,—names forgot,—
Holbeins and Dürers, say; a haloed lot
Of praying saints, madonnas: these, perchance,

473

'Mid wine-stained purples, mothed; an old romance;
A crucifix and rosary; inlaid
Arms, Saracen-elaborate; a strayed
Nïello of Byzantium; rich work,
In bronze, of Florence; here a delicate dirk,
There holy patens.

So. My ancestor,
The first De Herancour, esteemed by far
This piece most precious, most desirable;
Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked well
In the dark paneling above the old
Hearth of his room. The head's religious gold,
The soft severity of the nun face,
Made of the room an apostolic place
Revered and feared.—

Like some lived scene I see
That gothic room; its Flemish tapestry:
Embossed within the marble hearth a shield,
Wreathed round with thistles; in its argent field
Three sable mallets—arms of Herancour—
Carved with the crest, a helm and hands that bore,

474

Outstretched, two mallets. On a lectern laid,—
Between two casements, lozenge-paned, embayed,—
A vellum volume of black-lettered text.
Near by a taper, blinking as if vexed
With silken gusts a nervous curtain sends,
Behind which, haply, daggered Murder bends.

And then I seem to see again the hall,
The stairway leading to that room.—Then all
The terror of that night of blood and crime
Passes before me.—It is Catherine's time:
The house, De Herancour's: on floors, splashed red,
Torchlight of Medicean wrath is shed:
Down carven corridors and rooms,—where couch
And chairs lie shattered and the shadows crouch,
Torch-pierced, with fear,—a sound of swords draws near,
The stir of searching steel.

What find they here
On St. Bartholomew's?—A Huguenot
Dead in his chair! Eyes violently shot

475

With horror, fastened on a portrait there;
Coiling his neck one blood line, like a hair
Of finest fire. The portrait, like a fiend,—
Looking exalted visitation,—leaned
From its black panel; in its eyes a hate
Demonic; hair—a glowing auburn, late
A dull, enduring golden.

“Just one thread
Of the fierce hair around his throat,” they said,
“Twisting a burning ray, he—staring dead.”

476

BEHRAM AND EDDETMA

Against each prince now she had held her own,
An easy victor for the seven years
O'er kings and sons of kings—Eddetma, she,
Who, when much sought in marriage, hating men,
Espoused their ways to win beyond their strength
Through martial exercise and hero deeds:
She, who, accomplished in all warlike arts,
Had heralds cry through every kingdom known—
“Eddetma weds with none but him who proves
Himself her master in the test of arms;
Her suitors' foeman she. And he who fails,
So overcome of woman, woman-scorned,
Disarmed, dishonored, yet shall he depart,
Brow-bearing, forehead-stigmatized with fire,
The branded words, ‘Eddetma's freedman this!’”
And many princes came to woo with arms,

477

Whom her high maiden prowess put to shame;
Pretentious courtiers small in thew and thigh,
Proud-palanquined from principalities
Of Irak and of Hind and farther Sind.
Though she was womanly as that Empress of
The proud Amalekites, Tedmureh, and
More beautiful, yet she had held her own.

To Behram of the Territories, one
Son of a Persian monarch swaying kings,
Came bruit of her and her great victories,
Her maiden beauty and her warrior strength.
Eastward he journeyed from his father's Court,
With men and steeds and store of wealth and arms,
To the rich city where her father reigned,
Its seven citadels set above the sea,
Like seven Afrits, threatening all the world;
And messengered the monarch with a gift
Of savage vessels wroughten out of gold,
Of foreign fabrics stiff with gems and gold.
Vizier-ambassadored the old king gave
His answer to the suitor:—

“I, my son,—
What grace have I beyond the grace of God?
What power is mine but a material?

478

What rule have I but a mere temporal?
Me, than the shadow of the Prophet's shade
Less, God invests with power but of man;
Yea! and man's right is but the right of God;
His the dominion of the secret soul—
And His her soul! Now hath my daughter sworn,
By all her vestal soul, that none shall know
Her but her better in the listed field,
Determining spear and sword. Grant Fate thy trust.
She hangs her hand upon to-morrow's joust.—
Allah is great!—My greeting and farewell.”

And so the lists of war and love arose,
Wherein Eddetma with her suitor strove.
Mailed in Chorasmian armor, helm and spur,
On a great steed she came; Davidean crest
And hauberk one fierce blaze of gems. The prince,
Harnessed in scaly gold Arabian, rode
To meet her; on his arm a mighty shield
Of Syrian silver high embossed with gold.
So clanged the prologue of the battle. As
Closer it waxed, Prince Behram, who a while
Withheld his valor,—in that she he loved
Opposed him and beset him, woman whom

479

He had not scathed for the Chosroës' wealth,—
Beheld his folly: how he were undone
With shining shame unless he strove withal,
Whirled fiery sword and smote the bassinet
That helmed the haughty face that long had scorned
The wide world's vanquished royalty, and so
Rushed on his own defeat. For, like unto
A cloud, that caverned the bright moon all eve,
That thunder splits and, virgin triumph, there
She sails a silver aspect, so the helm,
Hurled from her head, unhusked her golden hair,
And glorious, glowing face. By his own blow
Was Behram vanquished. All his wavering strength
Swerved from its purpose. With no final stroke
Stunned stood he and surrendered: stared and stared,
All his strong life absorbed into her face,
All the wild warrior arrowed by her eyes,
Tamed and obedient to her word and look.
Then she on him, as eagle on a kite,
Plunged pitiless and beautiful and fierce,
On trophy more to added victories:
Haled off his mail, amazement dazing him;

480

Seized steed and arms, confusion filling him;
And scoffed him forth brow-branded with his shame.

Dazzled, six days he sat, a staring trance;
But on the seventh, casting stupor off,
Rose, and the straitness of the case, that held
Him as with manacles of knitted fire,
Considered—and decided on a way . . .

Once when Eddetma with an houri band
Of high-born damsels, under eunuch guard,
In the walled palace pleasaunce took her ease,
Under a myrrh-bush by a fountain side,—
Where marble Peris poured a diamond rain
In scooped cornelian,—one, a dim, hoar head,—
A patriarch 'mid gardener underlings,—
Bent spreading gems and priceless ornaments
Of jewelled amulets of hollow gold
Sweet with imprisoned ambergris and musk;
Symbolic stones in sorcerous carcanets;
Gem talismans in cabalistic gold.
Whereon the princess marvelled and bade ask—
What did the ancient with his riches there?
Who, questioned, mumbled in his bushy beard,

481

“To buy a wife withal;” whereat they laughed
As oafs when wisdom stumbles. Quoth a maid,
With orient midnight in her starry eyes,
And tropic music on her languid tongue,
“And what if I should wed with thee, O beard
Grayer than my great-grandfather, what then?”—
“One kiss, no more; and, child, thou were divorced,”
He; and the humor took them till, like birds
That sing among the spice-trees and the palms,
The garden pealed with maiden merriment.

Then quoth the princess, “Thou wilt wed with him,
Ansada?” mirth in her gazelle-like eyes,
And gravity sage-solemn in her speech;
And took Ansada's hand and laid it in
The old man's staggering hand, and he unbent
His crookéd back and on his staff arose
Wrinkled and weighed with many heavy years,
And kissed her, leaning on his shaking staff,
And heaped her bosom with an Amir's wealth,
And left them laughing at his foolish beard.

482

Now on the next day, as she took her ease
With her glad troop of girlhood,—maidens who
So many royal tulips seemed,—behold,
Bowed with white years, upon a flowery sward
The ancient with new jewelry and gems
Wherefrom the sun coaxed wizard fires and lit
Glimmers in glowing green and pendent pearl,
Ultramarine and beaded, vivid rose.
And so they stood and wondered; and one asked,
As yesternoon, wherefore the father there
Displayed his Sheikh locks and the genie gems.—
“Another marriage and another kiss?—
What! doth the tomb-ripe court his youth again?
O aged one, libertine in hope not deed!
O prodigal of wives as well as wealth!
Here stands thy damsel,” trilled the Peri-tall
Diarra with the midnight in her hair,
Two lemon-blossoms blowing in her cheeks;
And took the dotard's jewels with the kiss
In merry mockery.

Ere the morrow's dawn
Bethought Eddetma: “Shall my handmaidens,

483

Humoring a gray-beard's whim, for wrinkled smiles
And withered kisses still divide his wealth?
While I stand idle, lose the caravan
Whose least is notable?—I too will wed,
Betide me what betides.”

And with the morn
Before the man,—for privily she came,—
Stood habited, as were her tire-maids,
In humbler raiment. Now the ancient saw
And knew her for the princess that she was,
And kindling gladness of the knowledge made
Two sparkling forges of his deep-set eyes
Beneath the ashes of his priestly brows.
Not timidly she came; but coy approach
Became a maiden of Eddetma's suite.
She, gazing on the jewels he had spread
Beneath the rose-bower by the fountain, said:—
“The princess gave me leave, O grandfather.
Here is my hand in marriage, here my lips.
Adorn thy bride; then grant me my divorce.”
And humbly answered he, “With all my heart!”—
Responsive to her quavering request,—
“The daughter of the king did give thee leave?

484

And thou wouldst wed?—Then let us not delay.—
Thy hand! thy lips!” So he arose and heaped
Her with barbaric jewelry and gems,
And took her hand and from her lips the kiss.
Then from his age, behold, the dotage fell,
And from the man all palsied hoariness.
Victorious-eyed and amorous, a youth,
A god in ardent capabilities,
Resistless held her; and she, swooning, saw,
Transfigured and triumphant bending o'er,
Gloating, the branded brow of Prince Behram.

485

TORQUEMADA

To the Chapter of the Archbishop of Toledo.

What doth the Archbishop, his chapter of
Toledo?—Yea! doze they above some Bull—
Some dull dry Bull Pope Sextus sent to rot?
Come, come! awake! O prelates militant!
Hear me! this is a truth I whisper now:
Spain's King is less than king as I am less
Than Paul the Apostle.—Look you! look around;
Observe and dare!—I write above my seal,
A grave Dominican, to postulate
Pacheco, Marquis de Villena, croaks
No nonsense in your excellencies' ears:
King Henry's heir is illegitimate!
Blanche of Navarre cast off, his Impotence
Gave us a wanton out of Portugal
For Queen; Joanna, who bore him this heir
The cuckold King parades, a bastard, now.
Look! all the Court laughs—secretly: but masks

486

Are but for slaves; the people's smile is free
From all concealment; and the word still wags
About this son,—who is his favorite's,
Bertrand la Cueva's, handsome exquisite,—
Whom, people say,—and what they say is true,—
The King himself, needing a lusty heir,
Made warm familiar with Joanna's bed.
What shall we do? endorse the infamy?
Absolve them?—Yea! absolve them—at the stake!
Or, if not that, then with the axe that hews
The neck of State asunder!—Is it well,
Prelates and ministers?

Be merciful?—
Lest the disease of this delicious fruit,
This Kingdom of Castile, corrode the core,
Why not pare off all rottenness and leave
The healthy pulp! The throne, the populace,
The Church, and God demand the overthrow,
Deponement or the abnegation of
This Henry, named the Fourth, the impotent!—
Alphonso lives. . . . (It is my guarded hope

487

That brothers of such kings have no long life.)—
Am I impatient? 'Tis the tonsure then;
Ambition ever was and aye will be
Cousined to fierce impatience. 'Tis the cowl,
The tonsure and the cowl, they must advance!
My native town, Valladolid, did sow
The priestly germ, ambition, first in me;
Rather 'twas planted there in me; and had,
Despite the richness of the soil, poor growth
And less encouragement; the nipping wind
Of Court disfavor was too much for it;
And so I bore it thence to Cordova,
And sunned its torpor in a woman's smile,
'Neath which it sprouted but—who trusts the sex?—
Grew to a tenderness too insecure
For love's black frosts. Required hardiness,
And found it there at Zaragossa; (where
Fat father Lopés, bluff Dominican,
My youth confuted with wise nonsense, and
Astonished Spain in disputation in
The public controversies of the monks).
Transplanted to the Court, oh, splendid speed!
Sure hath its growth been. Now a Cardinal's red
Is promised by the bud that tops its stem.

488

How have I, through the saintly medium
Of the confessional, impressed the ear
Of Isabella, daughter and dear child!
The incarnation of my dear ideal,
Pure crucifix of my religious love,
Sweet cross which my ambition guards and holds:
Ploughed up the early meadows of her soul
For fruitful increase! in her maiden heart
Insinuated subtleties of seed
Shall ripen to a queen crowned with a crown
From welded gold of Arragon and Castile!
How I this son of John, the Second named,
Prince Ferdinand of swarthy Arragon,—
(Grant absolution, holy mother mine!
Thus thy advancement and thy mastery
Would I obtain!)—have on her fancy limned
In morning colors of proud chivalry!
Till he a sceptered paladin of love
And beaming manhood stands! She dreams, she dreams
What—Heaven knows! 'Tis, haply, of a star
She saw when but a babe and in the arms
Of some old nurse. A star, that laughed above
A space of Moorish balcony that hung

489

Above a water full of upset stars;
Reflected glimmers of old palace fêtes:
A star she reached for, cried for, claimed her own,
But never got; that blew young promises,
Court promises, centupled, from the tips
Of golden fingers at her infant eyes.—
Well! when this girl is grown to be a queen,
What if one, Torquemada, clothe her star
In palpable approach and give it her!—

When she is Queen, three steadfast purposes
Have grown their causes to divine results.—
No young imagination did I train
With such endeavor and for no reward.—
How often have I told her of the things
She could perform when Queen, while silently
And pensively she sat and, leaning, heard,
Absorbed upon my face! her missal,—crushed
By one propped elbow, its bent, careless leaves
Rich with illuminated capitals
Of gold and purple,—open on her lap.
Long, long we sat thus, brothers, speaking of
Felicity; discoursing earnestly
Of Earth and Heaven; and of who adhere
To God's true Vicar and our Holy Church:
Beatitude and all the ceaseless bliss,

490

Celestial, of eternal Paradise,
As everlasting as the souls that have
Built a strong tower for the only Faith.
And I recall now how, in exhortation,
Filled with the fervor of my cause I cried:—
“Walk not on ways that lead but to despair,
The easy ways of Satan! Rather thorns
For naked feet that will not falter if
Retentive of the arm of our true Church,
Who comforts weariness with promises
Still urging onward; and refreshes hearts
With whisperings in the tuneless ear of Care.”—
And oft, big-eyed with innocence, she asked,
“Do some digress?”—And I, “Yea, many! yea!
And there's necessity! we should annul,
Pluck forth the canker that contaminates,
Corrodes the milk-white beauty of our Rose.—
God's persecution! they confront our Faith
With brows of stigmatizing error writ
In Hell's red handwriting. Shall such persist?
No!—Heaven demands an end to all this shame!”—
Her pledge she gave me then: “When Queen, for Spain

491

The Inquisition! Let the Saints record!
I promise thee, my father, thou shalt be
A mattock of deracination to
Extirpate heresy.”

Well, well; time goes:
The world moves onward, and I still am—oh,
Frere Torquemada, a Dominican! . . .

Blind Spain hastes blindly forward, eager for
Her Hellward plunge. Our need is absolute.
Conclusion to these monster heresies
Or their most imminent consequence!—The throne,
Which is derived directly from high God,
Meseems should champion God in any cause;
And if it will not, we will make it to.—
O Spain, Spain, Spain! awake! arise! and crush
These multiplying madnesses that mouth
Their paradoxes at the Cross and shriek
Their blasphemies e'en in the face of Christ!—
O miserable Religion, is thy pride
So fallen here! thy tenement of strength
So powerless! Then where's security,
When steadfast principle is insecure,
And God's own pillars rock and none resists?—

492

But I have tempered, at a certain heat,
A heart of womanhood; and so have wrought
The metal of a mind within the forge
Of holy discourse, that Toledo's steel
Springs not more true than my reforming blade,
Which shall carve worship to a perfect whole.—
Imperial Isabella! patroness!
Protectress of pure faith! sweet Catholic!
Our Church's dear concern! its bell, its book,
Tribunal, and its godly Act of Faith!
Hear how my soul cries out and speaks for thee!—

My lord and brothers, hear me and perpend:
This need is first: to make her sceptered Queen
Of wide Castile. To make (the second need),
Him, whom Ximenes, my friend Cordelier
Shall serve as minister, King Ferdinand,
Her wedded consort. And the third great need,
The last,—which yet is first,—to scour from Spain
These Moors, who make a brimstone-odious lair
Of that rich region of Granada, which,

493

Like some vile sore of scaly leprosy,
Scabs Spain's fair face.

Delay not. Let the Church
Divide attention then 'twixt heretics
And unclean Jews. So; wash her garments clean!—
King Henry falls. God and Saint Dominick
Aid our endeavor! and the Holy See
Build firm foundations!—Let the corner-stone
Of our most Holy Inquisition here
Be mortared with the blood of heretics
That its strong structure may endure!—And he,
This Torquemada, the Dominican,
Made Grand Inquisitor and Cardinal,
This monk who writes you now, whose spirit feels
That God inspires him with His own desires,
Shall blaze God's name in blood upon the world.

University of Virginia Library

[OLD WORLD IDYLLS]

TO R. E. LEE GIBSON

ACCOLON OF GAUL

Prelude

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PEREDUR, THE SON OF EVRAWC

ISOLT

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THE DREAM OF SIR GALAHAD

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AFTER THE TOURNAMENT

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THE DARK TOWER

THE BLIND HARPER

CHILDE RONALD

MORGAN Le FAY

THE LADY OF THE HILLS

THE DEMON LOVER

A PRINCESS OF THULE

THE DAUGHTER OF MERLIN

TRISTRAM TO ISOLT

THE KNIGHT-ERRANT

THE FORESTER

THE MOATED MANSE

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