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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
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!
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!
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,
Sin-haunted as the Halls of Doom,
To strike thee dead in that wild room
Red-lit with revelry.
To kiss thy mouth and eyes at length
Where all thy kin can see:
Then, 'mid thy towers of crime and gloom,
357
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?
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.
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.
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.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |