University of Virginia Library

The doleful wind around around
The turret, trying to enter here,
Whines low, while down in the court-yard drear
The great bloodhound, to the flint fast bound,
Is baying the moon. The moon is clear
And dismal-cold: because a Fear,
Whose cat'sfoot falls with no more sound
Than an eyelid that sinks on a sick man's swound,
Is lord of her light; whereby tonight
He walketh alone on the frozen mere
From the wood whence he cometh anear,—anear!
Ever, about the setting in
Of the darkness, now for a month or more,
The things on the gusty arras 'gin
To rustle and creep and mope and grin
At me, still sitting as heretofore
This last sad night (no whit less calm
Than when first he accused me a month before)
With elbow based on knee, and palm
Upslanted, propping a moody chin;
The better to watch with a glassy eye
The dull red embers drop, and lie
Forlorn of a lurid inner light,
Like days burn'd out by a deadly sin.
I marvel much if my mind be right,
All seems so wondrous calm within
This long o'er-laboured heart, in spite
Of the howling wind and the hideous night,
And to-morrow that bringeth the final fight
When all is to lose or win.

What matter the end, so it be near?
I can only think of how last year
We rode together, she and I:
She in scarlet and I in green,
Across the oak-wood dark and high,
Whose wicked leaves shut out the sky;
Which, had I seen, that had not been,
I think, which makes me fear to die
And meet her there. I could not bear
Her dead face e'en. Who else, I ween,
Should hardly shrink from Conrad's eye,
For all his vaunting, not so keen,
The too-soon boasting braggart (ay
Even when he strode before the Queen,
And three times charged me with the lie!)
As my keen axe. More glad that day
She was, sure, than 'tis good to be,
Lest some, that cannot be so glad
As she was then, should chance go mad,
Trying to laugh. Oh, all the way
She laughed so loud that even the wood
Laugh'd too. She seem'd so sure, that day,
That life is sweet and God is good.
I could not laugh; because her hood
Had fallen back, and so let stray
Of all her long hair's loveliness
A single shining yellow tress
Across her shoulder; which made me
(That could not choose, poor fool! but see)
More sad, I think, than men should be
When women laugh. The wood, I say,
Laugh'd with her, at me, all the way.

Once, too, her palfrey, while we rode,
Started aside, and in alarm
She lean'd her hand upon my arm;
Whose light touch did so overload
My heavy heart, that I believe,
Had she a moment longer so
Lean'd on me, from my saddle-bow
I must have dropped down dead.
Near eve
We came out on the other land.
And I remember that I said,
“How still and lone the land is here!”
She only look'd, and shook her head,
And, looking, laugh'd still louder, and
Said, laughing loudly, “What's to fear?”
The accursèd echo, that low lay
Under that lonesome land, I knew,
For want of aught more wise to say,
Shriek'd “Fear!” and fell a-laughing too.
Deep melancholy meadow-grass,
Which never any man had mown,
So long our horses scarce could pass
Thro' the thick-heap'd unheaving mass
Of heavy stalks, by no breath blown
Of any wind, all round was grown,
For some bad purpose of its own,
Up to the edge of the grey sky.
And underneath a stream ran by:
A little stream, that made great moan,
Half mad with pain, the Fiend knows why:
'Twixt stupid heaps of helpless stone,
That chose upon its path to lie
Unreasonably, purpose none
Subserving (there resolved to stay
For spite's sake, with nor use nor grace)
It push'd and dash'd at desperate pace,
In extreme haste to get away.
The owls might fly about by day,
For all the sky, there, had to say;
Which took no care to change its face
To any other hue but grey,
Having to light up such a place.
But for the moan of that mad stream
All things were dumb, resign'd, and still,
And strange, as things are in a dream.
The whole land self-surrender'd lay,
And let harsh Nature work her will,
For lack of strength to answer nay
To any sort of wrong or ill
That chose to vex it. Laughing gay
Into that lonesome land rode she.
The grass above her palfrey's knee
Was long and green as green could be.
She, laughing as she rode, 'gan trill
Some canzonet or virelay;
It matter'd little, good or ill,
Whate'er the song, if any way
It eased her heart of laughter shrill.
Of trees were only blackthorns three,
Low-clump'd upon the ugly hill,
Like witches when, to watch the weather,
They crook their backs and squat together.

We 'lighted down beneath those trees
Whereto did I our horses tether;
And on a bough I hung my shield.
She went up higher in the field,
And down her long limbs laid at ease
In the deep grass; which up and down,
Wave after wave of green, heaved over
Her bright gold-border'd scarlet gown;
And all but her small face did cover.
For now, out of some land unshown
Behind the grassy upland, low
A little wind began to blow
Faintly, and the dull air was strown
With a moist sickly scent of clover.

She, slanted o'er her propping arm,
Look'd smiling sideways with a charm
To catch me; while, now forwards, now
Backwards, she swung with saucy brow
Her gold curls, like a gorgeous snake
That lifts and leans on lolling fold
A lustrous head, but half awake
From winter dreams when, coy and cold,
Spring stirs about the rustling brake.
She call'd me to her thro' the grass:
She call'd me “Friend:” she said I was
“Her Ritter of the rueful face:
But I,” she said, “am never sad.”
Therewith she laugh'd. The hateful place
Laugh'd too: resolved to make me mad.
I went, and sat beside her there,
And gazed upon her glittering hair.
Musing, I said, “Twill soon be night;
Night must be very lonely here.”
She look'd at me, and laugh'd outright,
And, laughing, answer'd, “What's to fear?”
But “Fear!” the echo, laughing light,
Still added. It was hard to bear.
Long sat I silent in her sight,
Much musing. When I spoke at last
It may have been that all I said
Marr'd all I meant—for there was pass'd
Like burning lead, about my head
And on my brain, a heavy pain,
And “Oh,” I cried, “if it would rain,
And bring some change!”—Yet this I know,
That, soon as I had ended, she
Look'd thro' her glittering hair at me,
Full in my face, and laugh'd again,
And answered “Never! let this be
A thing forgot between us twain.”
So, back beneath the black-thorn tree,
Where my shield hung, I went away
A little while, and sat apart.
I could not speak: I could not pray:
I thought it was because my heart
Was in my throat—it choked me so!
But now the devil's claw, I know,
It was, that would not let me go;
Me by the throat so fast he had.
Enough! You think that I went mad?
By no means. I grew strong and wise,
Went back, look'd boldly in her eyes,
And stopp'd her laughing. It was she,
Not I, that trembled. I could see
The woman was afraid of me.
What wonder? I myself had been
Already, such a woeful long
Wild while (even ere he wax'd thus strong,
And let his wicked face be seen)
Afraid, too, of the fiend within
My heart; whereof she was the Queen,
Feeding him with the food of sin,
Forbidden beauty. Then I knew
That she was all mine thro' and thro',
Whatever I might choose to do.
Mine, from the white brow's hiding-place
Under the roots of golden hair
That glitter'd round her frighten'd face;
Mine, from the warmth and odour there
Down to the tender feet that were
Mine too to guess in each great fold
Of scarlet bound about with gold.
So I grew dainty with my pleasure;
And, as a miser counts the treasure
His heart is loth to spend too fast,
So did mine eye take note and measure
Of all my new-gain'd wealth. At last
The Fiend, impatient to be gone,
Brought this to end.

When all was done,
I seem'd to know what was to be,
And how 'twould fare henceforth with me,
Who must ride home now all alone:
I knew that I should never see
The face of God, nor ever hear
Her laugh again. And so it was.
Yet 'twas not mine, that blow, I swear.
Nor did I know it, till the grass
Was red and wet. When Conrad tries
To charge me with that deed, he lies!
And lies! and lies! Who could have guess'd
That she had hidden in her breast,
Or in her girdle (what know I?),
A dagger? Did she mean to die
Always,—even when she seem'd so proud,
So sure of life? Ay, when so loud
She laugh'd that day? I only know
I would have given these two hands,
The moment I beheld her so,
Ay, all my lordships, all my lands,
If but on me had fall'n that blow,
Not her. Oh what were Hell's worst pain
If I might hear her laugh again?

It must have been an hour or more
I think (it seem'd long years) before
I, sitting there beside her still,
And listening, heard a sound of rain
In the three black-thorns on the hill.
“Too late it comes,” I thought, “and vain,
For nothing here will change now.” Chill
The evening grew. A wet wind blew
About the billowy grass. A few
Large drops fell sullenly. I thought
“How cold she will be here all night
In this wet meadow!” Then I caught
(For by this time her lips were white,
Not red; nor warm, but rigid quite)
At the tall grass, and heap'd and mass'd
Great handfuls of it, which I cast
Over her feet, and on her face;
But first drew down her scarlet gown
Over her limbs composed and meek
In great calm folds; and, o'er her cheek,
Smooth'd the bright hair; and all the place
Where the black redness oozed, I hid
With heaps of grass. All this I did
Quite quietly, as a mother might
Put her sick child to sleep. 'T was night
Ere I had ended. A dull moon
Across the smearing rain reveal'd
A melancholy light, and soon
Began to peer about the field
To find what still the fresh grass kept
Well hidden. Then I think I crept
Down to the little stream; and stood
A long while looking at the wood,
Wondering what ever I should do.
There was a spot of blood I knew
Upon my hand. I did not dare
To wash it, lest the water there
Too far away the stain should bear,
And so make all the world aware
Of what was done.

The cock crows—hark!
Before his time, sure. Deep in dark
The drowsy land is lying yet.
Yon frosty cloud hides up the moon,
But I am sure she is not set.
To-morrow? Is it come so soon?
Well, let it come! A hundred eyes
Can make no worse the eyes I scorn.
For in his throat Count Conrad lies,
And on his body am I sworn
To prove the same this very morn.
Let Kaiser Henry range his state;
To mark the issue of my fate,
The lords of every Landgravate
From Rhine to Rhone, with looks elate,
Like gods between the earth and sky,
May crowd each golden balcony.
Come, Kaiser, call the fight!
Let the great trumpet blare on high
As tho' the Judgment Angel blew
The blast that bids the wicked rue;
Now, Conrad, to the lists, and smite
Thy very worst! I reck not, I,
Not tho' the dead should come to sight,
Nor tho' a hundred heralds cry,
“On! God maintain the right!”