The Poetical Works of John Payne :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Works of John Payne

Definitive Edition in Two Volumes

Payne, John (1842-1916)

THE ROMAUNT OF SIR FLORIS.

[prologue]

I.THE FIRST COMING OF THE DOVE.

[subsection]

POSTLUDE.

PRELUDE TO CANTO II OF SIR FLORIS.

THE BUILDING OF THE DREAM.

II.

III.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.

LAUTREC.

THE MASQUE OF SHADOWS.

LIGHT O' LOVE.

FLOWERS FROM SYRIAN GARDENS.

I.The Apples of Paradise.

II.

II.The Scavenger of Baghdad.

III.

III.The Blacksmith who could handle fire without hurt.

IV.

IV.The Golden Cup.

V.By the token of the Bean.

VI.

VI.The two Cakes of Bread.

VII.

VII.The Hermit's Heritage.

VIII.

VIII.The Mad Lover.

THE LAST OF HERCULES.

USQUE AD PORTAS.

THE PACT OF THE TWIN GODS.

II.

III.

IV.

II.

II.

II.AN IDYLL OF THE PLAGUE.

III.

III.QUIA MULTUM AMAVIT. )

IV.

IV.A CHRISTMAS VIGIL.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

BALLADS AND ROMANCES.

I.THE RIME OF REDEMPTION.

II.

II.THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL.

III.

III.INTO THE ENCHANTED LAND.

IV.

IV.SIR WINFRITH.

V.THE KING'S SLEEP.

VI.

VI.MADONNA DEI SOGNI.

VII.

VII.THE HOUSE OF SORROW.

VIII.

VIII.IN ARMIDA'S GARDEN.

IX.

IX.THE WESTWARD SAILING.

X.SIR ERWIN'S QUESTING.

XI.

XI.THE BALLAD OF SHAMEFUL DEATH.

XII.

XII.THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S DAUGHTER.

II.

III.

IV.

XIII.

XIII.THE ROSES OF SOLOMON.

XIV.

XIV.THE BALLAD OF MAY MARGARET.

XV.

XV.THE MARSH-KING'S DAUGHTER.

II.

III.

IV.

THE GARDEN OF ADONIS.

ON LECONTE DE LISLE'S PROSE TRANSLATION OF HOMER.

ON THE BORDERS OF THE NIGHT.

FEMME FELLAH DE LANDELLE.

SLEEPERS AND ONE THAT WATCHES.

WITH A COPY OF THE DIVINA COMMEDIA.

SUNFLOWER SOUL.

WITH A COPY OF HENRY VAUGHAN'S SACRED POEMS.

THE LAST OF THE GODS.

ENGLAND'S HOPE.

SARVARTHASIDDHA-BUDDHA.

OMAR KHEYYAM.

FROM BOCCACCIO.

TO PETRARCH DEAD.

TO HIS OWN SOUL, EXHORTING IT TO REPENTANCE.

OF THREE DAMSELS IN A MEADOW.

EXOTICA.

CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD OF LOVE.

BALLAD OF PAST DELIGHT.

RONDEAU.

BALLAD OF LOVE'S DESPITE.

SONGS OF LIFE AND DEATH.

DEDICATION

A PRELUDE.

A SONG BEFORE THE GATES OF DEATH.

IN THE NIGHT-WATCHES.

II.

A FUNERAL SONG FOR THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.

ANOTHER BIRTHDAY SONG.

SOLITUDINEM FACIUNT.....

BIRD-PEEP.

A LAST LULLABY.

EVENSONG.

THE GRAVE OF MY SONGS.

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BALLADS AND ROMANCES.

I.THE RIME OF REDEMPTION.

“Traditur etiam nonnullos vi pervincente amoris ipsum
contra summum Domini judicium prævaluisse.”
Euseb. de Fid. rebus Epist.

THE ways are white in the moon's light,
Under the leafless trees;
Strange shadows go across the snow,
Before the tossing breeze.

The night, meseems, is full of dreams,
Ghosts of the bygone time:
Full many a sprite doth walk to-night
Over the soundless rime.

The burg stands grim upon the rim
Of the steep wooded height;
In the great hall, the casements tall
Flame with the fireside light.

From the hearth's womb, athwart the gloom,
Rays out the firelight red:
Sir Loibich there before the flare
Sits in a dream of dread.

The tower-light glows across the snows,
In the black night defined:
The cresset-fire flares high and higher,
Tossed by the raging wind.

The knight sits bent, with eyes intent
Upon the dying fire;
Sad dreams and strange in sooth do range
Before the troubled sire.

He sees the maid the past years laid
Upon his breast to sleep,
Long dead in sin, laid low within
The grave unblest and deep.

He sees her tears, her sobs he hears,
Borne on the shrieking wind;
He sees her hair, so golden-fair,
Stream out her form behind.

He hears her wail, with lips that fail,
To him to save her soul;
He sees her laid, unhouselèd,
Under the crossless knoll.

His heart is wrung, his soul is stung
To death with memories:
His face grows white as the moon's light
And all his words are sighs.

“Ah! would, dear Christ, my tears sufficed
To ransom her!” he cries:
“Sweet Heaven, to win her back from sin,
I would renounce the skies.

“Might I but bring her suffering
To pardon and to peace,
I for mine own sin would atone,
Where never pain doth cease:

“I for my part would gnaw my heart,
Chain'd in the flames of hell;
I would abide, unterrified,
More than a man shall tell.”

The flame burns red; he bows his head
Upon his joining hands;
The wraiths of old are shown and told
Upon the dying brands.

A hoarse scream tears athwart his ears,
Strange howls are in the air;
The wolves do stray in search of prey
Across the moorlands bare.

Red eyes flame forth from south to north,
The beasts are all a-chase;
God help the wight that goes to-night
Among the wild wood-ways!

The moon is pale, the night-winds wail,
Weird whispers fill the night:
“Dear heart, what word was that I heard
Ring out in the moonlight?

“Methought there came to me my name,
Cried with a wail of woe;
A voice whose tone my heart had known
In the days long ago.”

'Twas but the blast that hurried past,
Shrieking among the pines;
The souls that wail upon the gale,
When the dim starlight shines.

Great God! The name! Once more it came
Ringing across the dark!
“Loibich!” it cried. The night is wide,
The dim pines stand and hark.

The lead-grey heaven by the blast is riven;
God! How the torn trees shriek!
The wild wind soughs among the boughs,
As though the dead did speak.

“Loibich! Loibich! My soul is sick
With hungering for thee!
The night fades fast, the hours fly past;
Stay not, come forth to me!”

Great Heaven! The doubt is faded out;
It was her voice that spake;
He made one stride and open wide
The casement tall he strake.

The cloudwrack grey did break away;
Out shone the ghostly moon;
Off slid the haze from all the ways,
Before her silver shoon.

Pale silver-rayed, out shone the glade,
Before the castle wall,
And on the lea the knight could see
A maid both fair and tall.

Gold was her hair, her face was fair,
As fair as fair can be,
But through the night the blue corpse-light
About her could he see.

She raised her face toward the place
Where Loibich stood adread;
There was a sheen in her two een,
As one that long is dead.

She looked at him in the light dim
And beckoned with her hand:
“Sir Knight,” she said, “thy prayer hath sped
Unto the heavenly land.

“Come forth with me: the night is free
For us to work the thing
That is to do, before we two
Shall hear the dawn-bird sing.”

He took his brand within his hand,
His dirk upon his thigh:
And he hath come, through dusk and gloom,
Where wide the portals lie.

“Saddle thy steed, Sir Knight, with speed,
Thy faithfullest,” quoth she,
“For many a tide we twain must ride
Before the end shall be.”

The steed is girt, black Dagobert,
Swift-footed as the wind;
The knight leapt up upon his croup,
The maid sprang up behind.

A stately pair the steed doth bear
Upon his back to-night:
The sweatdrops rain from flank and mane,
His eyes start out for fright.

Her weight did lack upon his back;
He trembled as he stood;
It seemed as 'twere a death-cold air
Did freeze the courser's blood.

She threw the charms of her white arms
About Sir Loibich's neck:
It seemed as if 't had been a drift
Of snow on him did break.

The spurs are dyed deep in the side
Of the destrere amain;
The leaves do chase behind his race
And far out streams his mane.

The wind screams past; they ride so fast,—
Like troops of souls in pain
The snowdrifts spin, but none may win
To rest upon the twain.

So fast they ride, the blasts divide
To let them hurry on;
The wandering ghosts troop past in hosts
Across the moonlight wan.

They fly across the frozen floss,
Across the frost-starred mead:
Hill, wood and plain they cross amain;
Hill, plain and wood succeed.

The wild wind drops, the snow-whirl stops,
Frost fades from grass and brere;
The dim clouds die from out the sky
And forth the moon shines clear.

A sudden hush, and then a rush
Of magic melodies;
A summer wood, with moon-pearls strewed
And jasmine-girdled trees.

The lady laid her hand of shade
Upon the hurrying horse,
And suddenly, upon the lea,
He halted in his course.

To them there came a fragrant flame,
A light of elfinry:
The haggard night poured forth delight
And flowers of Faërie.

A wondrous song did wind along
The moon-besilvered glades,—
And all the things the elf-night brings
Did glitter from the shades.

“Light down, Sir Knight, in the moonlight;
Light down and loose my hand;
I must be gone; but thou hast won
Unto the Faery land.”

“By Christ His troth!” he swore an oath,
“No Faery land for me,
Except thou light thee down to-night,
Therein with me to be.”

“Alas, Sir Knight, I must this night
Harbour me far away;
Far be 't from thee to rest with me
Where I must dwell for aye.”

He smote his breast: “By Christ His rest,
No Faery land will I!
Rather in hell with thee to dwell
Than lonely in the sky!”

The thunder broke, the lightning-stroke
Fell down and tore the earth;
The firm ground shook, as though there took
The world the throes of birth.

The elf-song died, the moon did hide
Her face behind the haze,
And once again they ride amain
Across the wild wide ways.

The night grew black; the grey cloudwrack
Whirled fast across the skies;
What lights are those the white snow throws
Reflected in their eyes?

What flames are those the blackness shows,
Rising like rosy flowers
Up to the lift? What ruddy rift
Shines out in the night hours?

The night is wide: they ride and ride,
The lights grow bright and near;
There comes a wail upon the gale
And eke a descant clear.

There comes a plain of souls in pain
And eke a high sweet song,
As of some fate whose grief is great,
But yet whose hope is strong.

Aye louder grow the sounds of woe,
But the song sweeter still,
Until the steed doth slacken speed,
At foot of a high hill.

The hazes grey before their way
Divided are in two;
A wondrous sight midmost the night
Lies open to their view.

The hill is strewn beneath the moon
With strange and singing fires;
In every flame a soul from shame
And soil of sin aspires.

From every fire, higher and higher
The song of hope doth rise:
These are the sprights that God delights
To fit for Paradise.

“Light down, Sir Knight; I pray, alight;
This is the purging-place;
Here shalt thou win to cast off sin
And come to Christ His grace.”

“By Christ His troth!” he swore an oath,
“That will I not,” quoth he,
“Unless thou too, my lover true,
Therein shalt purgèd be.”

“Would God,” she said, “the lot were laid
For me to enter here!
Alack! my stead is with the dead,
All in the place of fear.

“But thou light down; the gate is thrown
Wide open in the ward;
See where they stand on either hand,
Angels with downdropt sword.”

“By Christ His rest!” he smote his breast;
“No grace of God will I!
Rather with thee damnèd to be
Than lonely in the sky!”

The night closed round, there came a sound
Of trumpets in the air;
The steed leapt on, the fires were gone,
And on the twain did fare.

Through storm and night again their flight
They urge o'er hill and plain:
What sounds smite clear upon the ear,
Through dusk and wind and rain?

“Meseems I heard as if there stirr'd
A sound of golden lyres;
Methought there came a sweet acclaim
Of trumpets and of choirs.

“So sing the saints, where never faints
The sunlight from the skies;
So pulse the lyres among the choirs
Of God in Paradise.”

A singing light did cleave the night;
High up a hill rode they;
The veils of Heaven for them were riven
And all the skies poured day.

The golden gate did stand await,
The golden town did lie
Before their sight, the realms of light
God-builded in the sky.

The steed did wait before the gate;
Sheer up the street look'd they;
They saw the bliss in Heaven that is,
They saw the saints' array.

They saw the hosts upon the coasts
Of the clear crystal sea;
They saw the blest, that in the rest
Of Christ for ever be.

The choirs of God pulsed full and broad
Upon the ravished twain;
The angels' feet upon the street
Rang out like golden rain.

They felt the sea of ecstasy
That flows about the throne;
The bliss of heaven to them was given.
Awhile to look upon.

Then said the maid, “Be not afraid;
God giveth heaven to thee;
Light down and rest with Christ His blest
And think no more of me!”

Sir Loibich gazed, as one amazed,
Awhile upon the place;
Then, with a sigh, he turned his eye
Upon the maiden's face.

“By Christ His troth!” he swore an oath,
“No heaven for me shall be,
Except God give that thou shalt live
Therein for aye with me.”

“Ah, curst am I!” the maid did cry;
“My place thou knowest well;
I must begone before the dawn,
To harbour me in hell.”

“By Christ His rest!” he beat his breast,
“Then be it even so;
With thee in hell I choose to dwell
And share with thee thy woe.

“Thy sin was mine. By Christ His wine,
Mine too shall be thy doom;
What part have I within the sky,
And thou in Hell's red gloom?”

The vision broke, as thus he spoke,
The city waned away:
O'er hill and brake, o'er wood and lake
Once more the darkness lay.

O'er hill and plain they ride again,
Under the night's black spell,
Until there rise against the skies
The lurid lights of hell.

The night is wide: they ride and ride;
The air with smoke grows crost
And through the dark their ears may hark
The roaring of the lost.

The dreadful cries they rend the skies,
The plain is ceil'd with fire:
The flames burst out, around, about;
The heats of hell draw nigher.

Unfear'd they ride; against the side
Of the red flameful sky
Grim forms are shown, strange shades upthrown
From out Hell's treasury:

Black grisly shapes of demon apes,
Grim human-headed snakes,
Red creeping things with scaly wings,
Born of the sulphur lakes.

The flames swell up out of the cup
Of endless agony,
And with the wind there comes entwined
An awful psalmody;

The hymning sound of fiends around,
Rejoicing in their doom,
The fearsome glee of things that be
Glad in their native gloom.

Fast rode the twain across the plain,
With hearts all undismayed,
Until they came where all a-flame
Hell's gates were open laid.

The awful stead gaped wide and red,
To gulph them in its womb:
There could they see the fiery sea
And all the souls in doom.

There came a breath, like living death,
Out of the gated way:
It scorched his face with its embrace,
It turned his hair to grey.

Then said the maid, “Art not dismayed?
Here is our course fulfilled:
Wilt thou not turn, nor rest to burn
With me, as God hath willed?

“By Christ His troth!” he swore an oath,
“Thy doom with thee I'll share.
Here will we dwell, hand-linked in hell,
Unseparate fore'er.”

He spurr'd his steed; the gates of dread
Gaped open for his course:
Sudden outrang a trumpet's clang
And backward fell the horse.

The ghostly maid did wane and fade,
The lights of hell did flee;
Alone in night the mazèd wight
Stood on the frozen lea.

Out shone the moon; the mists did swoon
Away before his sight,
And through the dark he saw a spark,
A welcoming of light.

Thither he fared, with falchion bared,
Toward the friendly shine;
Eftsoon he came to where a flame
Did burn within a shrine.

A candle stood before the Rood,
Christ carven on the tree:
Except the shrine, there was no sign
Of man that he could see.

Down on his knee low louted he
Before the cross of wood,
And for her spright he saw that night
Long prayed he to the Rood.

And as he prayed, with heart down-weighed,
A wondrous thing befell:
The air waxed white and through the night
There rang a silver bell.

The earth-mists drew before his view;
He saw God's golden town;
He saw the street, he saw the seat
From whence God looketh down.

He saw the gate transfigurate,
He saw the street of pearl,
And in the throng, the saints among,
He saw a gold-haired girl.

He saw a girl as white as pearl,
With hair as red as gold:
He saw her stand among the band
Of angels manifold.

He heard her smite the harp's delight,
Singing most joyfully,
And knew his love prevailed above
Judgment and destiny.

Gone is the night; the morn breaks white
Across the eastward hill;
The knightly sire by the dead fire
Sits in the dawning chill.

By the hearth white, there sits the knight,
Dead as the sunken fire;
But on his face is writ the grace
Of his fulfilled desire.

II.THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL.

I.

THE day is dead, the night draws on,
The shadows gather fast:
Tis many an hour yet to the dawn,
Till Hallow-tide be past.

Till Hallow-tide be past and sped,
The night is full of fear;
For then, they say, the restless dead
Unto the live draw near.

Between the Saints' day and the Souls'
The dead wake in the mould;
The poor dead, in their grassy knolls
They lie and are a-cold.

They think upon the live that sit
And drink the Hallow-ale,
Whilst they lie stark within the pit,
Nailed down with many a nail.

And sore they wonder if the thought
Live in them of the dead;
And sore with wish they are distraught
To feel the firelight red.

Betwixt the day and yet the day
The Saints and Souls divide,
The dead folk rise out of the clay
And wander far and wide.

They wander o'er the sheeted snow,
Chill with the frore of death,
Until they see the windows glow
With the fire's ruddy breath.

And if the cottage door be fast
And but the light win out,
All night, until their hour is past,
The dead walk thereabout.

And all night long, the live folk hear
Their windy song of sighs
And waken all for very fear,
Until the white day rise.

But if the folk be piteous
And pity the poor dead
That weary in the narrow house,
Upon the cold earth's bed,

They pile the peats upon the fire
And leave the door ajar,
That so the rosy flame aspire
To where the grey ghosts are.

And syne they sweep the cottage floor
And set the hearthside chair:
The sad sprights watch beside the door
Till midnight still the air.

And then toward the friendly glow
Come trooping in the dead;
Until the cocks for morning crow,
They sit by the fire red.

II.

“Oh, I have wearied long enough!
I'll weary me no more;
But I will watch for my dead love
Till Hallow-tide be o'er.”

He set the door across the sill;
The moonlight fluttered in;
The sad snow covered heath and hill,
As far as eye could win.

The thin frost feathered in the air;
All dumb the white world lay;
Night sat on it as cold and fair
As death upon a may.

He turned him back into the room
And sat him by the fire:
Night darkened round him in the gloom;
The shadowtide rose higher.

He rose and looked out o'er the hill
To where the grey kirk lay;
The midnight quiet was so still,
He heard the bell-chimes play.

Twelve times he heard the sweet bell chime;
No whit he stirred or spoke;
But his eyes fixed, as if on Time
The hour of judgment broke.

And as the last stroke fell and died,
Over the kirkyard grey
Himseemed he saw a blue flame glide,
Among the graves at play.

A flutter waved upon the breeze,
As of a spirit's wings:
A wind went by him through the trees,
That spoke of heavenly things.

Him seemed he heard a sound of feet
Upon the silver snow:
A rush of robes by him did fleet,
A sighing soft and low.

He turned and sat him down again;
The midnight filled the place:
The tears ran down like silent rain
Upon his weary face.

“She will not come to me,” he said;
“The death-swoon is too strong:
She hath forgot me with the dead,
Me that she loved so long.

“She will not come: she sleeps too sweet
Within the quiet ground.
What worth is love, when life is fleet
And sleep in death so sound?

“She will not come!”— A soft cold air
Upon his forehead fell:
He turned him to the empty chair;
And there sat Isobel.

His dead love sat him side by side,
His minnie white and wan:
Within the tomb she could not bide,
Whilst he sat weeping on.

Ah, wasted, wasted was her face
And sore her cheek was white;
But in her eyes the ancient grace
Burnt with a feeble light.

Upon her breast the grave-wede grey
Fell to her little feet;
But still the golden tresses lay
About her bosom sweet.

“Ah, how is't with ye, Isobel?
How pale ye look and cold!
Ah, sore it is to think ye dwell
Alone beneath the mould!

“Is't weary for our love ye've grown
From dwelling with the dead,
Or shivering from the cold grave-stone
To find the firelight red?”

“Oh, 'tis not that I'm lorn of love
Or that a-cold I lie:
I trust in God that is above
To bring you by-and-by.

“I feel your kisses on my face,
Your kisses sweet and warm:
Your love is in the burial-place;
I fear nor cold nor worm.

“I feel the love within your heart
That beats for me alone:
I fear not change upon your part
Nor crave for the unknown.

“For to the dead no faint fears cling:
All certainty have they:
They know (and smile at sorrowing)
Love never dies away.

“No harm can reach me in Death's deep:
It hath no fear for me:
God sweetens it to lie and sleep,
Until His face I see:

“He makes it sweet to lie and wait,
Till we together meet
And hand-in-hand athwart the gate
Pass up the golden street.

“But where's the babe that at my side
Slept sweetly long ago?
So sore to me to-night it cried,
I could not choose but go.

“I heard its voice so full of wail,
It woke me in the grave:
Its sighs came to me on the gale,
Across the wintry wave.

“For though death lap her wide and mild,
A mother cannot rest,
Except her little sucking child
Be sleeping at her breast.”

“Ah, know'st thou not, my love?” he said:
“Methought the dead knew all.
When in that night of doom and dread
The moving waters' wall

“Smote on our ship and drove it down
Beneath the raging sea,
All of our company did drown,
Alas! save only me.

“And me the cruel billows cast
Aswoon upon the strand;
Thou dead within mine arms held fast,
Hand locked in other's hand.

“The ocean never to this day
Gave up our baby dead:
Ah, woe is me that life should stay,
When all its sweet is fled!”

“Go down,” said she, “to the seashore:
God taketh ruth on thee:
Search well; and I will come once more
Ere yet the midnight be.”

She bent her sweet pale mouth to his:
The snowdrift from the sky
Falls not so cold as did that kiss:
He shook as he should die.

She looked on him with yearning eyes
And vanished from his sight:
He heard the matin cock crow thrice;
The morning glimmered white.

Then from his place he rose and sought
The shore beside the sea:
And there all day he searched; but nought
Until the eve found he.

At last a pale star glittered through
The growing dusk of night
And fell upon the waste of blue,
A trembling wand of light.

And lo! a wondrous thing befell:
As though the small star's ray
Availed to break some year-old spell
That on the water lay,

A white form rose out of the deep,
Where it so long had lain,
Cradled within the cold death-sleep:
He knew his babe again.

It floated softly to his feet;
White as a flower it lay:
Christ's love had kept its body sweet
Unravished of decay.

He thanked God weeping for His grace;
And many a tear he shed
And many a kiss upon its face
That smiled as do the dead.

Then to the kirkyard where the maid
Slept cold in clay he hied;
And with a loving hand he laid
The baby by her side.

III.

The dark fell down upon the earth;
Night held the quiet air:
He sat before the glowing hearth,
Beside the empty chair.

Twelve times at last for middle night
Rang out the kirkyard bell:
Ere yet the twelfth was silent quite,
By him sat Isobel.

Within her arms their little child
Lay pillowed on her breast:
Death seemed to it as soft and mild
As heaven to the blest.

Ah, no more wasted was her face,
Nor white her cheek and wan!
The splendour of a heavenly grace
Upon her forehead shone.

She seemed again the golden girl
Of the long-vanished years:
Her face shone as a great sweet pearl,
Washed and made white in tears.

The light of heaven filled her eyes
With soft and splendid flame;
Out of the heart of Paradise
It seemed as if she came.

He looked upon her beauty bright;
And sore, sore sorrowed he,
To think how many a day and night
Between them yet must be.

He looked at her with many a sigh;
For sick he was with pain,
To think how many a year must fly
Ere they two met again.

She looked on him: no sadness lay
Upon her tender mouth;
And syne she smiled, a smile as gay
And glad as in her youth.

“Be of good cheer, dear heart,” said she:
“Yet but a little year
Ere thou and I together see
The end of doubt and fear.

“Come once again the saints' night ring
Unto the spirits' feet,
Glad with the end of sorrowing,
Once more we three shall meet;

“We three shall meet no more to part
For all eternity:
'Gin I come not to thee, sweetheart,
Do thou come then to me.”

IV.

Another year is past and gone:
Once more the lingering light
Fades from the sky and dusk falls down
Upon the Holy Night.

The hearth is clear; the fire burns red;
The door stands open wide:
He waits for the belovèd dead
To come with Hallow-tide.

The midnight rings out loud and slow
Across the frosty air:
He sits before the firelight-glow,
Beside the waiting chair.

The last chime dies into the night:
The stillness grows apace:
And yet there comes no lady bright
To fill the empty place.

No soft hand falls upon his hair;
No light breath fans his brow:
The night is empty everywhere;
The birds sleep on the bough.

“Ah woe is me! the night fades fast;
Her promise is forgot:
Alas!” he said, “the hours fly past,
And still she cometh not!

“So sweet she sleeps and sleeps with her
The baby at her breast,
No thought of earthly love can stir
Their undesireful rest.

“Ah, who can tell but Time may lay
Betwixt us such a space
That haply at the Judgment Day
She will forget my face.”

The still night quivered as he spoke;
He felt the midnight air
Throb and a little breeze awoke
Across the heather bare.

And in the wind himseemed he heard
His true love's voice once more:
Afar it came, and but one word
“Come!” unto him it bore.

A faint hope flickered in his breast:
He rose and took his way
Where underneath the brown hill's crest
The quiet kirkyard lay.

He pushed the lychgate to the wall:
Against the moonless sky
The grey kirk towered dusk and tall:
Heaven seemed on it to lie.

Dead darkness held the holy ground;
His feet went in and out
And stumbled at each grassy mound,
As one that is in doubt.

Then suddenly the sky grew white;
The moon thrust through the gloom:
The tall tower's shade against her light
Fell on his minnie's tomb.

Full on her grave its shadow fell,
As 'twere a giant's hand,
That motionless the way doth tell
Unto the heavenly land.

He fell upon his knees thereby
And kissed the holy earth,
Wherein the only twain did lie
That made life living-worth.

He knelt; no longer did he weep;
Great peace was on his soul:
Sleep sank on him, a wondrous sleep,
Assaining death and dole.

And in the sleep himseemed he stood
Before a high gold door,
Upon whose midst the blessèd Rood
Burnt like an opal's core.

Christ shining on the cross to see
Was there for all device:
Within he saw the almond-tree
That grows in Paradise.

He knew the fallen almond-flowers
That drop without the gate,
So with their scent the tardy hours
Be cheered for those that wait.

And as he looked, a glimmering light
Shone through the blazoned bars:
The wide tall gate grew blue and bright
As Heaven with the stars.

A postern opened in his face;
Sweet savours breathed about;
And through the little open space
A fair white hand came out:

A hand as white as ermolin,
A hand he knew full well,
Beckoned to him to enter in—
The hand of Isobel.

Lord Christ, Thy morning tarrieth long:
The shadows come and go:
These three have heard the angels' song;
Still many wait below.

These three on Heaven's honey feed
And milk of Paradise:
How long before for us indeed
The hills of Heaven rise?

How long before, joined hand-in-hand
With all the dear-loved dead,
We pass along the heavenly land
And hear the angels' tread?

The night is long: the way is drear:
Our hearts faint for the light:
Vouchsafe, dear Lord, the day draw near,
The morning of Thy sight!

III.INTO THE ENCHANTED LAND.

WHEN the end of the enchantment of the Summer is at hand,
In the month that closes
The blue Midsummer weather,
When the passionate red roses
Faint for the heat
And the lilies fold together
Their petals pale and sweet,—
In the burning noontide hazes

And the golden glory of the flowers that blazes
Over the happy valleys and the wold,
There swells to me a breeze ofttimes
Out of the dreams of old.
And in the breeze the murmur of old rhymes
Rises and falls,
Like some enchanted singing,
And my tired brow is fanned
By odours from the halls
Of dreamland, such as in the moonlight white
Float round a wandering knight,
When through the country of the elves he fares
And marvels at the dances,
That glitter through the moon-glow, and the ringing
Of elfin bells;
And through the fluttering of the frolic airs,
In all the song there swells
A voice well known to me of bygone days,
That calls me to forsake
The weary worldly ways
And as of olden times my way to take
Into the dreamland of the old romances,
Into the enchanted land.

Down falls the evening on the weary plains,
And I, I stand and wait
Where, at the verge
Of the green fields, the stains
Of sunlight fade upon the trees that surge
Out of the falling night,
Dim as the dreamland's gate.
And so there comes to me a flash of light
Across the shadow and my faint eyes know
The robe of her I love
And the bright crown of tresses aureoled,
Star-glorious, above
Her face's rosy snow,

Spangling the shades with gold.
‘Sweet love, sweet welcome! I had need of thee,
Sore, sorest need!’
Still doth she grow
Nearer and lovelier till my arms may press
Almost her charms and all my soul may feed
Upon her loveliness.
But lo! I clasp the wind
And in mine arms entwined
Is nothing but a fair and painted dream.
‘Dear love, why dost thou seem
And torture me with hope in vain?’
And the fair shape doth weep
And comforteth my pain
With lovely looks and words of amity;
And so my yearnings sleep
And there is peace once more for me.

‘Come, love,’ she saith, ‘the dream-gates gape for thee.
The hour of glamorous delight
Is come for thee and me.
Under the silver night
We shall walk hand in hand
In the enchanted land
And see the moon-flowers blossom to the sound
Of the sweet elfin tune,
As in the days gone by.
Dost thou not hear the horns of Faerie wound
Among the elfland bowers
And all the rush of splendid song that floods
The silver winds that lie
And idle in the pearl-work of the moon,
Woven about the woods?
Come, love! the day is dead,
With all its weary hours,
And ours is newly born.
Thou shalt have easance of thy woes this night,

Amid the glory of the flowers that swoon
With magical delight,
Ere in the sky creeps up the weary morn
And the pale East grows red.’

So, in the pale faint flush of the twilight,
Softly I ope the door
And hand in hand,
Across the fields we go, before
The day is parted from the night,
Among the cloisters where the tall trees stand,
White in the woodland ways,
Under the moonlight, till a wall of mist
Rises before us in the evening haze,
Silver and amethyst.
Then doth my love loose hands
And in the spangled green
Of the thick moss she stands
Within the wood-verge, where the sun has been
And is not faded quite;
And to the hovering night
Sweet mystic lays
And songs she singeth, very pure and high,
Until there answereth
From out the heart-green of the woodbine maze
A magic singing, as it were
A woven music of the scents that lie
In all the night-flowers' breath;
And with the song upon the fragrant air
Strange mystic memories do swell and die
Of Love and Life and Death.

The gate of dreamland opens to the singing
And hand in hand we go,
My love and I,
Along the woodways with the elf-songs ringing,
Under the silver night;

And down the vistas of the trees, that lie
And bathe in the moonlight,
There swells to us a murmur sweet and low,
As of some magic river,
That glitters through its ranks of waving reeds
And makes the flower-bells quiver
With haunting melodies;
And from its ferny nest
The runnel of a brooklet sings and speeds
Across the pearlèd network of the grass,
Murmuring its loveliest,
Songs of a heart at ease,
That in its joy doth pass
Into a tune; and lo!
Upon the diamond ripples to our feet
A little shallop floats,
Out of a rush-work woven all and wrought
With pearls and ivory.
Then in the skiff do we
Embark and down the silver stream we fleet,
Under the thronging notes
Of the night-birds;
And as we go,
The air is all astir with lovely things;
Sweet music, twinned and fair with magic words,
Rises from elfin throats,
And in the leaves we see the rush and glow
Of jewelled wings.

There lies all glamour in the arching banks,
Through which our river runs:
Over us wing the dreams
And in the pale sweet trances of the moon,
Along the stretching glades,
The silver fawns of Faërie do pass,
White in the sweet white beams;
And now and then the tune

Of horns is clear
And the elf-hunt sweeps by, with glittering ranks,
Across the velvet grass:
The king's tall knightly sons
Ride through the aisles, with many a doucepere;
And now there comes a throng
Of snow-white maids,
Gold-haired,
That with sweet song
And pleasance wander in the fragrant maze
Of the cool woodland ways,
Sweet one with sweet one paired,
All through the summer night,
And win the enchanted air
Unto melodious trances with the ring
Of their flute-voices and the rare delight
Of their gold-rippled hair,
Soft as the songs they sing.

The high trees bend above us lovingly,
As on the stream we go,
Mingling their boughs above
Into a flower-starred roof
Of lovely greenery;
And through the night
The fireflies glow
And glitter, as it were
The stars had left their places for delight
And through the woodland air
Sped, singing.
The stream makes music to the cleaving prow,
Answering the birds' descant
And the soft ringing
Of bindweed bells.
The night is filled with spells
Of old delight;
The summer air is hazed and jubilant

With ripples of the glory of song-gold
And elfin blisses;
And in the lovely light,
A maiden more than earthly fair to see,
With moon-webs aureoled,
My lady sits by me,
Answering my thought with kisses.

The river shallows through the grass and flowers,
Athwart the waning night;
And now the boat is gone
From underneath our feet;
And eke the stream has faded
Into the ripple of the white moonlight.
So, in the midwood bowers
I stand alone
In the still time and sweet
Before the hour when night and morning meet.
Sweet sooth, the moon has braided
The air with pearl
And down the haunted glades
The shadows dance and whirl
Among the sheeny hosts of the grass-blades,
In the cool glitter of the time:
And lo! my thought takes rhythm from their dances
And to my lips comes rhyme
And many a lovely tune,
Such as the minstrels of the old romances
Sang to the moon.

My singing echoes through the elfland aisles,
Waking the silver bells,
That lie and dream in the flower-sleep,
Deep in the mossy dells;
And as I sing,
The timid rabbits creep
From all their soft warm nests among the fern;

And in the wood-deeps, gold and silver strewn,
The fawns stand listening.
Then down the columned way,
Through which the moonlight smiles,
There rings the trample of a horse's feet.
Nearer it grows along the ripple-play,
Beside the tinkling burn,
Until the silver armour of a knight
Shines in the moon
And a clear voice trolls songs of war and love,
Ditties of strange and mystical delight,
That through the trees do rove,
Telling of Day and Night,
Of Love and Life and Death,
With strains as bright and sweet
As is the linnet's breath.

My weak song ceases as I look on him:
‘Fair knight,
Fair minstrel, teach me all thy might.
I know thee as of old:
Clear through the twilight of the legends dim,
Thy name like gold
Doth shine
And the fair nobleness of thy white life
Sweetens the lips of men,
O Percivale, Christ's knight!’
And then he gazes on me with mild eyes
And the clear rapture floods me like a wine
Of some old Orient tale,
Purging my heart from sighs
And memories of strife.
And so he rides into the gloaming pale,
Scattering on every hand
Sweet singings, till they die upon the ear.
Then, looking round again,
I see the night has ceased

And in the dawning drear
My dream fades from me, as the skies are spanned
By the red bars of morn
And in the East
The cold gray day is born.

IV.SIR WINFRITH.

I.

THE woodlarks welcome the risen day;
The ringdoves croon in the cool wood-way;
The meads are telling the tale of May.

Sir Winfrith fares through the forest wide;
The glad Spring greets him on every side;
The brakes are ablaze with the blossom-tide.

The glades, as he rideth, with glee-notes ring;
The cuckoos call him, the woodlarks sing,
“Ah, whither away, Sir Son of the King?”

“Ah, whither so sadly?” The throstles cry.
“Who ever the son of a king heard sigh,
When the sun is aloft in the love-month's sky

And the larks are a-lilt in the blue above?”
“Alack for the lurdane,” rejoins the dove,
“Who fareth alone for default of love,

Who goeth a-gloom in the gladsome day,
Who's dumb for desire in the merry May,
When all things else in the world are gay?

Who ever heard tell of the son of a king,
That sitteth forlorn in the flowered Spring,
When the brakes are a-bloom and the birds do sing?”

The king's son rideth; he heareth nought:
His brows are bound with the thorns of thought;
He fareth alone, unsquired, unsought.

He rideth sans huntsman or merry moot;
His eyes are heedless, his lips are mute;
He's deaf to the beck of the blackbird's flute;

He lendeth no ear to the linnet's lyre;
His soul is aflame with a seething fire;
His heart is heavy for wandesire.

But hark! what hushes the throstle's throat?
What wild sweet sound in the air's afloat,
That all-to muteth the wild merle's note?

A surge of song through the flowered trees,
A flood of fair tones and melodies,
That fareth a-wing on the wayward breeze;

A surge of singing so sweet and high,
It floodeth the forest far and nigh,
It beareth the soul to the bovemost sky.

It stirreth the spright with its blithesome breath;
It filleth the heart with hope and faith,
With love undeeming of life and death.

The sweet sounds waken Sir Winfrith's ear;
His sense they deluge, his dreams they stir;
He stayeth his steed anon to hear.

So still he sitteth that who alone
Had lighted on him thus stirless grown
Had held him a man on a steed of stone.

Awhile he sitteth, till all around
The magic music hath weft and wound
His heart with its viewless webs of sound:

Then, fenceless drawn by his longing's force,
He lighteth down from his careless course
And tethereth thereanigh his horse.

Through thorn and thicket, through bog and brake,
'Twixt doubt and deeming, 'twixt sleep and wake,
He fareth on for that sweet song's sake.

Down sinketh the sun in the dark'ning West
And still Sir Winfrith, with panting breast,
Unfeared, ensueth that fleeting quest:

And still the singing before him flees,
Now farther borne by the faithless breeze,
Now nearer turning among the trees.

Good heart, Sir Winfrith! The goal is nigh.
Good heart to the chase! The tree-tops high
Show thinlier ever against the sky.

And lo! where he comes, in the sunset hour,
To a glade in the midmost forest bower,
And there in the midst a darkling tower.

No cresset flares from the turret's height;
No beacon beckons with lovesome light;
No window welcomes the wandering knight:

Nay, there all darkling the tower doth stand,
The finger like of a giant hand
Uplift to threaten the heavenly land.

But lo! from the top, like a golden bell,
The tones of the voice ineffable
In refluent melodies wane and swell.

Blithe is Sir Winfrith; he thinketh fast
The bird and the music to have at last;
He holdeth the pain and the labour past.

But, though he seeketh on all sides four,
No sign he seeth of gate or door,
Nor port nor postern, behind, before,

Nor wicket nor window open-eyed.
Blank is the bastion's every side,
Nought but the walls and the forest wide.

His horn he windeth both loud and high;
The wild wood echoes it far and nigh:
Except the echo there's no reply.

But still that voice from the turret tall
In waves of music doth rise and fall,
With maddening melody flooding all.

Sad is Sir Winfrith: the bird is there;
But built is its nest in the topmost air;
'Tis far from his hand as heaven's stair.

The music holds him; he may not flee;
And something warns him to wait and see;
He wakes and watches behind yon tree.

II.

The sun dips under and all about
The tents of the moon a rabble-rout
Of clouds is camping; no star shines out.

The birds are silent both far and nigh;
The breeze in the boughs hath ceased to sigh;
The black night blindeth the earth and sky.

The voice is dumb with the vanished light,
The music mute for the fallen night;
Dead darkness holdeth the turret's height.

But lo! in the midnight mirk and drear
A shudder runs through the air of fear,
A sense of somewhat of evil near.

The live night throbs with the thrill of dread
That stirs in the heart whose blood runs red
At sight and sense of the risen dead.

And sudden he feels, though his eyes see nought,
There pass him by, with the speed of thought,
A thing as swift as the thin fire-flaught;

A wraith from the middle darkness' womb,
Of curses compound and death and doom:
And down by the tower-foot there rends the gloom

A voice like an osprey's shriek a-scare,
A cry that shrills through the shrivelled air;
“Rapunzel! Minion! Down with thy hair!”

There beams at the tower-top something bright
And down by the wall, through the startled night,
There slides what himseems is a ladder of light;

A glittering fleece of golden hair,
From top to tower-foot it floateth there;
It hangs from the height like a shining stair.

Some black beast-thing on the tress lays hold
And speeds to the top by that stair of gold:
Ah God! 'tis a wizened witch-wife old!

A beldam, whose hands like bird-claws show,
With nose like a beak and eyes that glow
Like red-hot coals through her locks of snow.

She wins to the top: without a sound,
The fleece floats up, as a skein is wound;
In dusk and silence the night is drowned.

The gleam is gone from the turret's height;
Abideth nothing for sound or sight;
All dark and still as the still dark night.

Frozen with fear is Sir Winfrith's blood;
He knows the witch-wife that haunts the wood,
Who hateth all that is fair and good.

The glad day gleams on the Eastern hill;
The tower stands darkling and stern and still;
Sir Winfrith forth of the forest will.

Through thorn and thicket his last night's track
He follows; he springs on his horse's back;
He fares to his father's palace back.

III.

Again on the morrow, with risen day,
Ere morning have done the mists away,
Again through the forest he takes his way.

He wins to the tower at the time of noon,
The hour when enchantments wane and swoon,
That work their most with the waxing moon.

The tower stands darkling; on all sides four
He seeketh it round, as he sought before,
But no sign seeth of gate or door;

Then stands and calls through the sunlit air,
“Rapunzel! Sweet one! Down with thy hair!”
And down, like a fleece, falls the golden stair.

There, full at his feet, is the shining stream,
A stairway wrought of the gold sun's beam,
A pathway of price in a fairy dream.

The King's son grippeth the shimmering strand;
A tress he holdeth in either hand;
They rise and raise him at his command.

In less than a score of time to tell,
He wins to the topmost turret-cell;
He stands by the side of Rapunzel.

Before him standeth a maiden bright,
With eyes of heaven and locks of light;
Ne'er live man looked on a lovelier sight.

She gazes on him and he on her;
The Spring and love in them live and stir,
Youth's blood aflame with the blossomed year.

Love to love, longing to longing, call;
They kiss, in each other's arms they fall;
The night with its curtain covers all.

IV.

Once more, on the morrow, the morning sun,
Arising, ready its course to run,
Awakens from sleep the stout King's son.

He armeth him well against assail,
Himself and his steed from head to tail
In armour of proof of Milan mail.

He giveth him out for bounden war
To wage to the death on the fierce wild boar
That haunteth the heart of the forest core.

The mass of the hunter for him they sing
Who dareth alone a deathly thing,
Who setteth his life on the venturing.

The cross in the chapel he hath adored;
The priest hath hallowed his broad bright sword,
Hath sacred it o'er with the sign of the Lord.

A ladder of silk he hath letten make,
A ladder of proof, that may not break,
He hath letten twist for his true love's sake.

He hath bounden it on his saddle-bow;
With him is he minded to bear it, so
She win with it may from aloft alow.

But time hastes by and the hour grows late;
The sun hangs high in the noontide strait,
Ere forth he fareth the palace-gate.

Through thorn and thicket again his way
He takes, till the land with the parting ray
Is all adream of the dying day.

To the midwood glade, with the darkling tower,
Where black on the blaze is the maiden's bower,
He wins at the wane of the sunset hour.

He lights, he calls to the maiden fair,
“Rapunzel! Dearest! Down with thy hair!”
And down to his feet floats the fairy stair.

He grips on the tresses, he holds them well;
They bear him aloft to the turret-cell;
Alack! there finds he no Rapunzel.

But there, in the damsel's stead, ah woe!
The witch-wife waiteth, with hair of snow,
With hands like talons and eyes aglow.

She falls on the knight with tooth and nail;
His weapons against her nought avail;
She claws for his heart through his shirt of mail.

She clutches his heart with claws of steel;
Already his limbs the death-sweats feel;
Already his eyes the death-mists seal.

His forces fail him; his heart bleeds sore;
His sense is swooning; he can no more:
Yet but a moment and all is o'er.

But sudden the thought of the holy sign
There thrills through his heart like a levin-shine,
And gripping his blade by the steel so fine,

He calleth aloud on the name of the Lord;
Then strikes at the witch with the cross of the sword
And dead she drops on the tower-foot sward.

V.

Now blithe is Sir Winfrith, the son of the King;
He hath broughten him home his tenderling;
He hath wedded his bird with book and ring.

He sitteth in joy and him beside,
There sitteth with him his lovesome bride;
No longer lonely he needs must ride;

No longer the linnets to him shall sing,
“Who ever heard tell of the son of a king,
That fareth forlorn in the sunny Spring?”

VI.

Still frowns on the forest the darkling tower;
But never again in the midnight hour
The walls with the flashing tresses flower;

And never again from the turret-cell
The voice of the viewless Rapunzel
Soars up to the sky like a golden bell.

The place of magic is void and mute;
No sound is there, save the throstle's flute,
The nightingale's note and the howlet's hoot;

And never again, in the midnight-air,
The voice of the witch will the silence scare
With “Rapunzel! Minion! Down with thy hair!”

V.THE KING'S SLEEP.

‘BURY me deep,’ said the king,
‘Deep in the mountain's womb;
For I am weary of strife.
Hollow me out a tomb,
So that the golden sun
Pierce not the blackness dun
Where I shall lie and sleep;
Lest haply the light should bring
Again the stirring of life,
Or ever the time be come
To waken. Bury me deep.

‘Let not the silver moon
Search out the graven stone
That lieth above my head,
In the tomb where I sleep alone,
Nor any ray of a star
Come in the night to unbar
The gates of my prison-sleep.
I shall awake too soon
From the quiet sleep of the dead,
When the trumps of the Lord are blown.
If you love me, bury me deep.

‘I feel in my heart of hearts
There cometh a time for me,
Far in the future's gloom,
When there no more may be
Rest for my weary head,
When over my stony bed
The wind of the Lord shall sweep
And scatter the tomb in parts
And the voice of the angel of doom
Shall thrill through and waken me
Out of my stirless sleep.

‘For a king that has been a king,
That has loved the people he swayed,
Has bound not his brows in vain
With the gold and the jewelled braid;
Has held not in his right hand
The symbol that rules the land,
The sceptre of God for nought.
He may not escape the thing
He compassed: in death again
His sleep is troubled and weighed
By wraiths of the deeds he wrought.

‘And if he has evil done,
There may he lie and rest
Under the storied stone,
Slumber, uneasy, opprest
By the ghosts of his evil deeds,
Till Death with his pallid steeds
Have smitten the world with doom:
And the moon and the stars and the sun
Will leave him to sleep alone,
Fearing to shine on him, lest
The wicked arise from the tomb!

‘But if the ruler be wise,
Have wrought for his people's good

Sadly and like a god;
Whenever the plague-mists brood
Over the kingless land,
When fire and famine and brand
Are loose and the people weep,
They cry to the king to rise;
And under the down-pressed sod,
He hears their pitiful cries
And stirs in his dreamful sleep.

‘And the sun and the stars and the moon
Look down through the creviced tomb
And rend with their arrows of light
The sepulchre's friendly gloom,
Stirring the life again
In pulse and muscle and vein;
And the winds, that murmur and sweep
Over his resting-place, croon
And wail in his ear: “The night
Is past and the day is come;
O king, arise from thy sleep!”

The sleeper murmurs and sighs,—
Rest is so short and sweet,
Life is so long and sad,—
And he throws off his winding-sheet:
The gates of the tomb unclose
And out in the world he goes,
Weary and careful, to reap
The harvest, on hero-wise
To garner the good, and the bad
To burn, ere the Ruler shall mete
Him yet a portion of sleep.

‘Great is the Master of Life
And I bow my head to His will!
When He needs me, the Lord will call
And I shall arise and fill

The span of duty once more.
But now I am weary and sore
With travail and need of sleep;
And I fear lest the clangour and strife
Upon me again should fall,
Ere sleep shall have healed my ill.
I pray you, bury me deep!’

So the good king was dead
And the people wrought him a grave
Deep in the mountain's womb,
In a place where the night-winds rave
And the centuries come and go,
Unheard of the dead below;
Where never a ray might creep;
In the rocks where the rubies red
And the diamonds grow in the gloom,
They hollowed the king a tomb,
Low and vaulted and deep.

And there they brought him to lie:
With wailing and many a tear,
The people bore to the place
The good king's corpse on the bier.
They perfumed his funeral glooms
With lily and amaranth blooms,
In a silence sweet and deep;
They piled up the rocks on high
And there, with a smile on his face,
In doubt and sadness and fear,
They left the monarch to sleep.

Onward the centuries rolled
And the king slept safely and sound
In the heart of the faithful earth,
In the still death-slumbers bound:
And the sun and the moon and the stars
Looked wistfully down on the bars

Of the sepulchre quiet and deep,
Where he lay, while the world grew old
And death succeeded to birth,
And heard not an earthly sound
And saw not a sight in his sleep.

And it came to pass that the Wind
Spake once and said to the Sun:
‘O giver of summer-life!
Is not the time fordone
And the measure of God fulfilled,
Wherein He, the Lord, hath willed
The king should arise from sleep?
I go in the night and I find
The folk are weary of strife,
And joyless is every one
And many an eye doth weep!’

But the Sun said, shaking his hair,
His glorious tresses of gold:
“Brother, the grave is deep;
And the rocks so closely do fold
The king, that we may not win
A place where to enter in
And trouble his slumber deep.”
And the Wind said: “Where I fare,
The rays of the sun can creep,
Through the thin worm-holes in the mould,
And rouse the king from his sleep!”

Then the Moon and the Stars and the Sun
Arose and shone on the grave,
And it was as the Wind had said:
Yea, up from the vaulted cave
The worms had crept in the night
And opened a way for the light
And the winds of the air to creep.
And they entered, one by one;

Yea, down to the house of the dead,
Through cranny and rock they clave,
To wake the king from his sleep.

And the king turned round in his dream,
As he felt the terrible rays
Creeping down through the mould
In the track of the false worms' ways;
And he quaked as the light drew near
And he called to the earth for fear,
To aid him his rest to keep;
For the time he had slept did seem
But an hour, nor the wheels of gold
Had circled the span of days
When he should arise from sleep.

But the mother all-faithful heard
The dreaming call of the king,
And she seized on the wandering rays
And of each one she made a thing
Of jewelries, such as grow
In the dim earth-caves below,
From the light kept long and deep;
For she loved the man and she feared
Lest the fateful glitter and blaze
Of the light too early should bring
The dead from his goodly sleep.

She moulded pearls of the moon
And diamonds of the sun;
Rubies and sapphires she made
Of the star-rays, every one.
There was never an one might 'scape
Some luminous jewel-shape
Of all the rays that did creep
Down through the earth, too soon
To rend the sepulchre's shade;

But she seized on them all, and none
Might trouble the dead man's sleep.

Then did she mould him a crown
Of silver and cymophane
And in it the gems she set,
For a sign that never again,
Till God should beckon to him,
On the silence quiet and dim
Of the sepulchre low and deep
Should the rays of the stars look down
To trouble his rest. And yet
The centuries wax and wane
And the king is still in his sleep.

VI.MADONNA DEI SOGNI.

“La veggio scintillar d'amore,
Quando spiega la notte il negro velo.”
Tasso, Sonetti Amorosi, cix

O come, for I am weary of the day,
White-wingéd Night, that holdest to thy breast
The sorrowing and dost give the weary rest,
And fan the sunshafts of the noon away!
For one, that is full fair and kind alway,
Waits in the gloaming, till the aspiring moon
Have whelmed the world with silver, to untune
The tense harsh harp of day and soothe the air
With ravishment of music wild and rare
And stir my soul to harmonies of dreams.
Where dost thou tarry, sweet? The night is fair
And every star thine eyes' far radiance seems.

O haste! Too soon the flowerful hands of dawn
Shall strew with roses every eastern lawn.

In that fair pleasaunce, where on Beatrice
The eyes of Dante slaked their lifelong thirst,
My eyes did light upon my lady first.
I had been wandering through the night, I wis
Not how, and came to where soft airs did kiss
The frondage and the trees shone everydele
With silver of the moon; and I did feel
That there the Springtime never died away
Nor ripened to fierce summer; but the May
Did ever consecrate the place to sleep
And silver dreams. There did my fain steps stray:
And there I saw thee on a bank's slow steep;
And thou didst on my coming turn my way
And look'dst upon me with mild eyes and deep.

Thou wast upon a plaited bed reclined
Of hyacinths, the colour of thine eyes.
The moon of dreams did reign in those sweet skies
And therein such entrancements did I find
Of fantasy and wisdom intertwined,
That my faint soul became its satellite
And drew new radiance from that loveliest light.
Beside thee blew the flower-dream of the Spring,
Faint primrose, delicat'st and sweetest thing
Of all the lush year brings us; and its scent
Ethereal, on the cool dusk hovering,
Seemed as the fragrance of thy soul and blent
Itself and thee in my remembering,
As 'twere the Spring and thou but one bliss meant.

Thy hair lay gold upon the silvered grass
And floated on it, as a flower's full cup
And golden tassels float and waver up
Athwart a lake's cool crystal, through whose glass
The flooding moon forbids the eye to pass.

I deemed thee but a dream within a dream,
When first thou shon'st upon me,— all agleam
With glamour,— and did look to see thee fade
Into the faint far purple of the glade,
As I approached; but lo! thou didst arise,
And nearing, on my lips thy finger laid,—
Then, smiling with a sweetness high and wise,
Withdrew'st that wand of white and in its stead,
Didst kiss me welcome on the mouth and eyes.

The night was fragrant as a violet
With perfume of the early bloom of love;
The silence hovered o'er us, like a dove
Of peace, and in the ferns the brook did fret
Its stones to music. All my dreams were set
In silver and all sad old memories,
Reflected in the glory of thine eyes,
Did change to jewels, as a pebble laves
Its brown to pearl and jacinth, in the wave's
Alchymic crystal. Through the weary day,
I courted woes, that thou mightst dig them graves
Deep in thy bosom and upon them lay
Balsam of kisses and the love that saves
The holy sweets of sorrow from decay.

Can I forget how all the night did pause
And hung upon the wonder of thy words?
How, whilst thou spokest comfort, all the birds
Did intermit their lays? Thou wast the cause
That all were silent; for the woodland laws
Forbid the lesser songsters to prevail
Against the flutings of the nightingale.
Thou didst attune to mnsic all my sighs
And told'st my sorrows on such lovely wise,
That every fierce old sting of barbed wrong
Seemed rounded with a dream of Paradise
And linked into a cadence sweet and long

Of haunting thoughts and tender memories,
Fallen in the ripple of a perfect song.

My heaven with the setting sun was red:
Life was for me a waste without a smile
And I a Philoctetes on his isle.
But at thy kiss my gladness, that was dead,
Did burst the bonds of night; the shadows fled
And all the curtains of the dusk were drawn;
My sky once more was amber with the dawn
And I could watch to hail the new day's sun
With daybreak hope; for I at last had won
Full-breasted Love, that is the flower of life;
What though in dreams? If living, scarce begun,
Be bitter in the mouth with pain and strife
And loveless, 'tis in it we are undone
And in our dreams we have the truer life.

I reach into the ancient troubled deep—
Where many a rank old poison-weed has lain
And ripened to corruption— and again
Uproot them from their long and sullen sleep,
Expecting but that tears of blood they'll weep
And wring my heart to bleeding. Through the flood,
Curdled and foul and sick with year-old mud,
They rise, all hideous with remembered woe,
Up to the surface of the pool, and lo!
Thine eyes have won their nature to such fair
And exquisite forswearing, with their glow
Of tender glory, that the dank stems wear
A sudden garb of flowerage sweet and rare
And are all consecrate with blossom-snow.

So I forget the present in thine eyes,
And all my future is but one embrace
Of thine encircling arms, my hope thy face
And guerdon of thy kisses. Sorrow dies

And lives again in such delightsome guise
That pain is pleasure and the weary past
With Spring-flower-chains is bounden close and fast
To wait on Love and wring a sharp sweet pain
Out of old bitter cypress and vervain,
To lend new savour to his charmèd wine.
The bitter herbs that erst have been my bane,
Curdling the young blood's valour in each vein,
Striking new root in that rich heart of thine,
To change their souls to balsam have been fain.

I cull for thee a garland of sweet names,
Made fragrant with the perfume of fair deeds:
And lo! meseems they fade to scentless weeds;
For there is that in thee that naming shames
And wills to be Love's only, and not Fame's.
How shall I call thee, sweet? or not at all?
Yet mine ears weary till upon them fall
The linkèd music of thy name's sweet sound,
That with its phrases may entwine around
My heartstrings all the memories of thy breath,
Thy kisses and thine arms about me wound.
How shall I call thee, love? “Love,” Echo saith.
What if for thee my foolish wit have found
No other name save Love,—or haply Death?

Sweet, I have tracked thy footsteps in the wood,
Hard by the river of the death of pain
And for my heart's poor solace have been fain
To gather violets where thy feet have stood
And wooed the earth to flowering. Oh, I would
That I might see thee standing in the dawn
Upon the glad green of some upland lawn,

100

Before the blue day's waking,—aureoled
With some pale tender flush of early gold,
Saint-purely vestured as a lily's bell
In fair white garments, falling fold on fold,
And just one blush of purple, such as fell
Upon the wounded white-rose-leaves of old,
To show Love's light does in that sweet snow dwell!

O lady of my dreams, the night is past;
The pale day wakens and the east is red.
Thou, that dost shun the young day's lustihead,
Where dost thou harbour, when the stars fade fast
Into the burning and the world is ghast
With wraiths of dawning? Do thy swift feet skim
The primrose tufts that edge the rill's full brim
Or dost thou sit in gold-green woodland nooks
And weave new store of dream-sweet words and looks,
In place of those worn weary by the night's
Long inter-ravishments, and twine thy hair
Into new webs of woven eye-delights,
Following the brook's clear glitter and the air
Waved with a softened ripple of gold-lights?

A place of woven flowers and singing winds,
Jewelled with moss and plumed with nodding ferns;
A hall of silver silence, wherein burns
A soft star-glamour. Through the moss that binds
Fern-roots with gold, a slow clear water winds
And slackens into tiny pools of light,
Pale topaz, amethyst and chrysolite,
Set in the gilded tracery of the grass:
And there the charmèd hours do lingering pass,
Unwilling to forsake so fair a place.
In such a haunt I picture thee by day,
Stirring the air to rapture with the grace
Of thy sweet songs and wonder of thy face,
Until the slow West gloom to purple-grey.

101

The daytime is my Purgatory hill,
Up which I climb with halt and weary feet
Until the gold of sunset streams to meet
The purple of the dusk. Then stand I still
And watch the fire-crown'd pinnacles, until
Star-silver glimmers on the robe of night
And all the wood, that hides thee from my sight,
Is voiceful with the evening. Entering
By the strait pathway,— where the close boughs cling
Together o'er the path, as if to exclude
The soiling step of any uncouth thing,—
I see afar thy robe's white fluttering
And hear, through all that columned solitude,
The ripples of thy song's wood-silver ring.

“Da questa parte con virtù discende, Che toglie altrui memoria del peccato; Dall' altra d'ogni ben fatto la rende.” Dante, Purgatorio, xxviii. 127—9.,

VII.THE HOUSE OF SORROW.

THERE is a story, told with many a rhyme
In dusty tomes of old,
Of how folk sailed, in the fresh ancient time,
Into the sunset's gold:

Into the land of Western hope they sailed,
To seek the soul of joy,
That from the modern life of men had failed,
Crushed by the dull annoy

Of pain and toil; the gladness of the age,
When Love was king on earth
And summer, midmost in the winter's rage,
In men's warm hearts had birth:

102

This did they seek. Beyond the sun, they thought,
Deep in the purple West,
There lay the charm of joyance that they sought,
Awaiting some high quest;

Charm to be won by earnest souls and pure
And brought anew to life;
Wherewith provided, one might hope to cure
Men's endless dole and strife.

So, from the chains of love and toil and gold,
The love of wife and maid,—
All human ties had they cast loose,—unrolled
The fluttering sails and weighed

Swift anchor, steering tow'rd the dying day,
Hope in their hearts most high
That they should win the charm that therein lay
For men's sake, ere to die

The angel bade them. And the high heart fell
Not in them, though the wind
Blew fresh and swift for many a day, the swell
Ran pearled the keel behind,

Along the emerald, and the golden dawn
Sank ever sad and pale
Into the westering distance and was gone,
Whenas the dew did fail;

And nothing met their vision, save the streaks
Of gold and crimson, wound
About the westward, when the dead day's cheeks
Flushed with the sun, that drowned

His glory sullenly in amber foam,
And the dim mists that lay
Along the sapphire marges of the dome
Of heaven, in the gray

103

Of the pale dawning, and the narrowing wheel
Of sea-birds round the sail
And silver fish that played about the keel,
With many a golden scale

And fin of turquoise glancing through the spray:
But never the fair line
Of green and golden shores, the long array
Of palaces divine,

That held the dream of their long venturings,
Rose in the changeful West;
But still the ship sped with its silver wings
Over the fretted crest

Of the slow ripple; still the sea was green
And calm on every side
And the swift course unto their vision keen
Brought but the weary wide

Gray circle bounded by the silver foam;
And still they looked and hoped
For the fair land where the true joy had home
For which they sighed and groped

Amid the mirk of living. Ever pale
And paler grew the skies
And less refulgent in its crimson mail
The hour when the day dies:

And every day the dawn was tenderer
And sadder in its white
And rosy pudency; and still the stir
Of the sad winds of night

Crept closelier on the noontide, till the day
Was hardly much more glad
Than the pale night and morning was as gray
As when the hours are sad

104

With stormy twilight. So at last they came
When, in the dreaming West,
The scarlet last of sunset's fading flame
Lay on the billows' breast

Still climbing skyward, as it were to catch
The day's last fluttering sigh—
In sight of a fair city, that did match
The tender amethyst sky,

Pale purple with the setting. Very fair
And lucent were the walls;
And in the evening the enchanted hair
Of some pale star, that falls

From azure heights of mystery, did seem
To compass it about
And girdle it with glamours of a dream,
Webs of desire and doubt:

So that for those sweet clinging veils of mist,
Amber and vaporous,
One might but faintly note the amethyst
And jewels of the house,

That rose with many a stately battlement
Out of the pulsing sea,
And could but dimly trace the forms that went,
Most fair and sad to see,

About the silver highways and the quays
Of gold and chrysoprase,
Tender and tristful as the shapes one sees,
In some sweet autumn haze,

Flit, in the gloaming, through the enchanted air;
When there is none to know,
Save some pale poet, that may never dare
To tell the lovely woe,

105

The witching ecstasy of sad delight
He has seen pictured there
Upon the canvas of the lingering light,
Under the evening air.

But they that sailed in that enchanted ship,
No whit cast down, drew sail
And came to where the amber-polished lip
Of the gold shore grew pale

Under the kisses of the purpled sea:
And there they landed all;
And wandering inward through the blazonry
Of portico and hall,

They came to where the soul of sadness sat,
Throned in a woman's form—
Most holy and most lovely—and forgat
In her sweet sight the worm

Of yearning that had gnawed their hearts so long
And knew at last,
From her low whispers and the sad sea's song,
That thither had Life past

As to its goal-point: for the golden thing,
That they had lacked on earth,
Was not (as they had deemed) the god rose-wing
Of gladness and of mirth—

The god of vine-and-ivy-trellised brow
And sunny orient eyes—
For he doth haunt men ever, did they know
But to be linnet-wise:

But that best gift of the Immortal Ones,
That men have lost for aye;
The pure sweet sadness that we know but once,
And then wepassa way:

106

The mingled love and pain we Sorrow call,
There did it dwell alone,
The tender godlike pain once known to all,
Now but to poets known.

There sit they through the long unwearying years,
At that fair lady's knees,
Lulled by the ripple of her songs and tears
And the sweet sighful breeze

Into forgetting of the things of life
And the weird shapes that fleet
Across its stage of mingled dole and strife;
For sorrow is so sweet,

There is no gladness that may equal it
Nor any charm of bliss.
And fain would I from the pale seekers wit
Which way the steering is

That may, with helm and sail and oar pursued,
Bring me where she doth dwell,
The lovely lady of that solitude.
Is there no one can tell?

VIII.IN ARMIDA'S GARDEN.

(Gluck's ‘Armide,’ Act ii. Scene 3.)

[_]

(Introduction and Aria.)

THIS is the land of dreams: these waving woods
And the dim sunlit haze that hangs on all
And the clear jewels of the murmuring stream;
These flowered nooks through which the bird-notes fall,
Like silver Spring-showers,—here sweet Silence broods,
And here I dream.

107

Prone in the shadow of the flowers I lie
And watch the lizards glitter through the grass
And listen to the tinkle of the stream:
Unmindful of the weary hours that pass,
Here do I lie and let the years go by:
I dream and I dream.

Life and the world forsake me in the calm
Of these enchanted woodways, green and still,
Wherein the very sunlight's wavering gleam
Sleeps on the lazy ripples of the rill
And in the mist of the droopt flowers' faint balm
I dream and I dream.

There is no future in these glades of ours
Nor any whisper of the stern to-morrow;
Life is a woven thing of a sunbeam:
Nor in the grass is any snake of sorrow,
Nor comes remorse anigh where 'mid the flowers
I dream and I dream.

Here are the bird-songs neither glad nor sad:
Sleep drones in every note of their delight;
Not even throstles with the olden theme
Of tender grieving sadden the pale night;
But veiled is all their song, as 'twere they had
Dream within dream.

Here are no roses of the sharp sweet scent
Nor the sad violets' enchanted breath,
Nor jasmines cluster by the slumbering stream;
But the drowsed hyacinths with umbels bent
And the gold-hearted lilies of sweet death,
Flowers of a dream.

108

I know not if life is with me or how
I come to lie and sleep away the years:
I only know, but yesterday did seem
Sad life amid a swarm of sordid fears
And hopes. Then came the god of Sleep—and now
I dream and I dream.

There swell faint breaths to me of earthly jar,
As 'twere a wild-bee humming in the thyme,
And the dim sounds of what pale mortals deem
The aims of life come back like olden rhyme
Upon mine ears, whilst, from the world afar,
I dream and I dream.

I hear the sweep of pinions in the air
And see dim glories glitter through the skies,
As if some angel from the blue extreme
Of heaven strewed gold and balm of memories
Upon the woods and the dim flowers that bear
Spells of a dream.

There hover faces o'er me oftentimes
Of lovely women that I knew of old,
Set like a jewel in a golden stream
Of fairest locks; and from the aureoled
Sweet lips there swell faint echoes of old rhymes;
(I dream and I dream.)

And sweet white arms enclose me as I lie,
(Still do I lie and fold me in a sleep);
Yea, and faint-fluttering tresses, all a-gleam,
Fall down about my brow full tenderly
And wind me in a glamour soft and deep.
(I dream and I dream.)

109

Yet is there nothing that therein is rife
That for the world forsaken makes me sigh,
More than the empty motes of a sunbeam.
Unheeding them, in the dim dream I lie;
Far from the flutter of the wings of Life,
I dream and I dream.

When wraiths of pleasure are so true and leal,
Why should I seek for flesh and blood to love me?
Who shall tell what things are and what things seem?
I am content, unquestioning, to feel
The folding of the shadow-arms above me.
I dream and I dream.

There are two shapes that reign in the clear air,
Holding the hours with their alternate feet:
Under the lindens and along the stream
The twin shapes walk and make the noonday sweet
With their clear songs and their aspéct most fair:
(I dream and I dream)

The one of them is white and lockèd with gold
And the sea's blue is cloudless in his eyes;
And therein comes and goes the glad sun's gleam,
When in the morn the sloping shadow lies
Of his fair form upon the golden wold:
(I dream and I dream)

But dark the other is and sad as night
And his eyes purple as the evening sky,
When in the midnight falls the silver beam
Of the pale moon upon the flowers that lie
And faint for the excess of their delight:
(I dream and I dream)

110

The fair shape's songs are joyous as the day;
The other's sad as is the violets' breath;
And of their lovely semblance, this I deem,—
Life is the name of him that is so gay;
The name men know the other by is Death.
(I dream and I dream.)

The fair shape holds the day for his domain
And wakes the linnets with his golden song,
Clear as the jewelled tinkle of the stream;
The dark shape walks the cloistered night along
And weaves descants of a divine sweet pain.
(I dream and I dream.)

But in the middle day the twain do meet,
And hand in hand right lovingly they go
Along the wood-ways in the noontide gleam;
Mingling their songs in a sweet chant and low;
And where the grass is pressed by their twin feet,
I dream and I dream.

Nor are these all that haunt the wooded bowers:
There is another shape much sought of them,
That something of the twain to have doth seem;
For there is life in his sweet eyes' blue gem
And death upon his tender mouth's red flowers.
(I dream and I dream.)

Walking alone, along the wood he goes
And plucks the flowers, to breathe their scent and tell
The issue of the things that he doth deem,
And idles with the ripple's babbling swell,
Murmuring sweet ditties that he only knows.
(I dream and I dream.)

111

Him do the twin shapes seek by hill and wood,
He flying ever with an arch despite
Along the meadows in the sight's extreme;
And when upon the fringe of the spent night
The broidery of morning is renewed,
(I dream and I dream)

They touch him often; yet but seldom win
To make him walk with them the path beside,
Along the flowered marges of the stream;
And often joyous Life hath grieving sighed
And Death hath sorrowing sat beside the linn,
(I dream and I dream)

For that he would not come: but, comes the wight,
Then do they crown him, as their lord, above
The twain, with laurels and an anademe
Woven out of sun-gold and the moon's delight;
And so I know that the fair shape is Love.
(I dream and I dream.)

These all are but the figures of a sleep,
Being too fair for aught but the dream-world,
Being too lovely to do aught but seem;
And so I will to lie and them to reap:
In these dim hazes of the night impearled,
I dream and I dream.

Come Death,—it is but night more sweet and deep;
Come Life,—it is but morning come again;
Come Love,—it is but the first Spring's sun-beam,
With the sweet primrose-scents of rapturous pain;
For Love, Life, Death, are but the terms of sleep.
I dream and I dream.

112

IX.THE WESTWARD SAILING.

OH, blithe and glad the liege-folk were
In all the Norway strand!
For home the king a bride did bring,
The king of all the land.

With many a gay gold flag they decked
The city of the king;
Loud sang the choirs and from the spires
The bells for joy did ring.

There was no man in all the land
But laid his grief aside,
What time the king with holy ring
Was wedded to his bride.

Within the royal banquet-hall
The bridal feast was spread;
The cup went round, with garlands crowned,
And eke the wine ran red.

The harpers smote the silver strings,
The gleemen all did sing
Thereto a song so sweet and strong,
That all the hall did ring.

And therein sat upon his throne,
Among his barons all,
The king, beside his trothplight bride,
And ruled the festival.

He kissed his bride, his bride kissed him,
From the same cup drank they;
And therewithal the minstrels all
Did sing a joyous lay.

113

Oh, merry, merry went the feast
And fast the red wine ran!
The gates gaped wide and in did stride
An old seafaring man.

In russet leather was he clad,
As those that use the sea,
And three times rolled, a chain of gold
About his neck had he.

Gray was his head, his beard was gray
And furrowed was his brow;
But in his eye a might did lie
That made all heads to bow.

He gazed upon the crownèd king,
Upon his barons all;
And there befell a sudden spell
Of silence in the hall.

With steel-gray eyes he gazed on them,
Whilst none the hush might break,—
The words to come were stricken dumb,—
And thus to them he spake:

“The lift is clear, the wind blows free
Toward the sunset land;
Oh, who with me will sail the sea
Unto the Western strand?

“Now let the courtier leave his feast
And plough the deep with me!
The king his bride let leave, to ride
Over the briny sea!

“Now let the baron leave his hall,
The minstrel leave his song!
For in the West is set the quest
Whereafter all men long.

114

“There are the forests thick with flower
And there the winds breathe balm
And there gold birds sing wonder-words
Under the summer calm.

“There is the earth thick-strewn with gems,
The sands are golden-shelled
And in the skies the magic lies
That gives new youth to eld.

“Oh, who will sail the seas with me
Unto the shores of gold?
There lieth rest, that is the best
For all men, young or old.”

Then up there leapt the crownèd king,
The king of all the land:
“Oh, I with thee will sail the sea
Unto the Western strand!

“Whate'er thou art, thy words have wrought
Such yearning in my breast,
That I will sail, come weal or bale,
Unto the golden West!”

His bride hath laid upon his arm
Her hand more white than snow;
She kissed him thrice, with tearful eyes
And mouth all white for woe;

And on his finger, for a sign
That he should ne'er forget,
A ring threefold of good red gold
And sapphires hath she set.

The seaman led them with his eye
Out of the high gold door;
And they are come, for wonder dumb,
Down to the white sea-shore.

115

Before the city, on the sea,
A fair tall ship there lay,
With sails of silk as white as milk
And ropes of seagreen say.

Into the vessel tall and stout
He brought them every one;
And as he bade, all sail they made
Toward the setting sun.

Oh, many a weary day they sailed
Across the silver spray!
And ever due the West wind blew,
But never land saw they:

A wild wide waste of emerald sea,
Flecked with the argent foam;
A sun of gold that westward rolled
Over the blue sky-dome;

The twilight gray, that ends the day,
And then the moon on high;
The purple night, with moonlight white
And stars thick set in sky.

So fifty days were wellnigh past,
And on the fiftieth day,
At eventide, the sad wind sighed,
The sapphire lift grew gray.

The icebergs rose about the ship,
All in a death-white ring,
And grimly round with ice they bound
The vessel of the king.

The helmsman stood beside the helm;
The flesh from off him fell;
And in his stead there reared its head
A grisly Death from Hell.

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The Death-King stood upon the deck,
High as the topmost mast,
And thrice among that pallid throng
He blew a deathly blast.

With the first breath the sky turned black,
The sun a red fire grew,
And ghastly pale, the hearts did fail
Of all that luckless crew.

A second time he breathed on them
Under the heavens' pall,
And with his breath the sleep of death
Fell down upon them all.

A third time with his mouth he blew—
His mouth without a lip—
And far below the chill tide-flow
Down sank the doomèd ship.

Deep in the bosom of the sea
The frozen Norsemen rest;
Each mother's son the prize hath won
That for all men is best.

All in the trance of that strange sleep,
Upon the deck they stand;
And Death the King, he hath the ring
Upon his bony hand.

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X.SIR ERWIN'S QUESTING.

‘OH, whither, whither ridest thou, Sir Erwin?
The glitter of the dawn is in the sky;
And I hear the laverock singing,
Where the silken corn is springing
And the green-and-gold of summer's on the rye.’

‘O lady fair, I ride toward the setting;
For the glamour of the West is on my heart
And I hear a dream-voice calling
To the land where dews are falling
And the blossoms of the Springtide ne'er depart.’

‘Oh, what, oh, what thing seekest thou, Sir Erwin?
Is life no longer pleasant to thy soul?
Am I no more heart's dearest,
Though the summer skies are clearest
And the gold of June is fresh on copse and knoll?’

‘O sweet, I seek the land where love is holy
And the bloom of youth is ever on the flowers;
The land where joy is painless
And the eyes' delight is stainless
And the break of hope faints never in the weary noontide hours.’

‘Oh, rest awhile, oh, rest awhile, Sir Erwin!
The hills are yet ungilded by the sun.
Oh, tarry till the morning
Have chased the mists of dawning
And the weariness of noon be past and done!’

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‘O lady fair, I may not tarry longer!
The sun is climbing fast above the grey
And I hear the trumpets blowing,
Where the eastern clouds are glowing
And the mists of night are breaking from the city of the day.’

Far out into the greenwood rides Sir Erwin,
Oh, far into the wild wood rideth he!
And there meet him sisters seven,
When the sun is high in heaven
And the gold of noon is bright on flower and tree.

Oh, wonder-lovely maidens were the seven,
With mantles of the crimson and the green,
With red-gold rings and girdles
And sea-blue shoes and kirtles
And eyes that shone like cornflowers in their locks' corn-golden sheen.

‘Oh, light thee down and dwell with us, heart's dearest!
And we will sing thee wonder-lovely songs
And we will strew with roses
The place where thy repose is
And teach thee all the rapture that unto love belongs.

‘Oh, light thee down and dwell with us, heart's dearest!
We have full many a secret of delight:
Thy day shall be one sweetness
Of love in its completeness
And the nightingale shall sing to thee the whole enchanted night.’

‘Oh, woe is me! I may not stay, fair maidens;
My quest is for a country far and wild;
The land where springs the Iris,
Where the end of all desire is
And the thought of love lives ever undefiled.’

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‘Oh, light thee down and dwell with us, heart's dearest!
Thou wilt wear thy youth to eld in such a quest:
For it lies beyond the setting,
In the land of the Forgetting,
In the bosom of the everlasting rest!’

Far on into the greenwood rides Sir Erwin,
Oh, far into the wild wood rideth he!
And he sees a fair wife sitting,
At the hour when light is flitting
And the gold of sunset gathers on the sea.

Oh, very fair and stately was her seeming
And very sweet and dreamful were her eyes!
And as she sat a-weaving,
She sang a song of grieving,
Full low and sweet to anguish, mixt with sighs.

‘Oh, tell me what thou weavest there, fair lady,
I prithee tell me quickly what thou art!’
‘I am more fair than seeming
And I weave the webs of dreaming,
For the solace of the world-awearied heart.’

‘Oh, prithee tell me, tell to me, fair lady,
What song is that thou singest and so sweet?’
‘I sing the songs of sorrow,
That is golden on the morrow,
And I charm with them the sad hours' leaden feet.

‘Oh, light thee down and dwell with me, heart's dearest!
Thou hast wandered till thy face is furrowed deep;
But I will charm earth's cumbers
From the rose-meads of thy slumbers
And will fold thee in the lotus-leaves of sleep.’

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‘Oh, woe is me! oh, woe is me, fair lady!
A hand of magic draws me on my quest
Toward the land of story,
Where glows the sunset-glory
And the light of love fades never from the West.’

‘Oh, light thee down and dwell with me, heart's dearest!
Thine eyes will lose their lustre by the way;
For it lies far out to yonder,
Where the setting sun dips under
And the funeral pyres are burning for the day.’

Oh, far thorough the greenwood rides Sir Erwin,
Oh, far out of the wild wood rideth he!
And he comes where waves are plashing
And the wild white crests are dashing
On the pebbles of a gray and stormy sea.

Far down toward the tide-flow rides Sir Erwin,
Oh, far adown the shingle rideth he!
And he sees a shallop rocking
Upon the wild waves' flocking,
And an ancient steersman sitting in the lee.

Oh, very weird and gruesome was that steersman,
With hair that mocked for white the driven snow!
The light of some strange madness
Was in his eyes' gray sadness
And he showed like some pale ghost of long ago.

‘Oh, sail with me! oh, sail with me, Sir Erwin!
Thou hast wandered in thy questing far enough.
I will bring thee where Love's ease is
For ever, though the breezes
Blow rudely and the broad green way be rough.’

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‘Reach hand to me, reach hand to me, old steersman!
I will sail with thee for questing o'er the main.
Although thine eyes look coldly,
I will dare the venture boldly;
For I weary for an ending of my pain.’

Oh, long they rode on billows, in the glory
Of the gold and crimson standards of the West!
So came they, in the setting,
To the land of the Forgetting,
Where the weary and the woeful are at rest.

‘Oh, what can be this land that is so peaceful,
That lies beyond the setting of the sun?
I hear a dream-bell ringing
And I hear a strange sweet singing
And the tender gold of twilight's on the dun.

‘Oh, what are these fair forms that float toward me
And what are these that hold me by the hand,
As if they long had sought me?
And what art thou hast brought me
O'er the ocean to this dream-enchanted strand?’

‘Fair knight, this is the land of the Hereafter
And the name that men do know me by is Death:
For the love, from life that's flying,
Lives ever for the dying
And the stains of it are purged with 'scape of breath.’

There is a legend that the more distant-seeming end of the rainbow begins in Fairyland.

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XI.THE BALLAD OF SHAMEFUL DEATH.

‘Le regard calme et haut,
Qui damne tout un peuple autour d'un échafaud.’
Baudelaire.

I GO to an evil death, to lie in a shameful grave,
And I know there is never a hope and never a God that can save;
Yet I smile, for I know that the end of my toil and my striving is come;
I shall sleep in the bosom of death, where the voice of the scorners is dumb.

I go in the felons' cart, with my hands bound fast with the cord
And nothing of brave or bright in the death that I ride toward:
The people clamour and jeer, with a fierce and an evil glee,
And the mothers and maids that pass do shudder to look on me.

For the deed that I did for men, the life that I crown with death,
Was a crime in the sight of all, a flame of the pestwind's breath;
And the good and the gentle pass with a sad and a drooping head,
As I go to my punished crime, to lie with the felon dead.

But lo! I am joyful and proud, as one that is newly crowned:
I heed not the gibes and the sneers and the hates that compass me round;
I come not, with drooping head, to the death that a felon dies;
I come as a king to the feast, with a deathless light in mine eyes.

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I ride with a dream in mine eyes and the sound of a dream in mine ears
And my spirit wanders again in the lapse of the bygone years;
I smile with the bygone hope and I weep for the bygone grief
And I weave me the olden plans for the world's and the folk's relief.

I build me over again the time of my yearning youth,
When my heart was sick for men's grief and my gladness failed me for ruth;
For I saw that their lives were weary and maddened with bitter toil
And there came no helper to heal, no prophet to purge the soil.

I mind me how all the joys, a man in his manhood's prime
May have in the new sweet world and the strength of his blossom-time,
Were saddened and turned to gall by the cry of the world's lament,
That withered the roses' bloom and poisoned the violets' scent.

My heart is full of the thoughts that gathered within my soul
And the anguish that held my life at the sight of my fellows' dole;
I mind me how, day by day, the passion grew in my breast,
The voices cried in my sleep and hindered my heart of rest.

It rises before me now, in its fragrance ever the same,
The time when my soul found peace and my yearning soared like a flame,
The day when my shapeless thought took spirit and speech and form,
The hour when I swore alone to front the fire and the storm.

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It rises before me now, the little lane by the wood,
With the golden-harvested fields, where the corn in its armies stood,
The berries brown in the hedge, the eddying leaves in the breeze
And the spirits that seemed to speak in the wind that sighed through the trees.

The path where I went alone, in the midst of the swaying sheaves,
Through the landscape glowing with gold and crimson of Autumn leaves;
The place where my full resolve rose out of my tears and sighs,
Where my life was builded for me and my way lay clear in mine eyes.

I mind me the words I spoke, the deeds that I did to save,
The life that I lived to rescue the world from its living grave;
I mind me the blows I smote at the thronèd falsehood and blame,
The comfort I spoke for the lost, the love that I gave to shame.

I mind me of all the hates that gathered about my strife,
The gibes that poisoned my speech, the lies that blackened my life,
The fears that maddened the folk, the folly that shrank with dread
From the love I spoke for the live, the hope I held for the dead.

For the folk, with their purblind souls, chose rather to live and die
In the olden anguishful slough, to weary and groan and sigh
In the old familiar toil and the old unvarying hate,
Than rise to a joy unknown, a love to free them from Fate.

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And the words that I spoke for love, the deeds that I did for hope,
The future I showed for life in the new sweet credence's scope,
They deemed them a tempting of hell, a blasphemy and a crime;
They thought the angel a fiend, that called them out of their slime.

The yearning that cried in their breasts, that met mine own like a flood,
They thought to quench it with fire, to stay its passion with blood,
To deaden my voice with death, (their own should be silent then;)
And so I come to atone for the love that I bore to men.

My enemies laugh in their glee, as the people jeer at my fate;
They know not the seed of love that lies at the heart of hate:
They give me hatred for love and death for the life I brought;
But I smile, for I know that love shall come at the last, unsought.

I look far on in the years and see the blood that I shed
Crying a cry in men's ears, crying the cry of the dead;
I see my thought and my hope fulfilling my work for men
In the folk that jeer at me now, the lips that spat at me then.

I know that for many a year my life shall be veiled with shame,
That many an age shall hate me and make a mock of my name;
I know that the fathers shall teach their children many a year
To hold my hope for a dread and know my creed for a fear.

But I know that my work shall grow in the darkness ever the same;
Its seed shall stir in the earth in the shade of my evil fame;
My thought shall conquer and live, when the sound of my doom is fled
And my name and my crime are buried, to lie with the unknown dead.

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Wherefore I smile as I go and the joy at my heart is strong
And I gaze with a peace and a hope on the cruel glee of the throng;
I live in my thought and my love, I conquer Time with my faith
And I ride with a deathless hope to crown my living with death.

I loved thee, beautiful Death, in the fresh sweet time of the Spring,
And I will not fail from my troth in the wind of the axe's swing;
I come to thy bridal bed, O Death my belovéd, I come!
I shall sleep in thine arms at the last, when the voice of the scoffers is dumb.

O friends that are faithful yet, if your love shall bear me in mind
With a graven stone on the tomb where I sleep with my felon kind,
Write me as one that fell in the way of a punished crime,
‘Hated of men he died, in the heart of the evil time!’

And yet I would not be thought to glose o'er my full stern fate
Or leave weak words of complaint for the ages that lie in wait.
Rase out the final words; I will rest with the first content;
‘Hated of men he died’ shall stand for my monument.

I was never in love with the praise nor afraid of the censure of fools:
Mean they as well as they may, they were ever the dastard's tools.
Strike out the words of complaint; I will stand by the rest alone:
‘Hated of men’ shall pass for the roll of my virtues on stone.

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And yonder on in the years, some few of the wise, perad-venture,
Shall read in the things laid bare the truth of my lifelong venture,
Shall see my life like a star in the shrouding mists of the ages
And set my name for a light and a patriot's name in their pages.

And then shall the clearer sight and the tenderer thought fulfil
The things that I left unsaid, the words that are lacking still:
A poet shall set my name in the gold of his noble rhyme;
‘Hated of men he died, in the heart of the evil time.’

XII.THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S DAUGHTER.

I.

THE still earth sleeps in the Summer night,
The air is full of the moon;
All over the land, in her silver sight,
The roses blossom, ruddy and white;
The world is joyous with June.

There goes a moan in the greenwood hoar,
A moan, but and a wail:
What sighing is that the breezes bore?
What plaining is that which shrilleth o'er
The note of the nightingale?

A green glade lies in the middle wood:
Under the moonlight pale,
The greensward glitters many a rood.
Who lies on the grass, bedabbled with blood?
A knight in his silver mail.

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A murdered knight on the greensward lies,
Under the witch-white moon:
The air is thick with his dying sighs;
The nightbirds flutter about his eyes;
The corbies over him croon.

II.

The night-wind wails,
The moon-silver pales,
The stars are faint in the mist;
The king's daughter rides over hill and dale,
Under the arch of the pine-shade pale,
A lily of gold in the moon-mist's veil.
And as she rides
Where the mill-stream glides,
A raven is sitting on the tree by the brown water,
With ‘Woe to thee! oh, woe to thee, king's daughter!
Thou ridest to an evil tryst.’

The silence quivers,
The pine-shade shivers,
Sad flute-notes wake in the gloom.
The king's daughter rides in the hawthorn track;
Gold is her hair on the black steed's back.
Whose steps are those
That the echo throws
Back on the startled ear of the night?
What form is that in the moonlight white
That follows the track of her horse's feet?
Whose hands on the red-gold bridle meet?
Whose spells are they that such scath have wrought her,
That the night-winds cry to her, ‘Woe, king's daughter!
Thou ridest to thy place of doom.’

The moon brims up
In her pearlèd cup,

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The air grows purple as gore;
The stars are red
With blood to be shed;
The king's daughter sees in the purple sky
The wings of the birds of ill omen fly,
And the broidered lights in the cloud-rack burn
With a word that is weary and fierce and stern;
The shadows of the night in their arms have caught her
And the night-winds cry to her, ‘Woe, king's daughter!
Thy pleasant place of life shall never know thee more.’

Out of the maze
Of the woodbind ways,
Into a moonlit glade,
The maiden rides, with the shape of gloom
Casting a shade on her cheek's rose-bloom,
A shadow of surely hastening doom.
What glitter is that of silvered mail,
Prone on the grass in the moonlight pale?
A sword-hilt joined to a broken blade:
Whose blood is red on the bright brown steel?
Who lies in the sleep of death?
It is her knight, that was true and leal,
Whose lips so often her lips have kissed,
To whom the shades of the night have brought her;
And she hears in the echo his dying breath:
‘Ah! woe is me for thee, king's daughter!
Thou comest to a woful tryst.’

III.

She hath alighted from off her steed
And she hath raised her lover's head
And laid it on her knees;
The rose of her heart begins to bleed
And on her breast his blood is red;
Her heart begins to freeze.

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She hath arisen from off the ground
And she hath ta'en the bloodied blade
And dug with it a grave;
She hath diggèd a grave both deep and round
And there his body hath she laid:
His soul the dear Christ save!

She hath folded her round her mantle gray
And she hath stepped into the tomb
And laid her by his side:
The dead and the live, the knight and his may,
They are wedded at last in night and gloom:
The grave is fair and wide.

IV.

The day-flower blows on the eastern hills.
(Woe is me for the king's daughter!)
The throstle in the morn
Sings blithely on the thorn
And golden is the sun on the grave of the king's daughter.

The wind of dawn through the forest shrills,
With leaves for the grave of the king's daughter.
A lily of red gold
Its flower-flames doth unfold
And glisters in the sun from the heart of the king's daughter.

XIII.THE ROSES OF SOLOMON.

SOLOMON of ancient story
Of the Lord had roses seven,
Roses of the morning-glory,
Dropping with the dews of heaven.

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Angels plucked them in the garden
Of the city high and golden,
Ere the dews had time to harden,
That within their cups were holden,

Into jewels for the adorning
Of the Cherubim immortal,
Of the Chamberlains of Morning,
Of the Seraphs of the Portal.

Flowers from a celestial far land,
With the breath of blessing o'er them,
Woven, gathered in a garland,
Still for benison he bore them.

From the chrysoberyl ceiling
Of his chair of state suspended,
All the air with fragrance filling,
Bright with blossom never ended,

Hung the heaven-descended flowers,
Each its proper boon of blessing,
Each its own enchanted powers
By the grace of God possessing.

Kingship this and domination
Gave of all the worldly spaces,
Over every land and nation,
Over all the tribes and races.

That the dark world's sons and daughters
Bent to, spirits earthy, airy,
Angels of the fires and waters,
Demon, seraph, afrit, fairy.

Empire this which never dieth
Gave o'er all with life and motion,
All that creepeth, fareth, flieth
In the earth and air and ocean.

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That command of all the courses
Gave of land and sea and heaven,
Winds and waters, flames and forces,
Sun and moon and planets seven.

This o'er soulless things had power,
All that sees not, speaks not, hears not,
Stone and metal, herb and flower,
Everything that stands and stirs not.

That continuance eternal
Gave and life that never faded,
Youth renewing, sempervernal,
Age and death fore'er evaded.

Sapience the last celestial
Gave and power all hearts of reading,
Wit t solve all doubts terrestrial,
Wisdom for all worldly needing.

With these talismans provided,
Angel-armied, Naiad-navied,
Wisdom-warranted, God-guided,
Who was like the son of David?

All his nights with love he meted,
All his days with war and kingcraft,
On the breezes fared and fleeted,
From the birds caught song- and wingcraft;

Moulded Israel to his measure,
Swayed all Syria, lowlands, highlands,
Swept the Indian seas for treasure,
Levied tribute from the islands;

Filled earth's faces with his armies,
With his navies oared the ocean;
Made Judæa, vi et armis,
Laughing as the land of Goshen;

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Ceiled his palaces with cedar,
Garnered pearls and gems for money,
Dan to Gilead, Gath to Kedar,
Made the realm run milk and honey.

Never monarch was that flourished
As did he: with power and praises
Fed to fulness, pleasure-nourished,
Glorious in all men's gazes,

In Jerusalem high-builded,
Over all the land prevailing,
Mid his graven halls and gilded,
Lapt in love and fame unfailing,

Life on his commandments waiting,
All its rocky places levelled,
Nothing lacking, nothing bating,
Many a year he reigned and revelled:

Till at last, with sweetness sated,
Tired of thrones and dominations,
Turned he to the things God hated,
Followed on abominations;

Worshipped Ishtar, Moloch, Tanit,
Sought Canopus and Orion,
Bowed to stock and stone and planet,
Quite forgot the God of Zion.

Then did Jahveh rise and blast him,
Beggared him of gifts and graces,
From his chair of kingship cast him,
Throned an afrit in his places.

Virtue all forsook the roses;
Withered weeds, from heaven banished,
For the Paradisal closes
Languishing, they pined and vanished.

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What of David's son remained is?
All his greatness, all his glory,
How he revelled, how he reigned, is
Nothing now but idle story.

XIV.THE BALLAD OF MAY MARGARET.

OH, sweet is the Spring in coppice and wold
And the bonny fresh flowers are springing!
May Margaret walks in the merry greenwood,
To hear the blithe birds singing.

May Margaret walks in the heart of the treen,
Under the green boughs straying;
And she hath met the king of the elves,
Under the lindens playing.

‘Oh, wed thou with me, May Margaret,
All in the merry green Maytime,
And thou shalt dance all the moonlit night
And sleep on flowers in the daytime!’

‘O king of the elves, it may not be,
For the sake of the folk that love me;
I may not be queen of the elfland green,
For the fear of the heaven above me.’

‘Oh, an thou wilt be the elfland's queen,
Thy robe shall be blue and golden
And thou shalt drink of the rose-red wine,
In blue-bell chalices holden.’

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‘O king of the elves, it may not be.
My father at home would miss me;
An if I were queen of the elfland green,
My mother would never kiss me.’

‘Oh, an thou wilt be the elfland's queen,
Thy shoon shall be seagreen sendal;
Thy thread shall be silk as white as milk
And snow-white silver thy spindle.’

He hath led her by the lilywhite hand
Into the hillside palace:
And he hath given her wine to drink
Out of the blue-bell chalice.

Now seven long years are over and gone,
Since the thorn began to blossom;
And she hath brought the elf-king a son
And beareth it on her bosom.

‘A boon, a boon, my husband the king,
For the sake of my babe I cry thee!’
‘Now ask what thou wilt, May Margaret;
There's nothing I may deny thee.’

‘Oh, let me go home for a night and a day,
To show my mother her daughter
And fetch a priest to my bonny wee babe,
To sprinkle the holy water!

‘Oh, let me go home for a day and a night
To the little town by the river!
And we will turn to the merry greenwood
And dwell with the elves for ever.’

Oh, out of the elfland are they gone,
Mother and babe together,
And they are come, in the blithe Springtime,
To the land of the blowing heather.

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‘Oh, where is my mother I used to kiss
And my father that erst caressed me?
They both lie cold in the churchyard mould
And I have no whither to rest me.

‘Oh, where is the dove that I used to love
And the lover that used to love me?
The one is dead, the other is fled;
But the heaven is left above me.

‘I pray thee, sir priest, to christen my babe
With bell and candle and psalter;
And I will give up this bonny gold cup,
To stand on the holy altar.’

‘O queen of the elves, it may not be!
The elf must suffer damnation,
But if thou wilt bring thy costliest thing,
As guerdon for its salvation.’

‘Oh, surely my life is my costliest thing!
I give it and never rue it.
An if thou wilt save my innocent babe,
The blood of my heart ensue it!’

The priest hath made the sign of the cross,
The white-robed choristers sing;
But the babe is dead ere blessing be said,
May Margaret's costliest thing.

Oh, drearly and loud she shrieked, as if
The soul from her breast should sever!
And she hath gone to the merry greenwood,
To dwell with the elves for ever.

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XV.THE MARSH-KING'S DAUGHTER.

I.

A WIND came over the Western water,
(Oh sweet is the rose in the fresh Spring-time!)
‘Weary of life,’ it said, ‘poor lover?
Sick for a love that is dead and gone?
(Winds blow over her, earth's above her.)
Sick for a day that was faded at dawn?
The cure is the kiss of the marsh-king's daughter.’

Weary of life, I answered and said,
‘O wind of the Western water!’
Sick for a day and a love that are dead,
‘Why should I seek,’ I answered and said,
‘The kiss of the marsh-king's daughter?’

II.

The wind came over the Western water:
(The death-flower blows in the Summer's prime!)
‘If one be weary and sick of living,
Sick for the sake of a vanished love,
Sick of the glow and blossom of Spring,
Sick of the Summer's glitter and ring;
If colour lack in the Autumn's weaving
And the Winter hold not sorrow enough,
The cure is the kiss of the marsh-king's daughter.’

Weary of life, I answered and said,
‘O wind of the Western water!’
Bitter with tears that I could not shed,
‘Tell me, West-wind,’ I answered and said,
‘The home of the marsh-king's daughter.’

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III.

‘It lies far over the Western water.
(Oh sweet is the rose in the fresh Spring-time!)
Under the arch of the sun at setting,
‘Twixt gold of sunset and dusk of night,
Under the sound of the sea-winds' fretting;
In the purple heart of the marish mist,
That the shafts of the dying day have kiss'd,
Under the ceiling where stars are bright,
There is the home of the marsh-king's daughter.’

Weary of life, I answered and said,
‘O wind of the Western water!
My hopes lie close in the house of the dead;
But I will go,’ I answered and said,
‘To seek for the marsh-king's daughter.’

IV.

I wandered over the Western water,
(Oh sweet is the rose in the fresh Spring-time!)
And I came in the evening, when light was dying,
To a land where the hum of the world was still,
Where the voice of the evening wind was sighing
And the spells of sleep were over the air;
And I saw in the setting the golden hair
Of the sunset broider the mists, until
They grew to the robe of the marsh-king's daughter.

Golden starlets were over her head,
(A crown for the marsh-king's daughter.)
‘Come to my arms,’ I answered and said;
And she came, with the West-wind's murmurous tread,
To me that so long had sought her.

139

V.

A voice came over the Western water:
(The deathflower blows in the Summer's prime!)
‘Dearly,’ it said, ‘hast thou won and bought her.
Her kisses are cold as are the dead
And the gold of her hair o'er thee is shed,
As wings of the birds that fly to the slaughter!
The lips thou shouldst kiss are living and red,
Thine eyes should feast on the joys of earth,
Thy hands pluck flowers in the golden prime.
Youth was not made for sorrow and dearth:
Get thee back, whilst there yet is time;
For Death is the name of the marsh-king's daughter!’

Weary of life, I answered and said,
‘O wind of the Western water!
My lips shall kiss but the lips of the dead.’
Sick of the day, I answered and said,
‘Kiss me, O marsh-king's daughter!’