The Poetical Works of John Payne Definitive Edition in Two Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
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 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 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,
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.’
In her pearlèd cup,
129
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.’
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.’
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |