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    THE POEMS OF [Illustration]
    MADISON CAWEIN

    VOLUME I

    LYRICS AND OLD WORLD
    IDYLLS

[Illustration]

    "It shall go hard with him through thee, unconquerable blade"
    Page 270

    _Accolon of Gaul_




    THE POEMS OF
    MADISON CAWEIN

    _Volume I_

    LYRICS AND OLD
    WORLD IDYLLS

    WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
    EDMUND GOSSE

    _Illustrated_

    WITH PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS
    BY ERIC PAPE


    INDIANAPOLIS
    THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
    PUBLISHERS




    COPYRIGHT, 1887, 1888, 1889, 1890, 1891, 1892, 1893,
    1898 AND 1907, BY MADISON CAWEIN


    PRESS OF
    BRAUNWORTH & CO.
    BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
    BROOKLYN, N. Y.




    TO
    WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
    WHO WAS THE FIRST TO RECOGNIZE AND ENCOURAGE
    MY ENDEAVORS, THIS VOLUME IS
    INSCRIBED WITH AFFECTION, ADMIRATION
    AND ESTEEM




PREFACE


This first collected edition of my poems contains all the verses I
care to retain except the translations from the German, published in
1895 under the title of _The White Snake_, and some of the poems in
_Nature-Notes and Impressions_, published in 1906.

Several of the poems which I probably would have omitted I have retained
at the solicitation of friends, who have based their argument for their
retention upon the generally admitted fact that a poet seldom knows his
best work.

The new arrangement under new titles I found was necessary for the sake
of convenience; and the poems in a manner grouped themselves in certain
classes. In eliminating the old titles--some eighteen in number--I have
disregarded entirely, except in the case of the first volume, the date of
the appearance of each poem, placing every one, according to its subject
matter, in its proper group under its corresponding title.

Most of the poems, especially the earlier ones, have been revised; many
of them almost entirely rewritten and, I think, improved.

    MADISON CAWEIN.

    _Louisville, Kentucky._




INTRODUCTION


Since the disappearance of the latest survivors of that graceful and
somewhat academic school of poets who ruled American literature so long
from the shores of Massachusetts, serious poetry in the United States
seems to have been passing through a crisis of languor. Perhaps there is
no country on the civilized globe where, in theory, verse is treated with
more respect and, in practice, with greater lack of grave consideration
than in America. No conjecture as to the reason of this must be attempted
here, further than to suggest that the extreme value set upon sharpness,
ingenuity and rapid mobility is obviously calculated to depreciate and
to condemn the quiet practice of the most meditative of the arts. Hence
we find that it is what is called "humorous" verse which is mainly in
fashion on the western side of the Atlantic. Those rhymes are most warmly
welcomed which play the most preposterous tricks with language, which
dazzle by the most mountebank swiftness of turn, and which depend most
for their effect upon paradox and the negation of sober thought. It
is probable that the diseased craving for what is "smart," "snappy,"
and wide-awake, and the impulse to see everything foreshortened and
topsy-turvy, must wear themselves out before cooler and more graceful
tastes again prevail in imaginative literature.

Whatever be the cause, it is certain that this is not a moment when
serious poetry, of any species, is flourishing in the United States. The
absence of anything like a common impulse among young writers, of any
definite and intelligible, if excessive, _parti pris_, is immediately
observable if we contrast the American, for instance, with the French
poets of the last fifteen years. Where there is no school and no clear
trend of executive ambition, the solitary artist, whose talent forces
itself up into the light and air, suffers unusual difficulties, and
runs a constant danger of being choked in the aimless mediocrity that
surrounds him. We occasionally meet with a poet in the history of
literature, of whom we are inclined to say: "Charming as he is, he would
have developed his talent more evenly and conspicuously, if he had been
accompanied from the first by other young men like-minded, who would
have formed for him an atmosphere and cleared for him a space." This is
the one regret I feel in contemplating, as I have done for years past,
the ardent and beautiful talent of Mr. Madison Cawein. I deplore the
fact that he seems to stand alone in his generation; I think his poetry
would have been even better than it is, and its qualities would certainly
have been more clearly perceived, and more intelligently appreciated, if
he were less isolated. In his own country, at this particular moment,
in this matter of serious nature-painting in lyric verse, Mr. Cawein
possesses what Cowley would have called "a monopoly of wit." In one of
his lyrics Mr. Cawein asks--

    "The song-birds, are they flown away,
      The song-birds of the summer-time,
    That sang their souls into the day,
      And set the laughing hours to rhyme?
    No cat-bird scatters through the hush
      The sparkling crystals of her song;
    Within the woods no hermit-thrush
      Trails an enchanted flute along."

To this inquiry, the answer is: the only hermit-thrush now audible seems
to sing from Louisville, Kentucky. America will, we may be perfectly
sure, calm herself into harmony again, and possess once more her school
of singers. In those coming days, history may perceive in Mr. Cawein the
golden link that bound the music of the past to the music of the future
through an interval of comparative tunelessness.

The career of Mr. Madison Cawein is represented to me as being most
uneventful. He seems to have enjoyed unusual advantages for the
cultivation and protection of the poetical temperament. He was born on
the 23rd of March, 1865, in the metropolis of Kentucky, the vigorous
city of Louisville, on the southern side of the Ohio, in the midst of
a country celebrated for tobacco and whisky and Indian corn. These are
commodities which may be consumed in excess, but in moderation they
make glad the heart of man. They represent a certain glow of the earth,
they indicate the action of a serene and gentle climate upon a rich
soil. It was in this delicate and voluptuous state of Kentucky that Mr.
Cawein was born, that he was educated, that he became a poet, and that
he has lived ever since. His blood is full of the color and odor of his
native landscape. The solemn books of history tell us that Kentucky was
discovered in 1769, by Daniel Boone, a hunter. But he first discovers a
country who sees it first, and teaches the world to see it; no doubt some
day the city of Louisville will erect, in one of its principal squares,
a statue to "Madison Cawein, who discovered the Beauty of Kentucky." The
genius of this poet is like one of those deep rivers of his native state,
which cut paths through the forests of chestnut and hemlock as they hurry
towards the south and west, brushing with the impulsive fringe of their
currents the rhododendrons and calmias and azaleas that bend from the
banks to be mirrored in their flashing waters.

Mr. Cawein's vocation to poetry was irresistible. I do not know that
he even tried to resist it. I have even the idea that a little more
resistance would have been salutary for a talent which nothing could
have discouraged, and which opposition might have taught the arts of
compression and selection. Mr. Cawein suffered at first, I think, from
lack of criticism more than from lack of eulogy. From his early writings
I seem to gather an impression of a Louisville more ready to praise
what was second-rate than what was first-rate, and practically, indeed,
without any scale of appreciation whatever. This may be a mistake of
mine; at all events, Mr. Cawein has had more to gain from the passage
of years in self-criticism than in inspiring enthusiasm. The fount
was in him from the first; but it bubbled forth before he had digged a
definite channel for it. Sometimes, to this very day, he sports with
the principles of syntax, as Nature played games so long ago with
the fantastic caverns of the valley of the Green River or with the
coral-reefs of his own Ohio. He has bad rhymes, amazing in so delicate
an ear; he has awkwardness of phrase not expected in one so plunged in
contemplation of the eternal harmony of Nature. But these grow fewer and
less obtrusive as the years pass by.

The virgin timber-forests of Kentucky, the woods of honey-locust and
buckeye, of white oak and yellow poplar, with their clearings full of
flowers unknown to us by sight or name, from which in the distance are
visible the domes of the far-away Cumberland Mountains,--this seems to
be the hunting-field of Mr. Cawein's imagination. Here all, it must be
confessed, has hitherto been unfamiliar to the Muses. If Persephone
"of our Cumnor cowslips never heard," how much less can her attention
have been arrested by clusters of orchids from the Ocklawaha, or by the
song of the whippoorwill, rung out when "the west was hot geranium-red"
under the boughs of a black-jack on the <DW72>s of Mount Kinnex. "Not
here," one is inclined to exclaim, "not here, O Apollo, are haunts meet
for thee," but the art of the poet is displayed by his skill in breaking
down these prejudices of time and place. Mr. Cawein reconciles us to
his strange landscape--the strangeness of which one has to admit is
mainly one of nomenclature,--by the exercise of a delightful instinctive
pantheism. He brings the ancient gods to Kentucky, and it is marvelous
how quickly they learn to be at home there. Here is Bacchus, with a spicy
fragment of calamus-root in his hand, trampling the blue-eyed grass, and
skipping, with the air of a hunter born, into the hickory thicket, to
escape Artemis, whose robes, as she passes swiftly with her dogs through
the woods, startle the humming-birds, silence the green tree-frogs, and
fill the hot still air with the perfumes of peppermint and pennyroyal.
It is a queer landscape, but one of new natural beauties frankly and
sympathetically discovered, and it forms a _mise en scene_ which, I make
bold to say, would have scandalized neither Keats nor Spenser.

It was Mr. Howells,--ever as generous in discovering new talent as he is
unflinching in reproof of the effeteness of European taste,--who first
drew attention to the originality and beauty of Mr. Cawein's poetry. The
Kentucky poet had, at that time, published but one tentative volume,
the _Blooms of the Berry_, of 1887. This was followed, in 1888, by _The
Triumph of Music_, and since then hardly a year has passed without a
slender sheaf of verse from Mr. Cawein's garden. Among these (if a single
volume is to be indicated), the quality which distinguishes him from all
other poets,--the Kentucky flavor, if we may call it so,--is perhaps to
be most agreeably detected in _Intimations of the Beautiful_.

But it is time that I should leave the American lyrist to make his own
appeal, with but one additional word of explanation, namely, that in
this introduction Mr. Cawein's narrative poems on medieval themes, and
in general his cosmopolitan writings, have been neglected of mention in
favor of such nature lyrics as would present him most vividly in his own
native landscape, no visitor in spirit to Europe, but at home in that
bright and exuberant West--

    "Where, in the hazy morning, runs
    The stony branch that pools and drips,
    Where red haws and the wild-rose hips
    Are strewn like pebbles; where the sun's
      Own gold seems captured by the weeds;
      To see, through scintillating seeds,
    The hunters steal with glimmering guns.
    To stand within the dewy ring
      Where pale death smites the boneset's blooms,
      And everlasting's flowers, and plumes
    Of mint, with aromatic wing!
      And hear the creek,--whose sobbing seems
      A wild man murmuring in his dreams,--
    And insect violins that sing!"

So sweet a voice, so consonant with the music of the singers of past
times, heard in a place so fresh and strange, will surely not pass
without its welcome from lovers of genuine poetry.

    EDMUND GOSSE.

    _London, England._




CONTENTS


    BLOOMS OF THE BERRY                             PAGE

        AT REST                                       45
        AVATARS                                       61
        CLOUDS                                        59
        DEAD LILY, A                                  40
        DEAD OREAD, THE                               41
        DEFICIENCY                                    50
        DISTANCE                                      48
        DIURNAL                                       55
        DREAMER OF DREAMS, A                          24
        DRYAD, THE                                    38
        FAMILY BURYING GROUND, THE                    57
        HEPATICAS                                     17
        HERON, THE                                    60
        IN LATE FALL                                  72
        IN MIDDLE SPRING                              12
        IN NOVEMBER                                   71
        LILLITA                                       63
        LONGINGS                                       9
        LOVELINESS                                     4
        MIDSUMMER                                     52
        MIDWINTER                                     79
        MIRABILE DICTU                                22
        MIRIAM                                        65
        MOONRISE AT SEA                               69
        OLD BYWAY, THE                                32
        PAN                                           27
        PAX VOBISCUM                                  43
        SOUND OF THE SAP, THE                         36
        SPIRITS OF SPRING                             19
        SPRING SHOWER, A                              14
        STORMY SUNSET, A                              29
        SWEET O' THE YEAR, THE                        10
        TWO DAYS                                      67
        TYRANNY                                       76
        WAITING                                        7
        WHAT YOU WILL                                 77
        WITH THE SEASONS                              73
        WOOD GOD, THE                                  1
        WOODLAND GRAVE, A                             30
        WOODPATH, THE                                 34


    IN THE GARDENS OF FALERINA
        ALCALDE'S DAUGHTER, THE                      187
        AMADIS AT MIRAFLORES                         108
        AN ANTIQUE                                   129
        BLODEUWEDD                                   101
        EPIC, THE                                    183
        ERMENGARDE                                   125
        EVE OF ALL-SAINTS, THE                       164
        FACE TO FACE                                 160
        GARDENS OF FALERINA, THE                      85
        GUINEVERE, A                                 153
        HACKELNBERG                                  127
        HAWKING                                      117
        IN MYTHIC SEAS                               193
        ISHMAEL                                      189
        JAAFER THE BARMECIDE                         131
        KING, THE                                    138
        LOKÉ AND SIGYN                               197
        LOVE AS IT WAS IN THE TIME OF LOUIS XIV      171
        MATER DOLOROSA                               169
        MELANCHOLIA                                  141
        MINSTREL AND THE PRINCESS, THE               185
        MY ROMANCE                                   181
        ORLANDO                                      119
        PERLE DES JARDINS                            156
        PRE-EXISTENCE, A                             134
        ROMANCE                                       87
        TO GERTRUDE                                   83
        TROUBADOUR, THE                              176
        URGANDA                                      112
        VALLEY OF MUSIC, THE                          90
        WAR-SONG OF HARALD THE RED                   207
        WOMAN OF THE WORLD, A                        150
        YOLANDA OF THE TOWERS                        121
        YULE                                         209


    OLD WORLD IDYLLS

        ACCOLON OF GAUL                              219
        AFTER THE TOURNAMENT                         340
        AN EPISODE                                   440
        ARABAH                                       458
        AT THE CORREGIDOR'S                          437
        BEHRAM AND EDDETMA                           476
        BLIND HARPER, THE                            345
        CHILDE RONALD                                347
        DARK TOWER, THE                              342
        DAUGHTER OF MERLIN, THE                      363
        DEMON LOVER, THE                             358
        DREAM OF SIR GALAHAD, THE                    335
        FORESTER, THE                                371
        GERALDINE                                    431
        ISOLT                                        329
        KHALIF AND THE ARAB, THE                     450
        KNIGHT-ERRANT, THE                           368
        LADY OF THE HILLS, THE                       356
        MAMELUKE, THE                                466
        MOATED MANSE, THE                            391
        MORGAN LE FAY                                353
        MY LADY OF VERNE                             422
        NORMAN KNIGHT, THE                           448
        OLD TALE RETOLD, AN                          409
        PEREDUR, THE SON OF EVRAWC                   307
        PORTRAIT, THE                                471
        PRINCESS OF THULE, A                         360
        ROMAUNT OF THE ROSES                         468
        ROSICRUCIAN, THE                             445
        SEVEN DEVILS, THE                            460
        SLAVE, THE                                   443
        THAMUS                                       462
        TO R. E. LEE GIBSON                          217
        TORQUEMADA                                   485
        TRISTRAM TO ISOLT                            365




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


    "IT SHALL GO HARD WITH HIM THROUGH THEE,
      UNCONQUERABLE BLADE"                      _Frontispiece_
                                                                PAGE

    SHE RAISED HER OBLONG LUTE AND SMOTE SOME
      CHORDS (See page 230)                                      124

    IN HER ECSTASY A LOVELY DEVIL (See page 303)                 250

    AND GRASPED OF BOTH WILD HANDS, SWUNG
      TRENCHANT (See page 285)                                   374




LYRICS


    _Wine-warm winds that sigh and sing
      Led me, wrapped in many moods,
      Through the green, sonorous woods
    Of belated spring._

    _Till I came where, glad with heat,
      Waste and wild the fields were strewn,
      Olden as the olden moon,
    At my weary feet._

    _Wild and white with starry bloom,
      One far milky-way that dashed,
      When some mad wind down it flashed,
    Into billowy foam._

    _I, bewildered, gazed around,
      As one on whose heavy dreams
      Comes a sudden burst of beams,
    Like a mighty sound...._

    _If the grander flowers I sought,
      But these berry-blooms to you,
      Evanescent as the dew,
    Only these I brought._




BLOOMS OF THE BERRY.




THE WOOD GOD


I

    What deity for dozing Laziness
      Devised the lounging leafiness of this
    Secluded nook?--And how!--did I distress
      His musing ease that fled but now? or his
    Communion with some forest-sister, fair
    And shy as is the whippoorwill-flower there,
    Did I disturb?--Still is the wild moss warm
      And fragrant with late pressure,--as the palm
      Of some hot Hamadryad, who, a-nap,
    Props her hale cheek upon it, while her arm
      Is wildflower-buried; in her hair the balm
      Of a whole spring of blossoms and of sap.--


II

    See, how the dented moss, that pads the hump
      Of these distorted roots, elastic springs
    From that god's late reclining! Lump by lump
      Its points, impressed, rise in resilient rings,
    As stars crowd, qualming through gray evening skies.--
    Invisible presence, still I feel thy eyes
    Regarding me, bringing dim dreams before
      My half-closed gaze, here where great, green-veined leaves
      Reach, waving at me, their innumerable hands,
    Stretched towards this water where the sycamore
      Stands burly guard; where every ripple weaves
      A ceaseless, wavy quivering as of bands.


III

    Of elfin chivalry, that, helmed with gold,
      Invisible march, making a twinkling sound.--
    What brought thee here?--this wind, that steals the old
      Gray legends from the forests and around
    Whispers them now? Or, in those purple weeds
    The hermit brook so busy with his beads?--
    Lulling the silence with his prayers all day,
      Droning soft _Aves_ on his rosary
      Of bubbles.--Or, that butterfly didst mark
    On yon hag-taper, towering by the way,
      A witch's yellow torch?--Or didst, like me,
      Watch, drifting by, these curled, brown bits of bark?


IV

    Or con the slender gold of this dim, still
      Unmoving minnow 'neath these twisted roots,
    Thrust o'er the smoky topaz of this rill?--
      Or, in this sunlight, did those insect flutes,
    Sleepy with summer, drowsily forlorn,
    Remind thee of Tithonos and the Morn?
    Until thine eyes dropped dew, the dimpled stream
      Crinkling with crystal o'er the winking grail?--
      Or didst perplex thee with some poet plan
    To drug this air with beauty to make dream,--
      Presence unseen, still watching in yon vale!--
      Me, wildwood-wandered from the haunts of man!




LOVELINESS


I

    Now let us forth to find the young witch Spring,
      Seated amid her bow'rs and birds and buds,
    Busy with loveliness.--And, wandering
      Among old forests that the sunlight floods,
      Or vales of hermit-holy solitudes,
    Dryads shall beckon us from where they cling,
      Their limbs an oak-bark brown; their hair--wild woods
    Have perfumed--wreathed with earliest leaves: and they,
      Regarding us with a dew-sparkling eye,
      Shall whispering greet us, as the rain the rye,
    Or from wild lips melodious welcome fling,
    Like hidden waterfalls with winds at play.


II

    Let us surprise the Naiad ere she slips--
      Nude at her toilette--in her fountain's glass;
    With damp locks dewy and evasive hips,
      Cool-dripping, but an instant seen, alas!
      When from indented moss and plushy grass--
    Fear in her great eyes' rainbow-blue--she dips,
      Irised, the cloven water; as we pass
    Making a rippled circle that shall hide,
      From our exploring eyes, what watery path
      She gleaming took; what crystal haunt she hath
    In minnowy freshness, where her murmurous lips,
    Bubbling, make merry 'neath the rocky tide.


III

    Then we may meet the Oread, whose eyes
      Are dewdrops where twin heavens shine confessed:
    She, all the maiden modesty's surprise
      Rosying her temples,--to slim loins and breast
      Tempestuous, brown, bewildering tresses pressed,--
    Shall stand a moment's moiety in wise
      Of some delicious dream, then shrink, distressed,
    Like some wild mist that, hardly seen, is gone,
      Footing the ferny hillside without sound;
      Or, like storm sunlight, her white limbs shall bound,
    A thistle's instant, towards a woody rise,
    A flying glimmer o'er the dew-drenched lawn.


IV

    And we may see the Satyrs in the shades
      Of drowsy dells pipe, and, goat-footed, dance;
    And Pan himself reel rollicking through the glades;
      Or, hidden in bosky bow'rs, the Lust, perchance,
      Faun-like, that waits with heated, animal glance
    The advent of the Loveliness that wades
      Thigh-deep through flowers, naked as Romance,
    All unsuspecting, till two hairy arms
      Clasp her rebellious beauty, panting white,
      Whose tearful terror, struggling into might,
    Beats the brute brow resisting, but evades
    Not him, for whom the gods designed her charms.




WAITING


    Were it but May now, while
      Our hearts are yearning,
    How they would bound and smile,
      The young blood burning!
    Around the tedious dial
      No slow hands turning.

    Were it but May now!--say,
      What joy to go,
    Your hand in mine all day,
      Where blossoms blow!
    Your hand, more white than May,
      May's flowers of snow.

    Were it but May now!--think,
      What wealth she has!
    The bluet and wild-pink,
      Wild flowers,--that mass
    About the wood-brook's brink,--
      And sassafras.

    Nights, that the large stars strew,
      Heaven on heaven rolled;
    Nights, pearled with stars and dew,
      Whose heavens hold
    Aromas, and the new
      Moon's curve of gold.

    So mad, so wild is March!--
      I long, oh, long
    To see the redbud's torch
      Flame far and strong;
    Hear, on my vine-climbed porch,
      The bluebird's song.

    How slow the Hours creep,
      Each with a crutch!--
    Ah, could my spirit leap
      Its bounds and touch
    That day, no thing would keep--
      Or matter much!

    But now, with you away,
      Time halts and crawls,
    Feet clogged with winter clay,
      That never falls,
    While, distant still, that day
      Of meeting calls.




LONGINGS


    Now when the first wild violets peer
      All rain-filled at blue April skies,
    As on one smiles one's sweetheart dear
      With the big teardrops in her eyes:

    Now when the May-apples, I wis,
      Bloom white along lone, greenwood creeks,
    As bashful as the cheeks you kiss,
      As waxen as your sweetheart's cheeks:

    Within the soul what longings rise
      To stamp the town-dust from the feet!
    Fare forth to gaze in Spring's clean eyes,
      And kiss her cheeks so cool and sweet!




THE SWEET O' THE YEAR


I

    How can I help from laughing, while
    The daffodillies at me smile?
    The dancing dew winks tipsily
    In clusters of the lilac-tree,
    And crocus' mouths and hyacinths'
    Storm through the grassy labyrinths
    A mirth of pearl and violet;
    While roses, bud by bud,
    Laugh from each dainty-lacing net
      Red lips of maidenhood.


II

    How can I help from singing when
    The swallow and the hawk again
    Are noisy in the hyaline
    Of happy heavens, clear as wine?
    The robin, lustily and shrill,
    Pipes on the timber-belted hill;
    And o'er the fallow skim the bold,
      Mad orioles that glow
    Like shining shafts of ingot gold
      Shot from the morning's bow.


III

    How can I help from loving, dear,
    Since love is of the sweetened year?--
    The very insects feel his power,
    And chirr and chirrup hour on hour;
    The bee and beetle in the noon,
    The cricket underneath the moon:--
    What else to do but follow too,
      Since youth is on the wing,
    Lord Life who follows through the dew
      Lord Love a-carolling.




IN MIDDLE SPRING


    Now the fields are rolled into turbulent gold,
      And a ripple of fire and pearl is blent
    With the emerald surges of wood and of wold,
      A flower-foam bursting redolent:
    Now the dingles and deeps of the woodland old
      Are glad with a sibilant life new sent,
    Too rare to be told are the manifold,
      Sweet fancies that quicken, eloquent,
    In the heart that no longer is cold.

    How it knows of the wings of the hawk ere it swings
      From the drippled dew scintillant seen!
    Where the redbird hides, ere it flies or sings,
      In melodious quiverings of green!
    How the sun to the dogwood such kisses brings
      That it laughs into blossoms of wonderful sheen;
    While the wind, to the strings of his lute that rings,
      Makes love to apple and nectarine,
    Till the sap in them rosily springs.

    Go seek in the ray for a sworded fay,
      The chestnut's buds into blooms that rips;
    And look in the brook, that runs laughing gay,
      For the Nymph with the laughing lips;
    In the brake for the Dryad whose eyes are gray,
      From whose bosom the perfume drips;
    The Faun hid away, where the branches sway,
      Thick ivy low down on his hips,
    Pursed lips on a syrinx at play.

    So, ho! for the rose, the Romeo rose,
      And the lyric it hides in its heart!
    And, oh, for the epic the oak-tree knows,
      Sonorous as Homer in art!
    And it's ho! for the prose of the weed that grows
      Green-writing Earth's commonest part!--
    What God may propose let us learn of those,
      The songs and the dreams that start
    In the heart of each blossom that blows.




A SPRING SHOWER


    We stood where the fields were beryl,
      The redolent woodland was warm;
    And the heaven above us, now sterile,
      Was alive with the pulse-winds of storm.

    We had watched the green wheat brighten
      And gloom as it winced at each gust;
    And the turbulent maples whiten
      As the lane blew gray with dust.

    White flakes from the blossoming cherry,
      Pink snows of the peaches were blown,
    And star-bloom wrecks of the berry
      And dogwood petals were sown.

    Then instantly heaven was sullied,
      And earth was thrilled with alarm,
    As a cloud, that the thunder had gullied,
      Thrust over the sunlight its arm.

    The birds to dry coverts had hurried,
      And hid in their leafy-built rooms;
    And the bees and the hornets had buried
      Themselves in the bells of the blooms.

    Then down from the clouds, as from towers,
      Rode slant the tall lancers of rain,
    And charged the fair troops of the flowers,
      And trampled the grass of the plain.

    And the armies of blossoms were scattered;
      Their standards hung draggled and lank;
    And the rose and the lily were shattered,
      And the iris lay crushed on its bank.

    But high in the storm was the swallow,
      And the rock-loud voice of the fall,
    From its ramparts of forest, rang hollow
      Defiance and challenge o'er all.

    But the storm and its clouds passed over,
      And left but one cloud in the west,
    Wet wafts that were fragrant with clover,
      And the sun slow-sinking to rest.

    Rain-drippings and rain in the poppies,
      And scents as of honey and bees;
    A touch of wild light on the coppice,
      That turned into flames the drenched trees.

    Then the cloud in the sunset was riven,
      And bubbled and rippled with gold,
    And over the gorges of heaven,
      Like a gonfalon vast was unrolled.




HEPATICAS


    In the frail hepaticas--
      That the early Springtide tossed,
    Sapphire-like, along the ways
      Of the woodlands that she crossed--
    I behold, with other eyes,
      Footprints of a dream that flies.

    One who leads me; whom I seek:
      In whose loveliness there is
    All the glamour that the Greek
      Knew as wind-borne Artemis.--
    I am mortal. Woe is me!
      Her sweet immortality!

    Spirit, must I always fare,
      Following thy averted looks?
    Now thy white arm, now thy hair,
      Glimpsed among the trees and brooks?
    Thou who hauntest, whispering,
      All the <DW72>s and vales of Spring.

    Cease to lure! or grant to me
      All thy beauty! though it pain,
    Slay with splendor utterly!
      Flash revealment on my brain!
    And one moment let me see
      All thy immortality!




SPIRITS OF SPRING


I

        Over the summer seas,
        From the Hesperides,
        Warm as the southern breeze,
          Gather the Spirits,
        Clad on with sun and rain,
        Fire in each ardent vein,
        Who, with a wild refrain,
    Waken the germs that the Season inherits.


II

        See, where they come, like mist,
        Gleaming with amethyst,
        Trailing the light that kissed
          Vine-tangled mountains
        Looming o'er tropic lakes,
        Where every wind, that shakes
        Tamarisk coverts, makes
    Music that haunts like the falling of fountains.


III

        You may behold the beat
        Of their wild hearts of heat,
        And their rose-flashing feet
          Flying before us:
        Hear them among the trees
        Whispering like far-off seas,
        Waking the drowsy bees,
    Wild-birds and flowers and torrents sonorous.


IV

        You may behold their eyes,
        Star-like, that sapphire dyes,
        To which the blossoms rise
          Star-like; and shadows
        Flee from: and, golden deep,
        As through the woods they sweep,
        See their wild curls that keep
    Asphodel memories that kindle the meadows.


V

        Music of forest-streams,
        Fragrance and dewy gleams,
        Daybreak and dawn and dreams,
          High things and lowly,
        Mix in their limbs of light,
        Which, what they touch of blight,
        Quicken to blossom white,
    Raise to be beautiful, perfect, and holy.


VI

        Come! do not sit and wait
        Now that once desolate
        Fields are intoxicate
          With birds and flowers!
        And all the woods are rife
        With resurrected life,
        Passion and purple strife
    Of the warm winds and the turbulent showers.


VII

        Come! let us lie and dream
        Here by the wildwood stream,
        Where many a twinkling gleam
          Falls on the rooty
        Banks; and the forest glooms
        Rain down their redbud blooms,
        Armfuls of wild perfumes--
    Winds! or Auloniads busy with beauty.




MIRABILE DICTU


I

    There dwells a goddess in the West,
      An Island in death-lonesome seas;
    No towered towns are hers confessed,
      No castled forts or palaces;
    Hers, simple worshipers at best,
      The buds, the birds, the bees.


II

    And she hath wonder-words of song,
      So heavenly beautiful and shed
    So sweetly from her honeyed tongue,
      The savage creatures, it is said,
    Hark, marble-still, their wilds among,
      And nightingales fall dead.


III

    I know her not, nor have I known:
      I only feel that she is there:
    For when my heart is most alone,
      Her deep communion fills the air,--
    Her influence calls me from my own,--
      Miraculously fair.


IV

    Then fain am I to sing and sing,
      And then again to fly and fly,
    Beyond the flight of cloud or wing,
      Far under azure arcs of sky;
    My love at her chaste feet to fling,
      Behold her face and--die.




A DREAMER OF DREAMS


    He lived beyond men, and so stood
    Admitted to the brotherhood
    Of beauty; dreams, with which he trod
    Companioned as some sylvan god.
    And oft men wondered, when his thought
    Made all their knowledge seem as naught,
    If he, like Uther's mystic son,
    Had not been born for Avalon.

    When wandering 'mid the whispering trees,
    His soul communed with every breeze;
    Heard voices calling from the glades,
    Bloom-words of the Leimoniads;
    Or Dryads of the ash and oak,
    Who syllabled his name and spoke
    With him of presences and powers
    That glimpsed in sunbeams, gloomed in showers.

    By every violet-hallowed brook,
    Where every bramble-matted nook
    Rippled and laughed with water sounds,
    He walked like one on sainted grounds,
    Fearing intrusion on the spell
    That kept some fountain-spirit's well,
    Or woodland genius, sitting where
    Red, racy berries kissed his hair.

    Once when the wind, far o'er the hill,
    Had fall'n and left the wildwood still
    For Dawn's dim feet to glide across,--
    Beneath the gnarled boughs, on the moss,
    The air around him golden ripe
    With daybreak,--there, with oaten pipe,
    His eyes beheld the wood-god, Pan,
    Goat-bearded, and half-brute, half-man;
    Who, shaggy-haunched, a savage rhyme
    Blew in his reed to rudest time;
    And swollen-jowled, with rolling eye--
    Beneath the slowly silvering sky,
    Whose light shone through the forest's roof--
    Danced, while beneath his boisterous hoof
    The branch was snapped, and, interfused
    Between great roots, the moss was bruised.

    And often when he wandered through
    Old forests at the fall of dew--
    A new Endymion who sought
    A beauty higher than all thought--
    Some night, men said, most surely he
    Would favored be of deity:
    That in the holy solitude
    Her sudden presence, long pursued,
    Unto his gaze would be confessed;
    The awful moonlight of her breast
    Come, high with majesty, and hold
    His heart's blood till his heart were cold,
    Unpulsed, unsinewed, and undone,
    And snatch his soul to Avalon.




PAN


I

    Haunter of green intricácies
    Where the sunlight's amber laces
      Deeps of darkest violet;
    Where the shaggy Satyr chases
    Nymphs and Dryads, fair as Graces,
      Whose white limbs with dew are wet:
    Piper in hid mountain places,
    Where the blue-eyed Oread braces
      Winds which in her sweet cheeks set
    Of Aurora rosy traces;
    While the Faun from myrtle mazes
      Watches with an eye of jet:
    What art thou and these dim races,
    Thou, O Pan, of many faces,
      Who art ruler yet?


II

    Tell me, piper, have I ever
    Heard thy hollow syrinx quiver
      Trickling music in the trees?
    Where the hazel copses shiver,
    Have I heard its dronings sever
      The warm silence, or the bees?
    Ripple murmurings that never
    Could be born of fall or river,
      Or the whispering breeze.


III

    Once in tempest it was given
    Me to see thee,--where the leven
      Lit the craggy wood with glare,--
    Dancing, while,--like wedges driven,--
    Thunder split the deeps of heaven,
      And the wild rain swept thy hair.--
    What art thou, whose presence, even
    While with fear my heart was riven,
      Healed it as with prayer?




A STORMY SUNSET


I

    Soul of my body! what a death
    For such a day of grief and gloom,
    Unbroken sorrow of the sky!--
    'Tis as if God's own loving breath
    Had swept the piled-up thunder by,
    And, bursting through the tempest's sheath,
    Cleft from its pod a giant bloom.


II

    See how the glory grows! unrolled,
    Expanding length on radiant length
    Of cloud-wrought petals.--Vast, a rose
    The western heavens of flame unfold,
    Where, sparkling thro' the splendor, glows
    The evening star, fresh-faced with strength--
    A raindrop in its heart of gold.




A WOODLAND GRAVE


    White moons may come, white moons may go,
    She sleeps where early blossoms blow;
    Knows nothing of the leafy June,
    That leans above her, night and noon,
    Crowned now with sunbeam, now with moon,
          Watching her roses grow.

    The downy moth at evening comes
    And flutters round their honeyed blooms:
    Long, languid clouds, like ivory,
    That isle the blue lagoons of sky,
    Grow red as molten gold and dye
          With flame the pine-dark glooms.

    Dew, dripping from wet fern and leaf;
    The wind, that shakes the blossom's sheaf;
    The slender sound of water lone,
    That makes a harp-string of some stone,
    And now a wood-bird's twilight moan,
          Seem whisp'rings there of grief.

    Her garden, where the lilacs grew,
    Where, on old walls, old roses blew,
    Head-heavy with their mellow musk,
    Where, when the beetle's drone was husk,
    She lingered in the dying dusk,
          No more shall know that knew.

    Her orchard,--where the Spring and she
    Stood listening to each bird and bee,--
    That, from its fragrant firmament,
    Snowed blossoms on her as she went,
    (A blossom with their blossoms blent)
          No more her face shall see.

    White moons may come, white moons may go,
    She sleeps where early blossoms blow;
    Around her headstone many a seed
    Shall sow itself; and briar and weed
    Shall grow to hide it from men's heed,
          And none will care or know.




THE OLD BYWAY


    Its rotting fence one scarcely sees
    Through sumac and wild blackberries.
      Thick elder and the bramble-rose,
    Big ox-eyed daisies where the bees
      Hang droning in repose.

    The little lizards lie all day
    Gray on its rocks of lichen-gray;
      And there, gay Ariels of the sun,
    The butterflies make bright its way,
      And paths where chipmunks run.

    Its lyric there the redbird lifts,
    While, overhead, the swallow drifts
      'Neath sun-soaked clouds of palest cream,--
    In which the wind makes azure rifts,--
      And there the wood-doves dream.

    The brown grasshoppers rasp and bound
    'Mid weeds and briars that hedge it round;
      And in its grass-grown ruts,--where stirs
    The harmless snake,--mole-crickets sound;
      O'erhead the locust whirs.

    At evening, when the sad west turns
    To lonely night a cheek that burns,
      The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing;
    And ghosts of long-dead flowers and ferns
      The wind wakes, whispering.




THE WOODPATH


    Here Spring her first frail violets blows;
    Broadcast her whitest wind-flowers sows
      Through starry mosses amber-fair,
    And fronded ferns and briar-rose,
      Hart's-tongue and maidenhair.

    Here fungus life is beautiful;
    Slim mushroom and the thick toadstool,--
      As various  as are blooms,--
    Dot their damp cones through shadows cool,
      And breathe forth rain perfumes.

    Here stray the wandering cows to rest;
    The calling cat-bird builds its nest
      In spicewood bushes dark and deep;
    Here raps the woodpecker its best,
      And here young rabbits leap.

    Beech, oak, and cedar; hickories;
    The pawpaw and persimmon trees;
      And tangled vines and sumac-brush,
    Make dark the daylight, where the bees
      Drone, and the wood-springs gush.

    Here to pale melancholy moons,
    In haunted nights of dreamy Junes,
      Wails wildly the weird whippoorwill,
    Whose strains, like those the owlet croons,
      Wild woods with phantoms fill.




THE SOUND OF THE SAP


    When the ice was thick on the flower-beds,
      And the sleet was caked on the briar;
    When the frost was down in the brown bulb's heads,
      And the ways were clogged with mire:

    When the snow on syringa and spiræa-tree
      Seemed the ghosts of perished flowers;
    And the days were sorry as sorry could be,
      And Time limped, cursing his fardel of hours:

    Heigh-ho! had I not a book and the logs,
      That chirped with the sap in the burning?--
    Or was it the frogs in the far-off bogs?
      Or the bush-sparrow's song at the turning?

    And I strolled by ways that the Springtime knows,
      In her mossy dells, and her ferny passes;
    Where the earth was holy with lily and rose,
      And the myriad life of the grasses.

    And I spoke with the Spring as a lover, who speaks
      To his sweetheart; to whom he has given
    A kiss that has kindled the rose of her cheeks,
      And her eyes with the laughter of heaven.

    The sound of the sap!--What a simple thing!--
      But the sound of the sap had the power
    To make the song-sparrow come and sing,
      And the winter woodlands flower!




THE DRYAD


    I have seen her limpid eyes,
    Large with gradual laughter, rise
      In the wild-rose nettles;
    Slowly, like twin flowers, unfold,
    Smiling,--when the wind, behold!
      Whisked them into petals.

    I have seen her hardy cheek,
    Like a molten coral, leak
      Through the leaves around it
    Of thick Chickasaws; but so,
    When I made more certain, lo!
      A red plum I found it.

    I have found her racy lips,
    And her roguish finger-tips,
      But a haw or berry;
    Glimmers of her there and here,
    Just, forsooth, enough to cheer,
      And to make me merry.

    Often from the ferny rocks
    Dazzling rimples of her locks
      At me she hath shaken;
    And I've followed--but in vain!--
    They had trickled into rain,
      Sunlit, on the braken.

    Once her full limbs flashed on me,
    Naked, where a royal tree
      Checkered mossy places
    With soft sunlight and dim shade,--
    Such a haunt as myths have made
      For the Satyr races.

    There, it seemed, hid amorous Pan;
    For a sudden pleading ran
      Through the thicket, wooing
    Me to search and, suddenly,
    From the swaying elder-tree,
      Flew a wild-dove, cooing.




A DEAD LILY


    The South saluted her mouth
    Till her breath was sweet with the South.

    The North in her ear breathed low,
    Till her veins ran crystal and snow.

    The West 'neath her eyelids blew,
    Till her heart beat honey and dew.

    And the East with his magic old
    Changed her body to pearl and gold.

    And she stood like a beautiful thought
    That a godhead of love had wrought....

    How strange that the Power begot it
    Only to kill it and rot it!




THE DEAD OREAD


    Her heart is still and leaps no more
      With holy passion when the breeze,
    Her whilom playmate, as before,
      Comes with the language of the bees,
    Sad songs her mountain cedars sing,
    And water-music murmuring.

    Her calm, white feet,--once fleet and fast
      As Daphne's when a god pursued,--
    No more will dance like sunlight past
      The gold-green vistas of the wood,
    Where every quailing floweret
    Smiled into life where they were set.

    Hers were the limbs of living light,
      And breasts of snow, as virginal
    As mountain drifts; and throat as white
      As foam of mountain waterfall;
    And hyacinthine curls, that streamed
    Like mountain mists, and gloomed and gleamed.

    Her presence breathed such scents as haunt
      Deep mountain dells and solitudes,
    Aromas wild,--like some wild plant
      That fills with sweetness all the woods;--
    And comradeship with stars and skies
    Shone in the azure of her eyes.

    Her grave be by a mossy rock
      Upon the top of some high hill,
    Removed, remote from men who mock
      The myths, the dreams of life they kill;
    Where all of love and naught of lust
    May guard her solitary dust.




PAX VOBISCUM


I

    I know that from thine eyes
      The Spring her violets grew;
    Those bits of April skies,
    On which the green turf lies,
      Whereon they blossom blue.


II

    I know that Summer wrought
      From thy sweet heart that rose,
    With such faint fragrance fraught,--
    Its pale, poetic thought
      Of peace and deep repose.--


III

    That Autumn, like some god,
      From thy delicious hair,--
    Lost sunlight 'neath the sod,--
    Shot up this goldenrod
      To toss it everywhere.


IV

    That Winter from thy breast
      The snowdrop's whiteness stole--
    Much kinder than the rest--
    Thy innocence confessed,
      The pureness of thy soul.




AT REST


    I heard the dead man, where he lay
    Within the open coffin, say:--

    "Why do they come to weep and cry
    Around me now?--Because I lie
    So silent, and my heart's at rest?
    Because the pistons of my blood
    No more in this machinery thud?
    And on these eyes, that once were blessed
    With magnetism and fire, are pressed
    The soldered eyelids, like a sheath?
    On which the icy hand of Death
    Hath laid invisible coins of lead
    Stamped with the image of his head?

    "Why will they weep and not have done?
    Why sorrow so? and all for one,
    Who, they believe, hath found the best
    God gives to us,--and that is rest.
    Why grieve?--Yea, rather let them lift
    The voice in thanks for such a gift,
    That leaves the worn hands, long that wrought,
    And weary feet, that sought and sought,
    At peace; and makes what came to naught,
    In life, more real now than all
    The good men strive for here on Earth:
    The love they seek; the things they call
    Desirable and full of worth;
    Yea, wisdom ev'n; and, like the South,
    The dreams that dewed the soul's sick drouth,
    And heart's sad barrenness.--God's rest,
    With every sigh and every tear,
    By them who weep above me here,
    Despite their Faith and Hope, 's confessed
    A doubt; a thing to dread and fear.

    "Before them peacefully I lie.
    But, haply, not for me they sigh,
    But for themselves,--their loss. The round
    Of daily labor still to do
    For them, while for myself 'tis through;
    And all the unknown, too, is found,
    The bourn for which all hopes are bound,
    Where dreams are all made manifest:
    For this they grieve, perhaps. 'Tis well;
    Since 'tis through grief the soul is blessed,
    Not joy;--and yet, we can not tell,
    We do not know, we can not prove,
    We only feel that there is love,
    And something we call Heaven and Hell.

    "Howbeit, here, you see, I lie,
    As all shall lie--for all must die--
    A cast-off, useless, empty shell,
    In which an essence once did dwell;
    That once, like fruit, the spirit held,
    And with its husk of flesh compelled:
    The mask of mind, the world of will,
    That laughed and wept and labored till
    The thing within, that never slept,
    The life essential, from it stept;
    The ichor-veined inhabitant
    Who made it all it was; in all
    Its aims the thing original,
    That held its course, like any star,
    Among its fellows; or a plant,
    Among its brother plants; 'mid whom,--
    The same and yet dissimilar,--
    Distinct and individual,
    It grew to microcosmic bloom."

    These were the words the dead man said
    To me who stood beside the dead.




DISTANCE


I

    I dreamed last night once more I stood
      Knee-deep on purple clover leas;
    Her old home glimmered through its wood
      Of dark and melancholy trees:
      And on my brow I felt the breeze
    That blew from out the solitude,
    With sounds of waters that pursued,
      And sleepy hummings of the bees.


II

    And ankle-deep in violet blooms
      Methought I saw her standing there,
    A lawny light among the glooms,
      A crown of sunlight on her hair;
      The wood-birds, warbling everywhere,
    Above her head flashed happy plumes;
    About her clung the wild perfumes,
      And woodland gleams of shimmering air.


III

    And then she called me: in my ears
      Her voice was music; and it led
    My sad soul back with all its fears;
      Recalled my spirit that had fled.--
      And in my dream it seemed she said,
    "Our hearts keep true through all the years;"
    And on my face I felt the tears,
      The blinding tears of her long dead.




DEFICIENCY


    Ah, God! were I away, away
      By woodland-belted hills!
    There might be more in this bright day
      Than my poor spirit thrills.

    The elder coppice, banks of blooms;
      The spicewood brush; the field
    Of tumbled clover, and perfumes
      Hot, weedy pastures yield.

    The old rail-fence, whose angles hold
      Bright briar and sassafras;
    Sweet, priceless wildflowers, blue and gold,
      Starred through the moss and grass.

    The ragged path that winds unto
      Lone, bird-melodious nooks,
    Through brambles to the shade and dew
      Of rocks and woody brooks.

    To see the minnows flash and gleam
      Like sparkling prisms; all
    Shoot in gray schools adown the stream
      Let but a dead leaf fall!

    To feel the buoyance and delight
      Of floating, feathered seeds!
    Capricious wisps of wandering white
      Born of silk-bearing weeds.

    Ah, God! were I away, away
      Among wild woods and birds,
    There were more soul in this bright day
      Than one could bless with words.




MIDSUMMER


    The red blood stings through her cheeks and clings
      In their tan with a fever that lightens;
    And the clearness of heaven-born mountain springs
      In her dark eyes dusks and brightens:
    Her limbs are the limbs of an Atalanta who swings
      With the youths in the sinewy games,
    When the hot wind sings through the hair it flings,
      And the circus roars hoarse with their names,
      As they fly to the goal that flames.

    Her voice is as deep as the waters that sweep
      Through the musical reeds of a river;
    A voice as of reapers who bind and reap,
      With the ring of curved scythes that quiver:
    A voice, singing ripe the orchards that heap
      With crimson and gold the ground;
    That whispers like sleep, till the briars weep
      Their berries, all ruby round,
      And vineyards are purple-crowned.

    Right sweet is the beat of her glowing feet,
      And her smile, as Heaven's, is gracious;
    The creating might of her hands of heat
      As a god's or a goddess's spacious:
    The odorous blood in her heart a-beat
      Is rich with a perishless fire;
    And her bosom, most sweet, is the ardent seat
      Of a mother who never will tire,
      While the world has a breath to suspire.

    Wherever she fares her soft voice bears
      Fecundity; powers that thicken
    The fruits,--as the wind made Thessalian mares
      Of old mysteriously quicken:--
    The apricots' honey, the milk of the pears,
      The wine, great grape-clusters hold,
    These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declares
      In the corn's long billows of gold,
      And flowers that jewel the wold.

    So, hail to her lips, and her sun-girt hips,
      And the glory she wears in her tresses!
    All hail to the balsam that dreams and drips
      From her breasts that the light caresses!
    Midsummer! whose fair arm lovingly slips
      Round the Earth's great waist of green,
    From whose mouth's aroma his hot mouth sips
      The life that is love unseen,
      And the beauty that God may mean.




DIURNAL


I

    With molten ruby, clear as wine,
      The East's great cup of daybreak brims;
    The morning-glories swing and shine;
      The night-dews bead their satin rims;
    The bees are busy in flower and vine,
      And load with gold their limbs.

            Sweet Morn, the South
              A loyal lover,
            Kisses thy mouth,
            Thy rosy mouth,
              And over and over
    Wooes thee with scents of wild-honey and clover.


II

    Beside the wall the roses blow
      That Noon's hot breezes scarcely shake;
    Beside the wall the poppies glow,
      So full of fire their deep hearts ache;
    The drowsy butterflies fly slow,
      Half sleeping, half awake.

            Sweet Noontide, Rest,--
              A reaper sleeping,--
            His head on thy breast,
            Thy redolent breast,
              Dreams of the reaping,
    While sounds of the scythes all around him are sweeping.


III

    Along lone paths the cricket cries,
      Where Night distils dim scent and dew;
    One mad star 'thwart the heaven flies,
      A glittering curve of molten blue;
    Now grows the big moon in the skies;
      The stars are faint and few.

            Sweet Night, the vows
              Of love long taken,
            Against thy brows
            Lay their pale brows,
              Till thy soul is shaken
    Of amorous dreams that make it awaken.




THE FAMILY BURYING GROUND


    A wall of crumbling stones doth keep
    Watch o'er long barrows where they sleep,
      Old, chronicled grave-stones of its dead,
    On which oblivion's mosses creep
      And lichens gray as lead.

    Warm days, the lost cows, as they pass,
    Rest here and browse the juicy grass
      That springs about its sun-scorched stones;
    Afar one hears their bells' deep brass
      Waft melancholy tones.

    Here the wild morning-glory goes
    A-rambling, and the myrtle grows;
      Wild morning-glories, pale as pain,
    With holy urns, that hint at woes,
      The night hath filled with rain.

    Here are the largest berries seen,
    Rich, winey-dark, whereon the lean
      Black hornet sucks; noons, sick with heat,
    That bend not to the shadowed green
      The heavy, bearded wheat.

    At night, for its forgotten dead,
    A requiem, of no known wind said,
      Through ghostly cedars moans and throbs,
    While to the starlight overhead
      The shivering screech-owl sobs.




CLOUDS


    All through the tepid summer night
      The starless sky had poured a cool
    Monotony of pleasant rain
      In music beautiful.

    And for an hour I sat to watch
      Clouds moving on majestic feet;
    And heard down avenues of night
      Their hearts of thunder beat.

    Prodigious limbs, far-veined with gold,
      Pulsed fiery life o'er wood and plain,
    While, scattered, fell from giant hands
      The largess of the rain.

    Beholding at each lightning flash
      Their generous silver on the sod,
    In meek devotion bowed, I thanked
      These almoners of God.




THE HERON


I

EVENING

    A vein of flame, the long creek crawls
    Beneath dark brows of woodland walls,
    Red where the sunset's crimson falls.
    One wiry leg drawn to his breast,
    Neck-shrunk, at solitary rest,
        The heron stands among the bars.


II

NIGHT

    The whimpering creek breaks on the stone,
    Where for a while the new moon shone
    With one white star and one alone.
    Lank haunter of lone marshy lands
    The melancholy heron stands,
        Then, clamoring, dives into the stars.




AVATARS


I

    When the moon hangs low
    Over an afterglow,
      Lilac and lily;
    When the stars are high,
    Wisps in a windless sky,
      Silverly stilly:--

    He, who will lean, his inner ear compelling,
      May hear the spirit of the forest stream
    Its story to a wildwood flower telling,
      That is no flower but some ascended dream.


II

    When the dawn's first lines
    Show dimly through the pines
      Along the mountain;
    When the stars are few,
    And starry lies the dew
      Around the fountain:--

    Who will, may hear, within her leafy dwelling,
      The spirit of the oak-tree, great and strong,
    Its romance to the wildwood streamlet telling,
      That is no stream but some descended song.




LILLITA


    Can I forget how, when you stood
      'Mid orchards whence the bloom had fled,
    Stars made the orchards seem a-bud,
      And weighed the sighing boughs o'erhead
      With shining ghosts of blossoms dead?

    Or when you bowed, a lily tall,
      Above your drowsy lilies, slim,
    Transparent pale, that by the wall
      Like cups of moonlight seemed to swim,
      Brimmed with faint fragrance to the brim?

    And in the cloud that lingered low--
      A silent pallor in the west--
    There stirred and beat a golden glow,
      Like some great heart that could not rest,
      A heart of gold within its breast.

    Your heart, your soul were in the wild:
      You loved to hear the whippoorwill

    Lament its love, when, dewy mild,
      The harvest scent made musk the hill.
    You loved to walk, where oft had trod
      The red deer, o'er the fallen hush
    Of Fall's torn leaves, when th' ivy-tod
      Hung frosty by each berried bush.

    Still do the whippoorwills complain
      Above your listless lilies, where
    The moonlight their white faces stain;
      Still flows the dreaming streamlet there,
      Whispering of rest an easeful air....

    O music of the falling rain,
      At night unto her painless rest
    Sound sweet not sad! and make her fain
      To feel the wildflowers on her breast
    Lift moist, pure faces up again
      To breathe a prayer in fragrance blessed.

    Thick-pleated beeches long have crossed
      Old, gnarly arms above her tomb,
    Where oft I sit and dream her ghost
      Smiles, like a blossom, through the gloom;
    Dim as a mist,--that summer lost,--
      Of tangled starbeam and perfume.




MIRIAM


    White clouds and buds and birds and bees,
    Low wind-notes, piped down southern seas,
    Brought thee, a rose-white offering,
    A flower-like baby with the spring.

    She, with her April, gave to thee
    A soul of winsome witchery;
    Large, heavenly eyes and sparkling whence
    Shines the young mind's soft influence;
    Where love's eternal innocence,
    And smiles and tears of maidenhood,
    Gleam with the dreams of hope and good.

    She, with the dower of her May
    Gave thee a nature strong to sway
    Man's higher feelings; and a pride
    Where all pride's smallness is denied.
    Limbs wrought of lilies; and a face
    Made of a rose-bloom; and the grace
    Of water, that thy limbs express
    In each chaste billow of thy dress.

    She, with her dreamy June, brought down
    Night-deeps of hair that are thy crown;
    A voice like low winds musical,
    Or streams that in the moonlight fall
    O'er bars of pearl; and in thy heart,--
    True gold,--she set Joy's counterpart,
    A gem, that in thy fair face gleams,
    All radiance, when it speaks or dreams;
    And in thy soul the jewel Truth
    Whose beauty is perpetual youth.




TWO DAYS


I

    The slanted storm tossed at their feet
      The frost-nipped autumn leaves;
    The park's high pines were caked with sleet,
      And ice-spears armed the eaves.
    They strolled adown the pillared pines,
    To part where wet and twisted vines
    About the gate-posts blew and beat.
    She watched him riding through the rain
      Along the river's misty shore,
    And turned with lips that laughed disdain:
          "To meet no more!"


II

    'Mid heavy roses weighed with dew
      The chirping crickets hid;
    I' the honeysuckle avenue
      Sang the green katydid.
    Soft southern stars smiled through the pines.
    Through stately windows, draped with vines,
    The drifting moonlight's silver blew.
    She stared upon a face, now dead,
      A soldier calm that wore;
    Despair sobbed on the lips that said,
          "To meet no more."




MOONRISE AT SEA


I

    With lips that had hushed all their fury
      Of foam and of winds that were strewn,
    Of storm and of turbulent hurry,
      The ocean sighed; heralding soon
    A ship of miraculous glory,
      Of pearl and of fire--the moon.


II

    And up from the East, with a slipping
      And shudder and clinging of light,
    With a loos'ning of clouds and a dipping,
      Outbound for the Havens of Night,
    With a silence of sails and a dripping,
      The vessel came, wonderful white.


III

    Then heaven and ocean were sprinkled
      With splendor; for every sheet
    And spar, and its hollow hull twinkled
      With mother-of-pearl. And the feet
    Of spirits, that followed it, crinkled
      The billows that under it beat.




IN NOVEMBER


    No windy white of wind-blown clouds is thine!
    No windy white, but low and sodden gray,
    That holds the melancholy skies and kills
    The wild song and the wild-bird. Yet, ah me!
    Thy melancholy skies and mournful woods,
    Brown, sighing forests dying that I love!
    Thy long, dead leaves, deep, deep about my feet,
    Slow, dragging feet that halt or wander on;
    Thy deep, sweet, crimson leaves that burn and die
    With silent fever of the sickened wood.

    I love to hear in all thy wind-swept coignes,
    Rain-wet and choked with bleached and ruined weeds,
    The withered whisper of the many leaves,
    That, fallen on barren ways--like fallen hopes--
    Once held so high upon the Summer's heart
    Of stalwart trees, now seem the desolate voice
    Of Earth lamenting in hushed undertones
    Her green departed glory vanished so.




IN LATE FALL


    O days, that break the wild-bird's heart,
      That slay the wild-bird and its songs!
    Why should death play so sad a part
      With you to whom such sweet belongs?

    Why are your eyes so filled with tears,
      As with the rain the frozen flowers?
    Why are your hearts so swept with fears,
      Like winds among the ruined bowers?

    Farewell! farewell! for she is dead,
      The old gray month; I saw her die:
    Go, light your torches round her head,
      The last red leaves, and let her lie.




WITH THE SEASONS


I

    You will not love me, sweet,
      When this brief year is past;
    Or love, now at my feet,
      At other feet you'll cast,
      At fairer feet you'll cast.
    You will not love me, sweet,
      When this brief year is past.


II

    Now 'tis the Springtime, dear,
      And crocus-cups hold flame,
    Brimmed to the pregnant year,
      All bashful as with shame,
      Who blushes as with shame.
    Now 'tis the Springtime, dear,
      And crocus-cups hold flame.


III

    Soon Summer will be queen,
      At her brown throat one rose,
    And poppy-pod, and bean,
      Will rustle as she goes,
      As down the garth she goes.
    Soon Summer will be queen,
      At her brown throat one rose.


IV

    Then Autumn come, a prince,
      A gipsy crowned with gold;
    Gold weight the fruited quince,
      Gold strew the leafy wold,
      The wild and wind-swept wold.
    Then Autumn come, a prince,
      A gipsy crowned with gold.


V

    Then Winter will be king,
      Snow-driven from feet to head;
    No song-birds then will sing,
      The winds will wail instead,
      The wild winds weep instead.
    Then Winter will be king,
      Snow-driven from feet to head.


VI

    Then shall I weep, who smiled,
      And curse the coming years,
    You and myself, and child,
      Born unto shame and tears,
      A mother's shame and tears.
    Then shall I weep, who smiled,
      And curse the coming years.




TYRANNY


    What is there now more merciless
      Than such fast lips that will not speak;
    That stir not if one curse or bless
      A God who made them weak?

    More maddening to one there is naught
      Than such white eyelids sealed on eyes,
    Eyes vacant of the thing named thought,
      An exile in the skies.

    Ah, silent tongue! ah, dull, closed ear!
      What angel utterances low
    Have wooed you? so you may not hear
      Our mortal words of woe!




WHAT YOU WILL


I

    When the season was dry and the sun was hot,
    And the hornet sucked, gaunt on the apricot,
    And the ripe peach dropped, to its seed a-rot,
      With a lean, red wasp that stung and clung:
    When the hollyhocks, ranked in the garden plot,
    More seed-pods had than blossoms, I wot,
      Then all had been said and been sung,
    And meseemed that my heart had forgot.


II

    When the black grape bulged with the juice that burst
    Through its thick blue skin that was cracked with thirst,
    And the round, ripe pippins, that summer had nursed,
      In the yellowing leaves o' the orchard hung:
    When the farmer, his lips with whistling pursed,
    To his sun-tanned brow in the corn was immersed,
      Then something was said or was sung,
    And I remembered as much as I durst.


III

    Now the sky of December gray drips and drips,
    And eaves of the barn the icicle tips,
    And the cackling hen on the snow-path slips,
      And the cattle shiver the fields among:
    Now the ears of the milkmaid the north-wind nips,
    And the red-chapped cheeks of the farm-boy whips,
      What, what shall be said or be sung,
    With my lips pressed warm to your lips!




MIDWINTER


    The dewdrop from the rose that drips
    Hath not the sparkle of her lips,
          My lady's lips.

    Than her long braids of yellow hold
    The dandelion hath not more gold,
          Her braids of gold.

    The blue-bell hints not more of skies
    Than do the flowers of her eyes,
          My lady's eyes.

    The sweet-pea bloom shows not more grace
    Of delicate pink than doth her face,
          My lady's face.

    So, heigh-ho! then, though skies be gray,
    Spring blossoms in my heart to-day,
          This winter day!




IN THE GARDENS OF FALERINA




TO GERTRUDE


    _These are the flowers I bring to thee,
      Heart's-ease, euphrasy and rue,
    Grown in my Garden of Poetry;
    Wear them, sweet, on thy breast for me:
      The first for thoughts; and the other two
      For spiritual vision, that's always true,
    So thou with thy soul mayst ever see
    The love in my heart I keep for thee._




THE GARDENS OF FALERINA


    Her hills and vales are dimmer
    Than sunset's shadowy shimmer;
    Thin mists, that curl, of poppy and pearl,
    Above her bowers glimmer;
    And, silvered o'er with sails of faery galleys,
    Far off the sea gleams, glimpsed through fountained valleys.

    The moon floats never higher
    Than one white peak of fire;
    And in its beams pale Beauty dreams,
    And Music tunes her lyre;
    And, Siren-like, beside the moonlit waters,
    Fair Fancy sits singing with Memory's daughters.

    A cloud, above and under
    The ocean, white with wonder,
    Looms, starry steep; and, opening deep,
    Grows gold with silent thunder;
    Revealing far within, immeasurable,
    Lost Avalons of old Romance and Fable.

    Ah! could my spirit shatter
    These bonds of flesh and matter,
    And, at a word, mount like a bird
    To her through mists that scatter;
    And, raimented in love and inspiration,
    Look down on Earth from that exalted station:

    No mortal might inveigle
    My soul, that, like an eagle,
    Would soar and soar from shore to shore
    Of her, the rare and regal;
    And by her love made all a lyric rapture,
    A wild desire, wing far beyond all capture.




ROMANCE


    Thus have I pictured her:--In Arden old
      A white-browed maiden with a falcon eye,
    And rose-flushed face, and locks of wind-blown gold,
        Teaching her hawks to fly.

    Or, 'mid her boar-hounds, panting with the heat,
      In huntsman green, she sounds the hunt's wild prize,
    Plumed, dagger-belted, while beneath her feet
        The spear-pierced monster dies.

    Or in Brécèliand, on some high tower,
      Clad soft in samite, last of her lost race,
    I have beheld her, lovelier than a flower,
        Turn from the world her face.

    Or, robed in raiment of romantic lore,
      Like Oriana, dark of eye and hair,
    Riding through Realms of Legend evermore,
        And ever young and fair.

    Or now like Bradamant, as brave as just,
      In complete steel, her pure face lit with scorn,
    At heathen castles, dens of demon lust,
        Winding her bugle-horn.

    Another Una; and in chastity
      A second Britomart; in beauty far
    O'er her who led King Charles's chivalry
        And Paynim lands to war....

    Now she, from Avalon's deep-dingled bowers,--
      'Mid which white stars and never-waning moons
    Make marriage; and dim lips of musk-mouthed flowers
        Sigh faint and fragrant tunes,--

    Implores me follow; and, in shadowy shapes
      Of sunset, shows me,--mile on misty mile
    Of purple precipice,--all the haunted capes
        Of her enchanted isle.

    Where, bowered in bosks and overgrown with vine,
      Upon a headland breasting violet seas,
    Her castle towers, like a dream divine,
        With stairs and galleries.

    And at her casement, Circe-beautiful,
      Above the surgeless reaches of the deep,
    She sits, while, in her gardens, fountains lull
        The perfumed wind to sleep.

    Or, round her brow a diadem of spars,
      She leans to hearken, from her raven height,
    The nightingales that, choiring to the stars,
        Haunt with wild song the night.

    Or, where the moon is mirrored in the waves,
      To mark, deep down, the Sea King's city rolled,
    Wrought of huge shells and labyrinthine caves,
        Ribbed pale with pearl and gold.

    There doth she wait forever; and the kings
      Of all the world have wooed her: but she cares
    For none but him, the Heart, that dreams and sings,
        That sings and dreams and dares.




THE VALLEY OF MUSIC


I

    Oh, cool as the flutter of fountains,
      And fresh as the fall of the dew,
    Wet as the hues of the rain-arch,
    In that vale, is the dawn, when, o'er mountains,
      Pearl-peaked and hyaline blue,
      Through the Memnonian blue,
    Her spirit, like music, comes slowly,
      A music of light and of fire,
    Leaving her footsteps in roses
    There on its summits, while holy,
      Fair on her brow is her tire,
      Gemmed with the morning-star's fire.


II

    And still as the incense of altars,
      And dim as the deeps of a cloud,
    Mystic as winds of the woodlands,
    In that vale, is the night when she falters
      In the sorrowful folds of her shroud,
      The far-blowing dusk of her shroud,
    By the scarlet-strewn bier of her lover,
      The day, lying faded and fair
      In his chamber of purple and vair.--
    When, above it, you see her uncover
      Her star-girdled darkness of hair--
    Gold-hooped with the gold of the even--
      And for the day's burial prepare,
    The spirit of night in the heaven,
      O'er that vale, is most hauntingly fair;
    So fair that you wish it were given
      That you in the rays of her hair,
      Might die! in her gold-girdled hair.


III

    There lies in a valley, where mountains
      Have walled it from all that is ours,
      A garden entangled with flowers;
    Where the whisper of echoing fountains
      Makes song in the balm-breathing bowers:
    Where torrents, plunged down from wild masses
      Of granite, from cavern-pierced steeps,
    With thunders sonorous cleave passes,
      And madden the world with their leaps,
      The clamorous foam of their leaps.


IV

    And, oh! when the sunlight comes heaping
      With glitter the mist of those chasms,
      The foam of those musical chasms,
    You may hear a lamenting and weeping,
    And see in the vastness far sweeping,
      In wild and æolian spasms,
    Down, down in those voluble chasms,
    The Spirits of Light and of Darkness.
    And the wave from the gray-hearted granite
      In rivers rolls rippling around;
    Meanders through shade-haunted forests,
    Where many rock-barriers can span it,
      And dash it in froth and in sound;
    Where the nights with their great moons can wan it,
      Or star its dark stillness profound.


V

    And here with her harp doth she wander,
      That daughter of music, twice kissed
    Of the Spirits of Love and of Sorrow:
    Yea, here doth she wander and ponder,
      That maiden of moonlight and mist,
      With starlight on hair and on wrist;
    Yea, here doth she ponder and wander
      'Mid blossoms with loveliness whist,
      'Mid moonlight with fragrances kissed.
    And ever her being grows fonder
      Of forests where phantoms keep tryst,
      The people of moon and of mist:
    And often they troop to her singing,
    As she sits 'mid the undulant cedars--
      All savage of wildness and scent--
      Whose tops to her beauty are bent,
    Like the pennons and plumes of fierce leaders,
      In worship and testament:
    Like the pennons and plumes of fierce leaders,
      All ragged with battle and rent.


VI

    And oft when the moon, like a palace
      Of witchcraft, shines white overhead,
    Making pearl of the foam of the torrent,
    She wakes her wild harp in the valleys
      Where the blossoms have built her a bed:
    She sits where a fountain of flowers
      Rains fragrance from branches around,
      The blossomed lianas around,
    Keeping time with their petal-sweet showers
      To her harp; with its strain interwound;
      Unfolding, it seems, to the sound:
    While her song is as redolence round her,
      And their fragrance as music, it seems,
    Whose touch and enchantment have bound her
      With shadows and whispers of dreams,
      And she seems but a part of her dreams,
      A creature created of dreams.


VII

    One night as she whispered and wandered
      In her garden of music and flowers,
    She saw, in a ray of the moonlight,
      A youth fast asleep 'mid the flowers;
    A youth on a mantle of satin,
      A poppy-red robe 'mid the flowers.


VIII

    Love housed 'neath his eyelids, that, slender
      As petals of roses, were pale:
    She bent and she kissed them and, tender,
      She murmured and bade them unveil,
      The blossoms beneath them unveil.
    And he woke and beheld her and panted:--
      "At last I behold thee, O Song!
      O beautiful, pitiless Song!
    Thou, thou, who so wildly enchanted,
      And led me, eluded me long!
      Evaded and lured me so long!"


IX

    Then she knelt on the mantle of satin,
      And plunged a long look in his eyes:
    She knelt on the mantle of scarlet,
      And kissed him on mouth and on eyes,
      And mingled her soul with his sighs.
    And then in a moment she knew it,--
      He deemed her a part of his dream;
    And she smiled and she said, "I am Music!
    And thy soul--'twas my spirit that drew it,
      Thy soul, with a mystical gleam,
      A brightness, a glimmer, a gleam."


X

    And he gazed at her strangely; and, sobbing,
      Cried out, "Yea; thy harp!--is it strung?
      Thy harp of wild gold, is it strung?
    With fingers of silver set throbbing
      Its chords with that song thou hast sung,
      So oft in my dreams thou hast sung."


XI

    Then he ceased:--and his eyes--how they glistened!
      His eyes, that were haunted with pain,
      With longing and beauty and pain:
    And again he cried out, "Oh, that music!
    That proud and that perilous music!
      O God! for that tyrannous strain,
    To which in my dreams I have listened,
      Ah, God! I have listened in vain!"
    And he tossed on the mantle of satin
      His deep raven darkness of hair;
    And the song at her lips was ungathered,
      And she sat there to marvel and stare;
      Like marble, to wonder and stare.


XII

    Then there welled from her lips all the glory
      Of music delirious with words;
    Of music that told the heart's story,
      And trembled with God-given words,
      And rang like the crossing of swords.
    And it seemed that the spirit of Beauty
      Swept through it with farewells and sighs;
    The spirits of Beauty and Duty,
      And Love with his beautiful eyes;
      And Heaven, and Hell with its cries;
      Sad Hell with a tempest of cries.


XIII

    The rapture was there of all passion;
      The heartache of all we have lost:
    The sweetness was there that we fashion
      From love we have won or have lost,
      Its terror, its torment, and cost.
    And over it all was a fury
      Of wings that seemed beating above,
    Of stars and of winds and the glory
      Of God and the splendor of love,
      The splendor and triumph of love.


XIV

    And then, from her poppy wings, Slumber
      Dropped petals of sleep on his eyes;
    The Spirit of Slumber with pinions
    Of vaporous silver, whose flutter
    Had mixed with the music's wild number,
      Lured down from the shadowy skies;
    Lured down from her drowsy dominions,
      To nest in his tired-out eyes.


XV

    And in sleep he cried out to her,--stilling
      A moment the rush of her song,
      The rainbowing torrent of song,--
    "Cease! cease! for the rapture is killing!
      The glory of light is too strong!--
      Oh, cease! make an end of thy song!"--
    But she, with the frenzy o'erflowing,
    Cried out in an anguish of passion,
      "Thy soul shall be one with my song,
      With me and the soul of my song.
    Take my hand! let us walk in the glowing
      Sweet heaven and hell of all song;
    Where the torrents of music are flowing,
      The rivers of music and song.
    Take my hand! Dost thou hear? We are going!
      We, too, to God's splendor belong!
      Let us walk in the light of His song,
      The thunder and flame of His song."


XVI

    Then she flung in her song the emotion,
      Triumphant, of heart and of soul;
    Till the passion and pain were an ocean
      That swept her with billowing roll,
      As it seemed, to abysses of dole,
      Abysses of infinite dole.


XVII

    And paler than moonlight and marble
      He lay on the red of that robe,
    Lay white at her feet on the scarlet,
    With silence-sealed lips and the glitter
      Of tears in each violet globe
    Of his eyes.--And she said: "It is bitter
      To see him so still on this robe,
      Like marble so still on this robe."
    Then she knelt and cried out, "Art thou living?
      Or dead?--Have I slain thee with song?--
    I gave thee the best in my giving,
      But all that I gave thee seems wrong!--
      No blessing, a curse was my song!
      A curse and a sorrow my song!"


XVIII

    And she shattered her harp in her madness,
      And rent at her breasts and her hair;
    Then kissed him on mouth and on temples,
    And spoke to him smoothing the sadness,
      The calm of his brow that was fair,
      Was perfect and hopelessly fair.
    Then she wailed to the stars in the heaven,
      And railed at her song as a thief,
    Calling out, "For a curse wast thou given!
      Yea, thou! for a curse and a grief!
      A curse and an infinite grief!"


XIX

    And the moon, it went down like a broken
      Great dagger of gold in the west;
    Like a dagger of gold that was broken,
    Her dagger of song, that had spoken,
      And pierced with its beauty his breast,
    Had ravished his soul from his breast.
    And she lay with her hair, deep and golden,
      Thick showered and shaken on his;
    Her arms around him were enfolden;
      Her lips clave to his with a kiss,
      The love and the grief of a kiss.




BLODEUWEDD


    Not to that demon's son, whom Arthur erst,
    For necromancy, at Caerleon, first
    Graced greatly, Merlin,--not to him alone
    Did those lost learnings of white magic, known
    As sorcery and witchcraft, then belong.
    Taliesin, now, hath told us in a song
    Of one at Arvon, Math of Gwynedd; lord
    Of some vague cantrevs of the North; whose sword
    Beat back and slew a southern king, through wrath
    And puissance of Gwydion, whose path
    Thence on, with love, he honored.

                          Now this Math
    Was learned in wondrous witchcraft: as he willed,
    He wrought the invisible visible, and filled
    The sight with seeming shapes, which it believed
    Realities, nor knew it was deceived.
    For, at his word, the winds were wan with tents,
    And armies rose of airy elements;
    And brassy blasts of war from bugles brayed,
    And armored hosts in battle clanged and swayed,
    And at a word were not. And at his nod,
    Steeds, rich-accoutered, whinnying softly, trod
    The dædal earth; and hounds, of greater worth,
    And wirier, too, than dogs of mortal birth,
    Rose up, like forest fungus, from the earth
    Around th' astonished stag, or flying doe,
    Let Math but wish it or his trumpet blow.
    But only things that had their counterpart
    On earth could he make real through his art.

    Now, to his castle, Math, through Gwydion,--
    The son of Don,--the daughter dark of Don,
    The silver-circled Arianrod, had brought;
    A southern rose of beauty, whom Math thought
    To wed, in love and friendship, without blame,
    And at Caer Dathyl. When the maiden came
    Said Math, "Art thou a virgin?"--Like a flame
    Mantling, her answer angered, "Verily,
    I know not other, lord, than that I be!"--
    So wrought he then through magic that the form
    Of her boy baby seemed upon her arm,
    White as a rose.
        "A Mary!--Yea!" laughed Math;
    "Forsooth, another Mary!" then in wrath
    Laid harsh hands on the babe and fiercely flung
    Far in the salt sea. But the strong winds clung
    Fast to the Elfin and the lithe waves swept
    Him safely shoreward dry; some fishers kept
    Him thus unseaed and christened Dylan, fair
    Son of the wave, and fostered him with care.
    Nor was this really hers. But Gwydion,
    Brother to Arianrod, before the sun
    Had time to glimpse it with one golden glaive,
    Swiftly,--as hoping the real babe to save,--
    Some dim small body on the castle pave
    In raven velvet seized; and, hiding, he
    Stole this from court, to subtly raise to be
    A comely youth. In time, to Arianrod
    Came, swearing by the rood and blood of God
    He brought her back her son.

                    Quoth she: "More shame
    Dost thou disgrace thyself with, and more blame
    Dost damn thyself with, thus to mix our name
    With this dishonor, brother, than myself!"
    Then, waxing wroth, cried Gwydion, "The Elf
    Is thine then?--Tell me, wanton! is thy son
    Dylan, the fisher, or this fair-haired one,
    This youth?--God's curse!"--and daggered her with looks.
    And she in turn waxed fiery, saying, "Books
    Of magic I have read as well as Math!
    And now I tell thee, keep from out my path!
    Thou and thy bastard, he as well as thou!
    Thou dog! And on thy folly, listen, now
    I lay a threefold curse: behold! the first--
    Until I name him, nameless be he! Cursed
    Be they who give him arms!--the second:--nor
    Shall he bear arms until I arm for war.
    And, lastly, know, however high his birth,
    He shall not wed a woman of the Earth!--
    Malignity! to shame me with thy sin!"
    Then passed into her tower and locked her in.

    But Gwydion, departing with the youth,
    Sware he would compass her; if not through truth,
    Through wiles and learnéd magic. And he wrought
    So that unbending Arianrod was brought
    To name the lad. Again he managed that,
    Though strange enchantments as of war, he gat
    Her to give arms. But then, not for his life,
    Howbeit, could he get the youth a wife.
    Persisting, desperate, at last the thing
    Wrought in him blusterous as a backward spring.
    Now Llew the youth was named. And Gwydion
    Made his complaint to Math, the mighty son
    Of Mathonwy.

            Said Math: "Despair not. We
    With charms, illusions, and white sorcery
    Will seek to make--for mine are wondrous powers--
    A woman for him out of forest flowers."

    And so they toiled together one wan night,
    When the full moon hung low, and watched, a white
    Wild wisp-like face behind a mist. They took
    Blossoms of briars, blooming by a brook
    Shed from the April hills; and phantom blooms
    Of yellow broom that filtered faint perfumes;
    And primrose blossoms, frail, of rainy smell,
    Weak pink, dim-clustered in a glow-worm dell;
    Wild-apple sprigs, that tipsied bells of blaze,
    And in far, haunted hollows made a haze
    Of ghostly, fugitive fragrance; and the blue
    Of hollow harebells, hoary with the dew;
    The gold of kingcups, golden as low stars;
    And white of lilies,--rolled in limpid bars,
    Like sleepy foam,--that swayed aslant and spilled
    Slim nectar-cups of musk the rain had filled;
    And paly, wildwood wind-flowers; and the gloss
    And glow of celandine; and bulbs that boss
    And dot the oak-roots bulging up the moss;
    Last, on the elfin uplands, pulled the buds,
    That burn like spurts of moonlight when it suds
    The showering clouds, of blossomed meadow-sweet,
    And made a woman fair; from head to feet
    Complete in beauty. One far lovelier
    Than Branwen, daughter of the gray King Llyr;
    Or that dark daughter of Leodegrance,
    The stately Gwenhwyvar. And young romance
    Dreamed in the open Bibles of her eyes:
    Music her motion; and her speech, like sighs
    Of roses swinging in the wind and rain,
    And lilies dancing on the sunlit plain:
    And in her eyes and face there bloomed again
    The bluebell and the poppy; and fern and bud
    Gave grace and glory to her maidenhood:
    And all the attributes of all the flowers
    Were in her body, that was not like ours
    And yet was like: but in her brow and face
    Was love alone and beauty, and no trace,
    No least suggestion of an earthly pain,
    Or hate, or sorrow, or of worldly stain;
    But hope, high heart, and happiness of life.
    And Blodeuwedd they named her; and, for wife--
    Baptizing her with light and dawn and dew--
    Gave, that next morning, to the happy Llew.




AMADIS AT MIRAFLORES


I

MORNING

    The quickening Day climbs to one star,
      That, cradled, rocks itself in morn;
    Whose airy opal, flaming far,
      Makes fire of the mountain tarn.
    The hosts of morning storm the sky
      With streaming splendor, their bright lips
    Blow laughter wild that shakes the rye,
      And, from the bough, the dew that drips
    On Oriana walking by.

    The calling rooks swarm round the towers:
      A heron sweeps through deeps of glare:
    And Falconry among the bowers
      Whistles his falcon down the air:
    While in the woods the bugled Hunt,
      With bearded cheeks, blows wild a-mort
    As dies the boar; or, front to front,
      Upon the baying hounds, the hart
    Turns, antlering at the battle's brunt.

    The heath-cock, stout amid his dames,
      Upon the purple-heathered hill,
    With glossy coat the morn enflames,
      Sounds to his rivals challenge shrill.
    Where, tossing white its plume of foam,
      The fountain leaps and twinkles by,
    Embodying dawn and all its bloom,
      My Oriana draweth nigh,
    Sweet as the heath-bell's wild perfume.

    The mountain tarn is like a cloud
      Of fallen and reflecting blue;
    In azure deeps the larks are loud,
      The larks that soar through dawn and dew.
    A wild-swan, mirrored in the mere,
      Moves with its image breast to breast--
    As our two souls as one appear
      When to my heart her heart is pressed,
    The heart of Oriana here.


II

EVENING

    O sunset, from the springs of stars,
      Draw down thy cataracts of gold;
    And belt their streams with burning bars,
      Of ruby on which flame is rolled:
    Drench dingles with laburnum light;
      Drown every copse in violet blaze:
    Rain rose-light down; and, poppy-bright,
      Die downward o'er the hills of haze,
    And bring at last the stars of night!

    The stars and moon! that silver world,
      That, like a spirit, faces west,
    Her foam-white feet with light empearled,
      Bearing white flame within her breast:
    Earth's sister sphere of fire and snow,
      Who shows to Earth her heart's pale heat,
    And bids her see its pulses glow,
      And hear their crystal currents beat
    With beauty, lighting all below.

    O cricket, with thy elfin pipe,
      That tinkles in the grass and grain;
    And dove-pale buds, that, dropping, stripe
      The glen's blue night, and smell of rain;
    O nightingale, that so dost wail
      On yonder branch of blossoming snow,
    Thrill, fill the wild hart-haunted dale,
      Where Oriana, walking slow,
    Approaches thro' the moonlight pale.

    She comes to meet me! Earth and air
      Grow radiant with another light.
    In her dark eyes and her dark hair
      Are all the stars and all the night.
    She comes! I clasp her! and it is
      As if no grief had ever been.
    The world takes fire from our kiss.--
      There are no other women or men
    But Oriana and Amadis!




URGANDA


    It is Sir Elid of the Sword,
    Of whom his wife, Helis, hath heard
    For three long years no wished-for word.

    His armor dofft, he comes in fur
    And velvet, all the warrior,
    And takes her hand and kisses her.

    "Thrice have I seen the summer die;
    And thrice the autumn, fading, lie:
    And heard the weary winter sigh,

    "Since last, my lord, my own true heart,
    From me, thy wife, with love, didst part,
    And rode to war with Lisuarte:"--

    So said Helis with many tears:--
    "Still welcome, Elid! though long years
    Of silence, what with doubts and fears,

    "Have made me deem that thou wast dead.--
    Why dost thou stare so overhead?--
    What is it that thy soul doth dread?"

    He said to her: "My own, my best,
    To thee alone ... _Witch! wilt thou wrest
    This hour from me?_ ... shall be confessed
    The thing that will not let me rest.

    "It was at Hallowmas I spurred
    Through woods wherein no wild thing stirred,
    No sound of brook, no song of bird.

    "When softly down a tangled way
    A dim fair woman, white as day,
    Rode on a palfrey misty gray.

    "Upon her brow a circlet burned
    Of jewels, and the fire, inurned
    Within them, changed, and turned and turned.

    "I stared like one, who, wild and pale,
    Spurs, hag-led, through the night and hail:
    When, lo! adown a forest vale
    An angel with the Holy Grail.

    "It vanishes; but, once beheld,
    The longing heart is never quelled,
    Its loveliness hath so enspelled.--

    "She vanished. And I rode alone,
    Save for a voice that did intone,
    'Urganda is she, the Unknown.

    "'And never shalt thou clasp the form
    Of her who leads thee by a charm
    To follow her through sun and storm.'

    "I can not stay for weal or woe.
    E'en now her magic bids me go,
    Soft-summoning through wind and snow."

           *       *       *       *       *

    Helis with some old song beguiles
    His hollow face until it smiles;
    And with her lute shapes sweeter wiles:

    Till kingly figures, woven in
    The shadowy arras, seem to win
    Strange, ghostly life, and slay and sin.

    Until her deep hair's golden glow
    Sweeps his dark curls as, praying low,
    She kneels, a marble-sculptured woe.

    And then she left him there to rest,
    Aweary with his haggard quest,
    All in gray fur and velvet dressed....

    At midnight through the vaulted roof
    She heard armed steps of ringing proof:
    She heard a charger's iron hoof.

    The leaded lattice glowed, a square
    Of moonlight in the moonlit air:
    She flung it wide: what saw she there?

    Sir Elid in the moonlight's beam,
    Stark, staring as if still a-dream
    Rode downward towards the rushing stream.

    His helm and corselet had he on,
    And, in one gauntlet, silver-wan,
    His bugle-horn was upward drawn.

    Upon his horn he blew his best;
    Then sang, it seemed, his merriest,
    "I ride upon my love's last quest:
    And on her breast at last shall rest."

    Straight onward by some mighty will,
    Into the stream below the hill
    She saw him ride. Then all was still....

    Not wider than her eyes are his
    That stare, where icy eddies kiss
    His lips. "Urganda's work is this!"

    She cries, and where her warrior lies
    With horror in his face and eyes,
    She bends above his form and sighs.

    And then she seems to hear a moan
    Beside her;--but she leans alone:--
    Then laughter; and a cloud seems blown
    Before her eyes, that doth intone:

    "Beware, Helis! beware! beware
    My curse! my kiss, that is despair!
    Kiss not his brow, lest unaware,
    Helis, Helis, my curse be there!"




HAWKING


I

    I see them still, when poring o'er
    Old volumes of romantic lore,
    Ride forth to hawk, in days of yore,
      By woods and promontories:
    Knights in gold-lace, plumes and gems,
    Damsels crowned with anadems,--
    Whose falcons perch on wrists, like milk,
    In hoods and jesses of green silk,--
      From bannered Miraflores.


II

    The laughing earth is young with dew;
    The deeps above are violet blue;
    And in the East a cloud or two
      Empearled with airy glories;
    And with merriment and singing,
    Silver bells of falcons ringing,
    Beauty, rosy with the dawn,
    Lightly rides o'er hill and lawn
      From towered Miraflores.


III

    The torrent glitters from the crags;
    Down forest vistas browse the stags;
    And from wet beds of reeds and flags
      The frightened lapwing hurries:
    And the brawny wild-boar peereth
    At the cavalcade that neareth;
    Oft his shaggy-throated grunt
    Brings the king and court to hunt
      At royal Miraflores.


IV

    The May itself, in soft sea-green,
    Is Oriana, Spring's high queen,
    And Amadis beside her seen,
      Some prince of Fairy stories:
    Where her castle's ivied towers
    Drowse above her woods and bowers,
    Flaps the heron through the sky,
    And the wild-swan gives a cry
      By knightly Miraflores.




ORLANDO

SUGGESTED BY ARIOSTO'S "ORLANDO FURIOSO"


I

    When southern winds sowed woods and skies,
                Angelica!
    With bloom-storms of the flowering May;
    When hill and battle-field were gay
    With peace and purity of flowers,
              I sat to dream
    Beside a stream amid the bowers,
    Clear as the deeps of thy blue eyes:
              And near the stream
    I saw a grotto banked with flowers,
    From which the streamlet fell in showers,
    Cool-sparkling through the sunlit bowers,
                Angelica!


II

    My casque I dofft to scoop the fount,
                Angelica!
    With liquid pureness bubbling cool
    It rose--then clashed into the pool ...
    Thy name I saw, hewn in the rock!
              And under it ...
    Ah no! I dreamed! my eyes did mock
    My senses!... Then I seemed to count,
              All fire-lit,
    The letters! deep, carved in the rock!
    _Medoro_ carved in every rock!--
    My brain went round like some wild clock,
                Angelica!


III

    O treachery! O lust of blood!
                Angelica!
    That one so fair should be so vile!
    No more for me again shall smile
    The brows of Beauty! As of old,
              With clarion call,
    No more shall Battle make me bold!
    Or Chivalry fire my soul!... The wood,--
              Away from all,
    From love and lust,--shall house and hold
    My misery!... The dawn breaks cold!
    And I lie naked on the wold,
                Angelica!




YOLANDA OF THE TOWERS


      Old forests belt and bar
      Her towering battlements;
    And all the west, with crest on crest,
      The blue o' the hills indents.

      Her garden's terrace cliffs
      That soar above a sea
    Dreamier and fuller of shadowy color
      Than sunset's mystery.

      And league on league of coast,
      Sand-ribbed of wind and wave,
    Rolls dim and far with reef and bar
      And many an ocean cave.

      The morning,--bright with beams
      And sea-winds,--wakes the day;
    Its breezy lutes and foamy flutes
      Make music on the bay.

      The deer are roused from rest;
      The sea-birds breast the brine;
    And from the steep wild torrents leap
      Foaming 'neath rock and vine.

      But she, in one tall tower,
      High built above the tide,
    In her heart a thorn, turns from the morn,
      Wan-faced and weary-eyed.

      Long, long she looks a-sea,
      As one who seeks a sail:
    But on her view the empty blue
      Beats and her eyelids quail.

      She turns and slowly goes
      Down from her sea-gray towers,
    To walk and weep, like one asleep,
      Among the salt-slain flowers.

      Until the sun is set,
      And crocus heavens, grown cold,
    Leave all their light to the new moon's white
      And one star's point of gold.

      Until a breeze from sea
      Sets in, of balm and spice
    And streams amid the stars, half-hid,
      Thin mists as white as ice.

      And then her eyes grow large
      With hate or one last hope,
    And again she bends her gaze where blends
      The sea with heaven's <DW72>.

      But naught the night reveals,
      The night that seems to weep
    And shudder down two stars, that drown
      Themselves within the deep.

      Then to herself she says,
      Softly, "Ah God! to know
    No death or shame is his, or blame,
      Who brought on me this woe!

      "What though I know that Hell
      At last will have its own;
    It will not heal my soul, I feel,
      Though there he wail and moan.

      "Could I his carrion see,
      On yonder crag's wild crest,
    Hung up to rot, a traitor's lot,
      My soul might find some rest!"...

      And this is she God made
      Of sunlight and of flowers
    For love and kisses and fond caresses--
      Yolanda of the Towers.

[Illustration: She raised her oblong lute and smote some chords. Page 230

    _Accolon of Gaul_
]




ERMENGARDE


    Queen of the Courts of Love, she sleeps; one arm
      Pillowing her raven hair, as Dawn might Night,
    Or Day kiss Dusk; or Darkness, starry warm,
      Be gathered of her sister, rosy Light.

    Pale from the purple of the damask cloth
      One hand hangs, as a lily-bloom might, lone
    Above a bed of poppies; or a moth
      Might softly hover by a rose full-blown.

    Heraldic, rich, the costly coverings
      Sweep, fall'n in folds, pushed partly from her breast;
    As through storm-broken clouds the full moon springs,
      From these one orb of her pure bosom pressed.

    She sleeps: and where the moteless moonbeams sink
      Through blazoned panes--an immaterial snow--
    In wide, white jets, the lion-fur seems to drink
      With tawny jaws their wasted, winey glow.

    Light-lidded sleep and holy dreams are hers,
      Untouched of feverish sorrow or of care,
    Soft as the wind whose fragrant breathing stirs
      The moonbeam-tangled tresses of her hair.




HACKELNBERG


I

    When down the Hartz the echoes swarm,
    He rides beneath the mountain storm
    With mad "halloo!" and wild alarm
      Of hound and horn and thunder:
    With his hunter, black as night,
    Ban-dogs, eyed with lambent light;
    And a stag, a spectral white,
    Rushes on before, in flight
      Glimmering through the boughs and under.


II

    Long-howling, crouched in bracken black,
    The werewolf shuns his ruinous track,
    On every side the forests crack,
      And mountain torrents tumble:
    And the spirits of the air
    Whistling whirl with scattered hair,
    Teeth that flash and eyes that glare,
    Round him as he gallops there,
      In the rain and tempest's rumble.


III

    Above the storm, the thunder's growl,
    The torrent's roar, the forest's howl,
    Is heard his hunting-horn--an owl,
      That hoots and sweeps before him:
    And beneath the blinding leven,
    On wild crags, the Castle riven
    Of the Dumburg towers to heaven,
    Beckoning on the demon-driven,
      Beckoning on and looming o'er him.




AN ANTIQUE


    Mildewed and gray a marble stair
      Leads to a balustrade of urns,
    Beyond which two stone satyrs glare
      From vines and close-clipped yews and ferns.

    A path, that winds and labyrinths,
      'Twixt parallels of verdant box,
    Around a lodge whose mossy plinths
      Are based on emerald- rocks.

    A lodge, or ancient pleasure-house,
      Built in a grove beside a lake,
    Around whose edge the dun deer browse,
      And swans their snowy pastime take.

    And underneath and overhead,--
      The breathings of a water-nymph
    It seems,--the violets' scent is shed
      Mixed with the music of the lymph.

    And where,--upon its pedestal,--
      The old sun-dial marks the hours,
    Laburnum blossoms lightly fall,
      And duchess roses rain their flowers.

    The air is languid with perfume,
      As if dead beauties--who of old
    Intrigued it here in patch and plume--
      Again the ancient terrace strolled

    With gallants, on whose rapiers gems
      Once sneered in haughtiness of hues,
    While Touchstone wit and apothegms
      Laughed down the long cool avenues:

    And there, where bowers of woodbine pave,
      All heavily with sultry musk,
    Two fountains of pellucid wave,
      In sunlight-tessellated dusk,

    I seem to see the fountains twain
      Of Hate and Love in Arden, where,
    In times of regal Charlemagne,
      Great Roland drank and Oliver.

    Where, wandered from Montalban's towers,
      The paladin, Rinaldo, slept,
    While, leaning o'er him through the flowers,
      Angelica above him wept.




JAAFER THE BARMECIDE

_Scene, Baghdad: time of the Khalif Haroun er Reshid. Salih ben Tarif
speaks._


    With Imam Hassan I had reached the khan
      Outside of Ambar. Jaafer at the door
    Of his pavilion watched a caravan
      Inbound from Yemen.--Ah, the bales it bore
    Of richest stuffs and spices!--'Mid the rout
      Of porters, camel-drivers, old and poor,
    A singer stood,--a blindman, singing out
      With luted preludes. Imam Hassan then:
    "'Tis Zekkar; he, t' whom, with the blind about
      The Mosque of Moons, I with our holy men
    Scattered my silver at the hour of prayer,
      When hearts are open unto Allah's ken.--
    Danic or dirhem, though, were wasted there:
      Yea, by the Prophet! had one sown dinars
    _He_ had not budged one finger or that stare.
      And so the beggars and the scavengers
    Got all."
        Then I: "The very same whom I--
      Guard at the Western Portal--'neath the stars
    Some midnights past heard singing. Dim the dry
      Hot night; and Baghdad only knew of us
    Until, gray shadows shuffling slowly by,
      Pilgrims for Mecca passed, all vaporous
    In dust and darkness; them we challenged not.
      --Slaves, with the tribute of Nicephorus
    The Roman, from long shallops, as they shot
      Along the moonlit Tigris far away,
    Timing their oars, raised languid chanting.--
      What
      This blindman sang was sweeter than--let's say--
    The songs of Ibrahim, the dulcet frets
      Of Zulzul's lute. I listened till the day
    Made gold of all the city's minarets,
      And the muezzin summoned us to pray."

    Now while we gossiped, lounging slow along
      The packed bazaar, a fisher with his nets
    Passed, singing Abou Newas' newest song:
      A honey-merchant, then, his tinkling mule
    All hanap-hung with sweetness: then a throng
      Of scholars and their Sheikh from mosque or school:
    A milk-white woman on a cream-white ass,
      Black slaves attending.... And--I am no fool!--
    I knew her of the Court, the noblest class,
      By her gem-bangled bracelets.... Let Haroun
    On the Euphrates with Zubeideh pass
      A single day, at royal Rekkeh,--noon
    And night his harem here, so it is said,
      Is all intrigue.--Then drawling out his tune,
    "Ten thousand pieces to be paid, be paid,
      For Yehya's head, Er Reshid's late vizier,"
    A crier passed us. Then the market's shade
      Glittered with weapons; and we seemed to hear,
    Sword of the Khalif, Mesrour, and commands
      Naming the Khalif. One swart officer
    Flamed forth the Sultan's signet. And harsh hands
      Were laid on--whom?--I saw not! For my sight
    Was dazzled by the scimitars,--from bands
      Of jeweled belts that burned,--and, keen and bright,
    Swift hedged us out. Then broad the red blood dyed
      The ground around a body--and, hoar white,
    Was raised a severed head.--And, stupefied,
    Elbowing the rabble, "By my beard!" I cried,
    Marking the face, "Jaafer the Barmecide!"




A PRE-EXISTENCE.


    An intimation of some previous life?
    Or dark dream--by my waking soul divined--
    Of some uncertain sleep? in which the sin
    Of some past life, a life that some one lived--
    Not I, yet I,--long, long ago in Spain,
    I live again.... Wherein again I see
    From heathen battles to Toledo's gates,--
    Damascened corselet broken, his camail
    And armet shattered,--deep within the eve's
    Anger of brass, that burned around his helm,
    A hurrying flame,--a galloping glitter,--one
    Ride arrow-wounded. And the city catch
    Wild tumult from his coming, wilder fear--
    A cry before him and a wail behind,
    Of walls beleaguered; ravin; conquered kings:
    Triumphant Taric; shackled Spain--revenge.

    And I, a Moslem slave, a miser Jew's,
    Housed near the Tagus--squalid and alone,
    Save for his slave,--a dog he beat and starved,--
    Leaner than my lank shadow when the moon,
    A battle beacon, westerns; all my bones
    A visible hunger; famished with the fear,
    Soul-garb of slaves, I bore him--I, who held
    Him, heart and soul, more hated than his God,
    Stood silent. Fools had laughed. I saw my way.

    War-times grow weapons, and the blade I found
    Was hacked but pointed.--Well I knew his ways:
    The nightly nuptials of his jars of gems
    And bags of doublas.--Well I knew his ways.
    No figure, woven in the hangings, where
    He hugged his riches in that secret room,
    Was half so still as I, who gauntly stole
    Behind him, humped and stooping; and his heart
    Clove to the center, stabbing from behind,
    Thrice thro' his tattered tunic, murrey-dyed.
    Forward he fell, his old face 'mid his gold,
    Grayer and thinner than the moon of morn,
    While slow the blood dripped, oozing through the cloth,
    Black, and thick-clotting round the oblong wounds.
    Great pearls of Oman, whiter than the moon;
    Rubies of Badakhshân, whose bezels wept
    Slim tears of poppy-purpled flame; and rich,
    Rose, ember-pregnant carbuncles, wherein
    Fevered a captive crimson, blurred with light
    The table's raven cloth. Dim bugles wan
    Of cat-eyed hyacinths; moon-emeralds
    With starry greenness stabbed; in limpid stains
    Of liquid lilac, Persian amethysts;
    Fire-opals, savage and mesmeric with
    Voluptuous flame, long, sweet and sensuous as
    Deep eyes of Orient women; sapphires beamed
    With talismanic violet, from tombs,
    Deev-guarded, of primordial Solimans,
    Scattered the velvet: and like gledes amid,--
    Splintering the light from rainbow-arrowed orbs,--
    Length-agonized with fire, diamonds of
    Golconda.... (One a dervish once had borne
    Seven days, beneath a red Arabian sun,
    Seven nights, beneath a round Arabian moon,
    Under his tongue; an Emeer's ransom, held
    Of some wild tribe.--Bleached in the perishing waste,
    A Bedouin Arab found sand-strangled bones,
    A skeleton, vulture-torn, fierce in whose skull
    One eyeball blazed--the diamond. At Aleppo
    Bartered ... a bauble for his desert love.)
    Jacinth and Indian pearl, gem heaped on gem,
    Flashed, rutilating in the taper's light,--
    Unearthly splinters of a rainbowed flame,--
    A blaze of irised fire; and his face,
    Long-haired, white-sunk among them. And I took
    All! yea! all! all!--jewel and gold and gem!--
    Although his curse burned in them! 'though, me-seemed,
    Each burning jewel glared a separate curse.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Can dead men work us evil from the grave?
    Can crime infest us so that fear will slay?...
    Richer than all Castile and yet--not dare
    Drink but from cups of Roman murra,--spar
    Bowl-sprayed with fibrile gold,--spar sensitive
    To poison! I, no fool! and yet--a fool
    To fear a dead Jew's malice!... Yet, how else?
    Feasting within the music of my halls,
    While perfumed beauty danced in sinuous robes,
    Diaphanous, more tenuous than those famed
    Of loomed Amorgos or of silken Kos,
    Draining the unflawed murrhine, Xeres-brimmed,
    Had I reeled poisoned, dying wolf'sbane-slain!




THE KING


    Up from the glimmering east the full moon swung,
    A golden bubble buoyed zenithward
    Above black hills. The white-eyed stars, that thronged,--
    Hot with the drought,--the cloudless <DW72>s of heaven,
    Winked thirstily; no wind aroused the leaves,
    That o'er the glaring road hung motionless,
    Withered and whitened of the weary dust
    From many hoofs of many a fellowship
    Of knights who rode to'ards quest or tournament:
    Among them those who brought the King disguised,
    Whose mind was, "in the lists to joust and be
    An equal 'mid unequals, man to man:"
    Who from the towers of Edric passed, wherein
    Some days he'd sojourned, waiting Launcelot:
    That morn it was; ... for, with the morn, a horn
    Sang at dim portals, musical with dew,
    Wild echoes of wild woodlands and the hunt,
    Clear herald of the stanchest of his knights.
    And they, to the great tilt at Camelot,
    Rode armored off, a noise of steel and steeds.

    Thick in the stagnant moat the lilies lay,
    Pale 'mid their pads; above them, huge with chains,
    The drawbridge hung before the barbéd grate;
    And far above, along lone battlements,
    His armor moon-drenched, one lone sentinel
    Clanked drowsily; and it was late in June.

    She, at her lattice, loosely night-robed, leaned,
    Thinking of one she loved: a pensive smile
    Haunting her face; a face as fair as night's,
    Night's when divinely beautiful with stars,
    Two stars, at least, that dreamed beneath her brows.
    Long, raven loops and coils of sensuous hair
    Rolled turbulence round white-glimpsed neck and throat,
    That shamed the moonlight with a rival sheen.

    One stooped above her; and his nostrils breathed
    Heavy perfumes that blossomed in her hair;
    And round her waist hooped one strong arm and drew
    Her mightily to him, soft crushing,--cool
    With yielding freshness of her form,--her gown;
    Then searched her eyes until his own seemed drunk
    And mad with passion: then one hungry kiss
    Bruised, hard as anger, on her breathless lips,
    Fiercer than fire. Leaning lower, then
    A whispered, "Lov'st but one? and he?"--And then,
    She, with impatience, "Rough and rude thou art!
    Why crush me, thou great bear, with such a hug!
    Or kill me with such kisses!"--Then, as soft
    As some rich rose syllabling musk and dew,
    "And whom I love?--ah, Edric, need I say!"...

    Then he, fierce-smiling, swiftly, without word,
    His countenance harsh-writhen into hate's
    Gnarled hideousness, haled back her marvelous head,
    Back, back by all its braids of gathered hair,
    Till her full bosom's clamorous loveliness
    Stark on the moon burst bare. Low leaning then,
    With mocking laughter, "Yea, by God's own blood!
    The King, O thou adulteress!" and a blade
    Glanced, thin as ice, plunged hard, hard in her heart.




MELANCHOLIA

    "_Jamque vale Soli cum diceret Ambrociotes,
      In Stygios fertur desiluisse lacus,
    Morte nihil dignum passus: sed forte Platonis
      Divini eximum de nece legit opus._"

    --Callimachus.


I

      Now there was wind that night, wild wind, and rain;
      And frantic thorns, that huddled on the wold,
      Seemed withered witches met in storm again
      To keep their Sabbath and to curse and scold,
      With gnarled, fantastic gestures, lame and old.
      Deep in a hollow, where some cabin lay,
      A lamplit window, like an eye of gold,
      Glared, winked and closed--or was't an Elfin ray,
    A jack-o'-lanthorn gleam, lost on a wild wood way?


II

      Still I held onward through the ugly night;
      Breast-deep in thistles, all their ghostly heads
      Kinked close with wet; through the bedraggled plight
      Of brakes of bramble, tousled into shreds,
      And tangled wastes of briars--tumbling beds
      For winds to toss on.--Once, across a farm,
      Unsteadily, a lamp towards unseen sheds,--
      Like the blurred glow of some ungainly worm,--
    A watery wisp of light crawled trailing through the storm.


III

      Then swallowing blackness of the night; and thin
      The shrewd rain beat me and the rough limbs whipped
      Of dwarfed, uneasy beeches. There within
      Their savage circle battered tombstones tipped
      Squat lengths to weeds the fighting winds had ripped
      And chopped to tatters. And I heard before,
      Rounding a headland, where the gaunt trees dripped,--
      A shout borne deathward from night's ghastly shore,--
    Hoarse as a thousand throats the river's sullen roar.


IV

      Shuddering I stopped, for, with my feet so caked
      With clay, damp-dragging, safer were the graves,
      Crowding that vista of the wood,--which raked
      My face with burrs,--than, walking towards the waves,
      To feel earth slip away; the architraves
      Of darkness plunge me downward to some pit
      Of wallow and of water.--Madder knaves
      Than I have stood thus in a fever-fit
    Of heart and brain and shuddered from the brink of it.


V

      Wooingly silence whispered to me there
      Through boughs of dripping darkness sad with rain;
      Darkness, that met my eyeballs everywhere,
      Blind-packed and vacant as a madman's brain.
      And so I stood and heard the dead leaves drain,
      And through the leaves the haunted wind that hissed;
      Then suddenly--perhaps it was the strain
      Snapped in my temples--laughter seemed to twist,
    With evil, night's dead mouth that bent to mine and kissed.


VI

      Insanity! two leaves that dabbled down,
      Touched me with drizzle; and that laugh--ah, well,
      No laugh! an owlet hooting at the frown
      Night's hag-face tortures while she works her spell.
      Yet I had sworn, before those kisses fell
      Like winter on me, black as broken jet,
      An occult blackness like the Prince of Hell,
      A woman's hand had brushed my face--and yet,
    A bat it might have been made mad with wind and wet.


VII

      And stark I stood among the sodden stones,
      Icy with fever, hearing in each gale
      Strange footsteps,--while within my soul were moans
      For strength,--as powerless as I was pale.
      Then I remembered that within a tale
      Once I had read--a chronicle of ills
      Cowled monks had written--how one shall not fail
      To find, unsought, the Fiend, if so he wills,
    Cloak, cap, and cock's crook'd plume among the lonely hills.


VIII

      Was _that_ his laugh? and _that_ his vulture hand?--
      No! no! for in the legend it was said,
      "Though moonless midnight curse the barren land
      Sathanas' shadow follows him as red
      As Hell's red cauldron is."--My terror fled,
      Remembering this.--How sad a fool was I
      To dream Hell's wickedness would bow his head
      By mine, and parley with me, lie for lie,
    With cunning scrutiny of oblong eye by eye!


IX

      Then, then I felt--_her_ presence! all awake
      Unto her power that could lift or sink;
      And her straight eyes controlling, like an ache,
      My brain that had no mastery to think,
      Or to perform. And slowly, link on link,
      She bound me helpless, like an inquisitor,
      In vasty dungeons of the soul; no wink
      Of light was there, but darkness, bar on bar,
    Self-convoluted chaos strangling will's high star.


X

      "I am the mother of uneaseful sleep,
      The child of night and sister of dim death;
      Who knoweth me, yea, he shall never weep,
      Yet bless and ban me in a single breath:
      Who knoweth me a coward is unneth:
      And saddest hearts have sought me over glad
      To find gray comfort where the preacher saith
      There is no comfort. Melancholy mad,
    Reach me thy hand and know me if thy heart be sad."


XI

    Thus did she speak. Her voice was like a flame

      Of burning blackness. Then I felt the throb
      Of her still hand in mine. And so I came
      Gladly unto her. Yea, I, too, would rob
      Time of his triumphs.--Who would groan and sob
      Beneath his fardels, hearing sad men sigh
      When here is cure?--for Life, that, like a lob,
      Rides us to death; for Love, a godless lie;
    And Toil and Hunger.--Yea, what fool would fear to die?


XII

      Then seemed I wrapped in rolling mists, and, oh,
      Her arm was round me and her kisses dear
      On eyes and lips, and words that none may know--
      What words of promise said she in mine ear!
      Drunk with her beauty still I felt no fear,
      When, past the forest, like some bounding brute,
      I heard the river roaring. Drawing near,
      Again she whispered, and my soul grew mute
    Before her voice that lulled like music of a lute:


XIII

      "Within the webs of darkness and of day
      The spider Hours spin about thy world,
      Who now finds time to even laugh or pray,
      Cramped in a term of years that are uncurled
      Like coils of some huge monster, head uphurled
      To fang when the last fold falls! <DW72> on <DW72>
      The night environs thee with space, empearled
      With hopeless stars by which men symbol Hope,
    Beneath whose light they breed and curse and pray and grope."


XIV

      And so she brought me to the river's brink
      To plunge me downward. All the night was mine;
      And so, exulting, to Death's darker drink
      I stooped and drank.--What better drink divine,
      O man, hast thou? what wiser way is thine?
      Who find'st me carrion on a hungry coast,
      Sand in mine eyeballs, in my hair the brine,
      And o'er my corpse with bitter lips dost boast--
    "Poor fool! poor ghost! Alas! poor, melancholy ghost!"




A WOMAN OF THE WORLD


I

    As to my soul--'tis pathos and passion.
      As to my life--'t hath a flavor of sin.
    What would you have when such is the fashion,
      Was and will be of the world we are in?
    Yes, I have loved. And have you?--Have you reckoned
      The cost of all love?--I can tell you: as much
    As a soul!--Is it worth it?--You'll know it that second
      You know that you love; and God pity all such!


II

    My lover dissembled that ardor's pure beauty.
      I endured undeceived nor pretended; and gave
    All that his passion demanded--my duty,
      For I loved. And the world?--why, I was his slave!--
    Should it worry I pleased him?--Propriety sorrowed,
      Uprolling her eyes as occasion, and--well,
    That lie, overglossed with a modesty borrowed,
      Assisted my fall and the end was--I fell.


III

    Through love? No; the woman! that visible woman
      Men usually know.--None knows how we know
    Of an innermore beauty! that part of the human
      We designate character.--Look at the bow
    Of the moon that is new; that bears in its crescent
      A world.--So the flesh gleams the slenderest line
    Of soul; that is love; the unevanescent,
      Making the mortal immortal, divine.


IV

    Yes; I know what I am. Have outlasted my season
      Of pleasure and folly.--You think it is strange
    That I let you, say--love me? But why not?--my reason
      Requires illusions. They give me that change
    Which quiets remembrance. You kiss me--I wonder.--
      When you say, "You are beautiful,"--well, am I glad
    If I laugh?--You declaim on my form, "How no blunder
      Of nature discords,"--If I sigh, am I sad?


V

    How you stare at my eyes!--Well! my lips!--must they languish
      For kisses to redden?--"My eyes are as bright
    As the jewel I drown in my hair, with its anguish
      Of tortuous fire that quivers to-night"?
    Tears may be.--This showy?--That silly white flower
      Were better?--For me its simplicity? no!--
    The gem I prefer to the lily.--The hour
      Has struck: I am ready: my fan: let us go.




A GUINEVERE


    Sullen gold down all the sky;
      Roses and their sultry musk;
      Whippoorwills deep in the dusk
    Yonder sob and sigh.--

    You are here; and I could weep,
      Weep for joy and suffering....
      "Where is he"?--He'd have me sing--
    There he sits, asleep.

    Think not of him! he is dead
      For the moment to us twain--
      Hold me in your arms again,
    Rest on mine your head.

    "Am I happy?" ask the fire
      When it bursts its bounds and thrills
      Some mad hours as it wills
    If those hours tire.

    He had gold. As for the rest--
      Well you know how _they_ were set,
      Saying that I must forget
    And 'twas for the best.

    _I_ forget?--But let it go!--
      Kiss me as you used of old.
      There; your kisses are not cold!
    Can you love me so?

    Knowing what I am to him,
      To that gouty gray one there,
      On the wide verandah, where
    Fitful fireflies swim.

    Is it tears? or what? that wets
      Eyes and cheeks;--on brow and lip
      Kisses! soft as bees that sip
    Sweets from violets.

    See! the moon has risen; white
      As this open lily here,
      Rocking on the dusky mere,
    Like a silent light.

    Let us walk... So soon to part!--
      All too soon! But he may miss.
      Give me but another kiss--
    It will heat my heart

    And the bitter winter there.--
      So; we part, my Launcelot,
      My true knight! and am I not
    Your true Guinevere?

    Oft they parted thus, they tell,
      In that mystical romance...
      Were they placed, think you, perchance,
    For such love, in Hell?

    No! it can not, can not be!
      Love is God, and God is love:
      And they live and love above,
    Guinevere and he.

    I must go now.--See! there fell,
      Molten into purple light,
      One wild star. Kiss me good night,
    And once more. Farewell.




PERLE DES JARDINS


    What am I, and what is he,
      Who can take and break a heart,
      As one might a rose, for sport,
    In its royalty?

    What am I that he has made
      All this love a bitter foam
      Blown about the wreck-filled gloam
    Of a soul betrayed?

    He who of my heart could make
      Hollow crystal, where his face,
      Like a passion, had its place,
    Holy, and then break!

    Shatter with neglect and sneers!--
      But these weary eyes are dry,
      Tearless clear; and if I die
    They shall know no tears.

    But my soul weeps. Let it weep!
      Let it weep, and let the pain
      In my heart and in my brain
    Cry itself to sleep.--

    Ah! the afternoon is warm;
      And the fields are green and fair;
      Many happy creatures there
    Through the woodland swarm.

    All the summer land is still,
      And the woodland stream is dark
      Where the lily rocks its barque
    Just below the mill....

    If they found me icy there
      'Mid the lilies, and pale whorls
      Of the cresses in my curls,
    Wet, of raven hair!--

    Poor Ophelia! are you such?
      Would you have him thus to know
      That you died of utter woe
    And despair o'ermuch?

    No!--such acts are obsolete:
      Other things we now must learn:--
      Though the broken heart will burn,
    Let it show no heat.

    So I'll write him as he wrote,
      Coldly, with no word of scorn--
      He shall never know a thorn
    Rankles here!... Now note:--

    "You'll forget," he says; "and I
      Feel 'tis better for us twain:
      It may give you some small pain,
    But, 'twill soon be by.

    "You are dark and Maud is light.
      I am dark. And it is said
      Opposites are better wed.--
    So I think I'm right."

    "You are dark and Maud is fair"!--
      I could laugh at his excuse
      If the bitter, mad abuse
    Were not more than hair!

    But I'll write him, as if glad,
      Some few happy words--that might
      Touch upon some past delight
    That last year we had.

    Not one line of broken vows,
      Sighs or hurtful tears--unshed!
      Faithless hearts--far better dead!
    Nor a withered rose.

    But a rose! this rose to wear,--
      Perle des Jardins, all elate
      With sweet life and delicate,--
    When he weds her there.

    So; 'tis finished. It is well--
      Go, thou rose. I have no tear,
      Word or kiss for thee to bear,
    And no woe to tell.

    Only be thus full of life,
      Cold and proud, dispassionate,
      Filled with neither love nor hate,
    When he calls her wife.




FACE TO FACE


    Dead! and all the haughty fate
      Fair on throat and face of wax,
      Calm on hands, crossed still and lax,
    Cold, dispassionate.

    Dead! and no word whispered low
      At the dull ear now would wake
      One responsive chord or make
    One wan temple glow.

    Dead! and no hot tear would stir
      Aught of woman, sweet and fair,
      Woman soul in feet and hair,
    Once that smiled in her.

    She is dead, oh God! and I--
      I must live! though life be but
      One long, hard, monotonous rut
    For me till I die.

    Creeds might help in such a case:
      But no sermon could have wrought
      More of faith than you have taught
    With your pale dead face.

    Now I see, oh, now I see
      My mistake!--so very small,
      Yet so great it bungled all,
    _All_ for you and me.

    Oft I said, "I feel, I'm sure
      She could never live that life!
      She is still my own true wife,
    She is good and pure!"

    You were pure and I bemoiled!
      That you loathed me, it was just;
      Weak of soul and left of lust
    Vulgar, low, and soiled....

    Closed--the eyes once filled with dreams!
      Great, proud eyes!... I see them yet,
      Miniature nights of lucid jet
    Filled with starry gleams.

    Sealed--the lips; poor, faded lips!
      Once as red as life could make--
      Sweet wild roses, half awake,
    Dewy to their tips.

    Hair!--imperial still, and warm
      As a Grace's; where one stone,
      Jeweled, lay ensnared and shone
    Like a star in storm.

    Eyes!--at parting big with pain...
      God! I see them still! the tear
      In them!--big as eyes of deer
    Led by lights and slain....

    Woman true, I falsely blamed;
      Whom I killed with scorn and pride;
      Woman pure, of whom I lied;
    With the nameless named:

    All you said, Sweet, has come true!--
      Ah! this life had woe enough
      For the little dole of love
    Giv'n to me and you.

    Do you hear me? do you know
      What I feel now? how it came?
      You, beyond me like a flame,
    You, before me like the snow....

    Dead! and all my heart's a cup
      Hollowed for repentant tears,
      Bitter in the bitter years,
    Slowly brimming up.

    Peace! 'tis well! But might have been
      Better.--Yes, God's time makes right!--
      Better for me in His sight
    With my soul washed clean.

    Do you hear me? do you know
      How my heart was all your own?
      How my life is left alone
    Now with naught but woe?

    Peace! be still!--I kiss your hair.
      Sweet, good-by. Upon your breast
      Let this long white lily rest--
    God will find it there:

    There beyond the sad world and
      Clouds and stars and silent skies,
      Where your eyes shall meet His eyes,
    And--He'll understand.




THE EVE OF ALL-SAINTS


I

    This is the tale they tell
      Of an Hallowe'en;
    This is the thing that befell
    Me and the village belle,
      Beautiful Amy Dean.


II

    Did I love her? God and she,
      They know and I!
    Ah, she was the life of me--
    Whatever else may be
      Would God that I could die!


III

    That Hallowe'en was dim;
      The frost lay white
    Under strange stars and a slim
    Moon in the graveyard grim,
      Pale with its slender light.


IV

    They told her: "Go alone,
      With never a word,
    To the burial-plot's unknown
    Grave with the oldest stone,
      When the clock on twelve is heard.


V

    "Three times around it pass,
      With never a sound;
    Each time a wisp of grass
    And myrtle pluck; then pass
      Out of the ghostly ground.


VI

    "And the bridegroom that's to be,
      At smiling wait,
    With a face like mist to see,
    With graceful gallantry
      Will bow you to the gate."


VII

    She laughed at this and so
      Bespoke us how
    To the burial-place she'd go.--
    And I was glad to know,
      For I'd be there to bow.


VIII

    An acre from the farm
      The village dead
    Lay walled from sun and storm;
    Old cedars, of priestly form,
      Waved darkly overhead.


IX

    I loved; but never could say
      The words to her;
    And waited, day by day,
    Nursing the hope that lay
      Under the doubts that were.--


X

    She passed 'neath the iron arch
      Of the legended ground;--
    And the moon, like a twisted torch,
    Burned over one lonesome larch;--
      She passed with never a sound.


XI

    Three times the circle traced;
      Three times she bent
    To the grave that the myrtle graced;
    Three times--then softly faced
      Homeward and slowly went.


XII

    Had the moonlight changed me so?
      Or fear undone
    Her stepping soft and slow?
    Did she see and did not know?
      Or loved she another one?


XIII

    Who knows?--She turned to flee
      With a face so white
    It haunts and will haunt me:--
    The wind blew gustily:
      The graveyard gate clanged tight.


XIV

    Did she think it I or--what,
      Clutching her dress?
    Her face so wild that not
    A star in a stormy spot
      Shows half so much distress.


XV

    I spoke; but she answered naught.
      "Amy," I said,
    "'Tis I!"--as her form I caught...
    Then laughed like one distraught,
      For the beautiful girl was dead!...


XVI

    This is the tale they tell
      Of that Hallowe'en;
    This is the thing that befell
    Me and the village belle,
      Beautiful Amy Dean.




MATER DOLOROSA


    The nuns sing, "_Ora pro nobis_;"
      The casements glitter above;
    And the beautiful Virgin, whose robe is
      Woven of infinite love,
    Infinite love and sorrow,
      Prays for them there on high--
    Who has most need of her prayers,--to-morrow
      Shall tell them!--they or I?

    Up in the hills together
      We loved, where the world was true;
    Our world of the whin and heather,
      Our skies of a nearer blue;
    A blue from which one borrows
      A faith that helps one die--
    O Mother, thou Mother of Sorrows,
      None needs such more than I!

    We lived, we loved unwedded--
      Love's sin and its shame that slays!--
    No ill of the years we dreaded,
      No day of their coming days;
    Their coming days, their many
      Trials by noon and night--
    And I know no land, not any
      Where the sun shines half so bright.

    Was he false to me, my Mother!
      Or I to him, my God!--
    Who gave thee right, O brother!
      To take God's right and rod!
    God's rod of avenging morrows--
      And the life here in my side!--
    O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrows,
      Would that I, too, had died!

    By the wall of the Chantry kneeling
      I pray, and the organ rings,
    "_Gloria! gloria!_" pealing,
      "_Sancta Maria!_" sings.
    They will find us dead to-morrow
      By the wall of their nunnery--
    O Mother, thou Mother of Sorrow,
      His unborn babe and me.




LOVE AS IT WAS IN THE TIME OF LOUIS XIV


I

    Thrice on the lips and twice on the eyes
      I kiss you or ever I kiss your bosom.--
    When love is young would you have it wise,
      Wise as the world goes?--No! 'tis a blossom
    Lovely and wise since it's lovely; content
      To live or to die as its folly pleases:
    Life is a rose and the rose's scent
      Is love, that grows as the rose increases.


II

    If I tell you the Marquis will die, will you smile?
      And laugh when he's dead?--This powder, my lily,
    That seems but an innocent sweet in this phial--
      Do not touch it! breathe distant!--a poison Exili
    Used a life to discover. Its formula left
      To a pupil (well worthy the master!), the prudent
    And pious Sainte Croix. Him, of teacher bereft,
      The Devil, I deem, must have taken as student.


III

    Quite a dealer in death. And ours was a case
      That those difficult drugs of his laboratory
    Demanded. I visited; found him; his face,
      Bent over a sublimate,--safe from the hoary
    Light particles,--masked with a mask of fine glass.
      I told him your danger, Marie, and expounded
    Our passion, despair, with many an "Alas!"
      He smiled while a paste in a mortar he pounded.


IV

    Three fistfuls of Louis!--"He'd do it," he said.--
      A delicate dust, gum, liquid and metal
    Crushed, crucibled.... "Stay! tie this mask on your head.
      You see, but a grain on your rose's pink petal
    Has shriveled and blasted it--look, how it dries!--
      A perilous pulver ... could Satan make better?...
    To mix with that present of perfumes--she dies,
      And who is the wiser? Or, say in a letter


V

    "To the husband of her who has smiled on you since
      Another grows bald?"--And he poured in a bottle
    The subtlety.--"Bah! be he beggar or prince,
      If he kiss but the seal the venom will throttle."--
    "Well," I thought, "I will test ere I risk." Slyly drew
      My dagger; approached to the bandlet, that tightly
    Supported his mask, its keen point.... It was true!--
      When it cracked he fell dead; he but breathed of it lightly.


VI

    Your letter is sealed and is sent. You are mine!--
      By now he has broken the wax.... If there flutters
    Some dust in his nostrils, who, who will divine
      That thus it was poisoned?--Our alchemist utters
    No word!--You are happy? and I?--Oh, I feel
      That I love and am loved.--The tidings comes heavy
    To-night to the King; you are there; you will reel--
      Will faint!--Now away to the royal levee.


    Note.--In this poem, which originally appeared in a volume of
    mine entitled _Lyrics and Idylls_, published in 1890, some
    hypercritical critic in the New York _Nation_ accused me of
    imitating Browning's _The Laboratory_. The truth of the matter
    is that the poem was written ten months before I had ever read
    Browning's _Dramatic Lyrics_, and was suggested to me by the
    reading of the following passage in one of E. T. W. Hoffman's
    (the German Poe's) stories. The passage occurs in _Mademoiselle
    De Scuderi_ and is as follows: "The poisons which Sainte Croix
    prepared were of so subtle a nature that if the powder (called by
    the Parisians _Poudre de Succession_, or Succession Powder) were
    prepared with the face exposed, a single inhalation of it might
    cause instantaneous death. Sainte Croix therefore, when engaged
    in its manufacture, always wore a mask of fine glass. One day,
    just as he was pouring a prepared powder into a phial, his mask
    fell off, and inhaling the fine particles of the poison, he fell
    dead on the spot."




THE TROUBADOUR


    He stood where all the rare voluptuous west,
    Like some mad Mænad, wine-stained to the breast,
    Laughed with delirious lips of ruby must,
    Wherein, it seemed, the fierceness of all lust
    Burnt like a feverish wine, exultant whirled
    High in a golden goblet, gem-impearled.
    And all the west, and all the amorous west,
    Caressed his beauty, dreamed upon his breast;
    And there he bloomed, a thing of rose and snows,
    A passion-flower of men of snowy rose,
    Beneath the casement of her old red tower,
    Whereat the lady sat, as fair a flower
    As ever bloomed in Provence; and the lace
    Mist-like about her hair, half-hid her face
    And the emotions that his singing raised,
    So that he knew not if she blamed or praised.
    And where the white rose, climbing over and over
    Up to her wide-flung lattice, like a lover,
    And stalks of lavender and fleurs-de-lis
    Held honey-cups up for the violent bee,
    Within her garden by the ivied wall,
    Where many a fountain, falling musical,
    Flamed rubies in the eve against it flung,
    Like some wild nightingale the minstrel sung:--

    "The passion, oh, of gently smoothing through
    Long locks of brown, soft hands as lovers do!
    Thy dark, deep locks, rich-jeweled as the dusk
    Is scintillant with stars! Oh, frenzy rare
    Of clasping slender fingers round thy hair!--
    What balm, what breath of winds from summer seas!
    What silken softness and what sorceries
    Doth it contain!--Ah God! ah God! to lie
    Wrapped strand on strand deep in thy hair and die!
              Ay me, oh, ay!

    "Oh, happy madness and, oh, rapturous pain,
    With white hands smoothing back thy locks, to drain
    Into thine eyes my soul!--Oh, perilous eyes!
    As agates polished; where the thoughts that rise,
    Within thy heart are imaged; thoughts that pass
    As magic pictures in a witch's glass.--
    What siren sweetness, wailed to lyres of gold,
    What naked beauty that the Greeks of old,
    God-bosomed, through the bursting foam did see,
    Could sway my soul with half their mastery!
              Ay, ay, ay me!

    "Far o'er the sea, of old time, once a witch,
    The fair Ææan, Circe, dwelt; so rich
    In marvellous magic, she was like a god,
    And made or unmade mortals with a nod:
    Turned all her lovers into bird or brute.--
    More cruel thou, who mak'st my heart a lute,
    That lies before thee, hushed and sadly mute!
    Who let'st it lie, yet from its soul might draw
    More magic music than Acrasia,
    Or Circe knew, that filled them with its bliss,
    Didst thou but take me to thine arms and kiss!
              Ay, ay, I wis!"

    Knee-deep amid the dews, the flowers there,
    Beneath the stars that now were everywhere
    Flung through the perfumed heavens of angel hands,
    And, linked in tangled labyrinths and bands
    Of soft rose-hearted flame and glimmer, rolled
    One vast immensity of mazy gold,
    He sang; like some hurt creature, desolate,
    Heart-aching for the loss of some wild mate
    Hounded and speared to death of heartless men
    In old romantic Arden waste; and then
    Turned to the moon that, like a polished stone
    Of precious worth, low in the heaven shone,
    A pale poetic face and passed away
    From the urned terrace and the fountains' spray.

    And that fair lady in dim drapery,
    High in the old red tower--did she sigh
    To see him fading through the purple night,
    His lute faint-twinkling in th' uncertain light,
    Then lost amid the rose-pleached avenues,
    Dark walls of ivy, hedged with low-clipped yews?
    And left alone with but the whispering rush
    Of fountains and the evening's hyacinth hush,
    Did she complain unto the stars above,
    All the lone night, of that forbidden love?
    Or down the rush-strewn stairs, where arras old
    Waved with her mantled passage, fold on fold,
    Beyond the tower's iron-studded gate,
    That snarled with rust, did she steal forth and wait
    Deep in the dingled lavender and rose
    For him, her troubadour?... Who knows? who knows?




MY ROMANCE


    If it so befalls that the midnight hovers
      In mist no moonlight breaks,
    The leagues of the years my spirit covers,
      And my self myself forsakes.

    And I live in a land of stars and flowers,
      White cliffs by a silver sea;
    And the pearly points of her opal towers
      From the mountains beckon me.

    And I think that I know that I hear her calling
      From a casement bathed with light--
    Thro' music of waters in waters falling
      'Mid palms from a mountain height.

    And I feel that I think my love's awaited
      By the romance of her charms;
    That her feet are early and mine belated
      In a world that chains my arms.

    But I break my chains and the rest is easy--
      In the shadow of the rose,
    Snow-white, that blooms in her garden breezy,
      We meet and no one knows.

    We dream sweet dreams and kiss sweet kisses;
      The world--it may live or die!
    The world that forgets; that never misses
      The life that has long gone by.

    We speak old vows that have long been spoken,
      And weep a long-gone woe,--
    For you must know our hearts were broken
      Hundreds of years ago.




THE EPIC


    "To arms!" the battle bugles blew.
      The daughter of their Chief was she,--
    Lord of a thousand spears and true;--
      He but a squire of low degree.

    The horns of war blew up to horse:
      He kissed her mouth; her face was white:
    "God grant they bear thee back no corse!"
      "God give I win my spurs to-night!"

    The watch-towers' blazing beacons scarred
      With blood-red wounds the face of night:
    She heard men gallop battleward;
      She saw their armor gleam with light.

    "My God, deliver me and mine!
      My child! my love!"--all night she prayed:
    She watched the battle beacons shine;
      She watched the battle beacons fade....

    They brought him on a bier of spears.--
      For him, the death-won spurs and name;
    For her, the grief of lonely years,
      And donjon walls to hide her shame.




THE MINSTREL AND THE PRINCESS


I

    He had no hope to win her hand,
    A harper in a loveless land,
      And yet he sang of love;
    And marked the blue vein of her throat
    Swell with mute rage at every note:
    And when he ceased she spake him then,--
    "Such whining slaves are less than men!"
    And anger in her dark eyes wrote
          Contempt thereof.


II

    He had no hope to win her hand,
    A harper in a hostile land,
      And yet he sang of peace;
    And marked how mock'ry curled her lip
    With scorn as, 'neath each finger-tip,
    The chords breathed pastoral content:
    Till haughtiness, that beauty lent
    To beauty, sneered, "Would'st feel the whip?--
          O fool, surcease!"


III

    He had no hope to win her hand,
    A harper in a tyrant's land,
      And so he sang of war--
    "Oh, fling thy harp away!" she said.
    "O war, thy singers are not dead!--
    Seat thee beside me; now I see
    Thou art for battle, and must be
    Brave as thy song.--Well hast thou pled.
          My warrior!"




THE ALCALDE'S DAUGHTER


    The times they had kissed and parted
      That night were over a score;
    Each time that the cavalier started,
      Each time she would swear him o'er:--

    "Thou art going to Barcelona!--
      To make Naxera thy bride!
    Seduce the Lady Iona!--
      And thy lips have lied! have lied!

    "I love thee! I love thee, thou knowest!
      And thou shalt not give away
    The love to my life thou owest;
      And my heart commands thee stay!

    "I say thou hast lied and liest!--
      For--where is there war in the State?--
    Thou goest, by Heaven the highest!
      To choose thee a fairer mate.

    "Wilt thou go to Barcelona
      When thy queen in Toledo is?--
    To wait on the haughty Iona,
      When thou hast these lips to kiss?"

    And they stood in the balcony over
      The old Toledo square;
    And, weeping, she took for her lover
      A red rose out of her hair.

    And they kissed farewell; and, higher,
      The moon made amber the air;--
    And she drew, for the traitor and liar,
      A stiletto out of her hair....

    When the night-watch lounged through the quiet
      With the stir of halberds and swords,
    Not a bravo was there to defy it,
      Not a gallant to brave with words.

    One man, at the corner's turning,
      Quite dead, in a moonlight band--
    In his heart a dagger burning,
      And a red rose crushed in his hand.




ISHMAEL


    Ishmael, the Sultan, in the Ramadan,
    Amid his guards, bristling with yataghan,
    And kris,--his amins, viziers wisdom-gray,
    Pachas and Marabouts, betook his way
    Through Mekinez. For he had read the word
    That in the Koran says, "Slay! praying the Lord!
    Pray! slaying the victims!" so the Sultan went
    Straight to the mosque, his mind on battle bent.
    In white burnoose and sea-green caftan clad
    He entered ere the last muezzin had
    Summoned the faithful unto prayer and let
    The "Allah Akbar" from the minaret
    Invite to worship. 'Neath the lamps' lit gold
    The many knelt and prayed.

                                Upon the old
    Mosaics of the mosque--whose high vault steamed
    With aloes' incense--lean ecstatics dreamed
    Of Allah and his Prophet, and how great
    Is God, and how unstable man's estate.
    Conviction on him in this chanting low
    Of Koran texts, the Caliph's passion so
    Exalted soared--lamped by religious awe--
    Himseemed he heard God's everlasting law
    'Gainst unbelievers; and himself confessed
    The Faith's anointed sword; and, so impressed,
    Arose and spoke. The arabesques above--
    The marvellous work of oriental love--
    Seemed, with new splendors of Heaven's blue and gold,
    Applauding all. And, ere the gates were rolled,
    Ogival, back to let the many forth,
    War was declared on all the Christian Earth.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Now had his army passed the closed bazaar,
    Thro' narrow streets gorged with the streams of war:
    Had passed the place of tombs and reached the wall
    Of Mekinez, above which,--over all
    Its merloned battlements,--in long array,
    Seraglios and towers, his palace gray
    Could still be seen when, girt with pomp and state,
    The Sultan passed the city's scolloped gate.

    Two dozing beggars, each one's face a sore,
    Sprawl'd in the sun the city's gate before;
    A leprous <DW36> and a thief, whose eyes--
    Burnt out with burning iron--as supplies
    The law for thieves--were wounds, fly-swarmed and raw,--
    Lifted shrill voices as they heard or saw;
    Praised God, and bowed into the dust each face,
    With words of "victory and Allah's grace
    Attend our Caliph, Mouley-Ishmael!
    Even at the cost of ours his day be well!"

    And grimly smiling as he grimly passed,
    "While Allah's glory is and still shall last--
    Now by Es Sirat!--will a leper's word
    And thief's avail to help us?--By my sword!--
    Yea, let us see. Whatever their intent
    Even as 'tis offered let their necks be bent!
    'Though words be pious, evil at the soul
    The prayer is naught!--So let their prayer be whole.
    Better than gold is death, meseems, for these:
    So by the hands of you, my Soudanese,
    They die," he said; and even as he said
    Rolled in the dust each writhing, withered head.

    And frowning westward, as the day grew late,
    Two bleeding heads stared from the city gate
    'Neath this inscription for the passer-by,
    "There is no virtue but in God most high."




IN MYTHIC SEAS


    Beneath great saffron stars and skies, dark-blue,
    Among the Cyclades, a happy two,
    We sailed; and from the Siren-haunted shore,
    All mystic in its mist, the soft wind bore
    The Siren's song; where, on the ghostly steeps,
    Strange foliage grew, deeps folding upon deeps,
    That hung and beamed with blossom and with bud,
    Blue-petaled, pallid, or, like urns of blood,
    Dripping; or blowing from wide mouths of blooms
    On our hot brows cool gales of dim perfumes.
    While from the yellow stars, that splashed the skies,
    O'er our light shallop brooded mysteries
    Of calm and sleep, until the yellower moon
    Rose, full of fire, above a dark lagoon;
    And, as she rose, the nightingales, on sprays
    Of heavy, Persian roses, burst in praise
    Of her wild loveliness; their boisterous pain
    Heard through the pillars of a ruined fane.
    And round our lazy keel, that dipped to swing,
    The spirits of the foam came whispering;
    And from gray Neptune's coral-columned caves
    The wet Oceänids rose through the waves;
    With naked limbs we saw them breast the spray,
    Their pearl-white bodies tempesting the way;
    Their sea-green hair, tossed streaming to the breeze,
    Scattering with brightness all the tumbled seas.
    'Mid columned aisles, seen vaguely through the trees,
    We watched the Satyrs chase the Dryades;
    Heard Pan's shrill trebles and the Triton's horn
    Sound from the flying foam when ruddy Morn,
    With dewy eyelids, opened azure eyes,
    And, blushing, rose, and left her couch of skies.
    We saw the Naiad, clothed with veiling mist,
    Half hidden in a bay of amethyst,
    With shell-like breasts, and at her hollow ear
    A shell's pink labyrinth held up to hear
    Circean echoes of the Siren's strains
    Imprisoned in its chords of vermeil veins:
    Then, stealing wily from a grove of pines,
    The Oread, in cincture of green vines;
    Her cautious feet, fragrant and twinkling wet,
    Set in a bed of rainy serpolet;
    Her flower-red lips half-parted in surprise,
    And expectation in her wondering eyes,
    As in the bosk a rustling noise she hears--
    A Faun, sly-eyed, with furred and pointed ears,
    Who leaps upon her, as upon a dove
    A great hawk pinions from the skies above.
    Diana sees, and on her wooded hills
    Stays her fair band, the stag-hounds' clamor stills--
    A senseless statue of cold, weeping stone
    Fills his embrace; the Oread is gone.
    The stag-hounds bay; again they urge the chase,
    While the astonished Faun's bewildered face
    Paints all his wonderment, and, wondering,
    He bends above the sculpture of a spring.

    And so we sailed; and many a morn of balm
    Led on the hours of sunny song and calm:
    And it was life, to her and me, and love,
    With the fair myths below, our God above,
    To sail in golden sunsets and emerge
    In golden morns upon a fretless surge.
    But, ah! alas! the stars, that pierce the blue,
    Shine not for ever; clouds must gather, too.

    I knew not how it came, but in a while
    I found myself cast on a desert isle,
    Alone with sorrow; wan with doubt and dread;
    The seas in wrath and thunder overhead;
    Deep down in coral caves the one I love--
    No myths below; no God, it seemed, above.




LOKÉ AND SIGYN


    A daughter of Winter, Skade, a giantess,
    One twisting serpent hung above his head,
    So that its blistering venom, roping down,
    Beat on his upturned face and tortured him.

    Him had the gods of Asgard, Odin and Thor,
    Weary of all his wiles and evil ways,
    Followed, and after many stormy moons,
    Within the land of giants overcome,
    In Jotunheim, and dragged beneath the world,
    Into a cave the earthquake's hands had built,
    A cavern vast and terrible as that,
    They tell of Hel's, whose ceiling is of snakes,
    That hang, a torrent torture, yawning slime,
    In whose slow stream eternal anguish wades.
    And for his crimes they chained him to a rock,
    His lips still sneering and his eyes all scorn,
    And left him with the serpent over him,
    And, gathering round him from their larvæ lairs,
    Monsters, huge-warted, eyed with wells of fire.
    But Sigyn, Loké's wife, stole in to him,
    And sate herself beside his writhen limbs,
    And held a cup of gold against the mouth
    Of ceaseless poison dripping in the gloom.
    Was it her voice lamenting? or the sound
    Of far abysmal waters falling, falling
    Down tortured labyrinths of hollow rock?
    Or was't the Strömkarl? he whose hoary harp
    Is heard remote; who, syllabling strange runes,
    Sits gray behind the crashing cataract,
    Within a grotto dim with mist and foam;
    His long thin beard, white as the flying spray,
    Slow-swinging in the wind and keeping time
    To his wild harp's notes, murmuring, whispering
    Beneath the talons of his hands of foam.

    Was it the voice of Sigyn? whose sad sound
    Soft from the deathless hush detached itself,
    As some pale star from darkness that reveals
    The heavens in its fall; or but the deeps
    Of silence speaking to the deeps of night?
    Sad, sad, and slow, yea slower than sad tears
    That fall from blinded eyes, her sad words fell:--
    "O Love! O Loké! turn on me thine eyes!
    Thy motionless eyes that woe has changed to stone;
    That slumber will not seal nor any dream.
    Yea, I will woo her down; woo Slumber down,
    From her fair far-off skies, with some old song,
    The croonéd syllables of some refrain,
    Sung unto childhood by the mothers of men.
    Or shall I soothe thine eyes shut with my hair,
    The fluttered amber of deep curls, until
    They shall forget their stone stolidity,
    And sleep creep in between the linéd lids
    And summon memory and pain away?

    "Pale, pale thy face, that seems to stain the night
    With pallor; hueless as the brows of death.
    So pale, that knew we Death, as mortals know,
    I'd say that he, mysterious, had laid hands
    Of talons on thee and had left thee so.
    So still! and all the night is in my heart.
    So tired! and sleep is not for thee or me,
    Never again for our o'erweary limbs!
    Around, the shadows crouch; vague, obscene shapes,
    In horrible attitudes; and all the night,
    Above, below, seems so much choking fog,
    That clogs my tongue, or with devouring maw
    Swallows my words and makes them sound far off,
    Remote, deep down, emboweled of the Earth.
    And then again it hounds them from my tongue
    To sound as wildly clamorous as the hills
    Sound when Earth shakes with armies; men that meet
    With Berserk fury, shouting, and the hurl
    And shock of iron spears on iron shields,
    And all the world is one wild wave of helms,
    And all the air is one wild wind of swords,
    On which the wild Valkyries ride and scream.
    Dread cliffs, dread chasms of rocks howl back my words
    While yet they touch the tongue to grasp the thought;
    And all the vermin, huddled in their holes,
    Creep forth to glare and hiss them back again.

    "How long! how long ago since we beheld
    The rose of morning and the lily of noon,
    The great red rhododendron of the eve!
    How long! how long ago since we beheld
    Those thoughts of God, the stars, that set their flowers
    Imperishably in the fields of heaven,
    And the still changing yet unchanging moon!
    So long, that I unto myself seem grown,
    As thou, long since, to rock; in sympathy
    With all the rock above us and around.
    My countenance hath won, long since, with thee,
    The reflex of an alabaster black
    That builds vast walls around us, and whose frown
    Makes stone thy brow as mine. O woe! O woe!
    And now that Idun's apples are denied,
    Are not for lips of thee nor lips of me,--
    The apples of gold that still keep young the gods,--
    The years shall cleave this beautiful brow of thine
    With myriad wrinkles; and, in time, this hair,
    Brown, brown, and softer than the fur of seals,
    Shall lose its lustre and instead shall lie,
    A drift of winter in a winter cave,
    A feeble gray seen in the glimmering gloom.
    But I shall age, too, even as thou dost age.
    Yet, yet we can not die; the immortal gods
    Can never die! what punishment to know!
    What pain to know we age yet can not die!
    Death will not come except with Ragnarok.--
    That thought be near! take comfort from the word,
    The dark word Ragnarok, which is thyself;
    Thy vast revenge; thy monster synonym;
    Thy banquet of destruction. Thou, whom fate,
    The Norns, reserve to war and waste the worlds
    Of gods and men, with thy two henchmen huge,
    The wolf and snake, the Fenris, that devours,
    The Midgard, that engulfs the universe.
    O joy! O joy! then shall those stars, that glue
    Their blinking scales unto old Ymer's skull,--
    The dome of heaven,--shudder from their spheres,
    A streaming fire; and thou, O Loké, thou,
    Elected annihilation, shalt arise,
    To devastate the Earth and Asaheim.
    And as this darkness now, this heavy night,
    Clings to and chokes us till we, strangling, strive
    With purple lips for light, and feel the dark
    Drag freezing down the throat to swell the weight
    That houses in our hearts and peoples our veins,
    So shall thy hate insufferably spread
    In fires of Hel, in fogs of Niflheim,
    Storm-like from pole to pole, o'erwhelming all.--
    The Twilight of the Gods, behold, it comes!
    The Twilight of the Gods!--The root-red cock
    I seem to hear crow in the halls of Hel!
    The blood-red cock, whose cry shall bid thee rise!

    "But, oh! thy face! paler it seemeth now
    Than icy marble; and the serpent writhes
    Its rustling coils and twists its livid length,
    Hissing, above thee, pouring eternal pain.--
    Oh, could I kiss the lips o'er which he swings!
    The lips that once touched living flame to mine!
    At which sweet thought, as some sick flower of drought
    At dreams of dew, my lips with longing ache!
    --Oh, could I gaze once more into thine eyes
    Whose starry depths outstarred the midnight heavens!
    Or see them laugh as golden morning laughs,
    Leaving her steps in roses on the hills,
    The peaks that wall the world and pierce the clouds;
    The hills, where once we stood, among the pines,
    The melancholy pines that plume the crags,
    And rock and sing unto the still fiords
    Like gaunt wild-women lullabying their babes!
    Then could I die e'en as the mortals die,
    And smile in dying!--But the serpent baulks
    Each effort to behold, or on loved lips
    To ease the torture of my soul's desire.
    Thy face alone is comfort to my gaze,
    Like some dim moon silvering through night and mist.
    --Now from their lairs again the monsters creep;
    I feel their ghastly touches, and their eyes
    Draw steadily nearer, wandering will-o'-the-wisps;
    The serpent strives to fang me as he swings;
    And in the cup's caked gold the venom swims,
    Seethes upward horribly to the horrible edge."
    She ceased. And then, heard through the echoing night,
    The chained god spoke, tumultuous violence
    And rage in every word. His utterance seemed
    Large as the thunder when it, rolling, plants,--
    Heavy with earthquake and impending ruin,--
    Seismic feet on everlasting seas
    And mountains silent with eternal ice.
    His eyes in hideous labor; and his throat,
    Corded and gnarled with veins of boisterous blood,
    A crag of fury; and his foaming lips,
    A maelstrom of rebellious agony,
    Of thwarted rage and wild, arrested wrath.
    Fierce vaunter of loud hate, one mighty fist,
    Convulsed with clenchment, in its gyve of ore,
    Headlong for battle-launching, at the gods
    Clutched mad defiance, madder blasphemy;
    Yet all unhurled and vain as mists of morn,
    Or foam, wind-wasted on the sterile sands
    Of rainy seas, when Ran, from whistling caves,
    Watching the tempest-driven dragon wreck,
    Already in her miser fingers feels
    The viking gold that has not yet gone down.
    Then all the cave again is dumb with night.
    He sees the spotted serpent writhe above;
    He sees the poison streaming towards his eyes.
    And now her cup is brimmed; but one more drop
    Will float the filth gray o'er the venomed edge.
    Into the river slowly flowing by
    Swiftly she pours the vitriol torture: scarce
    A tithe of time it takes, but in that time
    The reptile's vomit slimes his helpless face,
    Burns to the bone.... All his fierce muscles twist,
    Wrenching the knotted steel that locks his limbs,
    And shriek on shriek divides the solitudes.
    The ocean roars; and, under toppling skies,
    The mountains avalanche from pine-pierced sides
    Their centuries of snow. Then all the night
    Once more is filled with silence and with sighs.




WAR-SONG OF HARALD THE RED

    _And this is the song of battle, they sang to the thrash
       of the oars,
    As the prows of their shield-hung dragons were driven along
       the shores_:--


    On to the battle! Yo ho for the slaughter!
      Hark to the grind of the oars that thunder!
    Clash of the prows as they crash through the water,
      Hurl through the foam of the seas they sunder!
    Up with the axe! and drive through the bristling
      Beaks of the foe that our iron has broken!
    On through the sleet of the shafts that are whistling,
      Arrows of ash, in a wedge that is oaken.
    By the eye of Odin! whose frown is war,
    Think of the vikings' daughters, who wear
    Gold on their hips! to hale by the hair,
    Gold-bound, red as the beard of Thor!
    Virgins, whose bodies, white-bosomed, are
    For rape and ransom!--A kingdom's ravish
    Yours! for the sweat and the blood you lavish.

    Hark! on the shore how his fierce fangs clamor!
      Ocean's, whose rocks are hungry for carrion:--
    Ho! 'tis a sound as of swords that hammer
      Helms to the brazen snarl of the clarion....
    On to the revel of war, my bullies,
      Blades, that fury like fire to battle!
    On to the banquet, through spray that gullies,
      Bray of the beaks and the oars' wild rattle!
    When prow grinds prow and the arrows hail,
    Think! were it better with hollow-eyed Hel
    To rot with cowards? or boast and yell
    Hoarse toasts over skulls of the boisterous ale
    High in Valhalla where heroes dwell?
    In vast Valhalla, where life wends well!
    The warrior vault of whose shields with curses
    Rings to the roar of the Berserk verses!




YULE


    Behold! in the night there was storm; and the rushing of snow and
      of sleet;
    And the boom of the sea and the moaning of pines in its desolate beat.

    And the hall of fierce Erick of Sogn with the clamor of wassail was
      filled,
    With the clash of great beakers of gold and the reek of the ale that
      was spilled.

    For the Yule was upon them, the Yule; and they quaffed as from skulls
      of the slain,
    And shouted loud oaths in hoarse wit, and long quaffing swore laughing
      again.

    Unharnessed from each shaggy throat, that was hot with brute lust and
      with drink,
    Each burly wild skin and barbaric tossed, rent from the gold of its
     link.

    For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and the _waesheils_ were shouted
      and roared
    By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous
      board.

    And huge on the hearth, that writhed, hissing, and bellied, an ingot
      of gold,
    The Yule-log, the half of an oak from the mountains, was royally
      rolled.

    And its warmth and its glory, that glared, smote red through the width
      of the hall,
    And burnished the boar-skins and bucklers and war-axes hung on the
      wall.

    And the maidens, who hurried big goblets, that bubbled, excessive with
      barm,
    Blushed rose to the gold of thick curls as the shining steel mirrored
      each charm.

    And Erick's one hundred gray skalds, at the nod and the beck of the
      king,
    With the stormy-rolled music of an hundred wild harps made the castle
      reëchoing ring.

    For the Yule, for the Yule was upon them, and battle and rapine were
      o'er;
    And Harald, the viking, the red, and his brother lay dead on the shore.

    For the harrier, Harald the red, and his merciless brother, black Ulf,
    With their men on the shore of the wintery sea were carrion cold for
      the wolf.

    Behold! for the battle was ended; the battle that clamored all day,
    With the rumble of shields that were shocked and of spears that were
      splintered like spray:

    With the hewing of swords that fierce-lightened like flames and that
      smoked with hot blood,
    And the crush of the mace that was hammered through helm and through
      brain that withstood:

    And the cursing and howling of men at their gods,--at their gods whom
      they cursed,
    Till the caves of the ocean re-bellowed and storm on their battling
      burst.

    And they fought; in the flying and drifting and silence of covering
      snow,
    Till the wounded that lay with the dead, with the dead were stiff
      frozen in woe.

    And they fought; and the mystical flakes that were clutched by the
      maniac wind
    Drave sharp on the eyes of the kings, made the sight of their warriors
      blind.

    Still they fought; and with leonine wrath were they met, till the
      battle-god, Thor,
    In his thunder-wheeled chariot rolled, making end of destruction and
      war.

    And they fell--like twin rocks of the mountains, or pines, that rush,
      hurricane-hurled,
    From their world-rooted crags to the ocean below with the wreck of the
      world.

    But, lo! not in vain their loud vows! on the black iron altars of War
    Not in vain as victims, the warriors, their blood as libation to
      Thor!...

    Lo! a glitter and splendor of arms through the snow and the foam of
      the seas
    And the terrible ghosts of the vikings and the gauntleted Valkyries!...

    Yea, the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the turmoil of wassail
      are filled,
    With the steam of the flesh of the boar, and the reek of the ale that
      is spilled.

    For the Yule and the victory are theirs, and the _waesheils_ are
      shouted and roared
    By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous
      board.




OLD WORLD IDYLLS




TO R. E. LEE GIBSON


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

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

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




ACCOLON OF GAUL


_Prelude_

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

    Lo! dreams from dreams in dreams remembered. Naught
    That matters much, save that it seemed I thought
    I wandered dim with some one, but I knew
    Not whom; most beautiful, and young, and true,
    And pale through suffering: with curl-crowned brow
    Soft eyes and voice, so strange, they haunt me now--
    A dream, perhaps, in dreamland.

                                Seemed that she
    Led me along a flower-showered lea
    Trammeled with puckered <DW29> and the pea;
    Where poppies spread great blood-red stain on stain,
    So gorged with sunlight and the honeyed rain
    Their hearts were weary; roses lavished beams;
    Roses, wherein were huddled little dreams
    That laughed coy, sidewise merriment, like dew,
    Or from fair fingers fragrant kisses blew.
    And suddenly a river cleft the sward;
    And o'er it lay a mist: and it was hard
    To see whence came it; whitherward it led;
    Like some wild, frightened thing, it foamed and fled,
    Sighing and murmuring, from its fountain-head.
    And following it, at last I came upon
    The Region of Romance,--from whence were drawn
    Its wandering waters,--and the storied wells
    Of lost Baranton, where old Merlin dwells,
    Nodding a white poll and a great, gray beard.
    And then, far off, a woman's voice I heard,
    Wilder than water, laughing in the bowers,
    Like some strange bird: and then, through wild-thorn flowers,
    I saw her limbs glance, twinkling as spring showers;
    And then, with blown gold curls, tempestuous tossed,
    White as a wood-nymph, she a vista crossed,
    Laughing that laugh wherein there was no cheer,
    But soulless scorn. And so to me drew near
    Her sweet lascivious brow's white wonderment,
    And gray, great eyes, and hair which had the scent
    Of all the wild Brécèliande's perfumes
    Drowned in it; and, a flame in gold, one bloom's
    Blood-point thrust deep. And, "Viviane! Viviane!"
    The wild seemed crying, as if swept with rain;
    And all the young leaves laughed; and surge on surge
    Swept the witch-haunted forest to its verge,
    That shook and sighed and stammered, as, in sleep,
    A giant half-aroused: and, with a leap,
    That samite-hazy creature, blossom-white,
    Showered mocking kisses down; then, like a light
    Beat into gusty flutterings by the dawn,
    Then quenched, she glimmered and, behold, was gone;
    And in Brécèliande I stood alone
    Gazing at Merlin, sitting on a stone;
    Old Merlin, charmed there, dreaming drowsy dreams;
    A wondrous company; as many as gleams
    That stab the moted mazes of a beech.
    And each grave dream, behold, had power to reach
    My mind through magic; each one following each
    In dim procession; and their beauty drew
    Tears down my cheeks, and Merlin's gray cheeks, too,--
    One in his beard hung tangled, bright as dew.--
    Long pageants seemed to pass me, brave and fair,
    Of courts and tournaments, with silvery blare
    Of immaterial trumpets high in air;
    And blazoned banners, shields, and many a spear
    Of Uther, waved an incorporeal fear:
    And forms of Arthur rose and Guenevere,
    Of Tristram and of Isoud and of Mark,
    And many others; glimmering in the dark
    Of Merlin's mind, they rose and glared and then,--
    The instant's fostered phantoms,--passed again.
    Then all around me seemed a rippling stir
    Of silken something,--wilier, lovelier
    Than that witch-mothered beauty, Viviane,--
    Approaching with dead knights amid her train,
    Pale through the vast Brécèliande. And then
    A knight, steel-helmeted, a man of men,
    Passed with a fool, King Arthur's Dagonet,
    Who on his head a tinsel crown had set
    In mockery. And as he went his way,
    Behind the knight the leaves began to sway,
    Then slightly parted--and Morgane le Fay,
    With haughty, wicked eyes and lovely face,
    Studied him steadily a little space.


I

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

    "First let us find some rock or mossed retreat
    Where we may sit at ease.--Why dost thou look
    So serious? Nay! learn lightness from this brook,
    And gladness from these flowers, my Accolon.
    See the wild vista there! where purpling run
    Long woodland shadows from the sinking sun;
    Deeper the wood seems there, secluded as
    The tame wild-deer that, in the moss and grass,
    Gaze with their human eyes. Where grow those lines
    Of pale-starred green; and where yon fountain shines,
    Urned deep in tremulous ferns, let's rest upon
    Yon oak-trunk by the tempest overthrown
    Years, years ago. See, how 'tis rotted brown!
    But here the red bark's firm and overgrown
    Of trailing ivy darkly berried. Share
    My throne with me. Come, cast away thy care!
    Sit here and breathe with me this wildwood air,
    Musk with the wood's decay that fills each way;
    As if some shrub, while dreaming of the May,
    In longing languor weakly tried to wake
    Its perished blossoms and could only make
    Ghosts of such dead aromas as it knew,
    And shape a spectre of invisible dew
    To haunt these sounding miles of solitude."

    "Still, thou art troubled, Morgane! and the mood,
    Deep in thy fathomless eyes, glows.--Canst not keep
    Mine eyes from seeing!--Dark thy thought and deep
    As that of some wild woman,--found asleep
    By some lost knight upon a precipice,--
    Whom he hath wakened with a sudden kiss:
    As that of some frail elfin lady,--light
    As are the foggy moonbeams,--filmy white,
    Who waves diaphanous beauty on a cliff,
    That, drowsing, purrs with moon-drenched pines; but if
    The lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and drag
    Him crashing down, while she, tall on the crag,
    Triumphant, mocks him with glad sorcery
    Till all the wildwood echoes shout with glee."

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

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

    With shadowy eyes long, long she gazed in his,
    Then whispered dreamily the one word, "Bliss."
    And like an echo on his sad mouth sate
    The answer:--"Bliss?--deep have we drunk of late!
    But death, I feel, some stealthy-footed death
    Draws near! whose claws will clutch away--whose breath?...
    I dreamed last night thou gather'dst flowers with me,
    Fairer than those of earth. And I did see
    How woolly gold they were, how woven through
    With fluffy flame, and webby with spun dew:
    And 'Asphodels' I murmured: then, 'These sure
    Are Eden amaranths, so angel pure
    That love alone may touch them.'--Thou didst lay
    The flowers in my hands; alas! then gray
    The world grew; and, meseemed, I passed away.
    In some strange manner on a misty brook,
    Between us flowing, striving still to look
    Beyond it, while, around, the wild air shook
    With torn farewells of pensive melody,
    Aching with tears and hopeless utterly;
    So merciless near, meseemed that I did hear
    That music in those flowers, and yearned to tear
    Their ingot-cored and gold-crowned hearts, and hush
    Their voices into silence and to crush:
    Yet o'er me was a something that restrained:
    The melancholy presence of two pained
    And awful, burning eyes that cowed and held
    My spirit while that music died or swelled
    Far out on shoreless waters, borne away--
    Like some wild-bird, that, blinded with the ray
    Of dawn it wings tow'rds, lifting high its crest,
    The glory round it, sings its heavenliest,
    When suddenly all's changed; with drooping head,
    Daggered of thorns it plunged on, fluttering, dead,
    Still, still it seems to sing, though wrapped in night,
    The slow blood beading on its breast of white.--
    And then I knew the flowers which thou hadst given
    Were strays of parting grief and waifs of heaven
    For tears and memories. Importunate
    They spoke to me of loves that separate!--
    But, God! ah God! my God! thus was I left!
    And these were with me who was so bereft.
    The haunting torment of that dream of grief
    Weighs on my soul and gives me no relief."

    He bowed and wept into his hands; and she,
    Sorrowing beheld. Then, resting at her knee,
    Raised slow her oblong lute and smote some chords.
    But ere the impulse saddened into words,
    Said: "And didst love me as thy lips would prove,
    No visions wrought of sleep might move thy love.
    Firm is all love in firmness of his power;
    With flame, reverberant, moated stands his tower;
    So built as not to admit from fact a beam
    Of doubt, and much less of a doubt from dream:
    All such th' alchemic fire of love's desires,--
    That moats its tower with flame,--turns to gold wires
    To chord the old lyre new whereon he lyres."
    She ceased; and then, sad softness in her eye,
    Sang to his dream a questioning reply:--

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

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

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

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

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

    "Though tears become thee even as priceless pearls,
    Weep not, Morgane.--Mine no gloom of doubt,
    But grief for sweet love's death I dreamed about,"
    He said. "May love, the flame-anointed, be
    Lord of our hearts, and king eternally!
    Love, ruler of our lives, whose power shall cease
    No majesty when we are laid at peace;
    But still shall reign, when souls have loved thus well,
    Our god in Heaven or our god in Hell."

    So they communed. Afar her castle stood,
    Its slender towers glimmering through the wood:
    A forest lodge rose, ivy-buried, near
    A woodland vista where faint herds of deer
    Stalked like soft shadows: where, with many a run,
    Mavis and throstle caroled in the sun:
    And where through trees was seen a surf-white shore.
    For this was Morgane's realm, embowered Gore;
    And that her castle, sea-built Chariot,
    That rooky pile, where, she a while forgot
    Urience, her husband, now at Camelot.
    Hurt in that battle where King Arthur strove
    With the Five Heathen Kings, and, slaying, drove
    The Five before him, Accolon was borne
    To a gray castle on his shield one morn;--
    A castle like a dream, set high in scorn
    Above the world and all its hungry herds,
    Belted with woods melodious with birds,
    Far from the rush of spears and roar of swords,
    And the loud shields of battle-bloody lords,
    And fields of silent slain where Havoc sprawled
    Gorged to her eyes with carnage.--Dim, high-halled,
    And hushed it rose; and through the granite-walled
    Huge gate, and court, up stairs of marble sheen,
    Six damsels bore him, tiremaids of a queen,
    Stately and dark, who moved as if a flame
    Of starlight shone around her; and who came
    With healing herbs and searched his wounds. A dame,
    So radiant in raiment silvery,
    So white, that she attendant seemed to be
    On that high Holy Grail, which evermore
    The Table Round hath sought by wood and shore;
    The angel-guarded cup of mystery,
    That but the pure in body and soul may see;--
    Thus not for him, a worldly one, to love,
    Who loved her even to wonder; skied above
    His worship as the moon above the main,
    That strives and strives to reach her, pale with pain,
    She with her peaceful, pitiless, virgin cheer
    Watching his suffering year on weary year.--
    To Accolon such seemed she: Then, too late,
    His heart's ideal, merciless as fate!
    For whom his soul must yearn till death; and wait
    And dream of; evermore with sighs and tears,
    Through the long waste of unavailing years,
    Seeing her ever luminously stand
    In luminous heavens, beckoning with her hand:
    Before which vision heart and soul were weak,
    And dumb with love, that would, yet could not speak.--
    Her beauty filled him with divine despair.
    Around his heart she seemed to wrap her hair,
    Her raven hair, and drag him to his doom;
    Her looks were splendid daggers in the gloom
    Of his sick soul, his heart's invaded tower,
    Stabbing, yet never slaying, every hour.
    Thus worshiping that queen, Morgane le Fay,
    For many a day within his room he lay,
    Longing to live now, then again to die,
    As now her face, or now her glancing eye,
    Bade his heart hope, with smiled approval of
    His passion; now despair, with scorn of love;
    His love, that dragged itself before her feet,
    Dog-like, to whom even a blow were sweet.
    Ah, never dreamed he of what was to be,--
    Nay, nay! how could he? while the agony
    Of his unworth possessed his soul so much,
    He never thought such loveliness and such
    Perfection ever could stoop from its heaven,
    Far as his world, and to his arms be given.

    One night a tempest tore and tossed and lashed
    The writhing forest, and deep thunders dashed
    Sonorous shields together; and anon,
    Vast in the thunder's pause, the sea would groan
    Like some enormous curse a knight hath lured
    From where it soared to maim it with his sword.
    And Accolon, from where he lay, could see
    The stormy, wide-wrenched night's immensity
    Yawn hells of golden ghastliness, and sweep
    Distending foam, tempestuous, up each steep
    Of raucous iron. In a fever-fit,
    He seemed to see, on crags the lightning lit,
    With tangled hair wild-blown, nude mermaids sit,
    Singing, and beckoning with foam-white arms
    Some far ship struggling with the strangling storm's
    Resistless exultation. And there came
    One breaker, mountained heavenward, all aflame
    With glow-worm green, that boomed against the cliff
    Its bulkéd thunder--and there, pale and stiff,
    Tumbled in eddies of the howling rocks,
    His dead, drawn face, with lidless eyes, and locks
    Oozed close with brine; hurled upward streamingly
    To streaming mermaids. Then he seemed to see
    The vampire echoes of the hoarse wood, who,
    With hooting, sought him: down the casement drew
    Wet, shuddering, hag-like fingers; and, at last,
    Thronged up the turrets with an elfin blast
    Of baffled mockery, and whirled wildly off,
    Back to the forest with a maniac scoff.--
    Then, far away, hoofs of a hundred gales,
    As wave rams wave up windy bluffs of Wales,
    Loosed from the battlemented hills, the loud
    Herders of tempest drove their herds of cloud,
    That down the rocking night rolled, with the glare
    Of swimming eyeballs, and the hurl of hair,
    Blown, black as rain, from misty-manéd brows,
    And mouths of bellowing storm; in mad carouse,
    With whips of wind, rolling and ruining by,
    Headlong, along the wild and headlong sky.

    Once when the lightning made the casement glare,
    Squares touched to gold, athwart it swept her hair,
    As if a raven's wing had cut the storm
    Death-driven seaward. And the vague alarm
    Of her swift coming filled his soul with hope
    And wild surmise, that winged beyond the scope
    Of all his dreams had dreamed of, when he saw
    'Twas she, the all-adored. He felt no awe
    When low she kneeled beside him, beautiful
    As some lone star and white, and said, "To lull
    Thy soul to sleep, lo, I have come to thee.--
    Didst thou not call me?"--

                              "Yea;" he said. "Maybe
    Thou heard'st my heart, that calls continually:
    But with my lips I called thee not. But, stay!
    The night is wild. Thou wilt not go away!
    The night is wild, and it is long till day!
    To see thee like a benediction near,
    To hear thy voice, to have thy cool hand here
    Smoothing my feverish brow and matted curls;
    To see thy white throat, whiter than its pearls,
    Lean o'er me breathing; feel the influence
    Of thy large eyes, like stars, whose sole defence
    Against all storm is beauty,--is to see
    And feel a portion of divinity,
    My heart's high dream come true, my dream of dreams!--"
    Then paused and said, "See, how the tempest streams!
    How sweeps the tumult! and the thunder gleams
    As, when King Arthur charged on battle-fields
    Of Humber, glared the fiery spears and shields
    Of all his knights!--when the Five Kings went down!
    In the wild hurl of onset overthrown....
    But thy white presence, like the moon, has sown
    This room with calm; and all the storm in me,
    The tempest of my soul, dies utterly.
    So let me feel thy hand upon my cheek.
    And speak! I love thy voice: belovéd, speak."

    "Thou lov'st a thing of air, fond Accolon!
    Is thy love then so spiritual? Nay! anon
    'Twill change, methinks. Whatever may befall,
    Earth-love, thou'lt find, is better, after all."--
    She smiled; and, sudden, through the moon-rent wall
    Of storm, baptizing moonlight, foot and face,
    Bathed and possessed her, as his soul the grace
    And sweetness of her smile, whose life was brief,
    But long enough to heal him of his grief.

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

    Then she unbound the gold that clasped her waist:
    Undid her hair: and, like a flower faced,
    Stood sweet an unswayed stem that ran to bud
    In bloom and beauty of young womanhood.
    And fragrance was to her as natural
    As odor to the rose. And white and tall,
    All ardor and all fervor, through the room
    She moved, a presence as of pale perfume.
    And all his eyes and lips and limbs were fire:
    His tongue, delirious, babbled of desire;
    Cried, "Thine is devil's kindness, which is even
    Worse than fiend's fury, since the soul sees Heaven
    Among eternal torments unforgiven.
    Temptation neighbored, like a bloody rust
    On a bright blade, leaves ugly stains; and lust
    Is love's undoing when love's limbs are cast
    Naked before desire. What love so chaste
    But that such nearness of what should be hid
    Makes it a lawless love?--But thou hast bid.
    Rest thou. I love thee; love thee as dost know,
    And all my love shall battle with love's foe."

    "Thy word," she said. And pure as peaks that keep
    Snow-drifted crowns, upon him seemed to sweep
    An avalanche of virtue in one look.
    And he, whose very soul within him shook,
    Exclaimed, "'Tis thine!"--And hopes, that in his brain
    Had risen with rainbow gleams, set sad as rain
    At that high look she gave of chastest pain.
    Then turned, his face deep in his hands: and she
    Laid the broad blade between them instantly.
    And so they lay its iron between them twain:
    Unsleeping he, for all the brute disdain
    Of passion in him struggled up and stood
    A rebel wrangling with the brain and blood.
    An hour stole by: she slept, or seemed to sleep.
    The winds of night blew vigorous from the deep
    With rain-scents of storm-watered wood and wold,
    And breathed of ocean breakers moonlight-rolled.
    He drowsed; and time passed stealing as for one
    Whose life is but a dream in Avalon.
    Vast bulks of black, wind-shattered rack went by
    The casement's square of heaven,--a crystal dye,
    A crown of moonlight, round each cloudy head,--
    That seemed the ghosts of giant kings long-dead.
    And then he thought she lightly laughed and sighed,
    So soft a taper had not bent aside,
    And leaned her warm face, seen through loosened hair,
    Above him, whispering, soft as is a prayer,
    "Behold! the sword! I take the sword away!"

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

    Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits,
    Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits;
    From out her form a pearly light is shed,
    As, from a lily in a lily-bed,
    A firefly's gleam. Her face is pale as stone,
    Uncertain as a cloud that lies alone
    In empty heaven; her diaphanous feet
    Are easy as the dew or opaline heat
    Of summer meads. With ears--aurora-pink
    As dawn's--she leans and listens on the brink
    Of being, dark with dreadfulness and doubt,
    Wherein vague lights and shadows move about,
    And palpitations beat--like some huge heart
    Of Earth--the surging pulse of which we're part.
    One hand, that hollows her divining eyes,
    Glows like the curved moon over twilight skies;
    And with her gaze she fathoms life and death--
    Gulfs, where man's conscience, like a restless breath
    Of wind, goes wandering; whispering low of things,
    The irremediable, where sorrow clings.
    Around her limbs a veil of woven mist
    Wavers, and turns from fibered amethyst
    To textured crystal; through which symboled bars
    Of silver burn, and cabalistic stars
    Of nebulous gold. Shrouding her feet and hair,
    Within this woof, fantastic, everywhere,
    Dreams come and go: the instant images
    Of things she sees and thinks; realities,
    Shadows, with which her heart and fancy swarm,
    That in the veil take momentary form:
    Now picturing heaven in celestial fire,
    And now the hell of every soul's desire;
    Hinting at worlds, God wraps in mystery,
    Beyond the world we touch and know and see.

           *       *       *       *       *

    No, never,--no!--would they forget that night.--
    Too soon the sleepy birds awoke the light!
    Too soon, for them, trailing gray skirts of breeze,
    The drowsy dawn came wandering through the trees.
    "Too soon," she sighed; and he, "Alas! too soon!"
    But at their scutcheoned casement, overstrewn
    Of dew and dreams, the dim wind knocked and cried,
    "Arise! come forth, O bridegroom, and O bride!"


II

    Morn; and the Autumn, dreaming, sat among
    His ancient hills; Autumn, who now was wrung
    By crafty ministers, sun, rain, and frost,
    To don imperial pomp at any cost.
    On each wild hill he reared his tents of war,
    Flaunting barbaric standards wide and far,
    Around which camp-fires of the red leaves raged:
    His tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged,
    Who, in a little fretful while, would soon
    Work red rebellion under some wan moon:
    Pluck his old beard, deriding; shriek and tear
    His royalty; and scatter through the air
    His tattered majesty: then from his head
    Dash down its golden crown; and in its stead
    Set up a death's-head mockery of snow,
    And leave him stripped, a beggar bowed with woe.
    Blow, wood wind, blow! the day is fair and fine
    As autumn skies can make it; brisk as brine
    The air is, rustling in the underbrush,
    'Mid which the stag-hounds leap, the huntsmen rush.
    Hark to the horns! the music of the bows!
    À mort! à mort!--The hunt is up and goes,
    Beneath the acorn-dropping oaks, in green,--
    Dark woodland green,--a boar-spear held between
    His selle and hunter's head; and at his thigh
    A good broad hanger; and one hand on high
    To wind his horn, that startles many a wing,
    And makes the forest echoes reel and ring.
    Away, away they flash, a belted band
    From Camelot, through the haze-haunted land:
    With many a leamer leashed, and many a hound,
    With mouths of bell-like music, now that bound,
    Uncoupled, forward; for, behold! the hart,
    A ten-tined buck, doth from the covert dart.
    And the big stag-hounds swing into the chase,
    The wild horns sing. The pryce seems but a pace
    On ere 'tis wound. But, see! where interlace
    The dense-briared thickets, now the hounds have lost
    The slot, there where their woodland way is crossed
    By intercepting waters full of leaves.

    Beyond, the hart a tangled labyrinth weaves
    Through deeper boscage; and it seems the sun
    Makes many shadowy stags of this wild one,
    That lead in different trails the foresters:
    And in the trees the ceaseless wind, that stirs,
    Seems some strange witchcraft, that, with baffling mirth,
    Mocks them the unbayed hart, and fills the earth
    With rustling sounds of running.--Hastening thence,
    Galloped King Arthur and King Urience,
    With one small brachet-hound. Now far away
    They heard their fellowship's faint horns; and day
    Wore on to noon; yet, there before them, they
    Still saw the hart plunge bravely through the brake,
    Leaving the bracken shaking in his wake:
    And on they followed; on, through many a copse,
    Above whose brush, close on before, the tops
    Of the great antlers swelled anon, then, lo,
    Were gone where beat the heather to and fro.
    But still they drave him hard; and ever near
    Seemed that great hart unwearied, and 'twas clear
    The chase would yet be long, when Arthur's horse
    Gasped mightily and, lunging in his course,
    Lay dead, a lordly bay; and Urience
    Reined his gray hunter, laboring. And thence
    King Arthur went afoot. When suddenly
    He was aware of a wide waste of sea,
    And, near the wood, the hart upon the sward,
    Bayed, panting unto death and winded hard.
    So with his sword he slew him; then the pryce
    Wound loudly on his hunting-bugle thrice.

[Illustration: In her ecstasy a lovely devil Page 303

    _Accolon of Gaul_
]

    As if each echo, which that wild horn's blast
    Roused from its sleep,--the solitude had cast
    For ages on it,--had, a silvery band
    Of moving sounds of gladness, hand in hand
    Arisen,--each a visible delight,--
    Came three fair damsels, sunny in snowy white,
    From the red woodland gliding. They the knight,--
    For so they deemed the King, who came alone,--
    Graced with obeisance. And, "Our lord," said one,
    "Tenders you courtesy until the dawn,
    The Earl, Sir Damas. For the day is gone,
    And you are weary. Safe in his strong keep,
    Led thither with due worship, you shall sleep."
    And so he came, o'erwearied, to a hall,
    An owlet-haunted pile, whose weedy wall
    Towered, rock on rock; its turrets, crowding high,
    Loomed, ancient as the crags, against a sky
    Wherein the moon hung, owl-eyed, round and full:
    An old, gaunt giant-castle, like a gull
    Hung on the weedy cliffs, where broke the dull
    Vast monotone of ocean, that uprolled
    Its windy waters; and where all was old,
    And sad, and swept of winds, and slain of salt,
    And haunted grim of ruin: where the vault
    Of heav'n bent ever, clamorous as the rout
    Of the defiant headlands, stretching out
    Into the night, with their voluminous shout
    Of wreck and wrath forever. Arthur then,
    Among the gaunt Earl's followers, swarthy men,
    Ate in the wild hall. Then a damsel led,
    With flaring torch, the tired King to bed,
    Down lonely labyrinths of that corridored keep.
    And soon he rested, sunk in heavy sleep.

    Then suddenly he woke; it seemed, 'mid groans
    And dolorous sighs: and round him lay the bones
    Of many men, and bodies mouldering.
    And he could hear the wind-swept ocean swing
    Its sighing surge above. And so he thought,
    "It is some nightmare weighing me, distraught
    By that long hunt." And then he sought to shake
    The horror off and to himself awake.
    But still he heard sad groans and whispering sighs:
    And gaunt, from iron-ribbéd cells, the eyes
    Of pale, cadaverous knights regarded him,
    Unhappy: and he felt his senses swim
    With foulness of that dungeon.--"What are ye?
    Ghosts? or chained champions? or a company
    Of fiends?" he cried. Then, "Speak! if speak ye can!
    Speak, in God's name! for I am here--a man!"
    Then groaned the shaggy throat of one who lay,
    A wasted nightmare, dying day by day,
    Yet once a knight of comeliness, and strong
    And great and young, but now, through hunger long,
    A skeleton with hollow hands and cheeks:--
    "Sir knight," said he, "know that the wretch who speaks
    Is only one of twenty knights entombed
    By Damas here; the Earl who so hath doomed
    Us in this dungeon, where starvation lairs;
    Around you lie the bones, whence famine stares,
    Of many knights. And would to God that soon
    My liberated ghost might see the moon
    Freed from the horror of this prisonment!"
    With that he sighed, and round the dungeon went
    A rustling sigh, as of the damned; and so
    Another dim, thin voice complained their woe:
    "Know, he doth starve us to obtain this end:
    Because not one of us his strength will lend
    To battle for what still he calls his rights,
    This castle and its lands. For, of all knights,
    He is most base; lacks most in hardihood.
    A younger brother, Ontzlake, hath he; good
    And courteous; withal most noble; whom
    This Damas hates--yea, even seeks his doom;
    Denying him to his estate all right
    Save that he holds by main of arms and might.
    Through puissance hath Ontzlake some few fields
    And one right sumptuous manor, where he deals
    With knights as knights should, with an open hand,
    Though ill he can afford it. Through the land
    He is far-famed for hospitality.
    Ontzlake is brave, but Damas cowardly.
    For Ontzlake would decide with sword and lance,
    Body to body, this inheritance:
    But Damas, vile as he is courageless,
    Doth on all knights, his guests, lay this duress,
    To fight for him or starve. For you must know
    That in this country he is hated so
    There is no champion who will take the fight.
    Thus fortunes it our plight is such a plight."
    Quoth he and ceased. And, wondering at the tale,
    The King lay silent, while each wasted, pale,
    Poor countenance perused him; then he spake:
    "And what reward if one this cause should take?"--
    "Deliverance for all if of us one
    Consent to be his party's champion.
    But treachery and he are so close kin
    We loathe the part as some misshapen sin;
    And here would rather with the rats find death
    Than, serving him, serve wrong, and save our breath,
    And on our heads, perhaps, bring down God's curse."

    "May God deliver you in mercy, sirs,
    And help us all!" said Arthur. At which word
    Straightway a groaning sound of iron was heard,
    Of chains rushed loose and bolts jarred rusty back,
    And hoarse the gate croaked open; and the black
    Of that rank cell astonished was with light,
    That danced fantastic with the frantic night.
    One high torch, sidewise worried by the gust,
    Sunned that dark den of hunger, death and dust;
    And one tall damsel, vaguely vestured, fair,
    With shadowy hair, poised on the rocky stair:
    And laughing on the King, "What cheer?" said she.
    "God's life! the keep stinks vilely! And to see
    Such noble knights endungeoned, starving here,
    Doth pain me sore with pity. But, what cheer?"
    "Thou mockest us. For me, the sorriest
    Since I was suckled; and of any quest
    This is the most imperiling and strange.--
    But what wouldst thou?" said Arthur. She, "A change
    I offer thee; through thee to these with thee,
    If thou wilt promise, in love's courtesy,
    To fight for Damas and his brotherhood.
    And if thou wilt not--look! behold this brood
    Of lean and dwindled bellies, spectre-eyed,--
    Keen knights once,--who refused me. So decide."
    Then thought the King of the sweet sky, the breeze
    That blew delirious over waves and trees;
    Thick fields of grasses and the sunny Earth,
    Whose beating heat filled the high heart with mirth,
    And made the world one sovereign pleasure-house
    Where king and serf might revel and carouse:
    Then of the hunt on autumn-plaintive hills;
    Lone forest lodges by their radiant rills;
    His palace at Caerleon upon Usk,
    And Camelot's loud halls that through the dusk
    Blazed far and bloomed, a rose of revelry;
    Or, in the misty morning, shadowy
    Loomed, grave with audience. And then he thought
    Of his Round Table, and the Grael wide sought
    In haunted holds by many a haunted shore.
    Then marveled of what wars would rise and roar
    With dragon heads unconquered and devour
    This realm of Britain and crush out that flower
    Of chivalry whence ripened his renown:
    And then the reign of some besotted crown,
    Some bandit king of lust, idolatry--
    And with that thought for tears he could not see.--
    Then of his best-loved champions, King Ban's son,
    And Galahad and Tristram, Accolon:
    And then, ah God! of his loved Guenevere:
    And with that thought--to starve 'mid horrors here!--
    For, being unfriend to Arthur and his Court,
    Well knew he this grim Earl would bless that sport
    Of fortune which had fortuned him so well
    As t' have his King to starve within a cell,
    In the entombing rock beside the deep.--
    And all the life, large in his limbs, did leap
    Through eager veins and sinews, fierce and red,
    Stung on to action; and he rose and said:
    "That which thou askest is right hard, but, lo!
    To rot here, harder. I will fight his foe.
    But, mark, I have no weapons and no mail;
    No steed against that other to avail."

    She laughed again; "If we must beg or hire,
    Fear not for that: these thou shalt lack not, sire."
    And so she led the way; her torch's fire
    Sprawling with spidery shadows at each stride
    The cob-webbed coignes of scowling arches wide.
    At length they reached an iron-studded door,
    Which she unlocked with one harsh key she bore
    'Mid many keys bunched at her girdle; thence
    They issued on a terraced eminence.
    Below, the sea broke sounding; and the King
    Breathed open air again that had the sting
    And scent of brine, the far, blue-billowed foam:
    And in the east the second dawning's gloam,
    Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaks
    Red as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks.
    And so, within that larger light of dawn
    It seemed to Arthur now that he had known
    This maiden at his Court, and so he asked.
    But she, well tutored, her real person masked,
    And answered falsely, "Nay, deceive thee not.
    Thou saw'st me ne'er at Arthur's Court, I wot.
    For here it likes me best to sing and spin,
    And needle hangings, listening to the din
    Of ocean, sitting some high tower within.
    No courts or tournaments or hunts I crave,
    No knights to flatter me! For me--the wave,
    The cliffs, the sea and sky, in calm or storm;
    My garth, wherein I walk at morn; the charm
    Of ocean, redolent at bounteous noon,
    And sprayed with sunlight; night's free stars and moon:
    White ships that pass, some several every year;
    These ancient towers; and those wild mews to hear."
    "An owlet maid," the King laughed.--But untrue
    Was she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew,
    Deep in intrigues, even for the slaying of
    The King, her brother, whom she did not love.--
    And presently she brought him where, in state,
    This swarthy Damas, 'mid his wildmen sate.

           *       *       *       *       *

    And Accolon, at Castle Chariot still,
    Had lost long weeks in love. Her husband ill,
    Morgane, perforce, must leave her lover here
    Among the hills of Gore. A lodge stood near
    A cascade in the forest, where their wont
    Was to sit listening the falling fount,
    That, through sweet talks of many idle hours
    On moss-banks, varied with the violet flowers,
    Had learned the lovers' language,--sighed above,--
    And seemed, in every fall, to whisper, "love";
    That echoed through the lodge, her hands had draped
    With curious hangings; where were worked and shaped
    Remembered hours of pleasure, body and soul;
    Imperishable passions, which made whole
    The past again in pictures; and could mate
    The heart with loves long dead; and re-create
    The very kisses of those perished knights
    With woven records of long-dead delights.
    Below the lodge within an urnéd shell
    The water pooled, and made a tinkling well,
    Then, slipping thence, through dripping shadows fell
    From rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon,
    With Morgane's hollow lute, as eve drew on
    Came all alone: not ev'n her brindled hound
    To bound before him o'er the gleaming ground;
    No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair,
    Or paging dwarf in purple with him there;
    Only her lute, about which her perfume
    Clung, odorous of memories, that made bloom
    Her absent features, making them arise,
    Like some rich flower, before his memory's eyes,
    That seemed to see her lips and to surmise
    The words they fashioned; then the smile that drank
    Her soul's deep fire from eyes wherein it sank
    And slowly waned away to deeper dreams,
    Fathomless with thought, down in their dove-gray streams.
    And so for her imagined eyes and lips,
    Heart-fashioned features, all the music slips
    Of all his soul, himseems, into his voice,
    To sing her praises. And, with nervous poise,
    His fleet, trained fingers waken in her lute
    Such mellow riot as must make envy-mute
    The nightingale that listens quivering.
    And well he hopes that, winging thence, 'twill sing
    A similar song;--whose passions burn and pain
    Its anguished soul, now silent,--not in vain
    Beneath her casement, in that garden old
    Dingled with heavy roses; in the gold
    Of Camelot's stars and pearl-encrusted moon:
    And still he hopes the heartache of the tune
    Will clamor secret memories in her ear,
    Of life, less dear than death with her not near;
    Of love, who longs for her, to have her here:
    Till melt her eyes with tears; and sighs and sobs
    O'erwhelm her soul, and separation throbs
    Hard at her heart, that, longing, lifts to death
    A prayerful pleading, crying, "But a breath,
    One moment of real heaven, there! in his arms!
    Close, close! And, for that moment, then these charms,
    This body, hell, canst have forevermore!"
    And sweet to know, perhaps its song will pour
    Into the dull ear of her drowsy lord
    A vague suspicion of some secret word,
    Borne by the bird,--love's wingéd messenger,--
    To her who lies beside him; even her,
    His wife, whom still he loves; whom Accolon
    Thus sings of where the woods of Gore grow wan:--

    "The thought of thy white coming, like a song
    Breathed soft of lovely lips and lute-like tongue,
      Sways all my bosom with a sweet unrest;
      Makes wild my heart that oft thy heart hath pressed.--
    Come! press it once again, for it is strong
      To bear that weight which never yet distressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


III

    As one hath seen a green-gowned huntress fair,
    Morn in her cheeks and midnight in her hair;
    Keen eyes as gray as rain, young limbs as lithe
    As the wild fawn's; and silvery voice as blithe
    As is the wind that breathes of flowers and dews,
    Breast through the bramble-tangled avenues;
    Through brier and thorn, that pluck her gown of green,
    And snag it here and there,--through which the sheen
    Of her white skin gleams rosy;--eyes and face,
    Ardent and flushed, fixed on the lordly chase:
    So came the Evening to that shadowy wood,
    Or so it seemed to Accolon, who stood
    Watching the sunset through the solitude.
    So Evening came; and shadows cowled the way
    Like ghostly pilgrims who kneel down to pray
    Before a wayside shrine: and, radiant-rolled,
    Along the west, the battlemented gold
    Of sunset walled the opal-tinted skies,
    That seemed to open gates of Paradise
    On soundless hinges of the winds, and blaze
    A glory, far within, of chrysoprase,
    Towering in topaz through the purple haze.
    And from the sunset, down the roseate ways,
    To Accolon, who, with his idle lute,
    Reclined in revery against the root
    Of a great oak, a fragment of the west,
    A dwarf, in crimson satin tightly dressed,
    Skipped like a leaf the early frosts have burned,
    A red oak-leaf; and like a leaf he turned,
    And danced and rustled. And it seemed he came
    From Camelot; from his belovéd dame,
    Morgane le Fay. He on his shoulder bore
    A mighty blade, wrought strangely o'er and o'er
    With mystic runes, drawn from a scabbard which
    Glared venomous, with angry jewels rich.
    He, louting to the knight, "Sir knight," said he,
    "Your Lady, with all tenderest courtesy,
    Assures you--ah, unworthy bearer I
    Of her good message!--of her constancy."
    Then, doffing the great baldric, with the sword,
    To him he gave them, saying, "From my lord,
    King Arthur: even his Excalibur,
    The magic blade which Merlin gat of her,
    The Ladyé of the Lake, who, as you wot,
    Fostered in infanthood Sir Launcelot,
    Upon some isle in Briogne's tangled lands
    Of meres and mists; where filmy fairy bands,
    By lazy moons of summer, dancing, fill
    With rings of morrice every grassy hill.
    Through her fair favor is this weapon sent,
    Who begged it of the King with this intent:
    That, for her honor, soon would be begun
    A desperate battle with a champion,
    Of wondrous prowess, by Sir Accolon:
    And with the sword, Excalibur, more sure
    Were she that he against him would endure.
    Magic the blade, and magic, too, the sheath,
    Which, while 'tis worn, wards from the wearer death."
    He ceased: and Accolon held up the sword
    Excalibur and said, "It shall go hard
    With him through thee, unconquerable blade,
    Whoe'er he be, who on my Queen hath laid
    Insult or injury! And hours as slow
    As palsied hours in Purgatory go
    For those unmassed, till I have slain this foe!--
    Here, page, my purse.--And now, to her who gave,
    Despatch! and say: To all commands, her slave,
    To death obedient, I!--In love or war
    Her love to make me all the warrior.--
    Bid her have mercy, nor too long delay
    From him, who dies an hourly death each day
    Till, her white hands kissed, he shall kiss her face,
    Through which his life lives on, and still finds grace."
    Thus he commanded. And, incontinent,
    The dwarf departed, like a red shaft sent
    Into the sunset's sea of scarlet light
    Burning through wildwood glooms. And as the night
    With votaress cypress veiled the dying strife
    Sadly of day, and closed his book of life
    And clasped with golden stars, in dreamy thought
    Of what this fight was that must soon be fought,
    Belting the blade about him, Accolon,
    Through the dark woods tow'rds Chariot passed on.

           *       *       *       *       *

    And it befell him thus, the following dawn,
    As he was wandering on a dew-drenched lawn,
    Glad with the freshness and elastic health
    Of sky and earth, that lavished all their wealth
    Of heady winds and racy scents,--a knight
    And gentle lady met him, gay bedight,
    With following of six esquires; and they
    Held on gloved wrists the hooded falcon gray,
    And rode a-hawking o'er the leas of Gore
    From Ontzlake's manor, where he languished; sore
    Hurt in the lists, a spear wound in his thigh:
    Who had besought--for much he feared to die--
    This knight and his fair lady, as they rode
    To hawk near Chariot, Morgane's abode,
    That they would beg her in all charity
    To come to him (for in chirurgery
    Of all that land she was the greatest leach),
    And her for his recovery beseech.
    So, Accolon saluted, they drew rein,
    And spake their message, for, right over fain
    Were they toward their sport,--that he would bear
    Petition to that lady. But, not there
    Was Arthur's sister, as they well must wot;
    But now a sennight lay at Camelot,
    The guest of Guenevere; and with her there
    Four other queens of Farther Britain were:
    Isoud of Ireland, she of Cornwall Queen,
    King Mark's wife,--who right rarely then was seen
    At Court for jealousy of Mark, who knew
    Her to that lance of Lyonesse how true
    Since mutual quaffing of a philter; while
    How guilty Guenevere on such could smile:--
    She of Northgales and she of Eastland; and
    She of the Out Isles Queen. A fairer band,
    For sovereignty and love and loveliness,
    Was not in any realm to grace and bless.
    So Accolon informed them. In distress
    Then quoth that knight: "Ay? see how fortune turns
    And varies like an April day, that burns
    Now welkins blue with calm; now scowls them down,
    Revengeful, with a black storm's wrinkled frown.
    For, look! this Damas, who so long hath lain
    A hiding vermin, fearful of all pain,
    Dark in his bandit towers by the deep,
    Wakes from a five years' torpor and a sleep,
    And sends despatch a courier to my lord,
    Sir Ontzlake, with, 'To-morrow, with the sword,
    Earl Damas and his knight, at point of lance,
    Decides the issue of inheritance,
    Body to body, or by champion.'--
    Right hard to find such ere to-morrow dawn.
    Though sore bestead lies Ontzlake, if he could,
    He would arise and save his livelihood."

    Then thought Sir Accolon: "One might suppose,
    So soon this follows on her message, those
    Same things befall through Morgane's arts--who knows?--
    Howe'er it be, as 'twere for her own sake,
    This battle I myself will undertake."
    Then said to those, "I know the good Ontzlake.
    If he be so conditioned, harried of
    Estate and life,--in knighthood and for love
    Of justice I his quarrel will assume.
    My limbs are keen for armor. Let the groom
    Prepare my steed. Right good 'twill be again
    To feel him under me."--Then, of that train,
    Asked that one gentleman with him remain,
    And men to squire his horse and arms. And then,
    When this was granted, mounted with his men
    And thence departed. And, ere noontide, they
    Came to a lone, dismantled priory
    Hard by a castle 'gainst whose square, grey towers,
    Machicolated, mossed, in forest bowers,
    Full many a siege had beat and onset rushed:
    A forest fortress, old and deep-imbushed
    In wild and woody hills. And then one wound
    A hoarse slug-horn, and at the savage sound
    The drawbridge rumbled moatward, clanking, and
    Into a paved court rode that little band.

           *       *       *       *       *

    When all the world was morning, gleam and glare
    Of autumn glory; and the frost-touched air
    Rang with the rooks as rings a silver lyre
    Swept swift of minstrel fingers, wire on wire;
    Ere that fixed hour of prime, came Arthur, armed
    For battle royally. A black steed warmed
    A keen impatience 'neath him, cased in mail
    Of foreign make; accoutered head and tail
    In costly sendal; rearward, wine-dark red,
    Amber as sunlight to his fretful head.
    Blue armor of linked steel had Arthur on,
    Beneath a robe of honor made of drawn,
    Ribbed satin, diapered and purfled deep
    With lordly gold and purple; whence did sweep
    Two acorn-tufted bangles of fine gold:
    And at his thigh a falchion, battle-old
    And triple-edged; its rune-stamped scabbard, of
    Cordovan leather, baldric'd rich above
    With new-cut deer-skin, that, laborious wrought,
    And curiously, with slides of gold was fraught,
    And buckled with a buckle white, that shone,
    Tongued red with gold, and carved of walrus' bone.
    And, sapphire-set, a burgonet of gold,--
    Whereon a wyvern sprawled, whose jaws unrolled
    A tongue of garnet agate, of great prize;
    Its orbs of glaring ruby, great in size,--
    Incased his head and visor-barred his eyes.
    And in his hand a wiry lance of ash,
    Lattened with sapphire silver, like a flash,
    A splinter of sunlight, in the morning's zeal
    Glittered, its point, as 'twere, a star of steel.--
    A squire attended him; a youth, whose head
    Waved many a jaunty curl; whereon a red
    Cock-feathered cap shone brave: 'neath which, as keen
    As some wild hawk's, his green-gray eyes were seen:
    And parti- leather shoes he had
    Upon his feet; his legs were silken clad
    In hose of rarest Totness: and a spear,
    Bannered and bronzen, dappled as a deer,
    One hand upheld, like some bright beam of morn;
    And round his neck was hung a bugle-horn.
    So with his following, while, bar on bar,
    The blue mist lay on woodside and on scar,
    Through mist and dew, through shadow and through ray,
    Joustward Earl Damas led the forest way.
    Then to King Arthur, when arrived were these
    Where bright the lists shone, bannered, through the trees,
    A wimpled damsel with a falchion came,
    Mounted upon a palfrey, all aflame
    With sweat and heat of hurry; and, "From her,
    Your sister, Morgane, your Excalibur!
    With tender greeting. For you well may need
    Its aid in this adventure. So, God speed!"
    Said and departed suddenly: nor knew
    The King that this was not his weapon true:
    A brittle forgery, in likeness of
    That blade, of baser metal;--in unlove
    And treason made by her, of all his kin
    The nearest, Morgane; who, her end to win,
    Stopped at no thing; thinking, with Arthur dead,
    The crown would grace her own and Accolon's head.
    Then, heralded, into the lists he rode.
    Opposed flashed Accolon, whose strength bestrode,
    Exultant, strong in talisman of that sword,
    A dun horse lofty as a haughty lord,
    White-pasterned, and of small, impatient hoof:
    Both knight and steed shone armed in mail of proof,
    Of yellow-dappled, variegated plate
    Of Spanish laton. And of sovereign state
    His surcoat robe of honor,--white and black,
    Of satin, crimson-orphreyed,--at his back
    The wind made billow: and, from forth this robe,
    Excalibur,--a throbbing golden globe
    Of vicious jewels,--thrust its splendid hilt;
    Its broad belt, tawny and with goldwork gilt,
    An eyelid clasped, black, of the black sea-horse,
    Tongued red with rosy gold. And pride and force
    Sat on his wingéd helmet, plumed, of rich
    Bronze-hammered laton; blazing upon which
    A hundred brilliants glittered, thick as on
    A silver web bright-studding dews of dawn:
    Its crest, a taloned griffin, high that ramped;
    In whose horned brow one blood-red gem was stamped.
    A spear of ash, long-shafted, overlaid
    With azure silver, whereon colors played,
    Firm in his iron gauntlet lithely swayed.

    Intense on either side the champions stood,
    Shining as serpents that, with spring renewed,
    In gleaming scales, meet on a wild-wood way,
    Their angry tongues flickering at poisonous play.
    Then clanged a herald's trumpet: and harsh heels,
    Sharp-thrust, each courser felt; the roweled steels
    Spurred forward; and the couched and fiery spears,
    Flashed, as two bolts of storm the tempest steers
    With adverse thunder; and, in middle course,
    Crashed full the unpierced shields, and horse from horse
    Lashed, madly pawing.--And a hoarse roar rang
    From the loud lists, till far the echoes sang
    Of hill and rock-hung forest and wild cliff.
    Rigid the champions rode where, standing stiff,
    Their esquires tendered them the spears they held.
    Again the trumpet blew, and, firmly selled,
    Forward they galloped, shield to savage shield,
    And crest to angry crest: the wyvern reeled,
    Towering, against the griffin: scorn and scath
    Upon their fiery fronts and in the wrath
    Of their gem-blazing eyes: each figure stood
    A symbol of the heart beneath the hood.--
    The lance of Accolon, as on a rock
    The storm-launched foam breaks baffled, with the shock,
    On Arthur's sounding shield burst splintered force;
    But him resistless Arthur's,--high from horse
    Uplifted,--headlong bore, and crashed him down;
    A long sword's length unsaddled. Accolon
    For one stunned moment lay. Then, rising, drew
    The great sword at his hip that shone like dew
    Smitten with morn. "Descend!" he grimly said,
    "To proof of better weapons, head to head!
    Enough of spears! to swords!"--And from his height
    The King clanged down. And quick, like some swift light,
    His moon-bright brand unsheathed. And, hollowed high,
    Each covering shield gleamed, slantwise, to'ards the sky,
    A blazoned eye of bronze: and underneath,
    As 'neath two clouds, the lightning and the death
    Of the fierce swords played. Now a shield descends--
    A long blade leaps;--and now, a fang that rends,
    Another blade, loud as a battle word,
    Beats downward, trenchant; and, resounding heard,
    A shield's fierce face replies: again a sword
    Swings for a giant blow, and, balked again,
    Burns crashing from a sword. Thus, o'er the plain,
    Over and over, blade on baleful blade;
    Teeth clenched; and eyes, behind their visors' shade,
    Like wild beasts' eyes in caverns; shield to shield,
    The champions strove, each scorning still to yield.

    Then Arthur drew aside to rest upon
    His falchion for a space. But Accolon,
    As yet,--through virtue of that magic sheath,--
    Fresh and almighty, and no nearer death
    Now than when first the fight to death begun,
    Chafed at delay. But Arthur, with the sun,
    His heavy mail, his wounds, and loss of blood,
    Made weary, ceased and for a moment stood
    Leaning upon his sword. Then, "Dost thou tire?"
    Sneered Accolon. And then, with fiercer fire,
    "Defend thee! yield thee! or die recreant!"
    And at the King aimed a wild blow, aslant,
    That beat a flying fire from the steel.
    Stunned by that blow, the King, with brain a-reel,
    Sank on one knee; then rose, infuriate,
    Nerved with new vigor; and with heat and hate
    Gnarled all his strength into one blow of might,
    And in both fists his huge blade knotted tight,
    And swung, terrific, for a final stroke,--
    And,--as the lightning flames upon an oak,--
    Boomed on the burgonet his foeman wore;
    Hacked through and through its crest, and cleanly shore,
    With hollow clamor, from his head and ears,
    The brag and boasting of that griffin fierce:
    Then, in an instant, as if made of glass,
    That brittle blade burst, shattered; and the grass
    Shone, strewn with shards; as 'twere a broken ray,
    It fell and bright in feverish fragments lay.
    Then groaned the King, disarmed. And straight he knew
    This sword was not Excalibur: too true
    And perfect tempered, runed and mystical,
    That weapon of old wars! and then withal,
    Looking upon his foe, who still with stress
    Fought on, untiring, and with no distress
    Of wounds or heat, he thought, "I am betrayed!"
    Then as the sunlight struck along that blade,
    He knew it, by the hilt, for his own brand,
    The true Excalibur, that high in hand
    Now rose avenging. For Sir Accolon
    In madness urged th' unequal battle on
    His King defenseless; who, the hilted cross
    Of that false weapon grasped, beneath the boss
    Of his deep-dented shield crouched; and around,
    Like some great beetle, labored o'er the ground,
    Whereon the shards of shattered spears and bits
    Of shivered steel and gold made sombre fits
    Of flame, 'mid which, hard-pressed and cowering
    Beneath his shield's defense, the dauntless King
    Crawled still defiant. And, devising still
    How to secure his sword and by what skill,
    Him thus it fortuned when most desperate:
    In that close chase they came where, shattered late,
    Lay, tossed, the truncheon of a bursten lance,
    Which, deftly seized, to Accolon's advance
    He wielded with effect. Against the fist
    Smote, where the gauntlet clasped the nervous wrist,
    That heaved Excalibur for one last blow;
    Sudden the palsied sinews of his foe
    Relaxed in effort, and, the great sword seized,
    Was wrenched away: and straight the wroth King eased
    Himself of his huge shield, and hurled it far;
    And clasping in both arms of wiry war
    His foe, Sir Accolon,--as one hath seen
    A strong wind take an ash tree, rocking green,
    And swing its sappy bulk, then, trunk and boughs,
    Crash down its thundering height in wild carouse
    And wrath of tempest,--so King Arthur shook
    And headlong flung Sir Accolon. Then took,
    Tearing away, that scabbard from his side
    And hurled it through the lists, that far and wide
    Gulped in the battle breathless. Then, still wroth,
    He seized Excalibur; and grasped of both
    Wild hands, swung trenchant, and brought glittering down
    On rising Accolon. Steel, bone and brawn
    That blow hewed through. Unsettled every sense.
    Bathed in a world of blood, his limbs lay tense
    A moment, then grew limp, relaxed in death.
    And bending o'er him, from the brow beneath,
    The King unlaced the helm. When dark, uncasqued,
    The knight's slow eyelids opened, Arthur asked:
    "Say, ere thou diest, whence and who thou art!
    What king, what court is thine? And from what part
    Of Britain dost thou come? Speak!--for, methinks,
    I have beheld thee--where? Some memory links
    Me strangely with thy face, thy eyes ... thou art--
    Who art thou?--speak!"--

                He answered, slow, then short,
    With labored breathing: "I?--one, Accolon,--
    Of Gaul--a knight of Arthur's court--anon--
    But to what end--yea, tell me--am I slain?"--
    Then bent King Arthur nearer and again
    Drew back: then, anguish in his utterance, sighed:
    "One of my Table!"--Then asked softly, "Say,
    Whence hadst thou this, my sword? say, in what way
    Thou cam'st by it?"--But, wandering, that knight
    Heard with dull ears, divining but by sight
    The question asked; and answered, "Woe!--the sword!--
    Woe worth the sword!--Lean down!--Canst hear my word?--
    From Morgane! Arthur's sister, who had made
    Me king of all this kingdom, so she said--
    Hadst thou not 'risen, accurséd, like a fate,
    To make our schemes miscarry!--Wait! nay, wait!--
    A king! dost hear?--a gold and blood-crowned king,
    I!--Arthur's sister, queen!--No bird can wing
    Higher than her ambition! that resolved
    Her brother's death was needed, and evolved
    Plots that should ripen with the ripening year,
    And here be reaped, perhaps--nay, nay! not here!--
    Farewell, my Morgane!--Yea, 'twas she who schemed
    While there at Chariot we loved and dreamed
    Gone some six months.--There nothing gave us care.
    Each morning was a liberal almoner
    Prodigal of silver to the earth and air:
    Each eve, a fiery dragon, cloud-enrolled,
    Convulsive, dying overwhelmed with gold;
    On such an eve it was, that, redolent,
    She sat by me and said,--'My message sent,
    Some night--within the forest--thou, my knight!
    Thou and the king!--my men--the forest fight!--
    Murder perhaps.--But, well?--who is to blame?'...
    So with her blood-red thoughts to me she came.
    To me! that woman, brighter than a flame,
    And wooed my soul to hell, with love accurs'd;
    With harlot lips, from which my being first
    Drank hell and heaven. She, who was in sooth
    My heaven and hell.--But now, behind her youth
    She shrivels to a hag!--I see the truth!--
    Harlot!--nay, spouse of Urience, King of Gore!--
    Wanton!--nay, witch! sweet witch!--what wouldst thou more?--
    Hast thou not had thy dream? and wilt thou grieve
    That death so ruins it?--Thou dost perceive
    How I still love thee! witness bear this field,
    This field and he to whom I would not yield!--
    Would thou wert here to kiss me ere I die!"--

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

    Then came a world of anxious faces, pressed
    About King Arthur; who, though sore distressed,
    Bespake that multitude: "While breath and power
    Remain, judge we these brothers: This hard hour
    Hath given to Damas all this rich estate:
    So it is his; allotted his by fate
    And force of arms. So let it be to him.
    For, stood our oath on knighthood not so slim
    But that it hath this strong conclusiön.
    This much by us as errant knight is done.--
    Now our decree, as King of Britain, hear:
    We do command Earl Damas to appear
    No more upon our shores, or any isles
    Of farthest Britain in its many miles.
    One week be his, no more! then will we come,
    Even with an iron host, to seal his doom:
    If he be not departed overseas,
    With all his men and all his outlawries,
    From his own towers, around which sea-birds clang,
    Alive and naked shall he starve and hang
    And rot! vile food for kites and carrion crows.
    Thus much for him!... But all our favor goes
    Toward Sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the King
    To take into his knightly following
    Of the Round Table. Bear to him our word.
    But I am over weary. Take my sword.--
    Unharness me, for more and more I tire;
    And all my wounds are so much aching fire.
    Yea; help me hence. To-morrow I would fain
    To Glastonbury and with me the slain."
    So bore they then the wounded King away,
    The dead behind, as closed the autumn day.

           *       *       *       *       *

    But when, within that abbey, he waxed strong,
    The King, remembering the marauder wrong
    Which Damas had inflicted on that land,
    Commanded Lionell, with a stanch band,
    To stamp this weed out if still rooted there.
    He, riding thither to that robber lair,
    Led Arthur's hopefulest helms, when, thorn on thorn,
    Reddened an hundred spears one winter morn:
    And found--a ruin of fire-blackened rock,
    Of tottering towers, that shook to every shock
    Of the wild waves; and loomed above the bents
    Turrets and cloudy-clustered battlements,
    Wailing with wind that swept those clamorous lands:
    Above the foam, that climbed with haling hands,
    Desolate and gaunt; reflected in the flats;
    Hollow and huge, the haunt of owls and bats.


IV

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

    For her half-brother Morgane had conceived
    Unnatural hatred; so much so, she grieved,
    Envious and jealous, for the high renown
    And might the King had gathered round his crown
    Through truth and honor. And who was it said,
    "Those nearest to the crown are those to dread"?--
    Warm in your breast a serpent, it will sting
    The breast that warms it: and albeit the King
    Knew of his sister's hate, he passed it by,
    Thinking that love and kindness gradually
    Would win her heart to him. He little knew
    The witch he dealt with, beautiful to view,
    And all the poison she could stoop to brew.
    She, who, well knowing how much mightier
    The King than Accolon, rejoiced that her
    Wits had secured from him Excalibur,
    Without which, she was certain, in the joust
    The King were as a foe unarmed. Her trust
    Smiled, confident of conclusion: eloquent,
    Within her, whispered of success, that lent
    Her heart a lofty hope; and at large eyes
    Piled up imperial dreams of power and prize.
    And in her carven chamber, oaken-dark,
    Traceried and arrased,--when the barren park
    Dripped, drenched with autumn,--for November lay
    Swathed frostily in fog on every spray,--
    She at her tri-arched casement sate one night,
    Ere yet came courier from that test of might.
    Her lord in slumber and the castle full
    Of drowsy silence and the rain's dull lull:
    "The King removed?--my soul!--he _is_ removed!
    Ere now dog-dead he lies. His sword hath proved
    Too much for him. Yet! let him lie in state,
    The great king, Arthur!--But, regenerate,
    Now crown our other monarch, Accolon!
    And, with him, Love, the ermined! balmy son
    Of gods, not men; and nobler hence to rule.
    Love, Love almighty; beautiful to school
    The hearts and souls of mortals!--Then this realm's
    Iron-huskéd flower of war,--that overwhelms
    The world with havoc,--will explode and bloom
    The amaranth, peace, with love for its perfume.
    And then, O Launcelots and Tristrams, vowed
    To Gueneveres and Isouds,--now allowed
    No pleasure but what hour by stolen hour,
    In secret places, brings to flaming flower,--
    You shall have feasts of passion evermore!
    And out-thrust Love, now shivering at the door,
    No more shalt stand neglected and cast off,
    Insulted and derided; and the scoff
    Of War, the bully, whose hands of insult fling
    Off, for the iron of arms, thy hands that cling
    About his brutal feet, that crush thy face,
    Bleeding, into the dust.--Here, in War's place,
    We will erect a shrine of sacrifice;
    Love's sacrifice; a shrine of purest price;
    Where each shall lay his heart and each his soul
    For Love, for earthly Love! who shall control
    The world, and make it as the Heaven whole;
    Being to it its stars and moon and sun,
    Its firmament and all its lights in one.
    And if by such Love Heaven should be debarred,
    Its God, its spheres, with spiritual love in-starred,
    Hell will be Heaven, our Heaven, while Love shall thus
    Remain earth Love, that God encouraged in us.

    "And now for Urience, my gaunt old lord!--
    There lies my worry.--Yet, hath he no sword
    No dangerous dagger I, hid softly here,
    Sharp as an adder's fang? or for his ear
    No instant poison to insinuate
    Ice in his pulses, and with death abate?"
    So did she then determine; on that night
    Of lonely autumn, when no haggard, white,
    Wan, watery moon dreamed on the streaming pane;
    But, on the leads, beat the incessant rain,
    And the lamenting wind wailed wild among
    The trees and turrets, like a phantom throng.
    So grew her face severe as skies that take
    Suggestions of far storm whose thunders shake
    The distant hills with wrath, and cleave with fire
    A pine the moaning forest mourns as sire--
    So touched her countenance that dark intent:
    And in still eyes her thoughts were evident,
    As in dark waters, luminous and deep,
    The heavens glass themselves when o'er them sweep
    The clouds of storm and austere stars they keep,--
    Ghostly and gray,--locked in their steadfast gloom.
    Then, as if some great wind had swept the room,
    Silent, intense, she rose up from her seat.
    As if dim arms had made her a retreat,
    Secret as thought to move in, like a ghost,
    Noiseless as sleep and subtle as the frost,
    Poised like a light and borne as carefully,
    She trod the gusty hall where shadowy
    The hangings rolled a dim Pendragon war.
    And there the mail of Urience shone. A star,
    Glimmering above, a dying cresset dropped
    From the stone vault and flared. And here she stopped,
    And took the sword, fresh-burnished by his page,
    Long as a flame of pale, arrested rage.--
    For she had thought that, when they found him dead,
    His sword laid by him on the bloody bed
    Would be convictive that his own hand had
    Done him this violence when fever-mad.
    The sword she took; and to the chamber, where
    King Urience slept, she glided; like an air,
    Smooth in seductive sendal; or a fit
    Of faery song, a wicked charm in it,
    That slays; an incantation full of guile.
    She paused upon his threshold; for a while
    Listened; and, sure he slept, stole in and stood
    Crouched o'er his couch. About her heart the blood
    Caught, strangling; then rose throbbing, thud on thud,
    Up to her wide-stretched eyes, and up and up,
    As wine might, whirling wildly in a cup.
    Then came rare Recollection, with a mouth
    Sweet as the honeyed sunbeams of the South
    Trickling through perplexed ripples of the leaves;
    To whose faint form a veil of starshine cleaves
    Intricate gauze from memoried eyes to feet--
    Feet softer than the sifted snows and fleet
    To come and go and airy anxiously.
    She, trembling to her, like a flower a bee
    Nests in and makes an audible mouth of musk,
    Lisping a downy message to the dusk,
    Laid lips to ears and languaged memories of
    Now hateful Urience:--How her maiden love
    Had left Caerleon secretly for Gore,
    With him, one day of autumn. How a boar,
    Wild as the wildness of the solitude,
    Raged at her from a cavern of the wood,
    That, crimson-creepered, yawned the bristling curse
    Murderous upon her. As her steed grew worse
    And, terrified, fled snorting down the dell,
    How she had flung herself from out the selle,
    In fear, upon a bank of springy moss,
    Where she lay swooning: in an utter loss
    Of mind and limbs; wherein she seemed to see,
    Or saw in horror, half unconsciously,--
    As one who pants beneath an incubus
    And strives to shriek or move, delirious,--
    The monster-thing thrust tow'rds her, tusked and fanged,
    And hideous snouted: how the whole wood clanged
    And buzzed and boomed a hundred sounds and lights
    Lawless about her brain,--like leaves wild nights
    Of hurricane harvest, shouting.--Then it seemed
    A fury thundered 'twixt them--and she screamed
    As round her flew th' uprooted loam that held
    Leaves, twigs and matted moss; and, clanging, swelled
    Continual echoes with the thud of strife,
    And groan of man and brute that warred for life:
    How all the air, gone mad with foam and forms,
    Spun froth and, 'twixt her, wrestled hair and arms,
    And hoofs and feet that crushed the leaves and shred,
    Whirling them wildly, brown, and yellow, and red.
    And how she rose and leaned her throbbing head,
    With all its uncoifed braids of raven hair
    Disheveled, on one arm,--as white and fair
    And smooth as milk,--and saw, as through a haze,
    The brute thing throttled and the frowning face
    Of Urience bent above it, browed with might;
    One red swol'n arm, that pinned the hairy fright,
    Strong as a god's, iron at the gullet's brawn:
    Dug in its midriff, the close knees, updrawn,
    Wedged, as with steel, the glutton sides that strove,--
    A shaggy bulk,--with hoofs that drove and drove.
    And then she saw how Urience swiftly slipped
    One arm, the monster's tearing tusks had ripped
    And ribboned redly, to the dagger's hilt,--
    Which at his hip hung long, its haft gold-gilt;--
    Flame-like it flashed; and then, as bright as ice,
    Plunged, and replunged; again, now twice, now thrice;
    And the huge boar, stretched out in sullen death,
    Lay, bubbling blood, with harsh, laborious breath.
    Then how he brought her water from a well,
    That rustled freshly near them as it fell
    From its full-mantled urn, in his deep casque,
    And begged her drink; then bathed her brow, a task
    That had accompanying tears of joy and vows
    Of love, and intercourse of eyes and brows,
    And many kisses: then, beneath the boughs,
    His wound dressed, and her steed still violent
    From fear, she mounted and behind him bent
    And clasped him on the same steed; and they went
    On through the gold wood tow'rds the golden west,
    Till, on one low hill's forest-covered crest,
    Gray from the gold, his castle's battlements pressed.
    And then she felt she'd loved him till had come
    Fame of the love of Isoud, whom, from home,
    Tristram had brought across the Irish foam;
    And Guenevere's for Launcelot of the Lake:
    Then how her thought from these did seem to take
    Reflex of longing; and within her wake
    Desire for some great lover who should slake;
    And such found Accolon.

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

                          O'er his heart
    The long blade paused and--then descended hard.
    Unfleshed, she flung it by her murdered lord,
    And watched the blood spread darkly through the sheet,
    And drip, a horror, at impassive feet
    Pooling the polished oak. Regretless she
    Stood, and relentless; in her ecstasy
    A lovely devil: demon crowned, that cried
    For Accolon, with passion that defied
    Control in all her senses; clamorous as
    A torrent in a cavernous mountain pass
    That sweeps to wreck and ruin; at that hour
    So swept her longing tow'rds her paramour.
    Him whom, King Arthur had commanded when
    Borne from the lists, she should receive again;
    Her lover, her dear Accolon, as was just,
    As was but due her for her love--and lust.
    And while she stood revolving if her deed's
    Secret were safe, behold! a noise of steeds,
    Arms, jingling stirrups, voices loud that cursed
    Fierce in the northern court. To her, athirst
    For him her lover, war and power it spoke,
    Him victor and so king. And then awoke
    Desire to see and greet him: and she fled,
    Like some wild spectre, down the stairs; and, red,
    Burst on a glare of links and glittering mail,
    That shrunk her eyes and made her senses quail.
    To her a bulk of iron, bearded fierce,
    Down from a steaming steed into her ears,
    "This from the King, O Queen!" laughed harsh and hoarse:
    Two henchmen beckoned, who pitched sheer, with force,
    Loud clanging at her feet, hacked, hewn, and red,
    Crusted with blood, a knight in armor--dead:
    Her Accolon, flung in his battered arms
    By what to her seemed fiends and demon forms,
    Wild-torched, who mocked; then, with the parting scoff,
    "This from the King!" phantoms in fog, rode off.

           *       *       *       *       *

    And what remains?--From Camelot to Gore
    That night she, wailing, fled; thence, to the shore,--
    As old romances tell,--of Avalon;
    Where she hath majesty gold-crowned and wan:
    Clothed dark in cypress, still her lovely face
    Is young and queenly; sweeter though in grace,
    And softer for the sorrow there; the trace
    Of immemorial tears as for some crime,
    Attempted or committed at some time,
    Some old, unhappy time of long ago,
    That haunts her eyes and fills them with its woe:
    Sad eyes, dark, future-fixed, expectant of
    That far-off hour awaited of her love,
    When the forgiving Arthur cometh and
    Shall rule, dim King, o'er all that golden land,
    That Isle of Avalon, where none grows old,
    Where spring is ever, and never a wind blows cold;
    That lifts its mountains from forgotten seas
    Of surgeless turquoise deep with mysteries.--
    And so was seen Morgana nevermore,
    Save once, when from the Cornwall coast she bore
    The wounded Arthur from that last fought fight
    Of Camlan in a black barge into night.
    But some may see her, with a palfried band
    Of serge-stoled maidens, through the drowsy land
    Of autumn glimmer,--when are sadly strewn
    The red leaves, and, broad in the east, the moon
    Hangs, full of frost, a lustrous globe of gleams,--
    Faint on the mooning hills as shapes in dreams.




PEREDUR, THE SON OF EVRAWC


    Beyond the walls, past wood and twilight field,
    The Usk slipped onward under wharf and wall
    Of old Caerleon, rolling down, it seemed,--
    Incarnadined with splendor of the west,--
    The heathen blood of all of Arthur's wars.
    So she had left him; and he stood alone
    Within the carven casement, where a ray
    Of sunset laid a bleeding spear athwart
    The dark oak hall, and, on the arras gaunt
    A crimson blade of battle red that dripped.--
    And now life's bitterness took Peredur
    By all his heart's strings, smiting. He would go,
    Equipped for quest, through all the savagery
    Of mountain and of forest. And this girl?--
    Forget her! and her game of shuttlecock,
    Of battledore and shuttlecock with his heart,
    This Angharad! this child the Court had spoiled!
    Now he remembered how he once had ridd'n,
    Spurring his piebald stallion down the square,
    Upon the King's quest, and a girl had laughed
    From some be-dragoned balcony of walls
    That faced the gateway; and in passing he
    Had glimpsed her beauty. It was she. And then
    He thought how she had haunted him for days,
    For weeks; and how, returning to Caerleon,
    His long quest ended, how it thus befell:
    Deep snow had fallen and the winter wood
    Lay carpeted with silence. And he rode
    Into a vista where a raven lay
    Slain of a hawk; some blood-drops dyed the snow.
    He lost himself in quaint comparisons
    Of how the sifted drift was as her skin;
    The raven's feathers as her heavy hair;
    And in her cheeks the health of maidenhood
    Red as the blood-drops. So he sat and dreamed:
    When one rode up in angry steel and spoke
    Thrice to no answer, and in anger dashed
    A gauntlet in his face and made at him:
    And how he slew him and rode over him,
    Fiercer than fire; then how he returned
    To find her fairer than their Gwenddolen,--
    Who, ere the coming of this loveliness,
    Divided all men's hearts with Gwenhwyvar:--
    Crowned beauty of the beautiful at Court,
    With Gwenhwyvar, and fair among the fair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And many knights he passed, nor saw; who asked
    What quest he rode. Inscrutable deeds behind
    His visor, and along his sullen spear
    Adventure bitter as a burning ray,
    Into the night he galloped with the stars.

           *       *       *       *       *

    And one lone night, two years thereafter,--lost
    Within a forest wilder than wild Dean;
    Where neither wind nor water shook the leaves,
    That hung as turned to stone above the moss
    And grass, that wrapped the scaly rocks, death-dry,
    And barren torrents; where he had not found
    Or man or hut, or slot of boar or deer,
    Through miles and miles of lamentable trees
    And twisted thorns; beneath the autumn moon,--
    (Pale as a nun's face seen in cloistered walks)--
    Above dead tree-tops, like the rugged rock
    Of melancholy cliffs, he saw wild walls
    Of some vague castle thrust gray battlements
    And hoary towers, like a wizard's dream.
    Great greedy weeds and burrs and briers packed
    Its moat and roadway: at the very gate
    Weeds higher than a man; their ancient stalks
    Devoured with the dust and spider-webs,
    Or smothered with the slime where croaked the toad.
    And Peredur against the portal rode,
    And with his spear-point beat upon its bolts
    A sounding minute. But no wolf-hound bayed;
    Only dull echoes of interior walls
    And hollow rock that arched the empty halls.
    And once again his truncheon shook the gate
    And roused a round-eyed owl that screamed and blinked,
    Like some fierce gargoyle, on the bartizan;
    And from a crevice, like an omen, hurled
    A frantic bat. And then he heard a grate,
    Concealed within the gloomy battlements,
    Slide slowly; and a lean, gaunt, red-haired youth,
    Lit with a link, addressed him. And he saw
    That famine had sunk hollows in his cheeks,
    And fixed gaunt misery in mouth and eyes.
    "What knight art thou?" he asked. "And whence dost come?"--
    And Peredur replied, "First let me in.
    I am of Arthur's Court. Long have I ridd'n
    Through miles and miles of melancholy woods.
    The night begins to storm. And I would rest."
    Then said the youth, sad mirth about his mouth,
    "Rest shalt thou; yea: and since thou, haply, hast
    Fasted all day, thou shalt break bread with us."--
    Then he retired from the grated slide:
    Undid harsh chains and shot back stubborn bolts;
    And, stiff with rust, the snarling hinges swung.
    And Peredur rode armed into a court,
    Neglected, and pathetic with strewn leaves
    And offal, where the weed and wire-grass
    Creviced with wisps the loose and broken stones:
    And overhead, around the mournful walls,
    Huge oaks thrust ancient boughs of mistletoe
    And withered leaves, whose twisted wildness seemed
    The beckoning arms of hunger, and the hands,
    Hooked and distorted, darkly threatening,
    Of murder; enemies that, pitiless,
    Had laid long siege to that old forest hold.

    And he dismounted. And in clanking mail
    Strode down the hall. And in the hall beheld
    Youths, lean and auburn-haired, around the hearth;
    Some eighteen of an equal height, and clad
    Alike in dingy garments that looked worn
    And old. And these were like to him who first
    Had bid him welcome. And they greeted him
    And took his arms; and bade him to a seat.
    And then an inner door flung wide; and, lo,
    Five maidens, like five forest flowers, came;
    Dark-eyed, dark-haired. Behold, the queen of these
    Was Angharad. Clad in a ragged robe
    Of faded satin that had once been rich.
    She looked at Peredur, and he at her:
    And with glad eyes once more his soul beheld
    The hair far blacker than the bird that wings
    Athwart the milk-white moon: the matchless skin,
    Inviolably white as wind-flowers blown
    Among the mighty gospels of the trees:
    And in her cheeks, the rose of maidenhood
    Red as round berries winter bushes dot
    The dimpled drift with under loaded boughs.
    She knew him not, or seemed to; or forgot
    To speak his name whenas she looked at him
    And, blushing, welcomed.

                        And they sat and talked
    Until the night waxed late. And as they talked
    He marked that hunger had made hollow haunts
    Of all their eyes; and so he longed to ask,
    But courtesy forbade him. Late it grew,
    And late and later; and at last there came
    A knocking, and, as shadowy as two ghosts,
    Two nuns came gliding; sandalled silence in
    Frail footsteps, and pale caution on pale lips.
    One brought a jar of wine, and one brought bread,
    Six loaves of wheaten flour. And these said,
    "God bear us witness, Lady, this is all!
    Now is our Convent barren as thy board;"
    And so departed. And they sat and ate.

           *       *       *       *       *

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

                      The rain among the trees,
    The wind upon the turrets. Had he moaned,
    Now that he lay awake and heard the wind
    Hoot on the towers like a green-eyed owl?
    The rain and wind. The night is black with rain.
    Within the forest like a voice the wind;
    And on the turrets, like swift feet, the rain.
    Now was he sure 'twas weeping; and arose,
    And found her at his door; and took her hand,
    That like a soft persuasion lay in his.
    He felt long sobbings shake it. And he said,
    "Tell me, my sister, wherefore dost thou weep?"
    And Angharad, "Yea; I will tell it thee.--
    My name is Angharad. My father held
    An Earldom under Arthur, yea, the first
    In all his Kingdom: and this Castle, too,
    Was his with cantrevs to the west and east.
    When I was but a girl Earl Addanc met
    And loved me. Once, when hunting, he came here
    And sought my father and demanded me.
    He said he loved me, and would have but me
    To grace his bed and board, this Earl! But I--
    I did not love him, being but a child,
    My father's only child; I could not love.
    And so my father said this should not be.
    The Earl was wroth. I heard his furious stride
    Beneath my casement; double demons pinched
    His evil eyes and twenty gnarled his face.
    He cursed us ere he rode beyond our walls
    Then to Caerleon was I sent; and there
    Became a woman of young Gwenhwyvar,
    Until my father's death two years agone,
    When I returned, a Countess, to find war
    And Addanc here around beleaguered walls.
    So hath he stripped me of my appanage;
    Save this one keep, whose strength hath held out long,
    Manned by my foster brothers, brave and young,
    Strong to endure, but lacking still in arms;
    No match for knights like Addanc. Thou hast met
    The eighteen youths whose valor will not yield.
    But what avail their valor and their will
    Against hard hunger, now our larder lacks,
    And lacks the Convent, too, whereon we leaned?
    And Addanc comes to-morrow morn; the truce
    For our one day's deliberation done.
    If he prevail--the thought is like hot hands
    Here on my brain!--his oath is 'that the night
    Shall see me given over to his grooms.'"
    She wept with tremblings. Then said Peredur:
    "Go, dry thy tears, my sister. And this Earl--
    If he be early, call me not too late.
    Fear not. I will not go until my sword
    Hath crossed the sword of so much wickedness,
    And proved this base ambition. Go and sleep."

           *       *       *       *       *

    A morning gray with mist that gathered drops
    Of drizzle on the ever dripping leaves.
    And then the mist divided: ghostly mail,
    Spears and limp pennons, and the shadowy steeds
    Of shadowy knights and chieftains. And it seemed
    A host of phantoms come to lay dim siege
    To phantom walls whose warriors were ghosts.
    Afar a bugle flourished in the fog,
    Disconsolate; no echo of the wood
    To bear its music burden. To the moat
    Advanced a herald. And within the wall
    The grate was opened; and the gaunt-eyed youth
    Held parley with him: "How the Earl would make
    End of the long dispute to-day, and leave,
    'Twixt three a single combat to decide."
    So Peredur bade arm him, and prepare
    His horse for battle; and bade give the Earl
    His answer for the Castle: "That one knight
    Would try the hauberks of the banded three."
    And he rode forth: and one rode up and scoffed,--
    A knight in russet armor with loud words,--
    "Small means to large results, forsooth! Thou boast!
    A vicious palate hath thy appetite
    That feasted long with hunger and must now
    Conclude the banquet with three deaths!--Sir Death,
    Here is thy death!" and hacked at Peredur
    A heavy stroke that gashed his chain camail.
    But, rising in stiff stirrups, ere he passed,
    Two-handed swung the sword of Peredur,
    And helm and head of him who fell were twain,
    Halved like an apple. And the walls were glad.

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

    Now came a third: a black knight and a black
    Enormous steed. No words he wasted. But,
    The fierce spears splintered, from the baldrics burned
    Swift blades: and Battle held his breath a while
    To see the great shields rock beneath great blows,
    Oppose, deploy, as hilt to hilt they hewed
    At heaume and gorget. While the conflict dripped
    Between the splintered greaves from many wounds.
    Then Peredur, his whole strength wrenching at
    Unyielding shelter of his foeman's shield,
    Beat down his guard and smote.--And Addanc lay
    Beneath the son of Evrawc, whose swift hands
    Razed off his casque and laid a blind blade bare
    Across hot eyes, and set a heel of steel
    Upon his throat and said: "Thou coward curse!
    What woman wilt thou war with now?--'Tis well
    Thy features are thus evil and might breed
    Nightmares among the kestrels, kites, and crows,
    Else hadst thou been, ere this,--so says my sword,--
    A head the shorter! and that head hung high
    Upon the highest battlement. What now!
    What wilt thou do for thy vile life? what now!
    Speak! or I smite! O thou base villainy,
    Out on thy ugly mouth!--Speak!" Cursing, he,
    A stricken bulk, growled, "Let me live! And I,
    Upon my knighthood, swear that I will make
    Unto this woman, Angharad, returns
    For all her losses. Let me live."--And so
    The sword slid from his eyes and from his neck
    The heel. And he arose--to make in full
    Due restitution of her lands to her
    He had so robbed and harassed. And in time
    This was fulfilled.

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

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

    A moment was he silent; turning then,
    Ground iron strides along the lofty hall,
    And so returned with iron strides and said:
    "Ay, by my God! Who knows I have not fought
    _For_ thee but still _against_ thee. 'Tis my curse,
    To love thee, love thee, love thee all these years!--
    I came not here to woo. Thou wouldst but laugh.--
    Haply thou hast forgotten me--thou hast!--
    Yea, hast forgotten, aye long, long ago,
    That son of Evrawc, Evrawc of the North,
    Who wooed thee once!... Hast memory of him yet?...
    Look in his eyes once more and say farewell."

    "My soul, my soul!" she said; "O my true soul!
    This shall not be, my soul!"--He heard her low
    Voice pleading softly, and, deep in his heart,
    New life leapt up, and sang in every pulse,
    "She loves me! yea, she loves me!"--And it seemed
    He heard her as men hear the voice of hope
    Upon despair's black brink; and see one star
    Bloom, like a lily with a heart of fire
    Throbbing within it, slowly out of night.
    Each syllable the petal of a flower,
    A rose of music, welcome as the star,
    The first the eve gives silvery utterance to;
    Or as the firstling bud, the wildwood rose,
    Dropped from the rosy lips of laughing Spring:--
    "I have remembered. Think'st thou I have not?--
    O son of Evrawc, thou who couldst not see,
    'Neath bells of folly and a merry mask,
    A girl's dear secret through her tinsel acts.--
    Or was _thy_ love but fancy?--Ah, too soon,
    I heard the vapid ending of a tale
    Coquetry had begun for other end.--
    But, if thou wilt, we can resume the tale;
    The beautiful story of true love.--Tell on!
    Tell on, my heart! Or have we reached the end?
    And is it wedlock?--Both were wrong. The one:
    Because his love was blind, impetuous,
    Nor saw the love that would have proved 'twas love,
    Not lust, before surrender. The other: that
    She sought for wisdom in the frivolous,
    And so made falsehood of her dearest truth,
    Deceived more than deceiving.--Wilt thou go?"

    He had no rhetoric to make reply:
    Only his arms about her, and his eyes
    Upon her eyes, and kisses on her mouth.
    Long time they stood.--Outside, the sunset flung
    Barbaric glory on the autumn wood.--
    And lifting up her face he said to her:
    "Hast thou thy lute still? Then come sing to me;
    That song again, that pleased me once so ill--
    Two years ago at parting. If it please
    No better now, straightway I will depart,
    And--thou with me. Yea, on one steed, if needs,
    We will ride forth together to the Queen,
    To old Caerleon, and King Arthur's Court;
    And Gwenhwyvar shall kiss thee and confess
    Thou art her loveliest flower, my own wild rose,
    And give thee to me who will wear thee here."




ISOLT

"_But when the queen, La beale Isoude heard these tidings shee made such
sorrow that shee was full nigh out of her minde, and so upon a day she
thought to slay herselfe, and never for to live after Sir Tristram's
death._"--Le Morte d'Arthure.


I

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


II

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


III

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


IV

    High on a barb whose trappings shone
    Inlaid with laton, gold of hue,
    Star-bright amid the dawn and dew;
    Proud on his lordly-stepping roan
    He rode, and seemed of chivalry
    The star, until he stood alone
    Before the Court and spoke his lie,
    And said,--(for him, too, heart and tongue,
    Mark's gold had bought)--"I saw him die.
    Alas! for one so brave and young!
    But better so than still to be
    A madman and a mockery!"--
    Then smiled around the questioning Court
    As one who brought no ill report....
    And she believed. And front to front
    With all her misery that eve,--
    Which, sombre-visaged, o'er the mount,
    Above Day's burning bier did grieve
    And bow her melancholy star,--
    With tearful eyes she watched the light
    Streak all the heaven with blood afar;
    And lingered far into the night,
    Lamenting at her casement-bar.


V

    "Oh, I'm like one who o'er her light,
    Her lamp of love, bends down, when, lo!
    All on a sudden, out of night,
    Dashing it down, there comes a blow
    That leaves all darkness; and she hears
    A demon whispering in the gloom,
    That shuts her in with all her fears,"
    So thought she, lonely in her room.
    Then took her lute and touched such airs
    As Tristram loved, sad songs of Breön,
    She once had heard, all unawares,
    Sir Launcelot sing in old Caerleön,
    To Guinevere upon the stairs,
    The terrace stairs, beside the Usk,
    Deep in the nightingale-haunted dusk.
    Then ceased, and wept until the stars,
    Seen through her tears, made heaven all tears,
    On fire with tears, that left their scars
    Upon its face; and all the years
    Of grief and love seemed in their spheres:
    And reaching out her arms she cried,
    "O God! O God! that I had died!
    O Tristram! Tristram! art thou near?
    O love, be near me in this hour!
    This hour of anguish and of fear!
    Which,--(like yon fountain's ceaseless foam,
    Unseen, beneath this starlit tower,
    Deep in the shadow of its dome),--
    Throbs on and on within my life,
    The utter darkness of its woe.--
    O hour of grief! O hour of strife!
    Why must my young heart suffer so?
    Why must my sick soul sigh and sigh,
    And God not hear nor let me die?"


VI

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




THE DREAM OF SIR GALAHAD

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


I

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


II

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


III

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


IV

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


V

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


VI

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


VII

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


VIII

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


IX

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


X

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


XI

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


XII

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


XIII

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




AFTER THE TOURNAMENT

_The good Knight_, SIR LIONELL DE GANIS, _wounded unto death, addresses
his Lady_, EVALOTT, _in the Forest of Dean, whither he has been borne on
his shield_.


I

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


II

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


III

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


IV

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


V

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




THE DARK TOWER

"_Childe Rowland to the dark tower came._"

    --King Lear.


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

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

    Thrice, under its warlock turrets,
      Where the causeway of rock was laid;
    Thrice, there at its owlet portal,
      His scornful bugle brayed;
    And the drawbridge clanged at his summons,
      And he rode in unafraid.

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

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

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

    She spun the flax of a spindle,
      All in a magic space;
    She spun with her head bent downward,
      His Lady, fair of face;
    She spun, all wildly singing,
      All spellbound in that place.

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

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

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




THE BLIND HARPER


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

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

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

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

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

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




CHILDE RONALD


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    "Unbusk, unbusk me, handmaidens;
    Long will I lie a-bed:
    And when Childe Ronald lies by me,
    'Twill be when I am dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    He rises from his knees with dread,
    He flies that room unblest--
    Oh, can it be he sees the dead,
    The blood upon her breast?

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

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

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

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

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

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




MORGAN LE FAY


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Sir Bors, Sir Balin, and Gawain,
      All Arthur's knights, and many mo;
    But these in battle had been slain
        Long years ago.

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

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

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

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

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




THE LADY OF THE HILLS


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

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

    This hope still gives my body strength--
    To kiss thy mouth and eyes at length
      Where all thy kin can see:
    Then, 'mid thy towers of crime and gloom,
    Sin-haunted as the Halls of Doom,
    To strike thee dead in that wild room
      Red-lit with revelry.

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

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

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




THE DEMON LOVER


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

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

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

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

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

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

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




A PRINCESS OF THULE


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

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

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

    His face was white as moonlight,
      His hair, a crumpled gold:
    Oh, she was wise as youth is,
    And he was young as truth is,
      And the king was old, was old.

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

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

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

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

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




THE DAUGHTER OF MERLIN


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

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

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

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

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

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

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




TRISTRAM TO ISOLT


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Nor why I kissed her soon and late,
    And for her felt desire,
    While loathing of her passion ate
    Into my heart like fire.

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

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




THE KNIGHT-ERRANT


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Hope's are the lips that wind the horn
      Before the gates of lust:
    Though fifty dragons hiss him scorn,
        Still will he trust.

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

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




THE FORESTER


      I met him here at Ammendorf one spring.
    It was the end of April and the Harz,
    Treed to their ruin-crested summits, seemed
    One pulse of tender green and delicate gold,
    Beneath a heaven that was like the face
    Of girlhood waking into motherhood.
    Along the furrowed meadow, freshly ploughed,
    The patient oxen, loamy to the knees,
    Plodded or lowed or snuffed the fragrant soil;
    And in each thorn-tree hedge the wild bird sang
    A song to spring, full of its own wild self
    And soul, that heard the blossom-laden May's
    Heart beating like a star at break of day,
    As, kissing red the roses, she drew near,
    Her mouth's ripe rose all dewdrops and perfume.
    Here at this inn and underneath this tree
    We took our wine, the morning prismed in its
    Flame-crystalled gold.--A goodly vintage that!
    Tang with the ripeness of full twenty years.
    Rare! I remember! wine that spurred the blood,
    That brought the heart glad to the songful lip,
    And made the eyes unlatticed casements whence
    A man's true soul smiled, breezy as the blue.
    As royal a Rhenish, I will vouch to say,
    As that, old legends tell, which Necromance
    And Magic keep, gnome-guarded, in huge casks
    Of antique make deep in the Kyffhäuser,
    Webbed, frosty gray, with salt-petre and mold,
    The Cellar of the Knights near Sittendorf.--

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

      Tall was he for his age and strong and brown,
    And lithe of limb; and with a face that seemed
    Hope's counterpart--but with the eyes of doubt:
    Deep stealthy disks, instinct with starless night,
    That seemed to say, "We're sure of Earth--at least
    For some short while, my friend; but afterward--
    Nay! ransack not to-morrow till to-day
    Lest it engulf thy joy before it is!"--
    And when he spoke, the fire in his eyes
    Worked restless as a hunted animal's;
    Or like the Count von Hackelnburg's,--the eyes
    Of the Wild Huntsman,--his that turn and turn
    Feeling the unseen presence of a fiend.

      And then his smile! a thrust-like thing that curled
    His lips with heresy and incredible lore
    When Christ's or th' Virgin's holy name was said,
    Exclaimed in reverence or admonishment:
    And once he sneered,--"What is this God you mouth,
    Employ whose name to bless yourselves or damn?
    A curse or blessing?--It hath passed my skill
    T' interpret what He is. And then your faith--
    What is this faith that helps you unto Him?
    Distinguishment unseen, design unlawed.
    Why, earth, air, fire, and water, heat and cold,
    Hint not at Him: and man alone it is
    Who needs must worship something. And for me--
    No God like that whom man hath kinged and crowned!
    Rather your Satan cramped in Hell--the Fiend!
    God-countenanced as he is, and tricked with horns.
    No God for me, bearded as Charlemagne,
    Throned on a tinsel throne of gold and jade,
    Earth's pygmy monarchs imitate in mien
    And mind and tyranny and majesty,
    Aping a God in a sonorous Heaven.
    Give me the Devil in all mercy then,
    Bad as he is! for I will none of such!"
    And laughed an oily laugh of easy jest
    To bow out God and let the Devil in.

[Illustration: And grasped of both wild hands, swung trenchant. Page 285

    _Accolon of Gaul_
]

      Then, as it chanced, old Kurt had come that morn
    With some six of his jerkined foresters
    From the Thuringian forest; wet with dew,
    And fresh as morn with early travel; bound
    For Brunswick, Dummburg and the Hakel passed.
    Chief huntsman he then to our lord the Duke,
    And father of the loveliest maiden here
    In Ammendorf, the sunny Ilsabe:
    Her mother dead, the gray-haired father prized
    His daughter more than all that men hold dear;
    His only happiness, who was beloved
    Of all as Lora of Thuringia was,
    For gentle ways that spoke a noble soul,
    Winning all hearts to love her and to praise,
    As might a great and beautiful thought that holds
    Us by the simplest words.--Blue were her eyes
    As the high glory of a summer day.
    Her hair,--serene and braided over brows
    White as a Harz dove's wing,--an auburn brown,
    And deep as mists the sun has drenched with gold:
    And her young presence, like embodied song,
    Filled every heart she smiled on with sweet calm,
    Like some Tyrolean melody of love,
    Heard on an Alpine path at close of day
    When homing shepherds pipe to tinkling flocks:
    Being with you a while, so, when she left,--
    How shall I say it?--'twas as when one hath
    Beheld an Undine on the moonlit Rhine,
    Who, ere the mind adjusts a thought, is gone,
    And to the soul it seems it was a dream.

      Some thirty years ago it was;--and I,
    Commissioner of the Duke--(no sinecure
    I can assure you)--had scarce reached the age
    Of thirty,--that we sat here at our wine;
    And 'twas through me that Rudolf,--whom at first,
    From some rash words dropped then in argument,
    The foresterhood was like to be denied,--
    Was then enfellowed. "Yes," said I, "he's young.
    Kurt, he _is_ young: but look you! what a man!
    What arms! what muscles! what a face--for deeds!
    An eye--that likes me not; too quick to turn!--
    But that may be the restless soul within:
    A soul perhaps with virtues that have been
    Severely tried and could not stand the test;
    These be thy care, Kurt: and if not too deep
    In vices of the flesh, discover them,
    As divers bring lost riches up from ooze.--
    Thou hast a daughter; let him be thy son."

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

      Kuno, once in the Knight of Wippach's train,
    Rode on a grand hunt with the Duke, who came,--
    Grandfather of the father of our Duke,--
    With much magnificence of knights and squires,
    Great velvet-vestured nobles, cloaked and plumed,
    To hunt Thuringian deer. Then morn,--so rathe
    To bid good-morrow to the husbandman
    Heavy with slumber,--was too slow for these,
    And on the wind-trod hills recumbent yawned
    Aroused an hour too soon: ashamed, disrobed,
    Rubbed the stiff sleep from eyes that still would close;
    Like some young milkmaid whom the cock hath waked,
    Who sits within her loft and, half asleep,
    Stretches and hears the house below her stir,
    Yet sits and yawns, reluctant still to rise.--
    Horns sang and deer-hounds tugged a whimpering leash,
    Or, loosened, bounded through the baying glens:
    And ere the mountain mists, compact of white,
    Broke wild before the azure spears of day,
    The far-off hunt, that woke the woods to life,
    Seemed but the heart-beat of the ancient hills.

      And then, near noon, within a forest brake,
    The ban-dogs roused a red gigantic stag,
    Lashed to whose back with gnarly-knotted cords,
    And borne along like some pale parasite,
    A man shrieked: tangle-bearded, and his hair
    A mane of forest-burrs. The man himself,
    Emaciated and half-naked from
    The stag's mad flight through headlong rocks and trees,
    One bleeding bruise, his eyes two holes of fire.
    For such the law then: when the peasant chased
    Or slew the dun deer of his tyrant lords,
    If caught, as punishment the withes and spine
    Of some strong stag, a gift to him of game
    Enough till death--death in the antlered herd,
    Or slow starvation in the haggard hills.
    Then was the great Duke glad, and forthwith cried
    To all his hunting-train a rich reward
    For him who slew the stag and saved the man,
    But death for him who slew both man and beast.
    So plunged the hunt after the hurrying slot,
    A shout and glimmer through the sounding woods,--
    Like some wild torrent that the hills have loosed,
    Death for its goal.--'Twas late; and none had yet
    Risked that hard shot,--too desperate the risk
    Beside the poor life and a little gold,--
    When this young Kuno, with hot eyes, wherein
    Hunt and impatience kindled reckless flame,
    Cried, "Has the dew made wet each powder-pan?
    Or have we left our marksmanship at home?
    Here's for its heart! the Fiend direct my ball!"--
    And fired into a covert packed with briers,
    An intertangled wall of matted night,
    Wherein the eye might vainly strive and strive
    To pierce one fathom, gaze one foot beyond:
    But, ha! the huge stag staggered from the brake,
    Heart-hit, and fell: and that wan wretch, unbound,
    Rescued, was cared for. Then his grace, the Duke,
    Charmed with the eagle aim, called Kuno up,
    And there to him and his forever gave
    The forest-keepership.

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

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

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

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

      No cry, no word, no whisper, even though
    Vague, gesturing shapes, that loom like moonlit mists,
    Their faces human but of animal form,
    Whinnying and whining lusts, faun-faced, goat-formed,
    Rise thick around and threaten to destroy.
    No cry, no word, no whisper should there come,
    Weeping, a wandering shadow like the girl
    You love, or loved, now lost to you, her eyes
    Hollow with tears; sad, palely beckoning
    With beautiful arms, or censuring; her face
    Wild with despondent love: who, if you speak
    Or waver from that circle--hideous change!--
    Shrinks to a wrinkled hag, whose harpy hands
    Shall tear you limb from limb with horrible mirth.
    Nor be deceived if some far midnight bell
    Strike that anticipated hour; nor leave
    By one short inch the circle, for, unseen
    Though now they be, Hell's minions still are there,
    Watching with flaming eyes to seize your soul.
    But when the hour of midnight sounds, will come
    A noise of galloping hoofs and outriders,
    Shouting: six midnight steeds,--their nostrils, pits
    Of burning blood,--postilioned, roll a stage,
    Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire:
    "Room there!--What, ho!--Who bars the mountain way?--
    On over him!"--But fear not, nor fare forth;
    'Tis but the last trick of your bounden slave.
    And ere the red moon rushes from the clouds
    And dives again, high the huge leaders leap,
    Their fore-hoofs flashing and their eyeballs flame,
    And, spun a spiral spark into the night,
    Hissing the phantasm flies and fades away.
    Some say there comes no stage; that Hackelnburg,
    Wild-Huntsman of the Harz, comes dark as storm,
    With rain and wind and demon dogs of Hell;
    The terror of his hunting-horn, an owl,
    And the dim deer he hunts, rush on before:
    The forests crash, and whirlwinds are the leaves,
    And all the skies a-thunder, as he hurls,
    Straight on the circle, horse and hounds and stag.
    And at the last, plutonian-cloaked, there comes,--
    Infernal fire streaming from his eyes,--
    Upon a stallion gaunt and lurid black,
    The minister of Satan, Sammael,
    Who greets you, and informs you, and assures.

      Enough! these wives' tales told, to what I've seen:
    To Ammendorf I came; and Rudolf here
    With Kurt and his assembled men in buff
    And woodland green were gathered at this inn.
    The abundant Year--like some sweet wife,--a-smile
    At her brown baby, Autumn, in her arms,
    Stood 'mid the garnered harvests of her fields
    Dreaming of days that pass like almoners
    Scattering their alms in minted gold of flowers;
    Of nights, that forest all the skies with stars,
    Wherethrough the moon--bare-bosomed huntress--rides,
    One cloud before her like a flying fawn.
    Then I proposed the season's hunt; till eve
    The test of Rudolf's skill postponed; at which
    He seemed embarrassed. And 'twas then I heard
    How he an execrable marksman was;
    And tales that told of close, incredible shots,
    That missed their mark; or how the flint-lock oft
    Flamed harmless powder, while the curious deer
    Stood staring, as in pity of such aim,
    Or as inviting him to try once more.
    Howbeit, he that day acquitted him
    Of all this gossip; in that day's long hunt
    Missing no shot, however rashly made
    Or distant through the intercepting trees.
    And the piled, various game brought down of all
    Good marksmen of Kurt's train had not sufficed,
    Doubled, nay, trebled, there to match his heap.
    And marvelling the hunters saw, nor knew
    How to excuse them. My indulgence giv'n,
    Some told me that but yesterday old Kurt
    Had made his daughter weep and Rudolf frown,
    By vowing end to their betrothéd love,
    Unless that love developed better skill
    Against the morrow's test; his ancestors'
    High fame should not be tarnished. So he railed;
    Then bowed his gray head and sat moodily:
    But, looking up, forgave all when he saw
    Tears in his daughter's eyes and Rudolf gone
    Out in the night, black with approaching storm.

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

      So pleased was I with what I'd seen him do,
    The trial of skill superfluous seemed; and so
    Was on the bare brink of announcing, when
    Out of the western heaven's deepening red,--
    Like a white message dropped of scarlet lips,--
    A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there,
    Upon that limb, a peaceful moment sat.
    Then I, "Thy rifle, Rudolf! pierce its head!"
    Cried pointing, "and chief-forester art thou!"
    Why did he falter with a face as strange
    And strained as terror's? did his soul divine
    What was to be, with tragic prescience?--
    What a bad dream it all seems now!--Again
    I see him aim. Again I hear her cry,
    "My dove! O Rudolf, do not kill my dove!"
    And from the crowd, like some sweet dove herself,
    A fluttering whiteness, rushed our Ilsabe--
    Too late! the rifle cracked.... The unhurt dove
    Rose, beating frightened wings--but Ilsabe!...
    My God! the sight!... fell smitten; sudden red,
    Sullying the whiteness of her bridal bodice,
    Showed where the ball had pierced her innocent heart.

      And Rudolf?--Ah, of him you still would know?
    --When he beheld this thing which he had done,
    Why, he went mad--I say--but others not.
    An hour he raved of how her life had paid
    For the unholy missiles he had used,
    And how his soul was three times lost and damned.
    I say that he went mad and fled forthwith
    Into the haunted Harz.--Some say, to die
    The prey of demons of the Dummburg ruin.
    I,--one of those less superstitious,--say,
    He in the Bodé--from that blackened rock,--
    Whereon were found his hunting-cap and horn,--
    The Devil's Dancing Place, did leap and die.




THE MOATED MANSE


I

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


II

    The basest Cavalier who e'er wore spurs
    Or drew a sword, I count him; with his grave
    Eyes 'neath his plumed hat like a wolf's whom curs
    Rouse, to their harm, within a forest cave;
    And hair like harvest; and a voice like verse
    For smoothness. Ay, a handsome man and--brave!--
    Brave?--who would question it! yea! tho' 'tis true
    He warred with one weak woman and her few.


III

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


IV

    "She is for you! Take her! I promised it!
    Take her, my bullies!"--shouting so, he flung
    Her in their midst. Then, on her poor hands (split,
    And beaten by his dagger when she clung
    Resisting him) and knees, she crept a bit
    Nearer his feet and begged for death. No tongue
    Can tell the way he turned from her and cursed,
    Then bade his men draw lots for which were first.


V

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


VI

    The rain revived me, and I leaned with pain
    And saw her lying there, pale, soiled and splashed
    And miserable; on her cheek a stain,
    A dull red bruise, made when his mad hand dashed
    And struck her to the stones; the wretched rain
    Dripped from her dark hair; and her hands were gashed.--
    Oh, for a musket or a petronel
    With which to send his devil's soul to hell!


VII

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


VIII

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


IX

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


X

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


XI

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


XII

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


XIII

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


XIV

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


XV

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


XVI

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


XVII

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


XVIII

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


XIX

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


XX

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


XXI

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


XXII

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


XXIII

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


XXIV

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


XXV

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


XXVI

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


XXVII

    "But still this man pursued me, and I held
    Firm to my vow, albeit I loved him still,
    Unknown to all, with all the love unquelled
    Of first impressions, and against my will.
    At last despair of winning me compelled
    Him to the oath he swore: He would not kill,
    But take me living and would make my life
    A living death. No man should make me wife.


XXVIII

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


XXIX

    "Months passed. Alas! it needs not here to tell
    What often thou hast heard: Of how he led
    His ruffians here now there; or what befell
    Me of dishonor. Oft I wished me dead,
    Loathing my life,--than which the nether Hell
    Hath less of horror!--So we fought or fled
    From place to place until a year had passed,
    And Parliament forces hemmed us in at last.


XXX

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


XXXI

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


XXXII

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


XXXIII

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


XXXIV

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


XXXV

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


XXXVI

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




AN OLD TALE RETOLD


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

    I was his page. And often we fared
    Through the Clare demesne, in autumn, hawking--
    If the Baron had known, how they would have glared,
    'Neath their bushy brows, those eyes of mocking!--
    That last of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean--
    And growling some six of his henchmen lean
    To mount and after this Clifford and hang
    With his crop-eared page to the nearest oak,
    How he would have cursed us while he spoke!
    For Clare and Clifford had ever a fang
    In the other's side.... And I hear the clang
    Of his rage in the hall when the hawker told--
    If he told!--how we met on the autumn wold
    His daughter, sweet Clara of Clare, the day
    Her hooded tiercel its brails did burst,
    And trailing its jesses, came flying our way--
    An untrained haggard the falconer cursed
    While he tried to secure:--as the eyas flew
    Slant, low and heavily over us, Hugh,--
    Who saw it coming, and had just then cast
    His peregrine hawk at a heron quarry,--
    In his saddle rising thus, as it passed
    By the jesses caught, and to her did carry,
    Where she stood near the wood. Her face flushed rose
    With the glad of the meeting.--No two foes
    Her eyes and my lord's, I swear, who saw
    'Twas love from the start.--And I heard him speak;
    Dismount, then kneel--and the sombre shaw,
    With the sad of the autumn waste and bleak,
    Grew spring with her smile, as the hawk she took
    On her slender wrist, where it pruned and shook
    Its callowness. Then I saw him seize
    The hand that she reached to him, long and white,
    As she smilingly bade him rise from his knees--
    When he kissed her fingers her eyes grew bright.
    But her cheeks were pallid when, lashing through
    The thicket there, his face a-flare
    With the sting of the wind, and his gipsy hair
    Flying, the falconer came, and two
    Or three of the people of Castle Clare.
    And the leaves of the autumn made a frame
    For the picture there in the morning's flame.

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

    He loved and was loved, I knew; for, look!
    All other sports for the chase he forsook.
    And strange that he never went to hawk,
    Or hunt, but Clara would meet him there
    In the Strongbow forest!--I know the rock,
    With its ferns and its moss, by the bramble lair,
    Where oft and often he met--by chance,
    Shall I say?--the daughter of Clare; as fair
    Of face as a queen in an old romance,
    Who waits expectant and pale; her hair
    Night-deep; and eyes dove-gray with dreams;--
    By the fountain-side where the statue gleams
    And the moonbeam lolls in the lily white,--
    For her knightly lover who comes at night.

    Heigh-ho! they ceased, those meetings. I wot,
    Betrayed to the Baron by some of his crew
    Of menials who followed and saw and knew.
    For she loved too well to have once forgot
    The time and the place of their trysting true.
    "Why and when?" would ask Sir Hugh
    In the labored letters he used to lock
    --The lovers' post--in a coigne of that rock.
    She used to answer, but now did not.
    But, nearing Yule, love gat them again
    A twilight tryst--through frowardness sure!--
    They met. And the day was gray with rain,
    And snow: and the wind did ever endure
    A long bleak moaning through the wood,
    That chapped i' the cheek and smarted the blood;
    And a burne in the forest went throb and throb,
    And over it all was the wild-beast sob
    Of the rushing boughs like a thing pursued.
    And then it was that he learned how she,
    (God's blood! how it makes my old limbs quiver
    To think what a miserable tyrant he--
    The Baron Richard--aye and ever
    To his daughter was!) forsooth! _must_ wed
    With an eastern earl--a Lovell: to whom
    (Would God o' His mercy had struck him dead!)
    Clara of Clare when merely a child,--
    With a face like a flower, that blows in the wild
    Of the hills, and a soul like its soft perfume,--
    Was given--say, sealed--to strengthen some ties
    Of power and wealth--say bartered, then,
    Like the veriest chattel. With tearful eyes
    And lips a-tremble she spoke. And when
    My lord, her lover, had learned and heard,--
    He'd have had her flee with him then, 'sdeath!
    In spite of them all! Let her say the word,
    They would fly together: the baron's men
    Might follow; and if ... and he touched his sword--
    _It_ should answer! But she, while she seemed to stay,
    With a hand on her bosom, her heart's quick breath,
    Replied to his heat: "They would take and slay
    Thee who art life of my life!--Not thus
    Will we fly!--There's another way for us;
    A way that is sure; an only way;
    I have thought on it this many a day."--
    The words that she spake how well I remember!
    As well as the mood o' that day of December,
    That bullied and blustered and seemed in league,
    Like a spiteful shrew, with the wind and the snow,
    To drown the words of their sweet intrigue,
    With the boom of the boughs tossed to and fro,
    That the storm swept through with its wild-beast low.
    Her last words these, "By curfew sure,
    On Christmas eve, at the postern door."

           *       *       *       *       *

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

    Was she long? did she come?... By the postern we
    Like shadows waited. My lord, Sir Hugh,
    Spoke, pointing a tower: "That casement, see?
    When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue
    And signals thrice slowly, thus--'tis she."
    And close to his breast his gaberdine drew,
    For the wind it whipped and the snow beat through.
    Did she come?--We had waited an hour or twain,
    When the taper flashed in the central pane,
    And flourished three times and vanished so.
    And under the arch of the postern's portal,
    Crouched down by the horses we stood in the snow,
    Stiff with the cold.--Ah, me! immortal
    Minutes we waited, breath-bated, and listened
    Shivering there in the hurl of the gale:
    The parapets whistled, the angles glistened,
    And the night around seemed one black wail
    Of death, whose ominous presence over
    The snow-swept battlements seemed to hover.
    Said my lord, Sir Hugh,--to himself he spoke,--
    "She feels for the spring in the sliding panel
    'Neath the arras, hid in the carven oak.
    It opens. The stair, like a well's dark channel,
    Yawns, and the draught makes her taper <DW72>.
    Wrapped deep in her mantle of fur, she puts
    One foot on the stair: now a listening pause
    As nearer and nearer the mad search draws
    Of the thwarted castle. No smallest hope
    That they find her now that the panel shuts!
    If the wind, that howls like a tortured thing,
    Would throttle itself with its cries, then I
    Might hear how her hurrying footsteps ring
    Down the secret ... there! 'tis her fingers try
    The postern's bolts that the rust makes cling."--
    But 'twas only some whim of the wind that shook
    A clanging ring on a creaking hook
    In the buttress or wall. And we waited, numb
    With the cold, till dawn--but she did not come.

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

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

    And years went by. And it happened that they
    Ransacked the old castle; and so, one day,
    In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest,
    From Flanders; of ebon, and wildly carved
    All over with masks: a sinister crest
    'Mid gargoyle faces distorted and starved:
    Fast-fixed with a spring, which they forced and, lo!
    When they opened it--Death, like a lady dressed,
    Grinned up at their terror!--but no, not so!
    Fantastic a skeleton, jeweled and wreathed
    With flowers of dust; and a miniver
    Around it clasped, that the ruin sheathed
    Of a once rich raiment of silk and of fur.

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




MY LADY OF VERNE


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

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

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

    A gray sad land, where the wind has its will,
    And the sun its way with the fruits and flowers;
    Where ever the one all night is shrill,
    And ever the other all day brings hours
    Of glimmering hush that dead dreams fill.

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

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

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

    How long ago does the springtime look,
    When we wandered away to the hills! the hills,--
    Like the land in the tale in the Fairy-book,--
    Gold with the gold of the daffodils,
    And gemmed with the crocus by bank and brook!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

           *       *       *       *       *

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

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

    So I sought her here: the old Earl's bride:
    In the ancient room, at the oriel dreaming,
    Pale as the blooms in her hair; and, wide,
    The dented satin, flung stormily, gleaming
    Like beaten silver, twilight-dyed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    A Bactrian dagger, whose slightest prick,
    Through its ancient poison, was death, I knew.--
    If true that she loved me--then!--And quick
    To the unspoken thought she replied, "'Tis true!
    I have loved you long, and my soul was sick,

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

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

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

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

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

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




GERALDINE


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

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

    Ah, Geraldine, loved Geraldine,
    Less lovely were those maids, I ween,
    Pampinea and Lauretta, who,
    In gardens old of dusk and dew,
    Sat with their lovers, maid and man,
    In stately days Italian,
    And in quaint stories, that we know
    Through grace of good Boccaccio,
    Told of fond loves,--some false, some true,--
    But, Geraldine, none false as you.

    Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine,
    That night of love, when last we met,
    You have forgotten, Geraldine--
    I never dreamed you would forget.
    'Twas summer; and the moon swam high,
    A great pale pearl within the sky:
    And down that purple night of love
    The stars, concurrent spark on spark,
    Seemed moths of flame that swarmed above:
    And through the roses, o'er the park,
    Star-like the fireflies sowed the dark:
    A mocking-bird in some deep tree,
    Drowsy with dreams and melody,--
    Like a magnolia bud, that, dim,
    Opens and pours its soul in musk,--
    Gave to the moonlight and the dusk
    Its heart's pure song, its evening hymn.
    Oh, night of love! when in the dance
    Your heart thrilled rapture into mine,
    As, in a state of necromance,
    A mortal hears a voice divine.
    Oh, night of love! when from your glance
    I drank sweet death as men drink wine.

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

    I held your arm and, for a while,
    We walked along the balmy aisle
    Of blossoms that, like velvet, dips
    Unto the lake which lilies tile
    With stars; and hyacinths, with strips
    Of heaven. And beside a fall,
    That down a ferned and mossy wall
    Fell in a lake,--deep, woodbine-wound,--
    A latticed summer-house we found;
    A green kiosk; through which the sound
    Of waters and of zephyrs swayed,
    And honeysuckle bugles played
    Soft serenades of perfume sweet,--
    Around which ran a rustic seat.
    And seated in that haunted nook,--
    I know not how it was,--a word,
    A touch, perhaps, a sigh, a look,
    Was father to the kiss I took;
    Great things grow out of small I've heard.
    And then it was I took between
    My hands your face, loved Geraldine,
    And gazed into your eyes, and told
    The story ever new though old.
    You did not look away, but met
    My eyes with eyes whose lids were wet
    With tears of truth; and you did lean
    Your cheek to mine, my Geraldine.--
    I never dreamed you would forget.

    The night-wind and the water sighed:
    And through the leaves, that stirred above,
    The moonbeams swooned with music of
    The dance--soft things in league with love:
    I never dreamed that you had lied.
    How all comes back now, Geraldine!
    The melody; the glimmering scene;
    Your angel face; and ev'n,--between
    Your lawny breasts,--the heart-shaped jewel,--
    To which your breath gave fluctuant fuel,--
    A rosy star of stormy fire;
    The snowy drift of your attire,
    Lace-deep and fragrant: and your hair,
    Disordered in the dance, held back
    By one gemmed pin,--a moonbeam there,
    Half-drowned within its night-like black.--
    And I who sat beside you then
    Seemed blessed above all mortal men.

    I loved you for the way you sighed;
    The way you said, "I love but you;"
    The smile with which your lips replied;
    Your lips, that from my bosom drew
    The soul; your looks, like undenied
    Caresses, that seemed naught but true:
    I loved you for the violet scent
    That clung about you as a flower;
    Your moods, where grief and gladness blent,
    An April-tide of sun and shower;
    You were my creed, my testament,
    Wherein I met with God's high power.
    Was it because the loving see
    Only what they desire shall be
    There in the well-belovéd's soul,
    Passion and heart's affinity,
    That I beheld in you the whole
    Of my love's image? and believed
    You loved as I loved? nor perceived
    Yours was a mask, a mockery!

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




AT THE CORREGIDOR'S


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




AN EPISODE


_A woman speaks. Year 1218; war of the Albigenses._


I

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


II

    And Mountfort!--it was given me,
    (For I had prayed incessantly),
      To be the David to this giant.--
    An Albigensian warrior
    My husband was. He, in the war,
      The Pope had thundered on defiant
    Thoulouse and outlawed Languedoc,
    Stood with Earl Raymond like a rock.


III

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


IV

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


V

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


VI

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




THE SLAVE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE ROSICRUCIAN


I

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


II

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


III

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


IV

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


V

    Was it her soul? or the sapphire fire
    That sang like the note of a Seraph's lyre?
    Out of her mouth there came no word--
      She spake with her soul, as a flower speaketh
    Fragrant messages none hath heard,
      Which the sense divines when the spirit seeketh....
    And he seemed alone in a place so dim
    That the spirit's face, who was gazing at him,
    For its burning eyes he could not see:
    Then he knew he had died; that she and he
    Were one; and he saw that this was she.




THE NORMAN KNIGHT


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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE KHALIF AND THE ARAB


    Among the tales, wherein it hath been told,
    In golden letters in a book of gold,
    Of Hatim Tai's hospitality,
    Who, substanceless and dead and shadowy,
    Made men his guests upon a mountain top
    Whereon his tomb grayed from a thistle crop;--
    A tomb of rock where women, hewn of stone,
    Rude figures, spread dishevelled hair, whose moan
    From dark to daybreak made the silence sigh,
    At which the camel-drivers, tented nigh,
    "Ghouls or hyenas" shuddering would say,
    But only granite women find at day:--
    Among such tales--who questions of their truth?--
    One tale still haunts me from my earliest youth;
    Of that lost city, Sheddad son of Aad
    Built 'mid the Sebaa sands,--a king who had
    Dominion over many lands and kings,--
    That city, built in pride and pow'r, of things
    Unstable of the earth. For he had read
    Of Paradise and to himself had said,
    "Now in this life the like of Paradise
    I'll build me and the Prophet's may despise,
    Having no need of that he promises."
    So for this city taxed the lands and seas,
    And columned Irem, on a blinding height,
    Blazed in the desert like a chrysolite;
    The manner of its building, it is told,
    Alternate bricks of silver and of gold.
    But Sheddad with his women and his slaves,
    His thousand viziers, armored troops, as waves
    Of ocean countless, God with awful flame--
    Shot sheer in thunder on him--overcame,
    Confounded, and abolished; (ere his eyes
    Had glimpsed bright follies of that paradise)
    And blotted to a wilderness the land
    Wherein accursed it lies and lost in sand.--
    Sad tales and glad; and 'mid them one, in sooth,
    That is recorded of an Arab youth.

    The Khalif Hisham ben Abdulmelik,
    Hunting one day, through some unusual freak
    Rode, parted from his retinue, and gave
    Chase to an antelope. Without a slave,
    Vizier or amir to a pasture place
    Of sheep he came, where dark, in tattered grace,
    Watched one, an Arab youth. And as it came
    The antelope drew off, with words of flame,
    On fire with rage, unto the youth he turned,
    Shouting, "Thou slave! ho, hast thou not discerned
    The antelope escapes me? Up, dog, run!
    Head him back this way!"

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

    Incensed, astonished, frowning furiously,
    Said Hisham, "Slave! thou know'st me not, I see!"
    Calmly the youth, "Aye, verily I know!--
    O mannerless! _who_ would command me so,
    _Except thyself_, ere he said 'Peace to thee'?
    Well art thou known, aye! all too well of me!"

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

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

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

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

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

    The shepherd answered, "Aye?--by Allah, then,
    If through thy means it might be stretched again,
    Unscissored of what Destiny ordain,
    Back in thy face I'd fling it as in vain."

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

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

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

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

                              "By Iblis' oath!
    Strike!" answered Hisham. But again the slave
    Questioned; and yet again the Khalif gave
    His nodded "yea"; and for the third time then
    He asked: and knowing neither men nor Jinn
    Might save him if the Khalif spake assent,
    Signalled the sword, the youth with body bent
    Laughed--till the wang-teeth of each jaw appeared;
    Laughed--as with scorn the King of kings he'd beard,
    Deriding Death. So, with redoubled spleen,
    Roared Hisham, rising, "It is truly seen
    This one is mad who mocks at Azrael!"
    Then said the Arab: "Listen!--Once befell,
    Commander of the Faithful, that a hawk,
    A hungry hawk, pounced on a sparrow-cock;
    And winging nestward with his meal in claw,
    To him the sparrow,--for the creature saw
    The hawk's conceit,--addressed this slyly, 'Oh,
    Most great, most royal, there is not, I know,
    Aught in me that will stay thy stomach's stress:
    I am too paltry for thy mightiness!'
    With which the hawk was pleased, and flattered so
    That, in a while, he let the sparrow go."

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




ARABAH

"_The third of these heroes, the blind Arabah._"--Gibbon.


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

                                   And 'tis told
      How blind Arabah rose with unsealed eyes,
    With seeing eyes; he who to Allah gave
      All that he had; which happened in this wise:--
    "Who's this that lies upon the mosque's cold pave?"--
      "A blind man, whom an angel's hand shall lead."--
    "A beggar, richer than the rich who have."--
      "Behold the lesson, such as Sufis feed
    The soul upon!--O faith, blind-praying, see,
      Out of thyself how God repays indeed,
    Ten-thousandfold, one generosity!"...

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




THE SEVEN DEVILS


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

    It in one hand held out a flaming jewel,
      Wherein fierce colors burnt and blent like eyes
    Of seven fires, merciless as cruel:
      The horror said, "God cursed them for their lies.
      These are the seven devils of the wise,
    And I am Satan!" And the prophet saw
      How he might punish Mecca for its pride;
      And, gazing on the Fiend, "Allah," he cried,
    "Let them be free!" His word, like God's, was law.

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




THAMUS


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

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

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

    Then silence: and the languid Greek,
      The lounging Cretan, watched the sky,
    Or, in carousal, ceased to speak
      And sing. Again came rolling by
      The voice, and "Thamus!" in its cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    That left them thunder-riv'n; then passed
      To Aphaca where, marble-hewn,
    Venus possessed a well that glassed
      Her form, white-burning, like the moon--
      And lo! her loveliness lay strewn.

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




THE MAMELUKE


I

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


II

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


III

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


IV

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




ROMAUNT OF THE ROSES


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE PORTRAIT


    In some quaint Nürnberg _maler-atelier_
    Uprummaged. When and where was never clear
    Nor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom
    'Twas painted--who shall say? itself a gloom
    Resisting inquisition. I opine
    It is a Dürer. Mark that touch, this line,
    Are they deniable?--Distinguished grace
    And the pure oval of the noble face
    Tarnished in color badly. Half in light
    Extend it so. Incline. The exquisite
    Expression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn;
    Imperial beauty; each, an icy thorn
    Of light, disdainful eyes and ... well! no use!
    Effaced and but beheld! a sad abuse
    Of patience.--Often, vaguely visible,
    The portrait fills each feature, making swell
    The heart with hope: avoiding face and hair
    Start out in living hues; astonished, "There!
    The woman lives," your soul exults, when, lo!
    You hold a blur; an undetermined glow
    Dislimns a daub.--Restore?--Ah, I have tried
    Our best restorers, but it has defied.

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

    The narrow Judengasse: gables frown
    Around a humpbacked usurer's, where brown
    And dirty in a corner long it lay,
    Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as--say,
    Retables done in tempora and old
    Panels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings cold
    Of martyrs and apostles,--names forgot,--
    Holbeins and Dürers, say; a haloed lot
    Of praying saints, madonnas: these, perchance,
    'Mid wine-stained purples, mothed; an old romance;
    A crucifix and rosary; inlaid
    Arms, Saracen-elaborate; a strayed
    Nïello of Byzantium; rich work,
    In bronze, of Florence; here a delicate dirk,
    There holy patens.

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

                    Like some lived scene I see
    That gothic room; its Flemish tapestry:
    Embossed within the marble hearth a shield,
    Wreathed round with thistles; in its argent field
    Three sable mallets--arms of Herancour--
    Carved with the crest, a helm and hands that bore,
    Outstretched, two mallets. On a lectern laid,--
    Between two casements, lozenge-paned, embayed,--
    A vellum volume of black-lettered text.
    Near by a taper, blinking as if vexed
    With silken gusts a nervous curtain sends,
    Behind which, haply, daggered Murder bends.

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

                    What find they here
    On St. Bartholomew's?--A Huguenot
    Dead in his chair! Eyes violently shot
    With horror, fastened on a portrait there;
    Coiling his neck one blood line, like a hair
    Of finest fire. The portrait, like a fiend,--
    Looking exalted visitation,--leaned
    From its black panel; in its eyes a hate
    Demonic; hair--a glowing auburn, late
    A dull, enduring golden.

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




BEHRAM AND EDDETMA


    Against each prince now she had held her own,
    An easy victor for the seven years
    O'er kings and sons of kings--Eddetma, she,
    Who, when much sought in marriage, hating men,
    Espoused their ways to win beyond their strength
    Through martial exercise and hero deeds:
    She, who, accomplished in all warlike arts,
    Had heralds cry through every kingdom known--
    _"Eddetma weds with none but him who proves
    Himself her master in the test of arms;
    Her suitors' foeman she. And he who fails,
    So overcome of woman, woman-scorned,
    Disarmed, dishonored, yet shall he depart,
    Brow-bearing, forehead-stigmatized with fire,
    The branded words, 'Eddetma's freedman this!'"_
    And many princes came to woo with arms,
    Whom her high maiden prowess put to shame;
    Pretentious courtiers small in thew and thigh,
    Proud-palanquined from principalities
    Of Irak and of Hind and farther Sind.
    Though she was womanly as that Empress of
    The proud Amalekites, Tedmureh, and
    More beautiful, yet she had held her own.

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

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

    And so the lists of war and love arose,
    Wherein Eddetma with her suitor strove.
    Mailed in Chorasmian armor, helm and spur,
    On a great steed she came; Davidean crest
    And hauberk one fierce blaze of gems. The prince,
    Harnessed in scaly gold Arabian, rode
    To meet her; on his arm a mighty shield
    Of Syrian silver high embossed with gold.
    So clanged the prologue of the battle. As
    Closer it waxed, Prince Behram, who a while
    Withheld his valor,--in that she he loved
    Opposed him and beset him, woman whom
    He had not scathed for the Chosroës' wealth,--
    Beheld his folly: how he were undone
    With shining shame unless he strove withal,
    Whirled fiery sword and smote the bassinet
    That helmed the haughty face that long had scorned
    The wide world's vanquished royalty, and so
    Rushed on his own defeat. For, like unto
    A cloud, that caverned the bright moon all eve,
    That thunder splits and, virgin triumph, there
    She sails a silver aspect, so the helm,
    Hurled from her head, unhusked her golden hair,
    And glorious, glowing face. By his own blow
    Was Behram vanquished. All his wavering strength
    Swerved from its purpose. With no final stroke
    Stunned stood he and surrendered: stared and stared,
    All his strong life absorbed into her face,
    All the wild warrior arrowed by her eyes,
    Tamed and obedient to her word and look.
    Then she on him, as eagle on a kite,
    Plunged pitiless and beautiful and fierce,
    One trophy more to added victories:
    Haled off his mail, amazement dazing him;
    Seized steed and arms, confusion filling him;
    And scoffed him forth brow-branded with his shame.

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

    Once when Eddetma with an houri band
    Of high-born damsels, under eunuch guard,
    In the walled palace pleasaunce took her ease,
    Under a myrrh-bush by a fountain side,--
    Where marble Peris poured a diamond rain
    In scooped cornelian,--one, a dim, hoar head,--
    A patriarch 'mid gardener underlings,--
    Bent spreading gems and priceless ornaments
    Of jewelled amulets of hollow gold
    Sweet with imprisoned ambergris and musk;
    Symbolic stones in sorcerous carcanets;
    Gem talismans in cabalistic gold.
    Whereon the princess marvelled and bade ask--
    What did the ancient with his riches there?
    Who, questioned, mumbled in his bushy beard,
    "To buy a wife withal;" whereat they laughed
    As oafs when wisdom stumbles. Quoth a maid,
    With orient midnight in her starry eyes,
    And tropic music on her languid tongue,
    "And what if _I_ should wed with thee, O beard
    Grayer than my great-grandfather, what then?"--
    "One kiss, no more; and, child, thou were divorced,"
    He; and the humor took them till, like birds
    That sing among the spice-trees and the palms,
    The garden pealed with maiden merriment.

    Then quoth the princess, "Thou wilt wed with him,
    Ansada?" mirth in her gazelle-like eyes,
    And gravity sage-solemn in her speech;
    And took Ansada's hand and laid it in
    The old man's staggering hand, and he unbent
    His crookéd back and on his staff arose
    Wrinkled and weighed with many heavy years,
    And kissed her, leaning on his shaking staff,
    And heaped her bosom with an Amir's wealth,
    And left them laughing at his foolish beard.
    Now on the next day, as she took her ease
    With her glad troop of girlhood,--maidens who
    So many royal tulips seemed,--behold,
    Bowed with white years, upon a flowery sward
    The ancient with new jewelry and gems
    Wherefrom the sun coaxed wizard fires and lit
    Glimmers in glowing green and pendent pearl,
    Ultramarine and beaded, vivid rose.
    And so they stood and wondered; and one asked,
    As yesternoon, wherefore the father there
    Displayed his Sheikh locks and the genie gems.--
    "Another marriage and another kiss?--
    What! doth the tomb-ripe court his youth again?
    O aged one, libertine in hope not deed!
    O prodigal of wives as well as wealth!
    Here stands thy damsel," trilled the Peri-tall
    Diarra with the midnight in her hair,
    Two lemon-blossoms blowing in her cheeks;
    And took the dotard's jewels with the kiss
    In merry mockery.

                    Ere the morrow's dawn
    Bethought Eddetma: "Shall my handmaidens,
    Humoring a gray-beard's whim, for wrinkled smiles
    And withered kisses still divide his wealth?
    While I stand idle, lose the caravan
    Whose least is notable?--I too will wed,
    Betide me what betides."

                      And with the morn
    Before the man,--for privily she came,--
    Stood habited, as were her tire-maids,
    In humbler raiment. Now the ancient saw
    And knew her for the princess that she was,
    And kindling gladness of the knowledge made
    Two sparkling forges of his deep-set eyes
    Beneath the ashes of his priestly brows.
    Not timidly she came; but coy approach
    Became a maiden of Eddetma's suite.
    She, gazing on the jewels he had spread
    Beneath the rose-bower by the fountain, said:--
    "The princess gave me leave, O grandfather.
    Here is my hand in marriage, here my lips.
    Adorn thy bride; then grant me my divorce."
    And humbly answered he, "With all my heart!"--
    Responsive to her quavering request,--
    "The daughter of the king did give thee leave?
    And thou wouldst wed?--Then let us not delay.--
    Thy hand! thy lips!" So he arose and heaped
    Her with barbaric jewelry and gems,
    And took her hand and from her lips the kiss.
    Then from his age, behold, the dotage fell,
    And from the man all palsied hoariness.
    Victorious-eyed and amorous, a youth,
    A god in ardent capabilities,
    Resistless held her; and she, swooning, saw,
    Transfigured and triumphant bending o'er,
    Gloating, the branded brow of Prince Behram.




TORQUEMADA

_To the Chapter of the Archbishop of Toledo._


    What doth the Archbishop, his chapter of
    Toledo?--Yea! doze they above some Bull--
    Some dull dry Bull Pope Sextus sent to rot?
    Come, come! awake! O prelates militant!
    Hear me! this is a truth I whisper now:
    Spain's King is less than king as I am less
    Than Paul the Apostle.--Look you! look around;
    Observe and dare!--I write above my seal,
    A grave Dominican, to postulate
    Pacheco, Marquis de Villena, croaks
    No nonsense in your excellencies' ears:
    King Henry's heir _is_ illegitimate!
    Blanche of Navarre cast off, his Impotence
    Gave us a wanton out of Portugal
    For Queen; Joanna, who bore him this heir
    The cuckold King parades, a bastard, now.
    Look! all the Court laughs--secretly: but masks
    Are but for slaves; the people's smile is free
    From all concealment; and the word still wags
    About this son,--who is his favorite's,
    Bertrand la Cueva's, handsome exquisite,--
    Whom, people say,--and what they say is true,--
    The King himself, needing a lusty heir,
    Made warm familiar with Joanna's bed.
    What shall we do? endorse the infamy?
    Absolve them?--Yea! absolve them--at the stake!
    Or, if not that, then with the axe that hews
    The neck of State asunder!--Is it well,
    Prelates and ministers?

                          Be merciful?--
    Lest the disease of this delicious fruit,
    This Kingdom of Castile, corrode the core,
    Why not pare off all rottenness and leave
    The healthy pulp! The throne, the populace,
    The Church, and God demand the overthrow,
    Deponement or the abnegation of
    This Henry, named the Fourth, the impotent!--
    Alphonso lives.... (It is my guarded hope
    That brothers of such kings have no long life.)--
    Am I impatient? 'Tis the tonsure then;
    Ambition ever was and aye will be
    Cousined to fierce impatience. 'Tis the cowl,
    The tonsure and the cowl, _they_ must advance!
    My native town, Valladolid, did sow
    The priestly germ, ambition, first in me;
    Rather 'twas planted there in me; and had,
    Despite the richness of the soil, poor growth
    And less encouragement; the nipping wind
    Of Court disfavor was too much for it;
    And so I bore it thence to Cordova,
    And sunned its torpor in a woman's smile,
    'Neath which it sprouted but--who trusts the sex?--
    Grew to a tenderness too insecure
    For love's black frosts. Required hardiness,
    And found it there at Zaragossa; (where
    Fat father Lopés, bluff Dominican,
    My youth confuted with wise nonsense, and
    Astonished Spain in disputation in
    The public controversies of the monks).
    Transplanted to the Court, oh, splendid speed!
    Sure hath its growth been. Now a Cardinal's red
    Is promised by the bud that tops its stem.
    How have I, through the saintly medium
    Of the confessional, impressed the ear
    Of Isabella, daughter and dear child!
    The incarnation of my dear ideal,
    Pure crucifix of my religious love,
    Sweet cross which my ambition guards and holds:
    Ploughed up the early meadows of her soul
    For fruitful increase! in her maiden heart
    Insinuated subtleties of seed
    Shall ripen to a queen crowned with a crown
    From welded gold of Arragon and Castile!
    How I this son of John, the Second named,
    Prince Ferdinand of swarthy Arragon,--
    (Grant absolution, holy mother mine!
    Thus thy advancement and thy mastery
    Would I obtain!)--have on her fancy limned
    In morning colors of proud chivalry!
    Till he a sceptered paladin of love
    And beaming manhood stands! She dreams, she dreams
    What--Heaven knows! 'Tis, haply, of a star
    She saw when but a babe and in the arms
    Of some old nurse. A star, that laughed above
    A space of Moorish balcony that hung
    Above a water full of upset stars;
    Reflected glimmers of old palace fêtes:
    A star she reached for, cried for, claimed her own,
    But never got; that blew young promises,
    Court promises, centupled, from the tips
    Of golden fingers at her infant eyes.--
    Well! when this girl is grown to be a queen,
    What if one, Torquemada, clothe her star
    In palpable approach and give it her!--

    When she is Queen, three steadfast purposes
    Have grown their causes to divine results.--
    No young imagination did I train
    With such endeavor and for no reward.--
    How often have I told her of the things
    She could perform when Queen, while silently
    And pensively she sat and, leaning, heard,
    Absorbed upon my face! her missal,--crushed
    By one propped elbow, its bent, careless leaves
    Rich with illuminated capitals
    Of gold and purple,--open on her lap.
    Long, long we sat thus, brothers, speaking of
    Felicity; discoursing earnestly
    Of Earth and Heaven; and of who adhere
    To God's true Vicar and our Holy Church:
    Beatitude and all the ceaseless bliss,
    Celestial, of eternal Paradise,
    As everlasting as the souls that have
    Built a strong tower for the only Faith.
    And I recall now how, in exhortation,
    Filled with the fervor of my cause I cried:--
    "Walk not on ways that lead but to despair,
    The easy ways of Satan! Rather thorns
    For naked feet that will not falter if
    Retentive of the arm of our true Church,
    Who comforts weariness with promises
    Still urging onward; and refreshes hearts
    With whisperings in the tuneless ear of Care."--
    And oft, big-eyed with innocence, she asked,
    "Do some digress?"--And I, "Yea, many! yea!
    And there's necessity! we should annul,
    Pluck forth the canker that contaminates,
    Corrodes the milk-white beauty of our Rose.--
    God's persecution! they confront our Faith
    With brows of stigmatizing error writ
    In Hell's red handwriting. Shall such persist?
    No!--Heaven demands an end to all this shame!"--
    Her pledge she gave me then: "When Queen, for Spain
    The Inquisition! Let the Saints record!
    I promise thee, my father, thou shalt be
    A mattock of deracination to
    Extirpate heresy."

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

    Blind Spain hastes blindly forward, eager for
    Her Hellward plunge. Our need is absolute.
    Conclusion to these monster heresies
    Or their most imminent consequence!--The throne,
    Which is derived directly from high God,
    Meseems should champion God in any cause;
    And if it will not, we will make it to.--
    O Spain, Spain, Spain! awake! arise! and crush
    These multiplying madnesses that mouth
    Their paradoxes at the Cross and shriek
    Their blasphemies e'en in the face of Christ!--
    O miserable Religion, is thy pride
    So fallen here! thy tenement of strength
    So powerless! Then where's security,
    When steadfast principle is insecure,
    And God's own pillars rock and none resists?--
    But I have tempered, at a certain heat,
    A heart of womanhood; and so have wrought
    The metal of a mind within the forge
    Of holy discourse, that Toledo's steel
    Springs not more true than my reforming blade,
    Which shall carve worship to a perfect whole.--
    Imperial Isabella! patroness!
    Protectress of pure faith! sweet Catholic!
    Our Church's dear concern! its bell, its book,
    Tribunal, and its godly Act of Faith!
    Hear how my soul cries out and speaks for thee!--

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

    +----------------------------------------------------------------+
    |                    Transcriber Notes:                          |
    |                                                                |
    | P. 31. "fragant firmament", changed 'fragant' to 'fragrant'.   |
    | Original text can be found here:                               |
    | https://archive.org/details/poemscawein01cawerich              |
    +----------------------------------------------------------------+





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poems of Madison Cawein, Volume 1
(of 5), by Madison Cawein

*** 