THE POEMS OF

MADISON CAWEIN

VOLUME I

LYRICS AND OLD WORLD
IDYLLS

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"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 slopes 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 slopes 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 colored 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 slope.

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.

She raised her oblong lute and smote some chords. Page 230
Accolon of Gaul

[See larger version]

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-colored 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 slopes 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! Slope on slope

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 cripple 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 pansy 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.

In her ecstasy a lovely devil Page 303
Accolon of Gaul

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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-colored 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