Part 3

“And I--I strained and strove” (and the voice grew shrill and thin; Like to the shuddering harp was the soul of Herluin).

“But the Maids were drifting clouds, and the Bridge that spanned the skies Was the glint of the mocking moon on the tears that filled mine eyes.

“Dead, they are dead, the gods in whom we have put our trust; The hopes of heroes’ hearts are ashes and dross and dust.

“We have seen our flesh the sport of the crows and the creeping things-- We have seen the moss and the lichen grow over the bones of kings--

“The firs from us have fed their writhen boughs and thin Our burning blood springs up in the cold green sap o’ the whin--

“A whirl of withered leaves in the desolate land of death, Such are our haughty hosts, and our foes are wind and breath.

“I found in thy harp a voice; and, after uncounted years, As a man to a man I spoke, and thou couldst not close thine ears.

“Yea, now thine ears are opened, for I saw thy soul as a fire Aflame in the wastes of the night, the depth of my vain desire.

“As a moth to the torch’s flame, as to the moon the tide, Drawn by thy tameless spirit, drawn by thy passion and pride,

“Storming the gates of Sense, as the cry of the chords outbroke, Out of the deep I called, and unto the deep I spoke!”

Darkness dissolved; the earth stole back to sight; and shrill A cock crew far away; like tears the dew lay chill;

And Herluin raised his head, and saw the pallid gleam Stand in the face of the East above the shimmering stream,

While o’er him as he lay, half-mazed in a magic sweven, The black pine-branches hovered like torn clouds hung in heaven.

Day stood upon the moor; and the wailing voice, withdrawn, Sighed o’er the sobbing harp-strings, and died in the wind of dawn.

THE BRIDE’S BRACELET

The King went forth at dawning To watch the turn of the tide: “Be still, my soul, be still! To-day shall bring the bride.

“Sea-gull, oh sea-gull, Stay thy shifting wings! Hast seen the ship a-sailing, My love that brings?

“The ship with sails of scarlet Where threads of gold entwine-- With maids and merry minstrels, And gifts of mine,

“A veil for her head, and a girdle, And a bracelet all of gold, Wrought by a cunning craftsman With labours manifold.”

The King went forth at even To watch the silver web Woven by wavering moonbeams Over the tide at ebb.

“Oh nights are short in summer! She will come to me soon; To-morrow at dawn of day Or at height of noon.”

Oh the sea grew hoary and grey At the turn of the year; The fire of the whin was faded, The heather was brown and sere.

All the air was filled With the moan of the mourning main; And the ship with sails of scarlet Came not home again.

The King went forth in the night-- For care he could not sleep-- Down the perilous pathway-- Down to the edge of the deep.

There was never a star to shine; Nor sea from shore he wist, Till he felt around his feet The chill of the foam that hissed.

There was never a star in the skies, And the face of the deep was dim-- Yet he saw a wavering wanness Like the cold moon sink and swim.

Yea, as in the heart of the billow Quivers the wan sea-flame, Drifting in the darkness The mermaiden came.

And on the long sea-swell, Like to a foam-wreath pale, Among her locks a-floating He saw a costly veil,

That a queen might wear to wed in-- And on her arm so cold He saw a gallant bracelet All of the gleaming gold, Wrought by a cunning craftsman With labours manifold.

Then the eyes of the King were darkened, And his shuddering soul went down Like a stone in the dark o’ the deeps Where shipwrecked sailors drown.

The mermaid shimmering sank Like a moon that clouds eclipse-- And the spray of the salt sea mingled With the salt tears on his lips.

The King goes forth at even By the sea-side; He hears in the long dark caverns The sobbing of the tide.

Pale is the face of the King Like one in a deadly swoon; Wan o’er the waste of waters Glimmers the waning moon.

THE WOLF OF IRONWOOD

Ho for the white of the withered bough And the red of the wrinkled leaf! Sir Arngrim sits in Ironwood, And his heart is filled with grief.

The sun sinks down on Ironwood Blood-red behind the trees; Sir Arngrim stares upon the sword That lies across his knees.

“Oh my father died a death of blood, And my mother of wasting woe; And their spirits dwell in the rocky fell Where the trees of Ironwood grow.

“And still the guilt of the life-blood spilt Doth unavenged remain; And in the red of the wrinkled leaf I read my father’s pain.

“Oh the kings were three, sailed o’er the sea To work us havoc and harm; And I see in the white of the wizened bough My mother’s beckoning arm.”

Sir Arngrim stood with the sea beneath And the rocky fell behind, And there he saw three gallant ships That sailed before the wind.

“Oh red of hand, they come to land With a host and a mighty horde! And how shall I wreak my father’s death With the power of a single sword?”

When the writhen shadows in Ironwood Grew long, and the fading rim Of the sun sank low behind the fell, The witch-wife came to him.

“Now hearken to me, thou goodly knight! And, if thou grant me grace, I’ll work a spell shall serve thee well For love of thy fair young face.

“Oh a maid am I from dawn till dusk-- But by night of a magic rune, And a weird of woe, a wolf I go O’ nights beneath the moon.

“Thou shalt slay three hosts in Ironwood That the wolf her fill may feed-- Then as lover true, when the fight is done, Shalt pay the maiden’s meed.”

Sir Arngrim looked upon the witch, And her face was fair to see. He’s plighted her troth on his knightly oath And sealed it with kisses three.

It was the first o’ the hosts came on With the rush of a roaring gale-- But they might not stir the single sword That bit through bone and mail.

Oh half o’ the host at eve were slain, And half o’ the host were fled; And all night long in Ironwood The wolf howled o’er the dead.

It was the second host came on As levin leaps from the sky; But they might not quell the witch’s spell And the sword of grammarye.

Oh half o’ the host at eve were fled, And half in their blood lay still; And all night long in Ironwood The wolf did feed her fill.

It was the third o’ the hosts came on Like the waves of a winter sea; But they broke on the sword as billows break Where the hidden skerries be.

Oh half o’ the host at eve were slain, And half were fled away; And like the dead, among the dead, In a swoon Sir Arngrim lay.

The moon shone down on Ironwood Above the trees so tall; And lo! the red and wrinkled leaves Upon his face did fall.

And lo! the shade of the withered bough Across his face lay dim, And the wolf she leapt, and seized, and tore The warrior limb from limb.

Ho ho for the red of the wrinkled leaf! His spirit has gone to dwell With the grimly ghosts of the ancient hosts That haunt the rocky fell!

Ho ho for the white of the withered bough! The witch she wails full sore; And Ironwood, for that deed of blood, Is accursèd evermore!

BALLAD OF MIDSUMMER EVE

The throstle he roused him at fall of eve And said to the owlet grey, “Lo, brother, look through the dusky wood And tell who comes this way.”

The owlet stirred on the swaying bough Of the slender birchen-tree: “And seest thou not the minstrel-wight A-roaming along the lea?”

“And what of the voice that comes with him, The voice that sighs and sings?” “Oh, that’s the sound of the harp he bears As the wind blows over the strings.”

“And is it for love of a fair young maid That his cheek is pale and wan?” “Ay, a maid I wis, but never a kiss Will she lay on the lips of man.

“He must sit all day at the ale-house door Amid the talk o’ the town, With a merry stave for knight and knave And a jest for the staring clown.

“But when bells are rung and songs are sung And all men lie and sleep, The merry minstrel forth must fare His secret tryst to keep.

“The merry minstrel forth must fare, All in the twilight dim, To woo the queen o’ Fairyland That’s cast a spell on him.

“Oh her form’s the form of the lily-white birch That sways to the breeze, and her breath Is the scent o’ the thyme and the blowing furze And the honey that’s stored in the heath.

“And her dark eyes’ beam is the wavering gleam On the water that’s wan to see When the evening star hangs faint and far Above the birchen-tree.

“And wouldst thou learn her secret lore, Go, read the magic rune That the writhen boughs of the thorn-tree trace O’ nights across the moon.”

“And what’s the guerdon he shall gain By grace of the Fairy-queen?” “Oh, a hope that’s lost and a love that’s crossed, And tears and toil and tene,

“And feet astray in the paths of day, And a song that cannot be sung-- For elfin music is wind and breath When the matin-bell is rung.

“For the cock crows shrill, and the dew lies chill, And the faint stars die, withdrawn; And elfin gold is withered leaves At the coming of the dawn.”

_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._