Part 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MORGAN LE FAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LADY OF THE HILLS

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DEMON LOVER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A PRINCESS OF THULE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DAUGHTER OF MERLIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TRISTRAM TO ISOLT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE KNIGHT-ERRANT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FORESTER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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