TheKing went forth at dawningTo 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 scarletWhere 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 craftsmanWith labours manifold.”The King went forth at evenTo watch the silver webWoven by wavering moonbeamsOver the tide at ebb.“Oh nights are short in summer!She will come to me soon;To-morrow at dawn of dayOr at height of noon.”Oh the sea grew hoary and greyAt the turn of the year;The fire of the whin was faded,The heather was brown and sere.All the air was filledWith the moan of the mourning main;And the ship with sails of scarletCame 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 feetThe 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 wannessLike the cold moon sink and swim.Yea, as in the heart of the billowQuivers the wan sea-flame,Drifting in the darknessThe mermaiden came.And on the long sea-swell,Like to a foam-wreath pale,Among her locks a-floatingHe saw a costly veil,That a queen might wear to wed in—And on her arm so coldHe saw a gallant braceletAll of the gleaming gold,Wrought by a cunning craftsmanWith labours manifold.Then the eyes of the King were darkened,And his shuddering soul went downLike a stone in the dark o’ the deepsWhere shipwrecked sailors drown.The mermaid shimmering sankLike a moon that clouds eclipse—And the spray of the salt sea mingledWith the salt tears on his lips.The King goes forth at evenBy the sea-side;He hears in the long dark cavernsThe sobbing of the tide.Pale is the face of the KingLike one in a deadly swoon;Wan o’er the waste of watersGlimmers the waning moon.
TheKing went forth at dawningTo 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 scarletWhere 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 craftsmanWith labours manifold.”The King went forth at evenTo watch the silver webWoven by wavering moonbeamsOver the tide at ebb.“Oh nights are short in summer!She will come to me soon;To-morrow at dawn of dayOr at height of noon.”Oh the sea grew hoary and greyAt the turn of the year;The fire of the whin was faded,The heather was brown and sere.All the air was filledWith the moan of the mourning main;And the ship with sails of scarletCame 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 feetThe 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 wannessLike the cold moon sink and swim.Yea, as in the heart of the billowQuivers the wan sea-flame,Drifting in the darknessThe mermaiden came.And on the long sea-swell,Like to a foam-wreath pale,Among her locks a-floatingHe saw a costly veil,That a queen might wear to wed in—And on her arm so coldHe saw a gallant braceletAll of the gleaming gold,Wrought by a cunning craftsmanWith labours manifold.Then the eyes of the King were darkened,And his shuddering soul went downLike a stone in the dark o’ the deepsWhere shipwrecked sailors drown.The mermaid shimmering sankLike a moon that clouds eclipse—And the spray of the salt sea mingledWith the salt tears on his lips.The King goes forth at evenBy the sea-side;He hears in the long dark cavernsThe sobbing of the tide.Pale is the face of the KingLike one in a deadly swoon;Wan o’er the waste of watersGlimmers the waning moon.
TheKing went forth at dawningTo 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 scarletWhere 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 craftsmanWith labours manifold.”
The King went forth at evenTo watch the silver webWoven by wavering moonbeamsOver the tide at ebb.
“Oh nights are short in summer!She will come to me soon;To-morrow at dawn of dayOr at height of noon.”
Oh the sea grew hoary and greyAt the turn of the year;The fire of the whin was faded,The heather was brown and sere.
All the air was filledWith the moan of the mourning main;And the ship with sails of scarletCame 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 feetThe 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 wannessLike the cold moon sink and swim.
Yea, as in the heart of the billowQuivers the wan sea-flame,Drifting in the darknessThe mermaiden came.
And on the long sea-swell,Like to a foam-wreath pale,Among her locks a-floatingHe saw a costly veil,
That a queen might wear to wed in—And on her arm so coldHe saw a gallant braceletAll of the gleaming gold,Wrought by a cunning craftsmanWith labours manifold.
Then the eyes of the King were darkened,And his shuddering soul went downLike a stone in the dark o’ the deepsWhere shipwrecked sailors drown.
The mermaid shimmering sankLike a moon that clouds eclipse—And the spray of the salt sea mingledWith the salt tears on his lips.
The King goes forth at evenBy the sea-side;He hears in the long dark cavernsThe sobbing of the tide.
Pale is the face of the KingLike one in a deadly swoon;Wan o’er the waste of watersGlimmers the waning moon.
Hofor the white of the withered boughAnd the red of the wrinkled leaf!Sir Arngrim sits in Ironwood,And his heart is filled with grief.The sun sinks down on IronwoodBlood-red behind the trees;Sir Arngrim stares upon the swordThat 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 fellWhere the trees of Ironwood grow.“And still the guilt of the life-blood spiltDoth unavenged remain;And in the red of the wrinkled leafI read my father’s pain.“Oh the kings were three, sailed o’er the seaTo work us havoc and harm;And I see in the white of the wizened boughMy mother’s beckoning arm.”Sir Arngrim stood with the sea beneathAnd the rocky fell behind,And there he saw three gallant shipsThat sailed before the wind.“Oh red of hand, they come to landWith a host and a mighty horde!And how shall I wreak my father’s deathWith the power of a single sword?”When the writhen shadows in IronwoodGrew long, and the fading rimOf 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 wellFor 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 goO’ nights beneath the moon.“Thou shalt slay three hosts in IronwoodThat 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 oathAnd sealed it with kisses three.It was the first o’ the hosts came onWith the rush of a roaring gale—But they might not stir the single swordThat 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 IronwoodThe wolf howled o’er the dead.It was the second host came onAs levin leaps from the sky;But they might not quell the witch’s spellAnd 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 IronwoodThe wolf did feed her fill.It was the third o’ the hosts came onLike the waves of a winter sea;But they broke on the sword as billows breakWhere 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 IronwoodAbove the trees so tall;And lo! the red and wrinkled leavesUpon his face did fall.And lo! the shade of the withered boughAcross his face lay dim,And the wolf she leapt, and seized, and toreThe warrior limb from limb.Ho ho for the red of the wrinkled leaf!His spirit has gone to dwellWith the grimly ghosts of the ancient hostsThat 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!
Hofor the white of the withered boughAnd the red of the wrinkled leaf!Sir Arngrim sits in Ironwood,And his heart is filled with grief.The sun sinks down on IronwoodBlood-red behind the trees;Sir Arngrim stares upon the swordThat 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 fellWhere the trees of Ironwood grow.“And still the guilt of the life-blood spiltDoth unavenged remain;And in the red of the wrinkled leafI read my father’s pain.“Oh the kings were three, sailed o’er the seaTo work us havoc and harm;And I see in the white of the wizened boughMy mother’s beckoning arm.”Sir Arngrim stood with the sea beneathAnd the rocky fell behind,And there he saw three gallant shipsThat sailed before the wind.“Oh red of hand, they come to landWith a host and a mighty horde!And how shall I wreak my father’s deathWith the power of a single sword?”When the writhen shadows in IronwoodGrew long, and the fading rimOf 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 wellFor 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 goO’ nights beneath the moon.“Thou shalt slay three hosts in IronwoodThat 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 oathAnd sealed it with kisses three.It was the first o’ the hosts came onWith the rush of a roaring gale—But they might not stir the single swordThat 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 IronwoodThe wolf howled o’er the dead.It was the second host came onAs levin leaps from the sky;But they might not quell the witch’s spellAnd 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 IronwoodThe wolf did feed her fill.It was the third o’ the hosts came onLike the waves of a winter sea;But they broke on the sword as billows breakWhere 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 IronwoodAbove the trees so tall;And lo! the red and wrinkled leavesUpon his face did fall.And lo! the shade of the withered boughAcross his face lay dim,And the wolf she leapt, and seized, and toreThe warrior limb from limb.Ho ho for the red of the wrinkled leaf!His spirit has gone to dwellWith the grimly ghosts of the ancient hostsThat 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!
Hofor the white of the withered boughAnd the red of the wrinkled leaf!Sir Arngrim sits in Ironwood,And his heart is filled with grief.
The sun sinks down on IronwoodBlood-red behind the trees;Sir Arngrim stares upon the swordThat 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 fellWhere the trees of Ironwood grow.
“And still the guilt of the life-blood spiltDoth unavenged remain;And in the red of the wrinkled leafI read my father’s pain.
“Oh the kings were three, sailed o’er the seaTo work us havoc and harm;And I see in the white of the wizened boughMy mother’s beckoning arm.”
Sir Arngrim stood with the sea beneathAnd the rocky fell behind,And there he saw three gallant shipsThat sailed before the wind.
“Oh red of hand, they come to landWith a host and a mighty horde!And how shall I wreak my father’s deathWith the power of a single sword?”
When the writhen shadows in IronwoodGrew long, and the fading rimOf 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 wellFor 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 goO’ nights beneath the moon.
“Thou shalt slay three hosts in IronwoodThat 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 oathAnd sealed it with kisses three.
It was the first o’ the hosts came onWith the rush of a roaring gale—But they might not stir the single swordThat 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 IronwoodThe wolf howled o’er the dead.
It was the second host came onAs levin leaps from the sky;But they might not quell the witch’s spellAnd 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 IronwoodThe wolf did feed her fill.
It was the third o’ the hosts came onLike the waves of a winter sea;But they broke on the sword as billows breakWhere 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 IronwoodAbove the trees so tall;And lo! the red and wrinkled leavesUpon his face did fall.
And lo! the shade of the withered boughAcross his face lay dim,And the wolf she leapt, and seized, and toreThe warrior limb from limb.
Ho ho for the red of the wrinkled leaf!His spirit has gone to dwellWith the grimly ghosts of the ancient hostsThat 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!
Thethrostle he roused him at fall of eveAnd said to the owlet grey,“Lo, brother, look through the dusky woodAnd tell who comes this way.”The owlet stirred on the swaying boughOf the slender birchen-tree:“And seest thou not the minstrel-wightA-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 bearsAs the wind blows over the strings.”“And is it for love of a fair young maidThat his cheek is pale and wan?”“Ay, a maid I wis, but never a kissWill she lay on the lips of man.“He must sit all day at the ale-house doorAmid the talk o’ the town,With a merry stave for knight and knaveAnd a jest for the staring clown.“But when bells are rung and songs are sungAnd all men lie and sleep,The merry minstrel forth must fareHis secret tryst to keep.“The merry minstrel forth must fare,All in the twilight dim,To woo the queen o’ FairylandThat’s cast a spell on him.“Oh her form’s the form of the lily-white birchThat sways to the breeze, and her breathIs the scent o’ the thyme and the blowing furzeAnd the honey that’s stored in the heath.“And her dark eyes’ beam is the wavering gleamOn the water that’s wan to seeWhen the evening star hangs faint and farAbove the birchen-tree.“And wouldst thou learn her secret lore,Go, read the magic runeThat the writhen boughs of the thorn-tree traceO’ nights across the moon.”“And what’s the guerdon he shall gainBy 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 breathWhen 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 leavesAt the coming of the dawn.”
Thethrostle he roused him at fall of eveAnd said to the owlet grey,“Lo, brother, look through the dusky woodAnd tell who comes this way.”The owlet stirred on the swaying boughOf the slender birchen-tree:“And seest thou not the minstrel-wightA-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 bearsAs the wind blows over the strings.”“And is it for love of a fair young maidThat his cheek is pale and wan?”“Ay, a maid I wis, but never a kissWill she lay on the lips of man.“He must sit all day at the ale-house doorAmid the talk o’ the town,With a merry stave for knight and knaveAnd a jest for the staring clown.“But when bells are rung and songs are sungAnd all men lie and sleep,The merry minstrel forth must fareHis secret tryst to keep.“The merry minstrel forth must fare,All in the twilight dim,To woo the queen o’ FairylandThat’s cast a spell on him.“Oh her form’s the form of the lily-white birchThat sways to the breeze, and her breathIs the scent o’ the thyme and the blowing furzeAnd the honey that’s stored in the heath.“And her dark eyes’ beam is the wavering gleamOn the water that’s wan to seeWhen the evening star hangs faint and farAbove the birchen-tree.“And wouldst thou learn her secret lore,Go, read the magic runeThat the writhen boughs of the thorn-tree traceO’ nights across the moon.”“And what’s the guerdon he shall gainBy 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 breathWhen 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 leavesAt the coming of the dawn.”
Thethrostle he roused him at fall of eveAnd said to the owlet grey,“Lo, brother, look through the dusky woodAnd tell who comes this way.”
The owlet stirred on the swaying boughOf the slender birchen-tree:“And seest thou not the minstrel-wightA-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 bearsAs the wind blows over the strings.”
“And is it for love of a fair young maidThat his cheek is pale and wan?”“Ay, a maid I wis, but never a kissWill she lay on the lips of man.
“He must sit all day at the ale-house doorAmid the talk o’ the town,With a merry stave for knight and knaveAnd a jest for the staring clown.
“But when bells are rung and songs are sungAnd all men lie and sleep,The merry minstrel forth must fareHis secret tryst to keep.
“The merry minstrel forth must fare,All in the twilight dim,To woo the queen o’ FairylandThat’s cast a spell on him.
“Oh her form’s the form of the lily-white birchThat sways to the breeze, and her breathIs the scent o’ the thyme and the blowing furzeAnd the honey that’s stored in the heath.
“And her dark eyes’ beam is the wavering gleamOn the water that’s wan to seeWhen the evening star hangs faint and farAbove the birchen-tree.
“And wouldst thou learn her secret lore,Go, read the magic runeThat the writhen boughs of the thorn-tree traceO’ nights across the moon.”
“And what’s the guerdon he shall gainBy 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 breathWhen 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 leavesAt the coming of the dawn.”
Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.