CHILDE RONALD

And so it came that I was ledTo wizard walls that haggard hungOld as their rock, black-mossed and dead,Wild-swarmed with towers; and, flaming flungAround them,—far, a moat of red,—A million poppies sprung.And here I harped.—All seemed asleep;Till, hoarse beneath, harsh hinges gnarredAnd iron clanged within the Keep:And then from one gaunt casement, barredWith night, a woman, dim and deep,Gazed at me long and hard.To her I sang. And as she leanedIn beauty to me, dark and tall,And loud I sang of Love, I gleanedAn inkling of her Court withal:For, lo, above her, watched a Fiend,Wolf-eyeballed, on the wall.Still, still I sang. And then she laughed,Laughed loud and long and evilly;And in her face I saw was craftAnd hate and all the sins that be:And overhead, with pointed shaft,The Fiend glared down on me.Still, still I harped. Then up she leapt,When loud I sang of Ermengard,The Queen of Love, whose Court is keptAt Anjou, I, who am her bard!And from her side a raven swept,While loud she laughed and hard.Its iron beak had pierced my eyesBefore my mind had half divinedThat those wild walls that touched the skiesWith Hell-built towers, terror-lined,Were Lilith's,—mother of lusts and lies,—Love's foe, who left me blind.

And so it came that I was led

To wizard walls that haggard hung

Old as their rock, black-mossed and dead,

Wild-swarmed with towers; and, flaming flung

Around them,—far, a moat of red,—

A million poppies sprung.

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

And here I harped.—All seemed asleep;

Till, hoarse beneath, harsh hinges gnarred

And iron clanged within the Keep:

And then from one gaunt casement, barred

With night, a woman, dim and deep,

Gazed at me long and hard.

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

To her I sang. And as she leaned

In beauty to me, dark and tall,

And loud I sang of Love, I gleaned

An inkling of her Court withal:

For, lo, above her, watched a Fiend,

Wolf-eyeballed, on the wall.

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

Still, still I sang. And then she laughed,

Laughed loud and long and evilly;

And in her face I saw was craft

And hate and all the sins that be:

And overhead, with pointed shaft,

The Fiend glared down on me.

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

Still, still I harped. Then up she leapt,

When loud I sang of Ermengard,

The Queen of Love, whose Court is kept

At Anjou, I, who am her bard!

And from her side a raven swept,

While loud she laughed and hard.

Its iron beak had pierced my eyesBefore my mind had half divinedThat those wild walls that touched the skiesWith Hell-built towers, terror-lined,Were Lilith's,—mother of lusts and lies,—Love's foe, who left me blind.

Its iron beak had pierced my eyes

Before my mind had half divined

That those wild walls that touched the skies

With Hell-built towers, terror-lined,

Were Lilith's,—mother of lusts and lies,—

Love's foe, who left me blind.

Childe Ronald rode adown the wood,His spear upon his knee;When, lo, he saw a girl who stoodBeneath 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 girlWho wait my lover here!"Childe Ronald took her by the handAnd 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 woodThey rode unto the sea:When in his towers at last she stoodA 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 thereBeneath the trysting thorn."He harped and sang of a damoselWho 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 smoteNo 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-eyedOr 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 wanHe 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 RemorseThat follows, stride for stride?Within the wood, the dark pine-wood,He rides with closéd ears—But evermore the ceaseless thudOf following hoofs he hears.With close-shut eyes and down-bowed headHe rides among the trees—But evermore the restless deadThere at his side he sees.And evermore the autumn blastAbove 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!"

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

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;

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 girlWho wait my lover here!"

"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 handAnd drew her to his side—"Thou shalt be a Lady of the land.—Now mount by me and ride."

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 woodThey rode unto the sea:When in his towers at last she stoodA pale-faced girl was she.

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."

"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 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....

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, 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.

"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.

"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.

"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 thereBeneath the trysting thorn.

"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 damoselWho swore she would be true:And then of a heart as false as Hell,He cursed with curses two.

"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 smoteNo more of earth I knew.

"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-eyedOr ever the night be gone!

"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."...

"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.

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 wanHe saw the guests depart:But she is wanest of the wan,A dagger in her heart.

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.

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?

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 RemorseThat follows, stride for stride?

"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 thudOf following hoofs he hears.

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 headHe rides among the trees—But evermore the restless deadThere at his side he sees.

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 blastAbove him sobs and sighs,"Who rides so far, who rides so fast,With closéd ears and eyes?"

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?

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!"

"Oh, who are they? and whither away?

Oh, whither do they ride?"—

"Across the world till Judgment Day,

Childe Ronald and his bride!"

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 heartAnd held him there.Eftsoons his soul had waxed amortTo wold and weald, to slade and stream;And all he heard was her soft wordAs 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 onO'er vale and hill.Until at last a castle layBeneath the moon, among the trees:Its gothic towers old and grayWith mysteries.Tall in its hall an hundred knightsIn 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 slainLong years ago.But when Morgan with lifted handMoved 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 raisedTheir brands, whereon the moon glanced gray:And clashing all strode from the wallAgainst Sir Kay.And on his body, bent and bowed,The hundred blades as one blade fell:While over all rang long and loudThe mirth of Hell.

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

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?

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!

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?

"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 heartAnd held him there.

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 amortTo wold and weald, to slade and stream;And all he heard was her soft wordAs one adream.

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 onO'er vale and hill.

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 layBeneath the moon, among the trees:Its gothic towers old and grayWith mysteries.

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 knightsIn armor stood with glaive in hand:The following of some great king,Lord of that land.

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 slainLong years ago.

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 handMoved down the hall, they louted low:For she was Queen of Shadowland,That woman of snow.

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.

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!"

"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 raisedTheir brands, whereon the moon glanced gray:And clashing all strode from the wallAgainst Sir Kay.

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 loudThe mirth of Hell.

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.

Though red my blood hath left its trailFor 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 scornThe 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 barMy all-avenging way!This hope still gives my body strength—To kiss thy mouth and eyes at lengthWhere 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 roomRed-lit with revelry.Madly I rode; nor once looked back,Before my face the world reeled, blackWith nightmare wind and rain.Witch-lights flared by me on the fen;And through the forest—was it thenThe eyes of wolves? or ghosts of men,That flamed and fled again?Still on I rode. My way was clearFrom that wild time when, spear to spear,Deep in the wind-torn wood,I met him!... Dead he lies beneathYour trysting oak. I clenched my teethAnd rode. My wound scarce let me breathe,That filled my eyes with blood.And here I am. The blood may blindMy eyesight still!... but I will findThee 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.

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 scornThe 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 barMy all-avenging way!

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 lengthWhere 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 roomRed-lit with revelry.

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, blackWith nightmare wind and rain.Witch-lights flared by me on the fen;And through the forest—was it thenThe eyes of wolves? or ghosts of men,That flamed and fled again?

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 clearFrom that wild time when, spear to spear,Deep in the wind-torn wood,I met him!... Dead he lies beneathYour trysting oak. I clenched my teethAnd rode. My wound scarce let me breathe,That filled my eyes with blood.

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 blindMy eyesight still!... but I will findThee 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.

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 moon looks coldOn the withered wold;The wind blows fierce and free:The thin snow siftsAnd stings and drifts,Blown by the haunted tree.The gnarled tree groans;And sighs and moans,And shudders to its roots:Is it the fearOf a footstep near?Or the owl in its top that hoots?Is it a gustOf thin snow-dust,The wind sweeps from the plain?—Is it a breezeThat wails and drees?—Christ sain thee, Floramane!The moon hangs whiteIn the winter night:The wind blows fierce and free:And FloramaneHer place hath ta'enBeneath the haunted tree.What is it whines?What is it shinesWith owlet-eldritch light?—With raven plumeForth from the gloomA man stalks, still and white.His face is dim;His sword swings grim;His long cloak flutters wide:His kiss falls bleakOn her mouth and cheek,As he folds her to his side.What is it gleams?What is it streamsSo wan on Floramane?—The moonlit breeze?Or his heart, she seesThrough the stab, like a burning stain?

The moon looks coldOn the withered wold;The wind blows fierce and free:The thin snow siftsAnd stings and drifts,Blown by the haunted tree.

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 fearOf a footstep near?Or the owl in its top that hoots?

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 gustOf thin snow-dust,The wind sweeps from the plain?—Is it a breezeThat wails and drees?—Christ sain thee, Floramane!

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 whiteIn the winter night:The wind blows fierce and free:And FloramaneHer place hath ta'enBeneath the haunted tree.

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 shinesWith owlet-eldritch light?—With raven plumeForth from the gloomA man stalks, still and white.

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 bleakOn her mouth and cheek,As he folds her to his side.

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 streamsSo wan on Floramane?—The moonlit breeze?Or his heart, she seesThrough the stab, like a burning stain?

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?

In a kingdom of mist and moonlight,Or ever the world was known,Past leagues of unsailed waterThere reigned a king whose daughterWas 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 gloryOf seven kingdoms, fair.The day was dim as moonlight;The night was misty gray,With slips of dull stars, bluerWhere 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-hawkingThey rode, forever mockingThe 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 steadyGiving the poisoned cup.

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

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 gloryOf seven kingdoms, fair.

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, bluerWhere the princess met her wooer,A page like the month of May.

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.

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-hawkingThey rode, forever mockingThe good gray king and 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.

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.

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."

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 steadyGiving the poisoned cup.

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.

For the mountains' hoarse greetings came hollowFrom 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 porousAnd rotten with dust and with bones;And I knew that the ground that now bore usWas cadaverous with death as with stones;And I saw burning eyes, heard sonorousAnd 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 underThe 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 perilOf 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 minionsOf dreads and of dreams and of dooms.And we clomb—till we stood at the portalOf 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 spiritsOf lusts and of sorrows belowSwung nebular; and we were near itsStarred summit, its glory of glow.And we entered its light and could hear itsWhite music of silence and snow.

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 porousAnd rotten with dust and with bones;And I knew that the ground that now bore usWas cadaverous with death as with stones;And I saw burning eyes, heard sonorousAnd dolorous sighings and groans.

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 underThe hollow Earth,—smoulders and sighs,And the laughter of stars and their wonder,Mingled and mixed in her eyes.

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 perilOf falling and failing your star."

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 minionsOf dreads and of dreams and of dooms.

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 portalOf 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 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 spiritsOf lusts and of sorrows belowSwung nebular; and we were near itsStarred summit, its glory of glow.And we entered its light and could hear itsWhite music of silence and snow.

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.

Yea, there are some who always seekThe 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 whatSweet mysteries can riseWithin the heart when 'tis its lotTo 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 thereShe 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 silencesAs 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 trodA hiss went of a snake.Though seeming sinless, till I dieI shall not know for sureWhy to my soul she seemed a lieAnd otherwise than pure.Nor why I kissed her soon and late,And for her felt desire,While loathing of her passion ateInto my heart like fire.Was it because my soul could tellThat, 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 fastAt that last moment, saved?

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

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 whatSweet mysteries can riseWithin the heart when 'tis its lotTo love and realize.

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.

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.

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.

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 thereShe met me in the haunted glen,A poppy in her hair.

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 silencesAs music fills a song.

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 trodA hiss went of a snake.

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 dieI shall not know for sureWhy to my soul she seemed a lieAnd otherwise than pure.

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 ateInto my heart like fire.

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 tellThat, like the poppy-flower,She had no soul? a thing of Hell,That o'er mine had no power.

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 fastAt that last moment, saved?

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 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 shieldsAnd 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 pineDemonic ridicule:He hears the werewolf howl and whineAnd lap the pool.Black bats beat blindly by his eyes,Like Death's own horrible hands:His quest leads under haunted skiesTo 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 creedWithout a word.No man shall make the iron pauseIn gauntlet and in thew:He rides the highway of his causeTo die or do.His purpose leads him, like a flame,Through forest and through fen,To castle walls of wrong and shameAnd blood-stained men.Hope's are the lips that wind the hornBefore the gates of lust:Though fifty dragons hiss him scorn,Still will he trust.Strength's is the hand that thunders atThe entrances of night:Though ten-score demons crush him flatStill will he fight.Love's is the heart that finds a wayTo dungeons vast of sin:A thousand deaths may rise to slay,Still will he win.

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 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 shieldsAnd grind their teeth.

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 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 pineDemonic ridicule:He hears the werewolf howl and whineAnd lap the pool.

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 skiesTo haunted lands.

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.

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 creedWithout a word.

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 pauseIn gauntlet and in thew:He rides the highway of his causeTo die or do.

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 shameAnd blood-stained men.

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 hornBefore the gates of lust:Though fifty dragons hiss him scorn,Still will he trust.

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 atThe entrances of night:Though ten-score demons crush him flatStill will he fight.

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 wayTo dungeons vast of sin:A thousand deaths may rise to slay,Still will he win.

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.

I met him here at Ammendorf one spring.It was the end of April and the Harz,Treed to their ruin-crested summits, seemedOne pulse of tender green and delicate gold,Beneath a heaven that was like the faceOf 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 sangA song to spring, full of its own wild selfAnd soul, that heard the blossom-laden May'sHeart 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 treeWe took our wine, the morning prismed in itsFlame-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 whenceA man's true soul smiled, breezy as the blue.As royal a Rhenish, I will vouch to say,As that, old legends tell, which NecromanceAnd Magic keep, gnome-guarded, in huge casksOf 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 hourHe 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 greenAnd live a forester with us and beEnfellowed 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 seemedHope'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 leastFor some short while, my friend; but afterward—Nay! ransack not to-morrow till to-dayLest it engulf thy joy before it is!"—And when he spoke, the fire in his eyesWorked restless as a hunted animal's;Or like the Count von Hackelnburg's,—the eyesOf the Wild Huntsman,—his that turn and turnFeeling the unseen presence of a fiend.And then his smile! a thrust-like thing that curledHis lips with heresy and incredible loreWhen 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 skillT' 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 isWho 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 mienAnd 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 jestTo bow out God and let the Devil in.

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 hourHe 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 greenAnd live a forester with us and beEnfellowed in the Duke of Brunswick's train,And for the Duke's estate even now was bound.

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 seemedHope'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 leastFor some short while, my friend; but afterward—Nay! ransack not to-morrow till to-dayLest it engulf thy joy before it is!"—And when he spoke, the fire in his eyesWorked restless as a hunted animal's;Or like the Count von Hackelnburg's,—the eyesOf the Wild Huntsman,—his that turn and turnFeeling the unseen presence of a fiend.

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 curledHis lips with heresy and incredible loreWhen 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 skillT' 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 isWho 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 mienAnd 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 jestTo bow out God and let the Devil in.

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.

And grasped of both wild hands, swung trenchant. Page285Accolon of Gaul

And grasped of both wild hands, swung trenchant. Page285

Accolon of Gaul

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Then, as it chanced, old Kurt had come that mornWith some six of his jerkined forestersFrom the Thuringian forest; wet with dew,And fresh as morn with early travel; boundFor Brunswick, Dummburg and the Hakel passed.Chief huntsman he then to our lord the Duke,And father of the loveliest maiden hereIn Ammendorf, the sunny Ilsabe:Her mother dead, the gray-haired father prizedHis daughter more than all that men hold dear;His only happiness, who was belovedOf 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 holdsUs by the simplest words.—Blue were her eyesAs the high glory of a summer day.Her hair,—serene and braided over browsWhite 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 dayWhen homing shepherds pipe to tinkling flocks:Being with you a while, so, when she left,—How shall I say it?—'twas as when one hathBeheld 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 sinecureI can assure you)—had scarce reached the ageOf 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, heisyoung: 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 beenSeverely tried and could not stand the test;These be thy care, Kurt: and if not too deepIn 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 heardOf 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 feignTransmutes to gold base metals it may touch,Had turned to good all evil in this man,)—Surmised I of the excellency whichRefinement of her purer company,And contact with her innocence, had resolvedHis fiery nature to, conditioning slave.And so I came from Brunswick—as, you know,Is custom of the Duke or, by his sealCommissioned proxy, his commissioner—To test the marksmanship of Rudolf, whoSucceeded Kurt with marriage of his child,An heir of Kuno.—He?—Great-grandfatherTo Kurt; and of this forest-keepershipThe 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 ratheTo bid good-morrow to the husbandmanHeavy with slumber,—was too slow for these,And on the wind-trod hills recumbent yawnedAroused an hour too soon: ashamed, disrobed,Rubbed the stiff sleep from eyes that still would close;Like some young milkmaid whom the cock hath waked,Who sits within her loft and, half asleep,Stretches and hears the house below her stir,Yet sits and yawns, reluctant still to rise.—Horns sang and deer-hounds tugged a whimpering leash,Or, loosened, bounded through the baying glens:And ere the mountain mists, compact of white,Broke wild before the azure spears of day,The far-off hunt, that woke the woods to life,Seemed but the heart-beat of the ancient hills.And then, near noon, within a forest brake,The ban-dogs roused a red gigantic stag,Lashed to whose back with gnarly-knotted cords,And borne along like some pale parasite,A man shrieked: tangle-bearded, and his hairA mane of forest-burrs. The man himself,Emaciated and half-naked fromThe stag's mad flight through headlong rocks and trees,One bleeding bruise, his eyes two holes of fire.For such the law then: when the peasant chasedOr slew the dun deer of his tyrant lords,If caught, as punishment the withes and spineOf some strong stag, a gift to him of gameEnough till death—death in the antlered herd,Or slow starvation in the haggard hills.Then was the great Duke glad, and forthwith criedTo all his hunting-train a rich rewardFor him who slew the stag and saved the man,But death for him who slew both man and beast.So plunged the hunt after the hurrying slot,A shout and glimmer through the sounding woods,—Like some wild torrent that the hills have loosed,Death for its goal.—'Twas late; and none had yetRisked that hard shot,—too desperate the riskBeside the poor life and a little gold,—When this young Kuno, with hot eyes, whereinHunt and impatience kindled reckless flame,Cried, "Has the dew made wet each powder-pan?Or have we left our marksmanship at home?Here's for its heart! the Fiend direct my ball!"—And fired into a covert packed with briers,An intertangled wall of matted night,Wherein the eye might vainly strive and striveTo pierce one fathom, gaze one foot beyond:But, ha! the huge stag staggered from the brake,Heart-hit, and fell: and that wan wretch, unbound,Rescued, was cared for. Then his grace, the Duke,Charmed with the eagle aim, called Kuno up,And there to him and his forever gaveThe forest-keepership.But envious tonguesWere soon at wag; and whispered went the taleOf how the shot was "free"; and how the ballsUsed by young Kuno were "free" bullets—whichTo say is: Lead by magic molded, inThe presence and directed of the Fiend.Of some effect these tales, and of some forceEven with the Duke, who lent an ear so farAs to ordain Kuno's descendants allTo proof of skill ere their succession toThe father's office. Kurt himself hath shotThe silver ring out o' the popinjay's beak—A good shot he, you see, who would succeed.The Devil guards his secrets close as God.For who can say what elementaries,Demonic, lurk in desolate dells and hillsAnd shadowy woods? malignant forces who,Malicious vassals of satanic power,Are agents to that Evil none may name,Who signs himself, through these, a slave to those,Those mortals who call in the aid of Hell,And for some earthly, transitory gift,Barter their souls and all their hopes of Heaven.Of these enchanted bullets let me speak:There may be such: our earth hath things as strange,Perhaps, and stranger, that we doubt not of,While we behold,—not only 'neath the thatchOf Ignorance's hovel,—but withinThe stately halls of Wisdom's palaces,How Superstition sits an honored guest.A cross-way, so they say, among the hills;A cross-way in a solitude of pines;And on the lonely cross-way you must drawA bloody circle with a bloody sword;And round the circle, runic characters,Weird and symbolic: here a skull, and thereA scythe, and cross-bones, and an hour-glass here:And in the centre, fed with coffin-wood,Stolen from the grave of—say a murderer,A fitful fire. Eleven of the clockThe first ball leaves the mold—the sullen leadMixed with three bullets that have hit their mark,And blood the wounded Sacramental Host,Stolen, and hence unhallowed, oozed when shotFixed to a riven pine. Ere midnight strike,With never a word until that hour sound,Must all the balls be cast; and these must beIn number three and sixty; three of whichThe Fiend's dark agent, demon Sammael,Claims for his master and stamps for his ownTo hit aside their mark, askew for harm.The other sixty shall not miss their mark.No cry, no word, no whisper, even thoughVague, gesturing shapes, that loom like moonlit mists,Their faces human but of animal form,Whinnying and whining lusts, faun-faced, goat-formed,Rise thick around and threaten to destroy.No cry, no word, no whisper should there come,Weeping, a wandering shadow like the girlYou love, or loved, now lost to you, her eyesHollow with tears; sad, palely beckoningWith beautiful arms, or censuring; her faceWild with despondent love: who, if you speakOr waver from that circle—hideous change!—Shrinks to a wrinkled hag, whose harpy handsShall tear you limb from limb with horrible mirth.Nor be deceived if some far midnight bellStrike that anticipated hour; nor leaveBy one short inch the circle, for, unseenThough now they be, Hell's minions still are there,Watching with flaming eyes to seize your soul.But when the hour of midnight sounds, will comeA noise of galloping hoofs and outriders,Shouting: six midnight steeds,—their nostrils, pitsOf burning blood,—postilioned, roll a stage,Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire:"Room there!—What, ho!—Who bars the mountain way?—On over him!"—But fear not, nor fare forth;'Tis but the last trick of your bounden slave.And ere the red moon rushes from the cloudsAnd dives again, high the huge leaders leap,Their fore-hoofs flashing and their eyeballs flame,And, spun a spiral spark into the night,Hissing the phantasm flies and fades away.Some say there comes no stage; that Hackelnburg,Wild-Huntsman of the Harz, comes dark as storm,With rain and wind and demon dogs of Hell;The terror of his hunting-horn, an owl,And the dim deer he hunts, rush on before:The forests crash, and whirlwinds are the leaves,And all the skies a-thunder, as he hurls,Straight on the circle, horse and hounds and stag.And at the last, plutonian-cloaked, there comes,—Infernal fire streaming from his eyes,—Upon a stallion gaunt and lurid black,The minister of Satan, Sammael,Who greets you, and informs you, and assures.Enough! these wives' tales told, to what I've seen:To Ammendorf I came; and Rudolf hereWith Kurt and his assembled men in buffAnd woodland green were gathered at this inn.The abundant Year—like some sweet wife,—a-smileAt her brown baby, Autumn, in her arms,Stood 'mid the garnered harvests of her fieldsDreaming of days that pass like almonersScattering their alms in minted gold of flowers;Of nights, that forest all the skies with stars,Wherethrough the moon—bare-bosomed huntress—rides,One cloud before her like a flying fawn.Then I proposed the season's hunt; till eveThe test of Rudolf's skill postponed; at whichHe seemed embarrassed. And 'twas then I heardHow he an execrable marksman was;And tales that told of close, incredible shots,That missed their mark; or how the flint-lock oftFlamed harmless powder, while the curious deerStood staring, as in pity of such aim,Or as inviting him to try once more.Howbeit, he that day acquitted himOf all this gossip; in that day's long huntMissing no shot, however rashly madeOr distant through the intercepting trees.And the piled, various game brought down of allGood marksmen of Kurt's train had not sufficed,Doubled, nay, trebled, there to match his heap.And marvelling the hunters saw, nor knewHow to excuse them. My indulgence giv'n,Some told me that but yesterday old KurtHad made his daughter weep and Rudolf frown,By vowing end to their betrothéd love,Unless that love developed better skillAgainst the morrow's test; his ancestors'High fame should not be tarnished. So he railed;Then bowed his gray head and sat moodily:But, looking up, forgave all when he sawTears in his daughter's eyes and Rudolf goneOut in the night, black with approaching storm.Before this inn, crowding the green, they stood,The holiday village come to view the trial:Fair maidens and their comely mothers withTheir sweethearts and their husbands. And I markedKurt and his daughter here; his florid faceAll creased with smiles at Rudolf's great success;Hers, radiant with happiness; for thisHer marriage eve—so had her father said—Should Rudolf come successful from the hunt.So pleased was I with what I'd seen him do,The trial of skill superfluous seemed; and soWas on the bare brink of announcing, whenOut of the western heaven's deepening red,—Like a white message dropped of scarlet lips,—A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there,Upon that limb, a peaceful moment sat.Then I, "Thy rifle, Rudolf! pierce its head!"Cried pointing, "and chief-forester art thou!"Why did he falter with a face as strangeAnd strained as terror's? did his soul divineWhat was to be, with tragic prescience?—What a bad dream it all seems now!—AgainI see him aim. Again I hear her cry,"My dove! O Rudolf, do not kill my dove!"And from the crowd, like some sweet dove herself,A fluttering whiteness, rushed our Ilsabe—Too late! the rifle cracked.... The unhurt doveRose, beating frightened wings—but Ilsabe!...My God! the sight!... fell smitten; sudden red,Sullying the whiteness of her bridal bodice,Showed where the ball had pierced her innocent heart.And Rudolf?—Ah, of him you still would know?—When he beheld this thing which he had done,Why, he went mad—I say—but others not.An hour he raved of how her life had paidFor the unholy missiles he had used,And how his soul was three times lost and damned.I say that he went mad and fled forthwithInto the haunted Harz.—Some say, to dieThe prey of demons of the Dummburg ruin.I,—one of those less superstitious,—say,He in the Bodé—from that blackened rock,—Whereon were found his hunting-cap and horn,—The Devil's Dancing Place, did leap and die.

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 sinecureI can assure you)—had scarce reached the ageOf 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, heisyoung: 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 beenSeverely tried and could not stand the test;These be thy care, Kurt: and if not too deepIn vices of the flesh, discover them,As divers bring lost riches up from ooze.—Thou hast a daughter; let him be thy son."

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, heisyoung: 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 heardOf 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 feignTransmutes to gold base metals it may touch,Had turned to good all evil in this man,)—Surmised I of the excellency whichRefinement of her purer company,And contact with her innocence, had resolvedHis fiery nature to, conditioning slave.And so I came from Brunswick—as, you know,Is custom of the Duke or, by his sealCommissioned proxy, his commissioner—To test the marksmanship of Rudolf, whoSucceeded Kurt with marriage of his child,An heir of Kuno.—He?—Great-grandfatherTo Kurt; and of this forest-keepershipThe first possessor; thus established here—Or this the tale they tell on winter nights:—

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 ratheTo bid good-morrow to the husbandmanHeavy with slumber,—was too slow for these,And on the wind-trod hills recumbent yawnedAroused 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.

Kuno, once in the Knight of Wippach's train,

Rode on a grand hunt with the Duke, who came,—

Grandfather of the father of our Duke,—

With much magnificence of knights and squires,

Great velvet-vestured nobles, cloaked and plumed,

To hunt Thuringian deer. Then morn,—so rathe

To bid good-morrow to the husbandman

Heavy with slumber,—was too slow for these,

And on the wind-trod hills recumbent yawned

Aroused an hour too soon: ashamed, disrobed,

Rubbed the stiff sleep from eyes that still would close;

Like some young milkmaid whom the cock hath waked,

Who sits within her loft and, half asleep,

Stretches and hears the house below her stir,

Yet sits and yawns, reluctant still to rise.—

Horns sang and deer-hounds tugged a whimpering leash,

Or, loosened, bounded through the baying glens:

And ere the mountain mists, compact of white,

Broke wild before the azure spears of day,

The far-off hunt, that woke the woods to life,

Seemed but the heart-beat of the ancient hills.

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

And then, near noon, within a forest brake,

The ban-dogs roused a red gigantic stag,

Lashed to whose back with gnarly-knotted cords,

And borne along like some pale parasite,

A man shrieked: tangle-bearded, and his hair

A mane of forest-burrs. The man himself,

Emaciated and half-naked from

The stag's mad flight through headlong rocks and trees,

One bleeding bruise, his eyes two holes of fire.

For such the law then: when the peasant chased

Or slew the dun deer of his tyrant lords,

If caught, as punishment the withes and spine

Of some strong stag, a gift to him of game

Enough till death—death in the antlered herd,

Or slow starvation in the haggard hills.

Then was the great Duke glad, and forthwith cried

To all his hunting-train a rich reward

For him who slew the stag and saved the man,

But death for him who slew both man and beast.

So plunged the hunt after the hurrying slot,

A shout and glimmer through the sounding woods,—

Like some wild torrent that the hills have loosed,

Death for its goal.—'Twas late; and none had yet

Risked that hard shot,—too desperate the risk

Beside the poor life and a little gold,—

When this young Kuno, with hot eyes, wherein

Hunt and impatience kindled reckless flame,

Cried, "Has the dew made wet each powder-pan?

Or have we left our marksmanship at home?

Here's for its heart! the Fiend direct my ball!"—

And fired into a covert packed with briers,

An intertangled wall of matted night,

Wherein the eye might vainly strive and strive

To pierce one fathom, gaze one foot beyond:

But, ha! the huge stag staggered from the brake,

Heart-hit, and fell: and that wan wretch, unbound,

Rescued, was cared for. Then his grace, the Duke,

Charmed with the eagle aim, called Kuno up,

And there to him and his forever gave

The forest-keepership.

But envious tonguesWere soon at wag; and whispered went the taleOf how the shot was "free"; and how the ballsUsed by young Kuno were "free" bullets—whichTo say is: Lead by magic molded, inThe presence and directed of the Fiend.Of some effect these tales, and of some forceEven with the Duke, who lent an ear so farAs to ordain Kuno's descendants allTo proof of skill ere their succession toThe father's office. Kurt himself hath shotThe silver ring out o' the popinjay's beak—A good shot he, you see, who would succeed.

But envious tongues

Were soon at wag; and whispered went the tale

Of how the shot was "free"; and how the balls

Used by young Kuno were "free" bullets—which

To say is: Lead by magic molded, in

The presence and directed of the Fiend.

Of some effect these tales, and of some force

Even with the Duke, who lent an ear so far

As to ordain Kuno's descendants all

To proof of skill ere their succession to

The father's office. Kurt himself hath shot

The silver ring out o' the popinjay's beak—

A good shot he, you see, who would succeed.

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

The Devil guards his secrets close as God.

For who can say what elementaries,

Demonic, lurk in desolate dells and hills

And shadowy woods? malignant forces who,

Malicious vassals of satanic power,

Are agents to that Evil none may name,

Who signs himself, through these, a slave to those,

Those mortals who call in the aid of Hell,

And for some earthly, transitory gift,

Barter their souls and all their hopes of Heaven.

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

Of these enchanted bullets let me speak:

There may be such: our earth hath things as strange,

Perhaps, and stranger, that we doubt not of,

While we behold,—not only 'neath the thatch

Of Ignorance's hovel,—but within

The stately halls of Wisdom's palaces,

How Superstition sits an honored guest.

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

A cross-way, so they say, among the hills;

A cross-way in a solitude of pines;

And on the lonely cross-way you must draw

A bloody circle with a bloody sword;

And round the circle, runic characters,

Weird and symbolic: here a skull, and there

A scythe, and cross-bones, and an hour-glass here:

And in the centre, fed with coffin-wood,

Stolen from the grave of—say a murderer,

A fitful fire. Eleven of the clock

The first ball leaves the mold—the sullen lead

Mixed with three bullets that have hit their mark,

And blood the wounded Sacramental Host,

Stolen, and hence unhallowed, oozed when shot

Fixed to a riven pine. Ere midnight strike,

With never a word until that hour sound,

Must all the balls be cast; and these must be

In number three and sixty; three of which

The Fiend's dark agent, demon Sammael,

Claims for his master and stamps for his own

To hit aside their mark, askew for harm.

The other sixty shall not miss their mark.

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

No cry, no word, no whisper, even though

Vague, gesturing shapes, that loom like moonlit mists,

Their faces human but of animal form,

Whinnying and whining lusts, faun-faced, goat-formed,

Rise thick around and threaten to destroy.

No cry, no word, no whisper should there come,

Weeping, a wandering shadow like the girl

You love, or loved, now lost to you, her eyes

Hollow with tears; sad, palely beckoning

With beautiful arms, or censuring; her face

Wild with despondent love: who, if you speak

Or waver from that circle—hideous change!—

Shrinks to a wrinkled hag, whose harpy hands

Shall tear you limb from limb with horrible mirth.

Nor be deceived if some far midnight bell

Strike that anticipated hour; nor leave

By one short inch the circle, for, unseen

Though now they be, Hell's minions still are there,

Watching with flaming eyes to seize your soul.

But when the hour of midnight sounds, will come

A noise of galloping hoofs and outriders,

Shouting: six midnight steeds,—their nostrils, pits

Of burning blood,—postilioned, roll a stage,

Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire:

"Room there!—What, ho!—Who bars the mountain way?—

On over him!"—But fear not, nor fare forth;

'Tis but the last trick of your bounden slave.

And ere the red moon rushes from the clouds

And dives again, high the huge leaders leap,

Their fore-hoofs flashing and their eyeballs flame,

And, spun a spiral spark into the night,

Hissing the phantasm flies and fades away.

Some say there comes no stage; that Hackelnburg,

Wild-Huntsman of the Harz, comes dark as storm,

With rain and wind and demon dogs of Hell;

The terror of his hunting-horn, an owl,

And the dim deer he hunts, rush on before:

The forests crash, and whirlwinds are the leaves,

And all the skies a-thunder, as he hurls,

Straight on the circle, horse and hounds and stag.

And at the last, plutonian-cloaked, there comes,—

Infernal fire streaming from his eyes,—

Upon a stallion gaunt and lurid black,

The minister of Satan, Sammael,

Who greets you, and informs you, and assures.

Enough! these wives' tales told, to what I've seen:To Ammendorf I came; and Rudolf hereWith Kurt and his assembled men in buffAnd woodland green were gathered at this inn.The abundant Year—like some sweet wife,—a-smileAt her brown baby, Autumn, in her arms,Stood 'mid the garnered harvests of her fieldsDreaming of days that pass like almonersScattering their alms in minted gold of flowers;Of nights, that forest all the skies with stars,Wherethrough the moon—bare-bosomed huntress—rides,One cloud before her like a flying fawn.Then I proposed the season's hunt; till eveThe test of Rudolf's skill postponed; at whichHe seemed embarrassed. And 'twas then I heardHow he an execrable marksman was;And tales that told of close, incredible shots,That missed their mark; or how the flint-lock oftFlamed harmless powder, while the curious deerStood staring, as in pity of such aim,Or as inviting him to try once more.Howbeit, he that day acquitted himOf all this gossip; in that day's long huntMissing no shot, however rashly madeOr distant through the intercepting trees.And the piled, various game brought down of allGood marksmen of Kurt's train had not sufficed,Doubled, nay, trebled, there to match his heap.And marvelling the hunters saw, nor knewHow to excuse them. My indulgence giv'n,Some told me that but yesterday old KurtHad made his daughter weep and Rudolf frown,By vowing end to their betrothéd love,Unless that love developed better skillAgainst the morrow's test; his ancestors'High fame should not be tarnished. So he railed;Then bowed his gray head and sat moodily:But, looking up, forgave all when he sawTears in his daughter's eyes and Rudolf goneOut in the night, black with approaching storm.Before this inn, crowding the green, they stood,The holiday village come to view the trial:Fair maidens and their comely mothers withTheir sweethearts and their husbands. And I markedKurt and his daughter here; his florid faceAll creased with smiles at Rudolf's great success;Hers, radiant with happiness; for thisHer marriage eve—so had her father said—Should Rudolf come successful from the hunt.

Enough! these wives' tales told, to what I've seen:

To Ammendorf I came; and Rudolf here

With Kurt and his assembled men in buff

And woodland green were gathered at this inn.

The abundant Year—like some sweet wife,—a-smile

At her brown baby, Autumn, in her arms,

Stood 'mid the garnered harvests of her fields

Dreaming of days that pass like almoners

Scattering their alms in minted gold of flowers;

Of nights, that forest all the skies with stars,

Wherethrough the moon—bare-bosomed huntress—rides,

One cloud before her like a flying fawn.

Then I proposed the season's hunt; till eve

The test of Rudolf's skill postponed; at which

He seemed embarrassed. And 'twas then I heard

How he an execrable marksman was;

And tales that told of close, incredible shots,

That missed their mark; or how the flint-lock oft

Flamed harmless powder, while the curious deer

Stood staring, as in pity of such aim,

Or as inviting him to try once more.

Howbeit, he that day acquitted him

Of all this gossip; in that day's long hunt

Missing no shot, however rashly made

Or distant through the intercepting trees.

And the piled, various game brought down of all

Good marksmen of Kurt's train had not sufficed,

Doubled, nay, trebled, there to match his heap.

And marvelling the hunters saw, nor knew

How to excuse them. My indulgence giv'n,

Some told me that but yesterday old Kurt

Had made his daughter weep and Rudolf frown,

By vowing end to their betrothéd love,

Unless that love developed better skill

Against the morrow's test; his ancestors'

High fame should not be tarnished. So he railed;

Then bowed his gray head and sat moodily:

But, looking up, forgave all when he saw

Tears in his daughter's eyes and Rudolf gone

Out in the night, black with approaching storm.

Before this inn, crowding the green, they stood,

The holiday village come to view the trial:

Fair maidens and their comely mothers with

Their sweethearts and their husbands. And I marked

Kurt and his daughter here; his florid face

All creased with smiles at Rudolf's great success;

Hers, radiant with happiness; for this

Her marriage eve—so had her father said—

Should Rudolf come successful from the hunt.

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

So pleased was I with what I'd seen him do,

The trial of skill superfluous seemed; and so

Was on the bare brink of announcing, when

Out of the western heaven's deepening red,—

Like a white message dropped of scarlet lips,—

A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there,

Upon that limb, a peaceful moment sat.

Then I, "Thy rifle, Rudolf! pierce its head!"

Cried pointing, "and chief-forester art thou!"

Why did he falter with a face as strange

And strained as terror's? did his soul divine

What was to be, with tragic prescience?—

What a bad dream it all seems now!—Again

I see him aim. Again I hear her cry,

"My dove! O Rudolf, do not kill my dove!"

And from the crowd, like some sweet dove herself,

A fluttering whiteness, rushed our Ilsabe—

Too late! the rifle cracked.... The unhurt dove

Rose, beating frightened wings—but Ilsabe!...

My God! the sight!... fell smitten; sudden red,

Sullying the whiteness of her bridal bodice,

Showed where the ball had pierced her innocent heart.

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

And Rudolf?—Ah, of him you still would know?

—When he beheld this thing which he had done,

Why, he went mad—I say—but others not.

An hour he raved of how her life had paid

For the unholy missiles he had used,

And how his soul was three times lost and damned.

I say that he went mad and fled forthwith

Into the haunted Harz.—Some say, to die

The prey of demons of the Dummburg ruin.

I,—one of those less superstitious,—say,

He in the Bodé—from that blackened rock,—

Whereon were found his hunting-cap and horn,—

The Devil's Dancing Place, did leap and die.

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