YULE

And this is the song of battle, they sang to the thrash of the oars,As the prows of their shield-hung dragons were driven along the shores:—

And this is the song of battle, they sang to the thrash of the oars,

As the prows of their shield-hung dragons were driven along the shores:—

On to the battle! Yo ho for the slaughter!Hark to the grind of the oars that thunder!Clash of the prows as they crash through the water,Hurl through the foam of the seas they sunder!Up with the axe! and drive through the bristlingBeaks of the foe that our iron has broken!On through the sleet of the shafts that are whistling,Arrows of ash, in a wedge that is oaken.By the eye of Odin! whose frown is war,Think of the vikings' daughters, who wearGold on their hips! to hale by the hair,Gold-bound, red as the beard of Thor!Virgins, whose bodies, white-bosomed, areFor rape and ransom!—A kingdom's ravishYours! for the sweat and the blood you lavish.Hark! on the shore how his fierce fangs clamor!Ocean's, whose rocks are hungry for carrion:—Ho! 'tis a sound as of swords that hammerHelms to the brazen snarl of the clarion....On to the revel of war, my bullies,Blades, that fury like fire to battle!On to the banquet, through spray that gullies,Bray of the beaks and the oars' wild rattle!When prow grinds prow and the arrows hail,Think! were it better with hollow-eyed HelTo rot with cowards? or boast and yellHoarse toasts over skulls of the boisterous aleHigh in Valhalla where heroes dwell?In vast Valhalla, where life wends well!The warrior vault of whose shields with cursesRings to the roar of the Berserk verses!

On to the battle! Yo ho for the slaughter!

Hark to the grind of the oars that thunder!

Clash of the prows as they crash through the water,

Hurl through the foam of the seas they sunder!

Up with the axe! and drive through the bristling

Beaks of the foe that our iron has broken!

On through the sleet of the shafts that are whistling,

Arrows of ash, in a wedge that is oaken.

By the eye of Odin! whose frown is war,

Think of the vikings' daughters, who wear

Gold on their hips! to hale by the hair,

Gold-bound, red as the beard of Thor!

Virgins, whose bodies, white-bosomed, are

For rape and ransom!—A kingdom's ravish

Yours! for the sweat and the blood you lavish.

Hark! on the shore how his fierce fangs clamor!Ocean's, whose rocks are hungry for carrion:—Ho! 'tis a sound as of swords that hammerHelms to the brazen snarl of the clarion....On to the revel of war, my bullies,Blades, that fury like fire to battle!On to the banquet, through spray that gullies,Bray of the beaks and the oars' wild rattle!When prow grinds prow and the arrows hail,Think! were it better with hollow-eyed HelTo rot with cowards? or boast and yellHoarse toasts over skulls of the boisterous aleHigh in Valhalla where heroes dwell?In vast Valhalla, where life wends well!The warrior vault of whose shields with cursesRings to the roar of the Berserk verses!

Hark! on the shore how his fierce fangs clamor!

Ocean's, whose rocks are hungry for carrion:—

Ho! 'tis a sound as of swords that hammer

Helms to the brazen snarl of the clarion....

On to the revel of war, my bullies,

Blades, that fury like fire to battle!

On to the banquet, through spray that gullies,

Bray of the beaks and the oars' wild rattle!

When prow grinds prow and the arrows hail,

Think! were it better with hollow-eyed Hel

To rot with cowards? or boast and yell

Hoarse toasts over skulls of the boisterous ale

High in Valhalla where heroes dwell?

In vast Valhalla, where life wends well!

The warrior vault of whose shields with curses

Rings to the roar of the Berserk verses!

Behold! in the night there was storm; and the rushing of snow and of sleet;And the boom of the sea and the moaning of pines in its desolate beat.And the hall of fierce Erick of Sogn with the clamor of wassail was filled,With the clash of great beakers of gold and the reek of the ale that was spilled.For the Yule was upon them, the Yule; and they quaffed as from skulls of the slain,And shouted loud oaths in hoarse wit, and long quaffing swore laughing again.Unharnessed from each shaggy throat, that was hot with brute lust and with drink,Each burly wild skin and barbaric tossed, rent from the gold of its link.For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and thewaesheilswere shouted and roaredBy the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous board.And huge on the hearth, that writhed, hissing, and bellied, an ingot of gold,The Yule-log, the half of an oak from the mountains, was royally rolled.And its warmth and its glory, that glared, smote red through the width of the hall,And burnished the boar-skins and bucklers and war-axes hung on the wall.And the maidens, who hurried big goblets, that bubbled, excessive with barm,Blushed rose to the gold of thick curls as the shining steel mirrored each charm.And Erick's one hundred gray skalds, at the nod and the beck of the king,With the stormy-rolled music of an hundred wild harps made the castle reëchoing ring.For the Yule, for the Yule was upon them, and battle and rapine were o'er;And Harald, the viking, the red, and his brother lay dead on the shore.For the harrier, Harald the red, and his merciless brother, black Ulf,With their men on the shore of the wintery sea were carrion cold for the wolf.Behold! for the battle was ended; the battle that clamored all day,With the rumble of shields that were shocked and of spears that were splintered like spray:With the hewing of swords that fierce-lightened like flames and that smoked with hot blood,And the crush of the mace that was hammered through helm and through brain that withstood:And the cursing and howling of men at their gods,—at their gods whom they cursed,Till the caves of the ocean re-bellowed and storm on their battling burst.And they fought; in the flying and drifting and silence of covering snow,Till the wounded that lay with the dead, with the dead were stiff frozen in woe.And they fought; and the mystical flakes that were clutched by the maniac windDrave sharp on the eyes of the kings, made the sight of their warriors blind.Still they fought; and with leonine wrath were they met, till the battle-god, Thor,In his thunder-wheeled chariot rolled, making end of destruction and war.And they fell—like twin rocks of the mountains, or pines, that rush, hurricane-hurled,From their world-rooted crags to the ocean below with the wreck of the world.But, lo! not in vain their loud vows! on the black iron altars of WarNot in vain as victims, the warriors, their blood as libation to Thor!...Lo! a glitter and splendor of arms through the snow and the foam of the seasAnd the terrible ghosts of the vikings and the gauntleted Valkyries!...Yea, the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the turmoil of wassail are filled,With the steam of the flesh of the boar, and the reek of the ale that is spilled.For the Yule and the victory are theirs, and thewaesheilsare shouted and roaredBy the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous board.

Behold! in the night there was storm; and the rushing of snow and of sleet;And the boom of the sea and the moaning of pines in its desolate beat.

Behold! in the night there was storm; and the rushing of snow and of sleet;

And the boom of the sea and the moaning of pines in its desolate beat.

And the hall of fierce Erick of Sogn with the clamor of wassail was filled,With the clash of great beakers of gold and the reek of the ale that was spilled.

And the hall of fierce Erick of Sogn with the clamor of wassail was filled,

With the clash of great beakers of gold and the reek of the ale that was spilled.

For the Yule was upon them, the Yule; and they quaffed as from skulls of the slain,And shouted loud oaths in hoarse wit, and long quaffing swore laughing again.

For the Yule was upon them, the Yule; and they quaffed as from skulls of the slain,

And shouted loud oaths in hoarse wit, and long quaffing swore laughing again.

Unharnessed from each shaggy throat, that was hot with brute lust and with drink,Each burly wild skin and barbaric tossed, rent from the gold of its link.

Unharnessed from each shaggy throat, that was hot with brute lust and with drink,

Each burly wild skin and barbaric tossed, rent from the gold of its link.

For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and thewaesheilswere shouted and roaredBy the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous board.

For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and thewaesheilswere shouted and roared

By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous board.

And huge on the hearth, that writhed, hissing, and bellied, an ingot of gold,The Yule-log, the half of an oak from the mountains, was royally rolled.

And huge on the hearth, that writhed, hissing, and bellied, an ingot of gold,

The Yule-log, the half of an oak from the mountains, was royally rolled.

And its warmth and its glory, that glared, smote red through the width of the hall,And burnished the boar-skins and bucklers and war-axes hung on the wall.

And its warmth and its glory, that glared, smote red through the width of the hall,

And burnished the boar-skins and bucklers and war-axes hung on the wall.

And the maidens, who hurried big goblets, that bubbled, excessive with barm,Blushed rose to the gold of thick curls as the shining steel mirrored each charm.

And the maidens, who hurried big goblets, that bubbled, excessive with barm,

Blushed rose to the gold of thick curls as the shining steel mirrored each charm.

And Erick's one hundred gray skalds, at the nod and the beck of the king,With the stormy-rolled music of an hundred wild harps made the castle reëchoing ring.

And Erick's one hundred gray skalds, at the nod and the beck of the king,

With the stormy-rolled music of an hundred wild harps made the castle reëchoing ring.

For the Yule, for the Yule was upon them, and battle and rapine were o'er;And Harald, the viking, the red, and his brother lay dead on the shore.

For the Yule, for the Yule was upon them, and battle and rapine were o'er;

And Harald, the viking, the red, and his brother lay dead on the shore.

For the harrier, Harald the red, and his merciless brother, black Ulf,With their men on the shore of the wintery sea were carrion cold for the wolf.

For the harrier, Harald the red, and his merciless brother, black Ulf,

With their men on the shore of the wintery sea were carrion cold for the wolf.

Behold! for the battle was ended; the battle that clamored all day,With the rumble of shields that were shocked and of spears that were splintered like spray:

Behold! for the battle was ended; the battle that clamored all day,

With the rumble of shields that were shocked and of spears that were splintered like spray:

With the hewing of swords that fierce-lightened like flames and that smoked with hot blood,And the crush of the mace that was hammered through helm and through brain that withstood:

With the hewing of swords that fierce-lightened like flames and that smoked with hot blood,

And the crush of the mace that was hammered through helm and through brain that withstood:

And the cursing and howling of men at their gods,—at their gods whom they cursed,Till the caves of the ocean re-bellowed and storm on their battling burst.

And the cursing and howling of men at their gods,—at their gods whom they cursed,

Till the caves of the ocean re-bellowed and storm on their battling burst.

And they fought; in the flying and drifting and silence of covering snow,Till the wounded that lay with the dead, with the dead were stiff frozen in woe.

And they fought; in the flying and drifting and silence of covering snow,

Till the wounded that lay with the dead, with the dead were stiff frozen in woe.

And they fought; and the mystical flakes that were clutched by the maniac windDrave sharp on the eyes of the kings, made the sight of their warriors blind.

And they fought; and the mystical flakes that were clutched by the maniac wind

Drave sharp on the eyes of the kings, made the sight of their warriors blind.

Still they fought; and with leonine wrath were they met, till the battle-god, Thor,In his thunder-wheeled chariot rolled, making end of destruction and war.

Still they fought; and with leonine wrath were they met, till the battle-god, Thor,

In his thunder-wheeled chariot rolled, making end of destruction and war.

And they fell—like twin rocks of the mountains, or pines, that rush, hurricane-hurled,From their world-rooted crags to the ocean below with the wreck of the world.

And they fell—like twin rocks of the mountains, or pines, that rush, hurricane-hurled,

From their world-rooted crags to the ocean below with the wreck of the world.

But, lo! not in vain their loud vows! on the black iron altars of WarNot in vain as victims, the warriors, their blood as libation to Thor!...

But, lo! not in vain their loud vows! on the black iron altars of War

Not in vain as victims, the warriors, their blood as libation to Thor!...

Lo! a glitter and splendor of arms through the snow and the foam of the seasAnd the terrible ghosts of the vikings and the gauntleted Valkyries!...

Lo! a glitter and splendor of arms through the snow and the foam of the seas

And the terrible ghosts of the vikings and the gauntleted Valkyries!...

Yea, the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the turmoil of wassail are filled,With the steam of the flesh of the boar, and the reek of the ale that is spilled.

Yea, the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the turmoil of wassail are filled,

With the steam of the flesh of the boar, and the reek of the ale that is spilled.

For the Yule and the victory are theirs, and thewaesheilsare shouted and roaredBy the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous board.

For the Yule and the victory are theirs, and thewaesheilsare shouted and roared

By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous board.

And one, perchance, will read and sigh:"What aimless songs! Why will he singOf nature that drags out her woeThrough wind and rain, and sun and snow,From miserable spring to spring?"Then put me by.And one, perhaps, will read and say:"Why write of things across the sea;Of men and women, far and near,When we of things at home would hear—Well! who would call this poetry?"Then toss away.A hopeless task have we, meseems,At this late day; whom fate hath madeSad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filledWith kindred yearnings, try to buildA tower like theirs, that will not fade,Out of our dreams.

And one, perchance, will read and sigh:"What aimless songs! Why will he singOf nature that drags out her woeThrough wind and rain, and sun and snow,From miserable spring to spring?"Then put me by.

And one, perchance, will read and sigh:

"What aimless songs! Why will he sing

Of nature that drags out her woe

Through wind and rain, and sun and snow,

From miserable spring to spring?"

Then put me by.

And one, perhaps, will read and say:"Why write of things across the sea;Of men and women, far and near,When we of things at home would hear—Well! who would call this poetry?"Then toss away.

And one, perhaps, will read and say:

"Why write of things across the sea;

Of men and women, far and near,

When we of things at home would hear—

Well! who would call this poetry?"

Then toss away.

A hopeless task have we, meseems,At this late day; whom fate hath madeSad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filledWith kindred yearnings, try to buildA tower like theirs, that will not fade,Out of our dreams.

A hopeless task have we, meseems,

At this late day; whom fate hath made

Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled

With kindred yearnings, try to build

A tower like theirs, that will not fade,

Out of our dreams.

O wondrous legends from the storied wellsOf lost Baranton! where old Merlin dwells,Nodding a white poll and a grave, gray beard,As if some Lake Ladyé he, listening, heard,Who spake like water, danced like careful showersWith blown gold curls through drifts of wild-thorn flowers;Loose, lazy arms upon her bosom crossed,An instant seen, and in an instant lost,With one peculiar note, like that you hearDropped by a reed-bird when the night is near,A vocal gold blown through the atmosphere.Lo! dreams from dreams in dreams remembered. NaughtThat matters much, save that it seemed I thoughtI wandered dim with some one, but I knewNot whom; most beautiful, and young, and true,And pale through suffering: with curl-crowned browSoft eyes and voice, so strange, they haunt me now—A dream, perhaps, in dreamland.Seemed that sheLed me along a flower-showered leaTrammeled with puckered pansy and the pea;Where poppies spread great blood-red stain on stain,So gorged with sunlight and the honeyed rainTheir hearts were weary; roses lavished beams;Roses, wherein were huddled little dreamsThat laughed coy, sidewise merriment, like dew,Or from fair fingers fragrant kisses blew.And suddenly a river cleft the sward;And o'er it lay a mist: and it was hardTo see whence came it; whitherward it led;Like some wild, frightened thing, it foamed and fled,Sighing and murmuring, from its fountain-head.And following it, at last I came uponThe Region of Romance,—from whence were drawnIts wandering waters,—and the storied wellsOf lost Baranton, where old Merlin dwells,Nodding a white poll and a great, gray beard.And then, far off, a woman's voice I heard,Wilder than water, laughing in the bowers,Like some strange bird: and then, through wild-thorn flowers,I saw her limbs glance, twinkling as spring showers;And then, with blown gold curls, tempestuous tossed,White as a wood-nymph, she a vista crossed,Laughing that laugh wherein there was no cheer,But soulless scorn. And so to me drew nearHer sweet lascivious brow's white wonderment,And gray, great eyes, and hair which had the scentOf all the wild Brécèliande's perfumesDrowned in it; and, a flame in gold, one bloom'sBlood-point thrust deep. And, "Viviane! Viviane!"The wild seemed crying, as if swept with rain;And all the young leaves laughed; and surge on surgeSwept the witch-haunted forest to its verge,That shook and sighed and stammered, as, in sleep,A giant half-aroused: and, with a leap,That samite-hazy creature, blossom-white,Showered mocking kisses down; then, like a lightBeat into gusty flutterings by the dawn,Then quenched, she glimmered and, behold, was gone;And in Brécèliande I stood aloneGazing at Merlin, sitting on a stone;Old Merlin, charmed there, dreaming drowsy dreams;A wondrous company; as many as gleamsThat stab the moted mazes of a beech.And each grave dream, behold, had power to reachMy mind through magic; each one following eachIn dim procession; and their beauty drewTears down my cheeks, and Merlin's gray cheeks, too,—One in his beard hung tangled, bright as dew.—Long pageants seemed to pass me, brave and fair,Of courts and tournaments, with silvery blareOf immaterial trumpets high in air;And blazoned banners, shields, and many a spearOf Uther, waved an incorporeal fear:And forms of Arthur rose and Guenevere,Of Tristram and of Isoud and of Mark,And many others; glimmering in the darkOf Merlin's mind, they rose and glared and then,—The instant's fostered phantoms,—passed again.Then all around me seemed a rippling stirOf silken something,—wilier, lovelierThan that witch-mothered beauty, Viviane,—Approaching with dead knights amid her train,Pale through the vast Brécèliande. And thenA knight, steel-helmeted, a man of men,Passed with a fool, King Arthur's Dagonet,Who on his head a tinsel crown had setIn mockery. And as he went his way,Behind the knight the leaves began to sway,Then slightly parted—and Morgane le Fay,With haughty, wicked eyes and lovely face,Studied him steadily a little space.I"Again I hold thee to my heart, Morgane;Here where the restless forest hears the mainToss as in troubled sleep. Now hear me, sweet,While I that dream of yesternight repeat.""First let us find some rock or mossed retreatWhere we may sit at ease.—Why dost thou lookSo serious? Nay! learn lightness from this brook,And gladness from these flowers, my Accolon.See the wild vista there! where purpling runLong woodland shadows from the sinking sun;Deeper the wood seems there, secluded asThe tame wild-deer that, in the moss and grass,Gaze with their human eyes. Where grow those linesOf pale-starred green; and where yon fountain shines,Urned deep in tremulous ferns, let's rest uponYon oak-trunk by the tempest overthrownYears, years ago. See, how 'tis rotted brown!But here the red bark's firm and overgrownOf trailing ivy darkly berried. ShareMy throne with me. Come, cast away thy care!Sit here and breathe with me this wildwood air,Musk with the wood's decay that fills each way;As if some shrub, while dreaming of the May,In longing languor weakly tried to wakeIts perished blossoms and could only makeGhosts of such dead aromas as it knew,And shape a spectre of invisible dewTo haunt these sounding miles of solitude.""Still, thou art troubled, Morgane! and the mood,Deep in thy fathomless eyes, glows.—Canst not keepMine eyes from seeing!—Dark thy thought and deepAs that of some wild woman,—found asleepBy some lost knight upon a precipice,—Whom he hath wakened with a sudden kiss:As that of some frail elfin lady,—lightAs are the foggy moonbeams,—filmy white,Who waves diaphanous beauty on a cliff,That, drowsing, purrs with moon-drenched pines; but ifThe lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and dragHim crashing down, while she, tall on the crag,Triumphant, mocks him with glad sorceryTill all the wildwood echoes shout with glee.""Follow thy figure further, Accolon.Right fair it is. Too soon, alas! art done,"Said she; and tossing back her heavy hair,Said smilingly, yet with a certain airOf hurt impatience, "Why dost not compareThis dark expression of my eyes, ah me!To something darker? say, it is to theeAs some bewildering mystery of a tarn,A mountain water, that the mornings scornTo anadem with fire and leave gray;To which a champion cometh when the dayHath tired of breding for the twilight's headFlame-petaled blooms, and, golden-chapleted,Sits waiting, rosy with deep love, for night,Who cometh sandaled with the moon; the lightOf the auroras round her; her vast hairTortuous with stars,—that burn, as in a lairThe eyes of hunted wild things glare with rage,—And on her bosom doth his love assuage.""Yea, even so," said Accolon, his eyesSearching her face: "the knight, as I surmise,Who cometh heated to that haunted place,Stoops down to lave his forehead, and his faceMeets fairy faces; elfins in a ringThat shadow upward, smiling, beckoningDown, down to wonders, magic built of oldFor some dim witch.—A city walled with gold,With beryl battlements and paved with pearls;Its lambent towers wrought of foamy swirlsOf alabaster; and that witch to loveMore beautiful than any queen above.—He pauses, troubled: but a wizard power,In all his bronzen harness, that mad hourPlunges him—whither? What if he should missThose cloudy beauties and that creature's kiss?—Ah, Morgane, that same power AccolonFound potent in thine eyes, and it hath drawnAnd plunged him—whither? yea, to what far fate?To what dim end? what veiled and future state?"With shadowy eyes long, long she gazed in his,Then whispered dreamily the one word, "Bliss."And like an echo on his sad mouth sateThe answer:—"Bliss?—deep have we drunk of late!But death, I feel, some stealthy-footed deathDraws near! whose claws will clutch away—whose breath?...I dreamed last night thou gather'dst flowers with me,Fairer than those of earth. And I did seeHow woolly gold they were, how woven throughWith fluffy flame, and webby with spun dew:And 'Asphodels' I murmured: then, 'These sureAre Eden amaranths, so angel pureThat love alone may touch them.'—Thou didst layThe flowers in my hands; alas! then grayThe world grew; and, meseemed, I passed away.In some strange manner on a misty brook,Between us flowing, striving still to lookBeyond it, while, around, the wild air shookWith torn farewells of pensive melody,Aching with tears and hopeless utterly;So merciless near, meseemed that I did hearThat music in those flowers, and yearned to tearTheir ingot-cored and gold-crowned hearts, and hushTheir voices into silence and to crush:Yet o'er me was a something that restrained:The melancholy presence of two painedAnd awful, burning eyes that cowed and heldMy spirit while that music died or swelledFar out on shoreless waters, borne away—Like some wild-bird, that, blinded with the rayOf dawn it wings tow'rds, lifting high its crest,The glory round it, sings its heavenliest,When suddenly all's changed; with drooping head,Daggered of thorns it plunged on, fluttering, dead,Still, still it seems to sing, though wrapped in night,The slow blood beading on its breast of white.—And then I knew the flowers which thou hadst givenWere strays of parting grief and waifs of heavenFor tears and memories. ImportunateThey spoke to me of loves that separate!—But, God! ah God! my God! thus was I left!And these were with me who was so bereft.The haunting torment of that dream of griefWeighs on my soul and gives me no relief."He bowed and wept into his hands; and she,Sorrowing beheld. Then, resting at her knee,Raised slow her oblong lute and smote some chords.But ere the impulse saddened into words,Said: "And didst love me as thy lips would prove,No visions wrought of sleep might move thy love.Firm is all love in firmness of his power;With flame, reverberant, moated stands his tower;So built as not to admit from fact a beamOf doubt, and much less of a doubt from dream:All such th' alchemic fire of love's desires,—That moats its tower with flame,—turns to gold wiresTo chord the old lyre new whereon he lyres."She ceased; and then, sad softness in her eye,Sang to his dream a questioning reply:—"Will love be less, when dead the roguish Spring,Who, with white hands, sowed violets, whispering?When petals of her cheeks, wan-wasted throughOf withering grief, are laid beneath the dew,Will love be less?"Will love be less, when comes the Summer tall?Her throat a lily, long and spiritual:When like a poppied swath,—hushed haunt of bees,—Her form is laid in slumber on the leas,Will love be less?"Will love be less, when Autumn, sighing there,Droops with long frost streaks in her dark, dark hair?When her grave eyes are closed to heaven above,Deep, lost in memory's melancholy, love,Will love be less?"Will love be less, when Winter at the doorShakes from gray locks th' icicles, long and hoar?When Death's eyes, hollow o'er his shoulder, dartDark looks that wring with tears, then freeze the heart,Will love be less?"And in her hair wept softly, and her breastRose and was wet with tears—as when, distressed,Night steals on day, rain sobbing through her curls.—"Though tears become thee even as priceless pearls,Weep not, Morgane.—Mine no gloom of doubt,But grief for sweet love's death I dreamed about,"He said. "May love, the flame-anointed, beLord of our hearts, and king eternally!Love, ruler of our lives, whose power shall ceaseNo majesty when we are laid at peace;But still shall reign, when souls have loved thus well,Our god in Heaven or our god in Hell."So they communed. Afar her castle stood,Its slender towers glimmering through the wood:A forest lodge rose, ivy-buried, nearA woodland vista where faint herds of deerStalked like soft shadows: where, with many a run,Mavis and throstle caroled in the sun:And where through trees was seen a surf-white shore.For this was Morgane's realm, embowered Gore;And that her castle, sea-built Chariot,That rooky pile, where, she a while forgotUrience, her husband, now at Camelot.Hurt in that battle where King Arthur stroveWith the Five Heathen Kings, and, slaying, droveThe Five before him, Accolon was borneTo a gray castle on his shield one morn;—A castle like a dream, set high in scornAbove the world and all its hungry herds,Belted with woods melodious with birds,Far from the rush of spears and roar of swords,And the loud shields of battle-bloody lords,And fields of silent slain where Havoc sprawledGorged to her eyes with carnage.—Dim, high-halled,And hushed it rose; and through the granite-walledHuge gate, and court, up stairs of marble sheen,Six damsels bore him, tiremaids of a queen,Stately and dark, who moved as if a flameOf starlight shone around her; and who cameWith healing herbs and searched his wounds. A dame,So radiant in raiment silvery,So white, that she attendant seemed to beOn that high Holy Grail, which evermoreThe Table Round hath sought by wood and shore;The angel-guarded cup of mystery,That but the pure in body and soul may see;—Thus not for him, a worldly one, to love,Who loved her even to wonder; skied aboveHis worship as the moon above the main,That strives and strives to reach her, pale with pain,She with her peaceful, pitiless, virgin cheerWatching his suffering year on weary year.—To Accolon such seemed she: Then, too late,His heart's ideal, merciless as fate!For whom his soul must yearn till death; and waitAnd dream of; evermore with sighs and tears,Through the long waste of unavailing years,Seeing her ever luminously standIn luminous heavens, beckoning with her hand:Before which vision heart and soul were weak,And dumb with love, that would, yet could not speak.—Her beauty filled him with divine despair.Around his heart she seemed to wrap her hair,Her raven hair, and drag him to his doom;Her looks were splendid daggers in the gloomOf his sick soul, his heart's invaded tower,Stabbing, yet never slaying, every hour.Thus worshiping that queen, Morgane le Fay,For many a day within his room he lay,Longing to live now, then again to die,As now her face, or now her glancing eye,Bade his heart hope, with smiled approval ofHis passion; now despair, with scorn of love;His love, that dragged itself before her feet,Dog-like, to whom even a blow were sweet.Ah, never dreamed he of what was to be,—Nay, nay! how could he? while the agonyOf his unworth possessed his soul so much,He never thought such loveliness and suchPerfection ever could stoop from its heaven,Far as his world, and to his arms be given.One night a tempest tore and tossed and lashedThe writhing forest, and deep thunders dashedSonorous shields together; and anon,Vast in the thunder's pause, the sea would groanLike some enormous curse a knight hath luredFrom where it soared to maim it with his sword.And Accolon, from where he lay, could seeThe stormy, wide-wrenched night's immensityYawn hells of golden ghastliness, and sweepDistending foam, tempestuous, up each steepOf raucous iron. In a fever-fit,He seemed to see, on crags the lightning lit,With tangled hair wild-blown, nude mermaids sit,Singing, and beckoning with foam-white armsSome far ship struggling with the strangling storm'sResistless exultation. And there cameOne breaker, mountained heavenward, all aflameWith glow-worm green, that boomed against the cliffIts bulkéd thunder—and there, pale and stiff,Tumbled in eddies of the howling rocks,His dead, drawn face, with lidless eyes, and locksOozed close with brine; hurled upward streaminglyTo streaming mermaids. Then he seemed to seeThe vampire echoes of the hoarse wood, who,With hooting, sought him: down the casement drewWet, shuddering, hag-like fingers; and, at last,Thronged up the turrets with an elfin blastOf baffled mockery, and whirled wildly off,Back to the forest with a maniac scoff.—Then, far away, hoofs of a hundred gales,As wave rams wave up windy bluffs of Wales,Loosed from the battlemented hills, the loudHerders of tempest drove their herds of cloud,That down the rocking night rolled, with the glareOf swimming eyeballs, and the hurl of hair,Blown, black as rain, from misty-manéd brows,And mouths of bellowing storm; in mad carouse,With whips of wind, rolling and ruining by,Headlong, along the wild and headlong sky.Once when the lightning made the casement glare,Squares touched to gold, athwart it swept her hair,As if a raven's wing had cut the stormDeath-driven seaward. And the vague alarmOf her swift coming filled his soul with hopeAnd wild surmise, that winged beyond the scopeOf all his dreams had dreamed of, when he saw'Twas she, the all-adored. He felt no aweWhen low she kneeled beside him, beautifulAs some lone star and white, and said, "To lullThy soul to sleep, lo, I have come to thee.—Didst thou not call me?"—"Yea;" he said. "MaybeThou heard'st my heart, that calls continually:But with my lips I called thee not. But, stay!The night is wild. Thou wilt not go away!The night is wild, and it is long till day!To see thee like a benediction near,To hear thy voice, to have thy cool hand hereSmoothing my feverish brow and matted curls;To see thy white throat, whiter than its pearls,Lean o'er me breathing; feel the influenceOf thy large eyes, like stars, whose sole defenceAgainst all storm is beauty,—is to seeAnd feel a portion of divinity,My heart's high dream come true, my dream of dreams!—"Then paused and said, "See, how the tempest streams!How sweeps the tumult! and the thunder gleamsAs, when King Arthur charged on battle-fieldsOf Humber, glared the fiery spears and shieldsOf all his knights!—when the Five Kings went down!In the wild hurl of onset overthrown....But thy white presence, like the moon, has sownThis room with calm; and all the storm in me,The tempest of my soul, dies utterly.So let me feel thy hand upon my cheek.And speak! I love thy voice: belovéd, speak.""Thou lov'st a thing of air, fond Accolon!Is thy love then so spiritual? Nay! anon'Twill change, methinks. Whatever may befall,Earth-love, thou'lt find, is better, after all."—She smiled; and, sudden, through the moon-rent wallOf storm, baptizing moonlight, foot and face,Bathed and possessed her, as his soul the graceAnd sweetness of her smile, whose life was brief,But long enough to heal him of his grief."Now rest," she said; "I love thee with much love!—Thou didst not know I loved: but God above,He knew and had divinement.—Winds may blow!—To lie by thee to-night my mind is. So,"—She laughed,—"sleep well!—For me ... give me thy wordOf knighthood!—look thou!... and this naked swordLaid here betwixt us!... Let it be a wallStrong between love and lust an lov'st me all in all."Then she unbound the gold that clasped her waist:Undid her hair: and, like a flower faced,Stood sweet an unswayed stem that ran to budIn bloom and beauty of young womanhood.And fragrance was to her as naturalAs odor to the rose. And white and tall,All ardor and all fervor, through the roomShe moved, a presence as of pale perfume.And all his eyes and lips and limbs were fire:His tongue, delirious, babbled of desire;Cried, "Thine is devil's kindness, which is evenWorse than fiend's fury, since the soul sees HeavenAmong eternal torments unforgiven.Temptation neighbored, like a bloody rustOn a bright blade, leaves ugly stains; and lustIs love's undoing when love's limbs are castNaked before desire. What love so chasteBut that such nearness of what should be hidMakes it a lawless love?—But thou hast bid.Rest thou. I love thee; love thee as dost know,And all my love shall battle with love's foe.""Thy word," she said. And pure as peaks that keepSnow-drifted crowns, upon him seemed to sweepAn avalanche of virtue in one look.And he, whose very soul within him shook,Exclaimed, "'Tis thine!"—And hopes, that in his brainHad risen with rainbow gleams, set sad as rainAt that high look she gave of chastest pain.Then turned, his face deep in his hands: and sheLaid the broad blade between them instantly.And so they lay its iron between them twain:Unsleeping he, for all the brute disdainOf passion in him struggled up and stoodA rebel wrangling with the brain and blood.An hour stole by: she slept, or seemed to sleep.The winds of night blew vigorous from the deepWith rain-scents of storm-watered wood and wold,And breathed of ocean breakers moonlight-rolled.He drowsed; and time passed stealing as for oneWhose life is but a dream in Avalon.Vast bulks of black, wind-shattered rack went byThe casement's square of heaven,—a crystal dye,A crown of moonlight, round each cloudy head,—That seemed the ghosts of giant kings long-dead.And then he thought she lightly laughed and sighed,So soft a taper had not bent aside,And leaned her warm face, seen through loosened hair,Above him, whispering, soft as is a prayer,"Behold! the sword! I take the sword away!"It curved and clashed where the strewn rushes lay;Shone glassy, glittering like a watery beamOf moonlight, in the moonlight. He did deemShe moved in sleep and dreamed perverse nor wistThe thing she did, until two hot lips kissedHis wondering eyes to knowledge of her thought.Then said he, "Love, my word! is it then naught?"But now he felt fierce kisses over and over,And laughter of "Thy word?—Art thou my lover?—Kisses are more than words!—Come, give them me!—As for thy word—I give it back to thee!"Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits,Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits;From out her form a pearly light is shed,As, from a lily in a lily-bed,A firefly's gleam. Her face is pale as stone,Uncertain as a cloud that lies aloneIn empty heaven; her diaphanous feetAre easy as the dew or opaline heatOf summer meads. With ears—aurora-pinkAs dawn's—she leans and listens on the brinkOf being, dark with dreadfulness and doubt,Wherein vague lights and shadows move about,And palpitations beat—like some huge heartOf Earth—the surging pulse of which we're part.One hand, that hollows her divining eyes,Glows like the curved moon over twilight skies;And with her gaze she fathoms life and death—Gulfs, where man's conscience, like a restless breathOf wind, goes wandering; whispering low of things,The irremediable, where sorrow clings.Around her limbs a veil of woven mistWavers, and turns from fibered amethystTo textured crystal; through which symboled barsOf silver burn, and cabalistic starsOf nebulous gold. Shrouding her feet and hair,Within this woof, fantastic, everywhere,Dreams come and go: the instant imagesOf things she sees and thinks; realities,Shadows, with which her heart and fancy swarm,That in the veil take momentary form:Now picturing heaven in celestial fire,And now the hell of every soul's desire;Hinting at worlds, God wraps in mystery,Beyond the world we touch and know and see.No, never,—no!—would they forget that night.—Too soon the sleepy birds awoke the light!Too soon, for them, trailing gray skirts of breeze,The drowsy dawn came wandering through the trees."Too soon," she sighed; and he, "Alas! too soon!"But at their scutcheoned casement, overstrewnOf dew and dreams, the dim wind knocked and cried,"Arise! come forth, O bridegroom, and O bride!"IIMorn; and the Autumn, dreaming, sat amongHis ancient hills; Autumn, who now was wrungBy crafty ministers, sun, rain, and frost,To don imperial pomp at any cost.On each wild hill he reared his tents of war,Flaunting barbaric standards wide and far,Around which camp-fires of the red leaves raged:His tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged,Who, in a little fretful while, would soonWork red rebellion under some wan moon:Pluck his old beard, deriding; shriek and tearHis royalty; and scatter through the airHis tattered majesty: then from his headDash down its golden crown; and in its steadSet up a death's-head mockery of snow,And leave him stripped, a beggar bowed with woe.Blow, wood wind, blow! the day is fair and fineAs autumn skies can make it; brisk as brineThe air is, rustling in the underbrush,'Mid which the stag-hounds leap, the huntsmen rush.Hark to the horns! the music of the bows!À mort! à mort!—The hunt is up and goes,Beneath the acorn-dropping oaks, in green,—Dark woodland green,—a boar-spear held betweenHis selle and hunter's head; and at his thighA good broad hanger; and one hand on highTo wind his horn, that startles many a wing,And makes the forest echoes reel and ring.Away, away they flash, a belted bandFrom Camelot, through the haze-haunted land:With many a leamer leashed, and many a hound,With mouths of bell-like music, now that bound,Uncoupled, forward; for, behold! the hart,A ten-tined buck, doth from the covert dart.And the big stag-hounds swing into the chase,The wild horns sing. The pryce seems but a paceOn ere 'tis wound. But, see! where interlaceThe dense-briared thickets, now the hounds have lostThe slot, there where their woodland way is crossedBy intercepting waters full of leaves.Beyond, the hart a tangled labyrinth weavesThrough deeper boscage; and it seems the sunMakes many shadowy stags of this wild one,That lead in different trails the foresters:And in the trees the ceaseless wind, that stirs,Seems some strange witchcraft, that, with baffling mirth,Mocks them the unbayed hart, and fills the earthWith rustling sounds of running.—Hastening thence,Galloped King Arthur and King Urience,With one small brachet-hound. Now far awayThey heard their fellowship's faint horns; and dayWore on to noon; yet, there before them, theyStill saw the hart plunge bravely through the brake,Leaving the bracken shaking in his wake:And on they followed; on, through many a copse,Above whose brush, close on before, the topsOf the great antlers swelled anon, then, lo,Were gone where beat the heather to and fro.But still they drave him hard; and ever nearSeemed that great hart unwearied, and 'twas clearThe chase would yet be long, when Arthur's horseGasped mightily and, lunging in his course,Lay dead, a lordly bay; and UrienceReined his gray hunter, laboring. And thenceKing Arthur went afoot. When suddenlyHe was aware of a wide waste of sea,And, near the wood, the hart upon the sward,Bayed, panting unto death and winded hard.So with his sword he slew him; then the pryceWound loudly on his hunting-bugle thrice.

O wondrous legends from the storied wells

Of lost Baranton! where old Merlin dwells,

Nodding a white poll and a grave, gray beard,

As if some Lake Ladyé he, listening, heard,

Who spake like water, danced like careful showers

With blown gold curls through drifts of wild-thorn flowers;

Loose, lazy arms upon her bosom crossed,

An instant seen, and in an instant lost,

With one peculiar note, like that you hear

Dropped by a reed-bird when the night is near,

A vocal gold blown through the atmosphere.

Lo! dreams from dreams in dreams remembered. NaughtThat matters much, save that it seemed I thoughtI wandered dim with some one, but I knewNot whom; most beautiful, and young, and true,And pale through suffering: with curl-crowned browSoft eyes and voice, so strange, they haunt me now—A dream, perhaps, in dreamland.

Lo! dreams from dreams in dreams remembered. Naught

That matters much, save that it seemed I thought

I wandered dim with some one, but I knew

Not whom; most beautiful, and young, and true,

And pale through suffering: with curl-crowned brow

Soft eyes and voice, so strange, they haunt me now—

A dream, perhaps, in dreamland.

Seemed that sheLed me along a flower-showered leaTrammeled with puckered pansy and the pea;Where poppies spread great blood-red stain on stain,So gorged with sunlight and the honeyed rainTheir hearts were weary; roses lavished beams;Roses, wherein were huddled little dreamsThat laughed coy, sidewise merriment, like dew,Or from fair fingers fragrant kisses blew.And suddenly a river cleft the sward;And o'er it lay a mist: and it was hardTo see whence came it; whitherward it led;Like some wild, frightened thing, it foamed and fled,Sighing and murmuring, from its fountain-head.And following it, at last I came uponThe Region of Romance,—from whence were drawnIts wandering waters,—and the storied wellsOf lost Baranton, where old Merlin dwells,Nodding a white poll and a great, gray beard.And then, far off, a woman's voice I heard,Wilder than water, laughing in the bowers,Like some strange bird: and then, through wild-thorn flowers,I saw her limbs glance, twinkling as spring showers;And then, with blown gold curls, tempestuous tossed,White as a wood-nymph, she a vista crossed,Laughing that laugh wherein there was no cheer,But soulless scorn. And so to me drew nearHer sweet lascivious brow's white wonderment,And gray, great eyes, and hair which had the scentOf all the wild Brécèliande's perfumesDrowned in it; and, a flame in gold, one bloom'sBlood-point thrust deep. And, "Viviane! Viviane!"The wild seemed crying, as if swept with rain;And all the young leaves laughed; and surge on surgeSwept the witch-haunted forest to its verge,That shook and sighed and stammered, as, in sleep,A giant half-aroused: and, with a leap,That samite-hazy creature, blossom-white,Showered mocking kisses down; then, like a lightBeat into gusty flutterings by the dawn,Then quenched, she glimmered and, behold, was gone;And in Brécèliande I stood aloneGazing at Merlin, sitting on a stone;Old Merlin, charmed there, dreaming drowsy dreams;A wondrous company; as many as gleamsThat stab the moted mazes of a beech.And each grave dream, behold, had power to reachMy mind through magic; each one following eachIn dim procession; and their beauty drewTears down my cheeks, and Merlin's gray cheeks, too,—One in his beard hung tangled, bright as dew.—Long pageants seemed to pass me, brave and fair,Of courts and tournaments, with silvery blareOf immaterial trumpets high in air;And blazoned banners, shields, and many a spearOf Uther, waved an incorporeal fear:And forms of Arthur rose and Guenevere,Of Tristram and of Isoud and of Mark,And many others; glimmering in the darkOf Merlin's mind, they rose and glared and then,—The instant's fostered phantoms,—passed again.Then all around me seemed a rippling stirOf silken something,—wilier, lovelierThan that witch-mothered beauty, Viviane,—Approaching with dead knights amid her train,Pale through the vast Brécèliande. And thenA knight, steel-helmeted, a man of men,Passed with a fool, King Arthur's Dagonet,Who on his head a tinsel crown had setIn mockery. And as he went his way,Behind the knight the leaves began to sway,Then slightly parted—and Morgane le Fay,With haughty, wicked eyes and lovely face,Studied him steadily a little space.

Seemed that she

Led me along a flower-showered lea

Trammeled with puckered pansy and the pea;

Where poppies spread great blood-red stain on stain,

So gorged with sunlight and the honeyed rain

Their hearts were weary; roses lavished beams;

Roses, wherein were huddled little dreams

That laughed coy, sidewise merriment, like dew,

Or from fair fingers fragrant kisses blew.

And suddenly a river cleft the sward;

And o'er it lay a mist: and it was hard

To see whence came it; whitherward it led;

Like some wild, frightened thing, it foamed and fled,

Sighing and murmuring, from its fountain-head.

And following it, at last I came upon

The Region of Romance,—from whence were drawn

Its wandering waters,—and the storied wells

Of lost Baranton, where old Merlin dwells,

Nodding a white poll and a great, gray beard.

And then, far off, a woman's voice I heard,

Wilder than water, laughing in the bowers,

Like some strange bird: and then, through wild-thorn flowers,

I saw her limbs glance, twinkling as spring showers;

And then, with blown gold curls, tempestuous tossed,

White as a wood-nymph, she a vista crossed,

Laughing that laugh wherein there was no cheer,

But soulless scorn. And so to me drew near

Her sweet lascivious brow's white wonderment,

And gray, great eyes, and hair which had the scent

Of all the wild Brécèliande's perfumes

Drowned in it; and, a flame in gold, one bloom's

Blood-point thrust deep. And, "Viviane! Viviane!"

The wild seemed crying, as if swept with rain;

And all the young leaves laughed; and surge on surge

Swept the witch-haunted forest to its verge,

That shook and sighed and stammered, as, in sleep,

A giant half-aroused: and, with a leap,

That samite-hazy creature, blossom-white,

Showered mocking kisses down; then, like a light

Beat into gusty flutterings by the dawn,

Then quenched, she glimmered and, behold, was gone;

And in Brécèliande I stood alone

Gazing at Merlin, sitting on a stone;

Old Merlin, charmed there, dreaming drowsy dreams;

A wondrous company; as many as gleams

That stab the moted mazes of a beech.

And each grave dream, behold, had power to reach

My mind through magic; each one following each

In dim procession; and their beauty drew

Tears down my cheeks, and Merlin's gray cheeks, too,—

One in his beard hung tangled, bright as dew.—

Long pageants seemed to pass me, brave and fair,

Of courts and tournaments, with silvery blare

Of immaterial trumpets high in air;

And blazoned banners, shields, and many a spear

Of Uther, waved an incorporeal fear:

And forms of Arthur rose and Guenevere,

Of Tristram and of Isoud and of Mark,

And many others; glimmering in the dark

Of Merlin's mind, they rose and glared and then,—

The instant's fostered phantoms,—passed again.

Then all around me seemed a rippling stir

Of silken something,—wilier, lovelier

Than that witch-mothered beauty, Viviane,—

Approaching with dead knights amid her train,

Pale through the vast Brécèliande. And then

A knight, steel-helmeted, a man of men,

Passed with a fool, King Arthur's Dagonet,

Who on his head a tinsel crown had set

In mockery. And as he went his way,

Behind the knight the leaves began to sway,

Then slightly parted—and Morgane le Fay,

With haughty, wicked eyes and lovely face,

Studied him steadily a little space.

"Again I hold thee to my heart, Morgane;Here where the restless forest hears the mainToss as in troubled sleep. Now hear me, sweet,While I that dream of yesternight repeat."

"Again I hold thee to my heart, Morgane;

Here where the restless forest hears the main

Toss as in troubled sleep. Now hear me, sweet,

While I that dream of yesternight repeat."

"First let us find some rock or mossed retreatWhere we may sit at ease.—Why dost thou lookSo serious? Nay! learn lightness from this brook,And gladness from these flowers, my Accolon.See the wild vista there! where purpling runLong woodland shadows from the sinking sun;Deeper the wood seems there, secluded asThe tame wild-deer that, in the moss and grass,Gaze with their human eyes. Where grow those linesOf pale-starred green; and where yon fountain shines,Urned deep in tremulous ferns, let's rest uponYon oak-trunk by the tempest overthrownYears, years ago. See, how 'tis rotted brown!But here the red bark's firm and overgrownOf trailing ivy darkly berried. ShareMy throne with me. Come, cast away thy care!Sit here and breathe with me this wildwood air,Musk with the wood's decay that fills each way;As if some shrub, while dreaming of the May,In longing languor weakly tried to wakeIts perished blossoms and could only makeGhosts of such dead aromas as it knew,And shape a spectre of invisible dewTo haunt these sounding miles of solitude."

"First let us find some rock or mossed retreat

Where we may sit at ease.—Why dost thou look

So serious? Nay! learn lightness from this brook,

And gladness from these flowers, my Accolon.

See the wild vista there! where purpling run

Long woodland shadows from the sinking sun;

Deeper the wood seems there, secluded as

The tame wild-deer that, in the moss and grass,

Gaze with their human eyes. Where grow those lines

Of pale-starred green; and where yon fountain shines,

Urned deep in tremulous ferns, let's rest upon

Yon oak-trunk by the tempest overthrown

Years, years ago. See, how 'tis rotted brown!

But here the red bark's firm and overgrown

Of trailing ivy darkly berried. Share

My throne with me. Come, cast away thy care!

Sit here and breathe with me this wildwood air,

Musk with the wood's decay that fills each way;

As if some shrub, while dreaming of the May,

In longing languor weakly tried to wake

Its perished blossoms and could only make

Ghosts of such dead aromas as it knew,

And shape a spectre of invisible dew

To haunt these sounding miles of solitude."

"Still, thou art troubled, Morgane! and the mood,Deep in thy fathomless eyes, glows.—Canst not keepMine eyes from seeing!—Dark thy thought and deepAs that of some wild woman,—found asleepBy some lost knight upon a precipice,—Whom he hath wakened with a sudden kiss:As that of some frail elfin lady,—lightAs are the foggy moonbeams,—filmy white,Who waves diaphanous beauty on a cliff,That, drowsing, purrs with moon-drenched pines; but ifThe lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and dragHim crashing down, while she, tall on the crag,Triumphant, mocks him with glad sorceryTill all the wildwood echoes shout with glee."

"Still, thou art troubled, Morgane! and the mood,

Deep in thy fathomless eyes, glows.—Canst not keep

Mine eyes from seeing!—Dark thy thought and deep

As that of some wild woman,—found asleep

By some lost knight upon a precipice,—

Whom he hath wakened with a sudden kiss:

As that of some frail elfin lady,—light

As are the foggy moonbeams,—filmy white,

Who waves diaphanous beauty on a cliff,

That, drowsing, purrs with moon-drenched pines; but if

The lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and drag

Him crashing down, while she, tall on the crag,

Triumphant, mocks him with glad sorcery

Till all the wildwood echoes shout with glee."

"Follow thy figure further, Accolon.Right fair it is. Too soon, alas! art done,"Said she; and tossing back her heavy hair,Said smilingly, yet with a certain airOf hurt impatience, "Why dost not compareThis dark expression of my eyes, ah me!To something darker? say, it is to theeAs some bewildering mystery of a tarn,A mountain water, that the mornings scornTo anadem with fire and leave gray;To which a champion cometh when the dayHath tired of breding for the twilight's headFlame-petaled blooms, and, golden-chapleted,Sits waiting, rosy with deep love, for night,Who cometh sandaled with the moon; the lightOf the auroras round her; her vast hairTortuous with stars,—that burn, as in a lairThe eyes of hunted wild things glare with rage,—And on her bosom doth his love assuage."

"Follow thy figure further, Accolon.

Right fair it is. Too soon, alas! art done,"

Said she; and tossing back her heavy hair,

Said smilingly, yet with a certain air

Of hurt impatience, "Why dost not compare

This dark expression of my eyes, ah me!

To something darker? say, it is to thee

As some bewildering mystery of a tarn,

A mountain water, that the mornings scorn

To anadem with fire and leave gray;

To which a champion cometh when the day

Hath tired of breding for the twilight's head

Flame-petaled blooms, and, golden-chapleted,

Sits waiting, rosy with deep love, for night,

Who cometh sandaled with the moon; the light

Of the auroras round her; her vast hair

Tortuous with stars,—that burn, as in a lair

The eyes of hunted wild things glare with rage,—

And on her bosom doth his love assuage."

"Yea, even so," said Accolon, his eyesSearching her face: "the knight, as I surmise,Who cometh heated to that haunted place,Stoops down to lave his forehead, and his faceMeets fairy faces; elfins in a ringThat shadow upward, smiling, beckoningDown, down to wonders, magic built of oldFor some dim witch.—A city walled with gold,With beryl battlements and paved with pearls;Its lambent towers wrought of foamy swirlsOf alabaster; and that witch to loveMore beautiful than any queen above.—He pauses, troubled: but a wizard power,In all his bronzen harness, that mad hourPlunges him—whither? What if he should missThose cloudy beauties and that creature's kiss?—Ah, Morgane, that same power AccolonFound potent in thine eyes, and it hath drawnAnd plunged him—whither? yea, to what far fate?To what dim end? what veiled and future state?"

"Yea, even so," said Accolon, his eyes

Searching her face: "the knight, as I surmise,

Who cometh heated to that haunted place,

Stoops down to lave his forehead, and his face

Meets fairy faces; elfins in a ring

That shadow upward, smiling, beckoning

Down, down to wonders, magic built of old

For some dim witch.—A city walled with gold,

With beryl battlements and paved with pearls;

Its lambent towers wrought of foamy swirls

Of alabaster; and that witch to love

More beautiful than any queen above.—

He pauses, troubled: but a wizard power,

In all his bronzen harness, that mad hour

Plunges him—whither? What if he should miss

Those cloudy beauties and that creature's kiss?—

Ah, Morgane, that same power Accolon

Found potent in thine eyes, and it hath drawn

And plunged him—whither? yea, to what far fate?

To what dim end? what veiled and future state?"

With shadowy eyes long, long she gazed in his,Then whispered dreamily the one word, "Bliss."And like an echo on his sad mouth sateThe answer:—"Bliss?—deep have we drunk of late!But death, I feel, some stealthy-footed deathDraws near! whose claws will clutch away—whose breath?...I dreamed last night thou gather'dst flowers with me,Fairer than those of earth. And I did seeHow woolly gold they were, how woven throughWith fluffy flame, and webby with spun dew:And 'Asphodels' I murmured: then, 'These sureAre Eden amaranths, so angel pureThat love alone may touch them.'—Thou didst layThe flowers in my hands; alas! then grayThe world grew; and, meseemed, I passed away.In some strange manner on a misty brook,Between us flowing, striving still to lookBeyond it, while, around, the wild air shookWith torn farewells of pensive melody,Aching with tears and hopeless utterly;So merciless near, meseemed that I did hearThat music in those flowers, and yearned to tearTheir ingot-cored and gold-crowned hearts, and hushTheir voices into silence and to crush:Yet o'er me was a something that restrained:The melancholy presence of two painedAnd awful, burning eyes that cowed and heldMy spirit while that music died or swelledFar out on shoreless waters, borne away—Like some wild-bird, that, blinded with the rayOf dawn it wings tow'rds, lifting high its crest,The glory round it, sings its heavenliest,When suddenly all's changed; with drooping head,Daggered of thorns it plunged on, fluttering, dead,Still, still it seems to sing, though wrapped in night,The slow blood beading on its breast of white.—And then I knew the flowers which thou hadst givenWere strays of parting grief and waifs of heavenFor tears and memories. ImportunateThey spoke to me of loves that separate!—But, God! ah God! my God! thus was I left!And these were with me who was so bereft.The haunting torment of that dream of griefWeighs on my soul and gives me no relief."

With shadowy eyes long, long she gazed in his,

Then whispered dreamily the one word, "Bliss."

And like an echo on his sad mouth sate

The answer:—"Bliss?—deep have we drunk of late!

But death, I feel, some stealthy-footed death

Draws near! whose claws will clutch away—whose breath?...

I dreamed last night thou gather'dst flowers with me,

Fairer than those of earth. And I did see

How woolly gold they were, how woven through

With fluffy flame, and webby with spun dew:

And 'Asphodels' I murmured: then, 'These sure

Are Eden amaranths, so angel pure

That love alone may touch them.'—Thou didst lay

The flowers in my hands; alas! then gray

The world grew; and, meseemed, I passed away.

In some strange manner on a misty brook,

Between us flowing, striving still to look

Beyond it, while, around, the wild air shook

With torn farewells of pensive melody,

Aching with tears and hopeless utterly;

So merciless near, meseemed that I did hear

That music in those flowers, and yearned to tear

Their ingot-cored and gold-crowned hearts, and hush

Their voices into silence and to crush:

Yet o'er me was a something that restrained:

The melancholy presence of two pained

And awful, burning eyes that cowed and held

My spirit while that music died or swelled

Far out on shoreless waters, borne away—

Like some wild-bird, that, blinded with the ray

Of dawn it wings tow'rds, lifting high its crest,

The glory round it, sings its heavenliest,

When suddenly all's changed; with drooping head,

Daggered of thorns it plunged on, fluttering, dead,

Still, still it seems to sing, though wrapped in night,

The slow blood beading on its breast of white.—

And then I knew the flowers which thou hadst given

Were strays of parting grief and waifs of heaven

For tears and memories. Importunate

They spoke to me of loves that separate!—

But, God! ah God! my God! thus was I left!

And these were with me who was so bereft.

The haunting torment of that dream of grief

Weighs on my soul and gives me no relief."

He bowed and wept into his hands; and she,Sorrowing beheld. Then, resting at her knee,Raised slow her oblong lute and smote some chords.But ere the impulse saddened into words,Said: "And didst love me as thy lips would prove,No visions wrought of sleep might move thy love.Firm is all love in firmness of his power;With flame, reverberant, moated stands his tower;So built as not to admit from fact a beamOf doubt, and much less of a doubt from dream:All such th' alchemic fire of love's desires,—That moats its tower with flame,—turns to gold wiresTo chord the old lyre new whereon he lyres."She ceased; and then, sad softness in her eye,Sang to his dream a questioning reply:—

He bowed and wept into his hands; and she,

Sorrowing beheld. Then, resting at her knee,

Raised slow her oblong lute and smote some chords.

But ere the impulse saddened into words,

Said: "And didst love me as thy lips would prove,

No visions wrought of sleep might move thy love.

Firm is all love in firmness of his power;

With flame, reverberant, moated stands his tower;

So built as not to admit from fact a beam

Of doubt, and much less of a doubt from dream:

All such th' alchemic fire of love's desires,—

That moats its tower with flame,—turns to gold wires

To chord the old lyre new whereon he lyres."

She ceased; and then, sad softness in her eye,

Sang to his dream a questioning reply:—

"Will love be less, when dead the roguish Spring,Who, with white hands, sowed violets, whispering?When petals of her cheeks, wan-wasted throughOf withering grief, are laid beneath the dew,Will love be less?

"Will love be less, when dead the roguish Spring,

Who, with white hands, sowed violets, whispering?

When petals of her cheeks, wan-wasted through

Of withering grief, are laid beneath the dew,

Will love be less?

"Will love be less, when comes the Summer tall?Her throat a lily, long and spiritual:When like a poppied swath,—hushed haunt of bees,—Her form is laid in slumber on the leas,Will love be less?"Will love be less, when Autumn, sighing there,Droops with long frost streaks in her dark, dark hair?When her grave eyes are closed to heaven above,Deep, lost in memory's melancholy, love,Will love be less?

"Will love be less, when comes the Summer tall?

Her throat a lily, long and spiritual:

When like a poppied swath,—hushed haunt of bees,—

Her form is laid in slumber on the leas,

Will love be less?

"Will love be less, when Autumn, sighing there,

Droops with long frost streaks in her dark, dark hair?

When her grave eyes are closed to heaven above,

Deep, lost in memory's melancholy, love,

Will love be less?

"Will love be less, when Winter at the doorShakes from gray locks th' icicles, long and hoar?When Death's eyes, hollow o'er his shoulder, dartDark looks that wring with tears, then freeze the heart,Will love be less?"

"Will love be less, when Winter at the door

Shakes from gray locks th' icicles, long and hoar?

When Death's eyes, hollow o'er his shoulder, dart

Dark looks that wring with tears, then freeze the heart,

Will love be less?"

And in her hair wept softly, and her breastRose and was wet with tears—as when, distressed,Night steals on day, rain sobbing through her curls.—

And in her hair wept softly, and her breast

Rose and was wet with tears—as when, distressed,

Night steals on day, rain sobbing through her curls.—

"Though tears become thee even as priceless pearls,Weep not, Morgane.—Mine no gloom of doubt,But grief for sweet love's death I dreamed about,"He said. "May love, the flame-anointed, beLord of our hearts, and king eternally!Love, ruler of our lives, whose power shall ceaseNo majesty when we are laid at peace;But still shall reign, when souls have loved thus well,Our god in Heaven or our god in Hell."

"Though tears become thee even as priceless pearls,

Weep not, Morgane.—Mine no gloom of doubt,

But grief for sweet love's death I dreamed about,"

He said. "May love, the flame-anointed, be

Lord of our hearts, and king eternally!

Love, ruler of our lives, whose power shall cease

No majesty when we are laid at peace;

But still shall reign, when souls have loved thus well,

Our god in Heaven or our god in Hell."

So they communed. Afar her castle stood,Its slender towers glimmering through the wood:A forest lodge rose, ivy-buried, nearA woodland vista where faint herds of deerStalked like soft shadows: where, with many a run,Mavis and throstle caroled in the sun:And where through trees was seen a surf-white shore.For this was Morgane's realm, embowered Gore;And that her castle, sea-built Chariot,That rooky pile, where, she a while forgotUrience, her husband, now at Camelot.Hurt in that battle where King Arthur stroveWith the Five Heathen Kings, and, slaying, droveThe Five before him, Accolon was borneTo a gray castle on his shield one morn;—A castle like a dream, set high in scornAbove the world and all its hungry herds,Belted with woods melodious with birds,Far from the rush of spears and roar of swords,And the loud shields of battle-bloody lords,And fields of silent slain where Havoc sprawledGorged to her eyes with carnage.—Dim, high-halled,And hushed it rose; and through the granite-walledHuge gate, and court, up stairs of marble sheen,Six damsels bore him, tiremaids of a queen,Stately and dark, who moved as if a flameOf starlight shone around her; and who cameWith healing herbs and searched his wounds. A dame,So radiant in raiment silvery,So white, that she attendant seemed to beOn that high Holy Grail, which evermoreThe Table Round hath sought by wood and shore;The angel-guarded cup of mystery,That but the pure in body and soul may see;—Thus not for him, a worldly one, to love,Who loved her even to wonder; skied aboveHis worship as the moon above the main,That strives and strives to reach her, pale with pain,She with her peaceful, pitiless, virgin cheerWatching his suffering year on weary year.—To Accolon such seemed she: Then, too late,His heart's ideal, merciless as fate!For whom his soul must yearn till death; and waitAnd dream of; evermore with sighs and tears,Through the long waste of unavailing years,Seeing her ever luminously standIn luminous heavens, beckoning with her hand:Before which vision heart and soul were weak,And dumb with love, that would, yet could not speak.—Her beauty filled him with divine despair.Around his heart she seemed to wrap her hair,Her raven hair, and drag him to his doom;Her looks were splendid daggers in the gloomOf his sick soul, his heart's invaded tower,Stabbing, yet never slaying, every hour.Thus worshiping that queen, Morgane le Fay,For many a day within his room he lay,Longing to live now, then again to die,As now her face, or now her glancing eye,Bade his heart hope, with smiled approval ofHis passion; now despair, with scorn of love;His love, that dragged itself before her feet,Dog-like, to whom even a blow were sweet.Ah, never dreamed he of what was to be,—Nay, nay! how could he? while the agonyOf his unworth possessed his soul so much,He never thought such loveliness and suchPerfection ever could stoop from its heaven,Far as his world, and to his arms be given.

So they communed. Afar her castle stood,

Its slender towers glimmering through the wood:

A forest lodge rose, ivy-buried, near

A woodland vista where faint herds of deer

Stalked like soft shadows: where, with many a run,

Mavis and throstle caroled in the sun:

And where through trees was seen a surf-white shore.

For this was Morgane's realm, embowered Gore;

And that her castle, sea-built Chariot,

That rooky pile, where, she a while forgot

Urience, her husband, now at Camelot.

Hurt in that battle where King Arthur strove

With the Five Heathen Kings, and, slaying, drove

The Five before him, Accolon was borne

To a gray castle on his shield one morn;—

A castle like a dream, set high in scorn

Above the world and all its hungry herds,

Belted with woods melodious with birds,

Far from the rush of spears and roar of swords,

And the loud shields of battle-bloody lords,

And fields of silent slain where Havoc sprawled

Gorged to her eyes with carnage.—Dim, high-halled,

And hushed it rose; and through the granite-walled

Huge gate, and court, up stairs of marble sheen,

Six damsels bore him, tiremaids of a queen,

Stately and dark, who moved as if a flame

Of starlight shone around her; and who came

With healing herbs and searched his wounds. A dame,

So radiant in raiment silvery,

So white, that she attendant seemed to be

On that high Holy Grail, which evermore

The Table Round hath sought by wood and shore;

The angel-guarded cup of mystery,

That but the pure in body and soul may see;—

Thus not for him, a worldly one, to love,

Who loved her even to wonder; skied above

His worship as the moon above the main,

That strives and strives to reach her, pale with pain,

She with her peaceful, pitiless, virgin cheer

Watching his suffering year on weary year.—

To Accolon such seemed she: Then, too late,

His heart's ideal, merciless as fate!

For whom his soul must yearn till death; and wait

And dream of; evermore with sighs and tears,

Through the long waste of unavailing years,

Seeing her ever luminously stand

In luminous heavens, beckoning with her hand:

Before which vision heart and soul were weak,

And dumb with love, that would, yet could not speak.—

Her beauty filled him with divine despair.

Around his heart she seemed to wrap her hair,

Her raven hair, and drag him to his doom;

Her looks were splendid daggers in the gloom

Of his sick soul, his heart's invaded tower,

Stabbing, yet never slaying, every hour.

Thus worshiping that queen, Morgane le Fay,

For many a day within his room he lay,

Longing to live now, then again to die,

As now her face, or now her glancing eye,

Bade his heart hope, with smiled approval of

His passion; now despair, with scorn of love;

His love, that dragged itself before her feet,

Dog-like, to whom even a blow were sweet.

Ah, never dreamed he of what was to be,—

Nay, nay! how could he? while the agony

Of his unworth possessed his soul so much,

He never thought such loveliness and such

Perfection ever could stoop from its heaven,

Far as his world, and to his arms be given.

One night a tempest tore and tossed and lashedThe writhing forest, and deep thunders dashedSonorous shields together; and anon,Vast in the thunder's pause, the sea would groanLike some enormous curse a knight hath luredFrom where it soared to maim it with his sword.And Accolon, from where he lay, could seeThe stormy, wide-wrenched night's immensityYawn hells of golden ghastliness, and sweepDistending foam, tempestuous, up each steepOf raucous iron. In a fever-fit,He seemed to see, on crags the lightning lit,With tangled hair wild-blown, nude mermaids sit,Singing, and beckoning with foam-white armsSome far ship struggling with the strangling storm'sResistless exultation. And there cameOne breaker, mountained heavenward, all aflameWith glow-worm green, that boomed against the cliffIts bulkéd thunder—and there, pale and stiff,Tumbled in eddies of the howling rocks,His dead, drawn face, with lidless eyes, and locksOozed close with brine; hurled upward streaminglyTo streaming mermaids. Then he seemed to seeThe vampire echoes of the hoarse wood, who,With hooting, sought him: down the casement drewWet, shuddering, hag-like fingers; and, at last,Thronged up the turrets with an elfin blastOf baffled mockery, and whirled wildly off,Back to the forest with a maniac scoff.—Then, far away, hoofs of a hundred gales,As wave rams wave up windy bluffs of Wales,Loosed from the battlemented hills, the loudHerders of tempest drove their herds of cloud,That down the rocking night rolled, with the glareOf swimming eyeballs, and the hurl of hair,Blown, black as rain, from misty-manéd brows,And mouths of bellowing storm; in mad carouse,With whips of wind, rolling and ruining by,Headlong, along the wild and headlong sky.

One night a tempest tore and tossed and lashed

The writhing forest, and deep thunders dashed

Sonorous shields together; and anon,

Vast in the thunder's pause, the sea would groan

Like some enormous curse a knight hath lured

From where it soared to maim it with his sword.

And Accolon, from where he lay, could see

The stormy, wide-wrenched night's immensity

Yawn hells of golden ghastliness, and sweep

Distending foam, tempestuous, up each steep

Of raucous iron. In a fever-fit,

He seemed to see, on crags the lightning lit,

With tangled hair wild-blown, nude mermaids sit,

Singing, and beckoning with foam-white arms

Some far ship struggling with the strangling storm's

Resistless exultation. And there came

One breaker, mountained heavenward, all aflame

With glow-worm green, that boomed against the cliff

Its bulkéd thunder—and there, pale and stiff,

Tumbled in eddies of the howling rocks,

His dead, drawn face, with lidless eyes, and locks

Oozed close with brine; hurled upward streamingly

To streaming mermaids. Then he seemed to see

The vampire echoes of the hoarse wood, who,

With hooting, sought him: down the casement drew

Wet, shuddering, hag-like fingers; and, at last,

Thronged up the turrets with an elfin blast

Of baffled mockery, and whirled wildly off,

Back to the forest with a maniac scoff.—

Then, far away, hoofs of a hundred gales,

As wave rams wave up windy bluffs of Wales,

Loosed from the battlemented hills, the loud

Herders of tempest drove their herds of cloud,

That down the rocking night rolled, with the glare

Of swimming eyeballs, and the hurl of hair,

Blown, black as rain, from misty-manéd brows,

And mouths of bellowing storm; in mad carouse,

With whips of wind, rolling and ruining by,

Headlong, along the wild and headlong sky.

Once when the lightning made the casement glare,Squares touched to gold, athwart it swept her hair,As if a raven's wing had cut the stormDeath-driven seaward. And the vague alarmOf her swift coming filled his soul with hopeAnd wild surmise, that winged beyond the scopeOf all his dreams had dreamed of, when he saw'Twas she, the all-adored. He felt no aweWhen low she kneeled beside him, beautifulAs some lone star and white, and said, "To lullThy soul to sleep, lo, I have come to thee.—Didst thou not call me?"—

Once when the lightning made the casement glare,

Squares touched to gold, athwart it swept her hair,

As if a raven's wing had cut the storm

Death-driven seaward. And the vague alarm

Of her swift coming filled his soul with hope

And wild surmise, that winged beyond the scope

Of all his dreams had dreamed of, when he saw

'Twas she, the all-adored. He felt no awe

When low she kneeled beside him, beautiful

As some lone star and white, and said, "To lull

Thy soul to sleep, lo, I have come to thee.—

Didst thou not call me?"—

"Yea;" he said. "MaybeThou heard'st my heart, that calls continually:But with my lips I called thee not. But, stay!The night is wild. Thou wilt not go away!The night is wild, and it is long till day!To see thee like a benediction near,To hear thy voice, to have thy cool hand hereSmoothing my feverish brow and matted curls;To see thy white throat, whiter than its pearls,Lean o'er me breathing; feel the influenceOf thy large eyes, like stars, whose sole defenceAgainst all storm is beauty,—is to seeAnd feel a portion of divinity,My heart's high dream come true, my dream of dreams!—"Then paused and said, "See, how the tempest streams!How sweeps the tumult! and the thunder gleamsAs, when King Arthur charged on battle-fieldsOf Humber, glared the fiery spears and shieldsOf all his knights!—when the Five Kings went down!In the wild hurl of onset overthrown....But thy white presence, like the moon, has sownThis room with calm; and all the storm in me,The tempest of my soul, dies utterly.So let me feel thy hand upon my cheek.And speak! I love thy voice: belovéd, speak."

"Yea;" he said. "Maybe

Thou heard'st my heart, that calls continually:

But with my lips I called thee not. But, stay!

The night is wild. Thou wilt not go away!

The night is wild, and it is long till day!

To see thee like a benediction near,

To hear thy voice, to have thy cool hand here

Smoothing my feverish brow and matted curls;

To see thy white throat, whiter than its pearls,

Lean o'er me breathing; feel the influence

Of thy large eyes, like stars, whose sole defence

Against all storm is beauty,—is to see

And feel a portion of divinity,

My heart's high dream come true, my dream of dreams!—"

Then paused and said, "See, how the tempest streams!

How sweeps the tumult! and the thunder gleams

As, when King Arthur charged on battle-fields

Of Humber, glared the fiery spears and shields

Of all his knights!—when the Five Kings went down!

In the wild hurl of onset overthrown....

But thy white presence, like the moon, has sown

This room with calm; and all the storm in me,

The tempest of my soul, dies utterly.

So let me feel thy hand upon my cheek.

And speak! I love thy voice: belovéd, speak."

"Thou lov'st a thing of air, fond Accolon!Is thy love then so spiritual? Nay! anon'Twill change, methinks. Whatever may befall,Earth-love, thou'lt find, is better, after all."—She smiled; and, sudden, through the moon-rent wallOf storm, baptizing moonlight, foot and face,Bathed and possessed her, as his soul the graceAnd sweetness of her smile, whose life was brief,But long enough to heal him of his grief.

"Thou lov'st a thing of air, fond Accolon!

Is thy love then so spiritual? Nay! anon

'Twill change, methinks. Whatever may befall,

Earth-love, thou'lt find, is better, after all."—

She smiled; and, sudden, through the moon-rent wall

Of storm, baptizing moonlight, foot and face,

Bathed and possessed her, as his soul the grace

And sweetness of her smile, whose life was brief,

But long enough to heal him of his grief.

"Now rest," she said; "I love thee with much love!—Thou didst not know I loved: but God above,He knew and had divinement.—Winds may blow!—To lie by thee to-night my mind is. So,"—She laughed,—"sleep well!—For me ... give me thy wordOf knighthood!—look thou!... and this naked swordLaid here betwixt us!... Let it be a wallStrong between love and lust an lov'st me all in all."

"Now rest," she said; "I love thee with much love!—

Thou didst not know I loved: but God above,

He knew and had divinement.—Winds may blow!—

To lie by thee to-night my mind is. So,"—

She laughed,—"sleep well!—For me ... give me thy word

Of knighthood!—look thou!... and this naked sword

Laid here betwixt us!... Let it be a wall

Strong between love and lust an lov'st me all in all."

Then she unbound the gold that clasped her waist:Undid her hair: and, like a flower faced,Stood sweet an unswayed stem that ran to budIn bloom and beauty of young womanhood.And fragrance was to her as naturalAs odor to the rose. And white and tall,All ardor and all fervor, through the roomShe moved, a presence as of pale perfume.And all his eyes and lips and limbs were fire:His tongue, delirious, babbled of desire;Cried, "Thine is devil's kindness, which is evenWorse than fiend's fury, since the soul sees HeavenAmong eternal torments unforgiven.Temptation neighbored, like a bloody rustOn a bright blade, leaves ugly stains; and lustIs love's undoing when love's limbs are castNaked before desire. What love so chasteBut that such nearness of what should be hidMakes it a lawless love?—But thou hast bid.Rest thou. I love thee; love thee as dost know,And all my love shall battle with love's foe."

Then she unbound the gold that clasped her waist:

Undid her hair: and, like a flower faced,

Stood sweet an unswayed stem that ran to bud

In bloom and beauty of young womanhood.

And fragrance was to her as natural

As odor to the rose. And white and tall,

All ardor and all fervor, through the room

She moved, a presence as of pale perfume.

And all his eyes and lips and limbs were fire:

His tongue, delirious, babbled of desire;

Cried, "Thine is devil's kindness, which is even

Worse than fiend's fury, since the soul sees Heaven

Among eternal torments unforgiven.

Temptation neighbored, like a bloody rust

On a bright blade, leaves ugly stains; and lust

Is love's undoing when love's limbs are cast

Naked before desire. What love so chaste

But that such nearness of what should be hid

Makes it a lawless love?—But thou hast bid.

Rest thou. I love thee; love thee as dost know,

And all my love shall battle with love's foe."

"Thy word," she said. And pure as peaks that keepSnow-drifted crowns, upon him seemed to sweepAn avalanche of virtue in one look.And he, whose very soul within him shook,Exclaimed, "'Tis thine!"—And hopes, that in his brainHad risen with rainbow gleams, set sad as rainAt that high look she gave of chastest pain.Then turned, his face deep in his hands: and sheLaid the broad blade between them instantly.And so they lay its iron between them twain:Unsleeping he, for all the brute disdainOf passion in him struggled up and stoodA rebel wrangling with the brain and blood.An hour stole by: she slept, or seemed to sleep.The winds of night blew vigorous from the deepWith rain-scents of storm-watered wood and wold,And breathed of ocean breakers moonlight-rolled.He drowsed; and time passed stealing as for oneWhose life is but a dream in Avalon.Vast bulks of black, wind-shattered rack went byThe casement's square of heaven,—a crystal dye,A crown of moonlight, round each cloudy head,—That seemed the ghosts of giant kings long-dead.And then he thought she lightly laughed and sighed,So soft a taper had not bent aside,And leaned her warm face, seen through loosened hair,Above him, whispering, soft as is a prayer,"Behold! the sword! I take the sword away!"

"Thy word," she said. And pure as peaks that keep

Snow-drifted crowns, upon him seemed to sweep

An avalanche of virtue in one look.

And he, whose very soul within him shook,

Exclaimed, "'Tis thine!"—And hopes, that in his brain

Had risen with rainbow gleams, set sad as rain

At that high look she gave of chastest pain.

Then turned, his face deep in his hands: and she

Laid the broad blade between them instantly.

And so they lay its iron between them twain:

Unsleeping he, for all the brute disdain

Of passion in him struggled up and stood

A rebel wrangling with the brain and blood.

An hour stole by: she slept, or seemed to sleep.

The winds of night blew vigorous from the deep

With rain-scents of storm-watered wood and wold,

And breathed of ocean breakers moonlight-rolled.

He drowsed; and time passed stealing as for one

Whose life is but a dream in Avalon.

Vast bulks of black, wind-shattered rack went by

The casement's square of heaven,—a crystal dye,

A crown of moonlight, round each cloudy head,—

That seemed the ghosts of giant kings long-dead.

And then he thought she lightly laughed and sighed,

So soft a taper had not bent aside,

And leaned her warm face, seen through loosened hair,

Above him, whispering, soft as is a prayer,

"Behold! the sword! I take the sword away!"

It curved and clashed where the strewn rushes lay;Shone glassy, glittering like a watery beamOf moonlight, in the moonlight. He did deemShe moved in sleep and dreamed perverse nor wistThe thing she did, until two hot lips kissedHis wondering eyes to knowledge of her thought.Then said he, "Love, my word! is it then naught?"But now he felt fierce kisses over and over,And laughter of "Thy word?—Art thou my lover?—Kisses are more than words!—Come, give them me!—As for thy word—I give it back to thee!"

It curved and clashed where the strewn rushes lay;

Shone glassy, glittering like a watery beam

Of moonlight, in the moonlight. He did deem

She moved in sleep and dreamed perverse nor wist

The thing she did, until two hot lips kissed

His wondering eyes to knowledge of her thought.

Then said he, "Love, my word! is it then naught?"

But now he felt fierce kisses over and over,

And laughter of "Thy word?—Art thou my lover?—

Kisses are more than words!—Come, give them me!—

As for thy word—I give it back to thee!"

Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits,Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits;From out her form a pearly light is shed,As, from a lily in a lily-bed,A firefly's gleam. Her face is pale as stone,Uncertain as a cloud that lies aloneIn empty heaven; her diaphanous feetAre easy as the dew or opaline heatOf summer meads. With ears—aurora-pinkAs dawn's—she leans and listens on the brinkOf being, dark with dreadfulness and doubt,Wherein vague lights and shadows move about,And palpitations beat—like some huge heartOf Earth—the surging pulse of which we're part.One hand, that hollows her divining eyes,Glows like the curved moon over twilight skies;And with her gaze she fathoms life and death—Gulfs, where man's conscience, like a restless breathOf wind, goes wandering; whispering low of things,The irremediable, where sorrow clings.Around her limbs a veil of woven mistWavers, and turns from fibered amethystTo textured crystal; through which symboled barsOf silver burn, and cabalistic starsOf nebulous gold. Shrouding her feet and hair,Within this woof, fantastic, everywhere,Dreams come and go: the instant imagesOf things she sees and thinks; realities,Shadows, with which her heart and fancy swarm,That in the veil take momentary form:Now picturing heaven in celestial fire,And now the hell of every soul's desire;Hinting at worlds, God wraps in mystery,Beyond the world we touch and know and see.

Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits,

Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits;

From out her form a pearly light is shed,

As, from a lily in a lily-bed,

A firefly's gleam. Her face is pale as stone,

Uncertain as a cloud that lies alone

In empty heaven; her diaphanous feet

Are easy as the dew or opaline heat

Of summer meads. With ears—aurora-pink

As dawn's—she leans and listens on the brink

Of being, dark with dreadfulness and doubt,

Wherein vague lights and shadows move about,

And palpitations beat—like some huge heart

Of Earth—the surging pulse of which we're part.

One hand, that hollows her divining eyes,

Glows like the curved moon over twilight skies;

And with her gaze she fathoms life and death—

Gulfs, where man's conscience, like a restless breath

Of wind, goes wandering; whispering low of things,

The irremediable, where sorrow clings.

Around her limbs a veil of woven mist

Wavers, and turns from fibered amethyst

To textured crystal; through which symboled bars

Of silver burn, and cabalistic stars

Of nebulous gold. Shrouding her feet and hair,

Within this woof, fantastic, everywhere,

Dreams come and go: the instant images

Of things she sees and thinks; realities,

Shadows, with which her heart and fancy swarm,

That in the veil take momentary form:

Now picturing heaven in celestial fire,

And now the hell of every soul's desire;

Hinting at worlds, God wraps in mystery,

Beyond the world we touch and know and see.

No, never,—no!—would they forget that night.—Too soon the sleepy birds awoke the light!Too soon, for them, trailing gray skirts of breeze,The drowsy dawn came wandering through the trees."Too soon," she sighed; and he, "Alas! too soon!"But at their scutcheoned casement, overstrewnOf dew and dreams, the dim wind knocked and cried,"Arise! come forth, O bridegroom, and O bride!"

No, never,—no!—would they forget that night.—

Too soon the sleepy birds awoke the light!

Too soon, for them, trailing gray skirts of breeze,

The drowsy dawn came wandering through the trees.

"Too soon," she sighed; and he, "Alas! too soon!"

But at their scutcheoned casement, overstrewn

Of dew and dreams, the dim wind knocked and cried,

"Arise! come forth, O bridegroom, and O bride!"

Morn; and the Autumn, dreaming, sat amongHis ancient hills; Autumn, who now was wrungBy crafty ministers, sun, rain, and frost,To don imperial pomp at any cost.On each wild hill he reared his tents of war,Flaunting barbaric standards wide and far,Around which camp-fires of the red leaves raged:His tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged,Who, in a little fretful while, would soonWork red rebellion under some wan moon:Pluck his old beard, deriding; shriek and tearHis royalty; and scatter through the airHis tattered majesty: then from his headDash down its golden crown; and in its steadSet up a death's-head mockery of snow,And leave him stripped, a beggar bowed with woe.Blow, wood wind, blow! the day is fair and fineAs autumn skies can make it; brisk as brineThe air is, rustling in the underbrush,'Mid which the stag-hounds leap, the huntsmen rush.Hark to the horns! the music of the bows!À mort! à mort!—The hunt is up and goes,Beneath the acorn-dropping oaks, in green,—Dark woodland green,—a boar-spear held betweenHis selle and hunter's head; and at his thighA good broad hanger; and one hand on highTo wind his horn, that startles many a wing,And makes the forest echoes reel and ring.Away, away they flash, a belted bandFrom Camelot, through the haze-haunted land:With many a leamer leashed, and many a hound,With mouths of bell-like music, now that bound,Uncoupled, forward; for, behold! the hart,A ten-tined buck, doth from the covert dart.And the big stag-hounds swing into the chase,The wild horns sing. The pryce seems but a paceOn ere 'tis wound. But, see! where interlaceThe dense-briared thickets, now the hounds have lostThe slot, there where their woodland way is crossedBy intercepting waters full of leaves.

Morn; and the Autumn, dreaming, sat among

His ancient hills; Autumn, who now was wrung

By crafty ministers, sun, rain, and frost,

To don imperial pomp at any cost.

On each wild hill he reared his tents of war,

Flaunting barbaric standards wide and far,

Around which camp-fires of the red leaves raged:

His tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged,

Who, in a little fretful while, would soon

Work red rebellion under some wan moon:

Pluck his old beard, deriding; shriek and tear

His royalty; and scatter through the air

His tattered majesty: then from his head

Dash down its golden crown; and in its stead

Set up a death's-head mockery of snow,

And leave him stripped, a beggar bowed with woe.

Blow, wood wind, blow! the day is fair and fine

As autumn skies can make it; brisk as brine

The air is, rustling in the underbrush,

'Mid which the stag-hounds leap, the huntsmen rush.

Hark to the horns! the music of the bows!

À mort! à mort!—The hunt is up and goes,

Beneath the acorn-dropping oaks, in green,—

Dark woodland green,—a boar-spear held between

His selle and hunter's head; and at his thigh

A good broad hanger; and one hand on high

To wind his horn, that startles many a wing,

And makes the forest echoes reel and ring.

Away, away they flash, a belted band

From Camelot, through the haze-haunted land:

With many a leamer leashed, and many a hound,

With mouths of bell-like music, now that bound,

Uncoupled, forward; for, behold! the hart,

A ten-tined buck, doth from the covert dart.

And the big stag-hounds swing into the chase,

The wild horns sing. The pryce seems but a pace

On ere 'tis wound. But, see! where interlace

The dense-briared thickets, now the hounds have lost

The slot, there where their woodland way is crossed

By intercepting waters full of leaves.

Beyond, the hart a tangled labyrinth weavesThrough deeper boscage; and it seems the sunMakes many shadowy stags of this wild one,That lead in different trails the foresters:And in the trees the ceaseless wind, that stirs,Seems some strange witchcraft, that, with baffling mirth,Mocks them the unbayed hart, and fills the earthWith rustling sounds of running.—Hastening thence,Galloped King Arthur and King Urience,With one small brachet-hound. Now far awayThey heard their fellowship's faint horns; and dayWore on to noon; yet, there before them, theyStill saw the hart plunge bravely through the brake,Leaving the bracken shaking in his wake:And on they followed; on, through many a copse,Above whose brush, close on before, the topsOf the great antlers swelled anon, then, lo,Were gone where beat the heather to and fro.But still they drave him hard; and ever nearSeemed that great hart unwearied, and 'twas clearThe chase would yet be long, when Arthur's horseGasped mightily and, lunging in his course,Lay dead, a lordly bay; and UrienceReined his gray hunter, laboring. And thenceKing Arthur went afoot. When suddenlyHe was aware of a wide waste of sea,And, near the wood, the hart upon the sward,Bayed, panting unto death and winded hard.So with his sword he slew him; then the pryceWound loudly on his hunting-bugle thrice.

Beyond, the hart a tangled labyrinth weaves

Through deeper boscage; and it seems the sun

Makes many shadowy stags of this wild one,

That lead in different trails the foresters:

And in the trees the ceaseless wind, that stirs,

Seems some strange witchcraft, that, with baffling mirth,

Mocks them the unbayed hart, and fills the earth

With rustling sounds of running.—Hastening thence,

Galloped King Arthur and King Urience,

With one small brachet-hound. Now far away

They heard their fellowship's faint horns; and day

Wore on to noon; yet, there before them, they

Still saw the hart plunge bravely through the brake,

Leaving the bracken shaking in his wake:

And on they followed; on, through many a copse,

Above whose brush, close on before, the tops

Of the great antlers swelled anon, then, lo,

Were gone where beat the heather to and fro.

But still they drave him hard; and ever near

Seemed that great hart unwearied, and 'twas clear

The chase would yet be long, when Arthur's horse

Gasped mightily and, lunging in his course,

Lay dead, a lordly bay; and Urience

Reined his gray hunter, laboring. And thence

King Arthur went afoot. When suddenly

He was aware of a wide waste of sea,

And, near the wood, the hart upon the sward,

Bayed, panting unto death and winded hard.

So with his sword he slew him; then the pryce

Wound loudly on his hunting-bugle thrice.

In her ecstasy a lovely devil Page303Accolon of Gaul

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