Chapter I: Front Matter

HEAVENS AND EARTH
A BOOK OF POEMS

BY

STEPHEN VINCENT BENÉT

]

NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1920

COPYRIGHT, 1920
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

TO
GEORGE THEODORE ACHELIS
1897–1920

Grateful acknowledgment is made to _Ainslie’s Magazine_, _The Bowling Green_, _Books and the Book World_, _The Dial_, _The New Republic_, _Romance_, _Sun_, _The Sun Dial_, _The Yale Review_ and _The Yale Literary Magazine_ for permission to reprint poems included in this volume.

CONTENTS

TWO VISIONS OF HELEN
PAGE
THE FIRST VISION OF HELEN 3
THE LAST VISION OF HELEN 9

CHARIOTS AND HORSEMEN THE RETORT DISCOURTEOUS 21 TWO AT THE CROSSROADS 23 SIR JOHN RIMBECK TO THE PRINCESS OF ACRE 25 THREE DAYS’ RIDE 26 THE PLOW (_A New England Tragedy_) 30

THE TALL TOWN COLLOQUY OF THE STATUES (_The Avenue. Night Before Pershing’s Parade_) 39 LUNCH-TIME ALONG BROADWAY 41 THE WALKERS (_Strike Pickets—Lower Fifth Ave._) 42 8:30 A. M. ON 32ND STREET 44 CHANSON AT MADISON SQUARE 46 HYMN IN COLUMBUS CIRCLE (_After Seeing a Certain Window Display_) 48

APPLES OF EDEN THE ETCHER 51 GRAND LARCENY 53 NOVEMBER PROTHALAMION 55 EXPRESSIONS NEAR THE END OF WINTER 57 LOST LIGHTS 58 COME BACK! 60 RESURRECTION (_To J. W. A._) 62 FLOOD-TIDE (_Maine Coast—1917_) 65 THE SONG OF COLD AND PAIN 67 WISDOM-TEETH 69

THE KINGDOM OF THE MAD THE ORIGINAL IMPULSE 75 LUNCH AT A CITY CLUB (_For, though not to, D. M. C._) 76 THE KNOCKOUT 77 DEVOURER OF NATIONS 78 ABRAHAM’S BOSOM 79 PROHIBITION 80 MORTUARY PARLORS 81 TALK 82 NEARSIGHT 83 BEFORE MICHAEL’S LAST FIGHT 84 ALWAYS THE SONNETTEER 85 PORTRAIT OF YOUNG LOVE 86 TWO MORE MUSES 87 OPERATION (_For J. F. C., Jr._) 88 THE TRAPEZE PERFORMER (_For C. M._) 89 EPITAPH TO BE SPOKEN 90 JUDGMENT 91 BOARDING-HOUSE HALL 92 BLOOD BROTHERS 93 WATCHMEN 94 “LES CRUCHES CASSÉES” 95 P. P. C.—MADAM LIFE 96 POSITIVELY THE LAST PERFORMANCE 97

TWO VISIONS OF HELEN

THE FIRST VISION OF HELEN

_Argument—Itys, nurtured by centaurs, meets and falls in love with
Helen of Troy, before her marriage with Menelaus. What befell
therefrom._

Slowly blanch-handed Dawn, eyes half-awake,
Upraised magnificent the silver urn,
Heaped with white roses at the trembling lip,
Flowers that burn with crystalline accord
And die not ever. Like a pulsing heart
Beat from within against the fire-loud verge
A milky vast transparency of light
Heavy with drowning stars; a swimming void _Morning._
Of august ether, formless as the cloud,
And light made absolute. The mountains sighed,
Turning in sleep. Dawn held the frozen flame
An instant high above the shaggy world,
Then, to the crowing of a thousand cocks,
Poured out on earth the unconquerable sun!

The centaurs awoke! they aroused from their beds of pine, Their long flanks hoary with dew, and their eyes, deep-drowned In the primal slumber of stones, stirred bright to the shine! And they stamped with their hooves and their gallop abased the ground!

Swifter than arrowy birds in an eager sky, _The_ White-browed kings of the hills where old Titans feast, _Running_ —Cheiron ordered the charge with a neighing cry, _of the_ And the thousand hunters tramped like a single beast! _Centaurs._

Beautiful monstrous dreams they seemed as they ran, Trees come alive at the nod of a god grown mute! Their eyes looked up to the sun like a valiant man; Their bows clashed shrill on the loins and limbs of the brute!

Laughing, rejoicing, white as a naked birch, Slim as a spear in a torrent of moving towers, Itys, the prince, ran gay in the storm of their search, Silverly shod on feet that outstripped the Hours!

Over by Sparta bays a horn!
_Ohé, Helena!_
Over by Sparta bays a horn!
And the black hound grins to his milk-teeth torn;
And the tall stag wishes he’d never been born!
_Helena hunts on the hills!_

Past the Eurotas the chase sweeps hot!
_Ohé, Helena!_
Past the Eurotas the chase sweeps hot!
And the pack has nosed at a royal slot!
And a white-armed girl has a magic lot!
_Helena hunts on the hills!_

Echoed at Elis the dogs give tongue!
_Ohé, Helena!_
Echoed at Elis the dogs give tongue!
The stag flees on but his mort is sung! _The Hunting_
And the world and Helen are very young! _of_
_Helena hunts on the hills!_ _Helen._

Down by Argos the flight is stayed!
_Ohé, Helena!_
Down by Argos the flight is stayed!
And proud blood stifles the reeking blade!

And they cut the tongue for the golden maid!
_Helena hunts on the hills!_

Over in Troy by a kingly door,
_Ohé, Helena!_
Over in Troy by a kingly door,
Hector’s sword is asleep from war!
“Wait!” whines the bitter steel, “Two years more!”
_Helena hunts on the hills!_

So the two molten clamors fused a space As silver marries brass to make a bell, Then thrust apart and vanished, save for some Faint interlocking tentacles of sound That chimed to Itys. Something halted him From the swift gallop and the embracing air, Put in him troubling languor, drove him out To rest beside a round coin of a pool, Casually flung among a cloud of pines. He dreamed as a dog dreams, uneasily.

The dreams blow North and South.
Pitiless-bright they gleam.
Send, Zeus, a flower across my mouth!
The wing of a silver dream!

The visions smoke from the deep, _Itys_
Bannering East and West. _Dreams_
Guide, Zeus, the stumbling old feet of Sleep,
That bring a dream to my breast!

I have gazed in immaculate eyes!
My soul is a flame astream!
Zeus, strike swift from the raging skies,
That I may die with my dream!

He waked and saw two hounds, tugging their leash, Burst through the covert, and heard laughter bell Like a clear stream as Helen followed them. They drank, were quiet. Itys stood at gaze; _Itys_ Seeing in all things one miraculous face, _Beholds_ And how her tunic left one bright breast bare, _Helen_ And how she smoothed her hair back with one hand.... But very presently he was aware That some one not himself possessed his voice And used it now to talk with—babbling words Foolish and laughable to that still Beauty.

Tempest from the valiant sky,
Music of the shaken reed,
Can a thousand kisses buy
You and April, mine indeed?
_Fling the dice and let them lie!_

Not a joy from all your mind
Will you toss me, beggar’s dole,
And you never would be kind _Itys’_
Though I kissed your very soul! _Song_
_Race the coursers up the wind!_

Queen of desperate alarms,
Though Destruction be the priest
That must bring me to your arms,
He shall wed our bones at least!
_Life was vintage, borage-crowned,
Pour the cup upon the ground!_

Vines grow in my garden;
Blossoms a snake in size.
Sun warms and knife-winds harden,
Till the silk-stained globes arise;
And men peer over the hedges
With fury come in their eyes.

Pears grow in my garden;
Honey a wild bee clips. _Helen’s_
Robbers afraid of pardon, _Song_
The princes steal from their ships,
And pluck the fruit of iniquity
And take it not from their lips.

Fate grows in my garden;
Black as a cypress shoot.
Sleepily smiles the warden,
Guarding the gorgeous loot,
Seeing the Tree, Deliciousness,
And the tall lords dead at its root!

Their lips broke from the kiss. Helena sighed, Then started up, afraid. Straight toward the pool Rending the brake with hounds, shouting aloud, Crashed like a cast spear the returning chase. _The Death_ “Itys!” she said, “My brothers. They will kill.” _of Itys_ He looked down at his hands that held no sword. Helena’s hounds belled answer to their pack. Swift as a closing hand, unreal as dream, Danger shut down around them. “Dear” he said. Pollux, the shining-speared, burst through the leaves.

After the slaying, wide-eyed Helen paused
To clasp the dead hands loosely, and unhook
A swaying torque of gold from the white neck
That it might burn, a sun, between her breasts.
—The chase passed with hot noon, and in the cool
A straying centaur came, snuffed the new blood
And, seeing Itys dead, neighed in loud fear;
Calling the hairy tramplers of the woods
To mourn their friend with strange solemnities.

Close his eyes with the coins; bind his chin with the shroud;
Carry this clay along, in the time of the westing cloud;
Lay you the cakes beside, for the three-mouthed dog of Hell; _Death-_
Slain on the grass in fight, surely his end is well. ‰_Chant of The
Centaurs_‰

Love was the wind he sought, ignorant whence it went;
Now he has clasped it close, silent and eloquent;
Slow as the stream and strong, answering knee to knee,
Carry this clay along—it is more wise than we.

The chanting died away upon the hills,
Sobbingly low.
And Night reversed the urn; _Night_
Drawing all sunlight back to the hot deeps,
And leaving the high heavens full of stars.

THE LAST VISION OF HELEN

_Argument—Helen, after the fall of Troy, departs to Egypt with ghostly
companions, as in the old tale. She encounters the Sphinx and a
marvel is wrought upon her._

Measureless sand ... interminable sand....

The smooth hide of that yellow lion, Earth, Ruffled a little and was dark again Beneath the descending torrents of the night, Plunging like cobalt from the cliffs of the sky, Blotting the stiff wedge of each pyramid With the slow gurgle of a rising wave, A wave burning with stars....

The Sphinx alone Couched on her forepaws like a sleepy hound Under the weight of a caress of rock And smiled her woman’s and chimera’s smile Inexorably, drowned with the savage dark.

The black tide filled the heavens up and ceased, A little tongueing flame ran on the sand Bright as a fire of paper, swift and light As a bird’s restless eyes. It rose. It bloomed, An angry dream before the Sphinx’s feet, The exhalation of a furious thought, Tall as the ghosts of Heaven’s battlements, The apparition that had once been Troy!

A girl went out in the summer skies, (_The dice lie white for the throwing!_) A girl went out in the summer skies And the sunlight laughed as it kissed her eyes! (_And the wind of Fate is blowing!_) _Song of the City Troy_

She was ruddy and gold as a changing leaf When gilded Autumn gathers the sheaf.

She was lily and pale as a sleeping moth When the full moon bleaches the skies like cloth.

The grass was glad to be under her shoe, The poppy proud to be floor unto The silvering dance of her feet like dew!

... But her lord walks chill as a cloud of snow Where the kings of the earth are bending the bow.

They are roaring the fame of the flying dart, But he whispers low, in a place apart, With the evil ice of his freezing heart.

“Helena, Helena, mouth of wine, Two more days for your sun to shine!

Helena, Helena, mouth of musk. Two more days and I make you dusk.

Two more nights on your silky bed, And your lover over it, bloody and dead, And your body broken as I break bread!”

His lips are writhing, sucking and cold, His hands are twitching like trees grown old, He shivers as if he had trod on mold.

The _Golden Queen_ at her anchor strains. (_Sails on the sapphire, snowing_) Paris walks on the deck like a man in chains. (_And the wind of Fate is blowing._)

He wastes in his love like leaves in a flame, But his mind is a spear in a dauntless game, And the face of his doom has a girl’s soft name.

The fifty sailors are whetting their swords. The brown sun beats on the tarry boards.

And Helena skims by the rolling sand And waves with the fleck of a foam-white hand.

And the blood of Youth pounds hot in the throat As the long oars lash from the lunging boat.

Richly she came through the leaping green, Like the shrine of a god, like a sun first seen, And they cried “Hurrah for the Golden Queen!”

The white sails soar like a rising gull, The water spins by the speeding hull.

She smiles with her chin cupped into her hand At the drowning shadow of fading land —And Paris shakes like a torching brand.

And Paris crushes her, breath to breath, And she gives him her honey of love and death.

But chill Menelaus a Fury hath, He has thawed his hate to a roaring wrath! He is loosing his hounds on the ocean-path!

The blooms of the years are withered and fall. (_Dawn—and a red flame crowing_) And Time’s cracked fingers number them all. (_And the wind of Fate is blowing._)

And a wooden horse is trampling Troy As a hoof-thrust crushes a crumpling toy.

Ruddy and gold where the torches stare Helena sits in her carven chair.

Lovely and strange as a moonlit cloud— But her head droops down like a petal bowed.

Beneath her the blood and the wine run deep —But her eyes are seas more quiet than sleep.

The drunkards brawl and the cup goes round; But she gives no sign and she makes no sound.

Red Menelaus has poured her drink; And she does not sip and she does not shrink.

And her mouth is a flower that says “Depart!” And the hilt of a knife is under her heart.

The kings of the world have finished their chase, They dash their wine in the glorious face.

And Paris is dead in a sickly land; And they wrench the rings from the plume-white hand.

They dice for her rings and the game is sweet
And lean Menelaus is smiling sleet.

And the captains chuckle, counting their scars,
For the hosts of the earth have finished their wars
And Helen and Troy are cold as the stars.

Waves in the dusk with a sound like tears
(_And the deep tide foaming and flowing_)
Saying one name for a thousand years!
(_And the wind of Fate is blowing!_)

Like air beaten by swords, like the long cry Of an old trumpet harsh with rust and gold The ballad rose assaulting, struck and died Into a clamorous echo. The Sphinx stirred, Shaking the drifted moonlight from her coat As a dog shakes water, rising mountainously; Then from that drum of terrible stone, her throat, Rolled back her answer at the enormous sky.

The arrow of Eros flies _The Song_
In the dark, in the trembling dark; _of the_
Piercing and sweet is the song it cries _Sphinx_
And the cup of the heart its mark!
And the cup of the heart is dust,
And the wine of the heart is spilled.
And the barb flings whimpering back to Lust
With “Master, see—I have killed!”
_It was thus and thus that you were begot!
I am Death’s bright arrow! Forgive me not!_

The ribbon of Fate unreels
In the road of the days and nights;

There are flute-voiced airs for the dancing heels,
But over them hang the kites!
And the path grows dark as the laws
And the kites drop down in a ring,
Till a blind stag torn by the slashing claws
Is the end of the trumpeting!
_It is there and there that your fathers rot!
I am Destiny’s halter! Unloose me not!_

The mirror of Wisdom shines
Like a face in a troubled pool.
Like the eyes of a snake are its weaving signs
To the eyes of the anxious fool.
For the secret form of the soul
Is there in its terror shown
—And it rends the sight like a crumbling coal
Till the eyes of the fool are stone!
_It was this and this that your ardor sought!
I am Wisdom’s mirror! Behold me not!_

Then, like a forgotten tumult of the heart, The multitude of men who died for Helen, Vague, terrible, wounded forms began to chant.

Glance at us once from your sacred tower,
Helen divine!
The cutworm crawls in the almond-flower,
The rats are eating the thrones of power, _Song of_
Yet glance at us once and the clouds will shower _the Men_
Our lips with wine! _of Helen_

Loosen your hair to the storm again,
To the whistling brine!
We are very desperate men,

Reeds when fire goes over the fen,
Lighten our dark with your marvel then,
Helen divine!

Give us drink for our bitter thirst,
Helen divine!
Bless you the thieves that each priest has cursed,
Queen of us, queen of us, last and first,
Flame we followed and child we nursed,
Star at trine!

Open the heaven of your embrace,
Oh burning sign!
This is the end of the bloody race,
Whispering sea and the stars like lace,
You gather our souls to your shining place,
Helen divine!

The thunder ebbed away into a sigh,
Died into sand, was calm.
And suddenly
Helen of anguish, Helen of the song,
Helen the victory on the lips of Zeus,
Helen the princely word, the proud despair,
The voiceless cry of the ecstatic dream,
Shone with the radiance of a consuming wish
Upon the desert, and stretched out her arms
As if to take that whole great ghost of Troy,
Pennon and panoply, champion and car,
Back to its home, her breast.

Would there ever be a bud _Helen’s_
If the sap considered storm? _Song_
It would stay in happy mud,

Damned and sleepy, safe and warm!
Who would want to be a rose
If its petals thought of snows?

Why I lived I never knew.
Life—I took it like a toy,
Something like a worship, too,
To adore and to enjoy.
Then the gods began to play
—And the toy was put away.

Like a perfume made intense,
Like the planet of a dark,
I became magnificence
For my hour, in my spark,
There is rapture in my ghost,
Telling all my least and most.

Fate and Wisdom, judging loud,
These are shadows I can mock
With the thoughtlessness of cloud,
With the indolence of rock.
Let them air the inn they keep!
I am tired. I would sleep.

So, with the pause, all earth and sky were still
As if they had just been made—and the Sphinx lay
Silent, engulfed in silence.
Then she moved
Uneasily, and settled back again,
And in a low harshness of diminished sound
Spoke out her final judgment.

Zeus of the silver dawning took the scarf of a cloud, He quickened the wraith with fire till the life cried out aloud,

He called Desire from his lightning, Despair from her weaving old, And they fashioned the shape to a woman that men might die to behold!

Golden Zeus of the sunbeam slapped his hand on his thigh _The Last_ As the swords ran out of their scabbards and the arrows sang in the sky, _Song of the_ And the woman like leafy April was the chant that an archer sings _Sphinx_ Over sands grown bloody with purple that has come from the hearts of kings!

Zeus of the brazen twilight, nodding his eyes awake, Armed him a doom for Helen lest Earth burn up for her sake; Chill on the heart of incense, the hands that desired so much, Fell the snow-like veil of his wisdom, till the flesh was still at its touch!

Iron Zeus of the night-time, watching the chariot moon Trample the skies to whiteness, turns like a moving dune To gaze at the shade of Helen. His eyes as the skies are vast; Seeing her sleep like a swallow in Death’s wide bed at last.

Helen stood
Within the tremendous circle of the paws,
Moving like light towards the dark secret heart.
The Sphinx cried terribly with a wordless sound
Of birth and anguish struggling to be heard ...
And the light vanished ...
And Helen and the Sphinx
Were one forever, stone and ghost and dream—
And Troy was gone like vapor in the dark.

So the dawn came, and toiling caravans, Whose princes halted, arrogant as hawks, To stare but once into the Sphinx’s eyes ... And so were staring till Death breathed on them With the slant feathers of his ruffling wing, Seeking within the rock, the stubborn rock. The gaze and burning of their Lost Desire.

CHARIOTS AND HORSEMEN

THE RETORT DISCOURTEOUS

(_Italy—16th Century_)

But what, by the fur on your satin sleeves,
The rain that drags at my feather
And the great Mercurius, god of thieves,
Are we thieves doing together?

Last night your blades bit deep for their hire,
And we were the sickled barley.
To-night, atoast by the common fire,
You ask me to join your parley.

Your spears are shining like Iceland spar,
The blood-grapes drip for your drinking;
For you folk follow the rising star,
I follow the star that’s sinking!

My queen is old as the frosted whins,
Nay, how could her wrinkles charm me?
And the starving bones are bursting the skins
In the ranks of her ancient army.

You marshal a steel-and-silken troop,
Your cressets are fed with spices,
And you batter the world like a rolling hoop
To the goal of your proud devices.

I have rocked your thrones—but your fight is won.
To-night, as the highest bidder,
You offer a share of your brigand-sun,
Consider, old bull, consider!

Ahead, red Death and the Fear of Death,
Your vultures, stoop to the slaughter!
But I shall fight you, body and breath,
Till my life runs out like water!

My queen is wan as the Polar snows.
Her host is a rout of specters.
But I gave her Youth like a burning rose,
And her age shall not lack protectors!

I would not turn for the thunderclap
Or the face of the woman who bore me,
With her battered badge still scarring my cap,
And the drums of defeat before me!

Roll your hands in the honey of life!
Kneel to your white-necked strumpets!
You came to your crowns with a squealing fife
But I shall go out with trumpets!

Poison the steel of the plunging dart!
Holloa your hounds to their station!
I march to my ruin with such a heart
As a king to his coronation!

Your poets roar of your golden feats—
I have herded the stars like cattle.
And you may die in the perfumed sheets,
But I shall die in the battle!

TWO AT THE CROSSROADS

The knight of battered and unblazoned arms
Reined up before the haster from the South
Whose red shield bore the crookt beast Glatysaunt,
(Also a scroll with “Pray for me!” entwined
With flowers and poison-leaves and Iseult’s name)
And cried “Where lies the sea-road?”; but the other
Seeming as mad as his own crest, replied
“Has the beast quested past you? have its dogs
Given sharp tongue along these drooping woods?
For I must follow them until I fall
Dead in some cleft of rock, and let the crabs
Hack at my armor till the Judgement Day!”
The first—“Whence come you, and for what your quest?”
“Palomides am I from Camelot,
Wretched Palomides whom dreams torment
Forever—of a cold proud little head,
A friendly hand that gives me the same love
It would to a familiar dog, a body
For which Sir Tristram and King Mark contend,
Wolves over a spilled bone ... and yet this name,
This “Iseult” is a good thing for the sword,
And makes it cut through many helms and makes
Death very visible to heathen men ...
... And I could sit with her on a green cliff
And watch the world die—if she were but tired
And soon would rest her head against my heart;
Not caring for the roughness of my mail
Not aught at all save that I held her close
And she and her child’s love at last had peace....
So, Lord, what need were Heaven, Hell or quest?
No! I must follow winter! She will be
Doubtless betrayed and hurt—and I not there
To comfort her in any measure—well
Pray God some ax beat through my warding soon!—
I beg your grace, sir Knight—my dreams—you said?—

“I heard the quarrel and loud noise of hounds
More to the westward, by a little inn
That’s badged with a dry bush.”
“I must ride on!
Your road lies thither!”
Like a pawing storm
His horse beat down the valley and was gone
The stranger’s face within the vizor wore
The look of one who, having had a gem
Some twelvemonth, finds it out of fashion, dulled
By others’ praise perhaps—at any rate
Its turn gone past—a new stone to be found,
New tiger-hues....
Palomides was far.
And, settling well his harp upon his back,
With something of amusement in his mouth,
Tristram rode southward to the Breton ships.

SIR JOHN RIMBECK TO THE PRINCESS OF ACRE

Death comes like a glimpse of thin blue sky through the fog of fight, And the trident-flame of the mind fails, and the soul drinks night. But on shores unknown it arises! it is white of its ancient scars. Arrayed with stars as a garment, beneath night’s thick stars!

And now I must have died I think—and had this grace, To look with new eyes for a moment, and to see one face That fills my heart like a feasting where mailed kings break bread, You are kind as a poor man’s alms, Lord, if I take this to the dead!

Slowly the lights, the noise return, but they touch not me. I, who knew not my chains at all, stand here free! Sound the assay, white bugles! Shields, clash loud! Fate and one face I follow, through a gate grown proud!

THREE DAYS’ RIDE

“_From Belton castle to Solway side,
Hard by the bridge, is three days’ ride._”

We had fled full fast from her father’s keep,
And the time was come that we must sleep.

The first day was an ecstasy,
A golden mist, a burgeoning tree;
We rode like gods through a world new-made,
The hawthorn scented hill and glade,
A faint, still sweetness in the air—
And, oh, her face and the wind in her hair!
And the steady beat of our good steeds’ hooves,
Bearing us northward, strong and fast,
To my high black tower, stark to the blast,
Like a swimmer stripped where the Solway moves!
And ever, riding, we chanted a song,
Challenging Fortune, loud and long,
“_From Belton Castle to Solway side,
Strive as you may, is three days’ ride!_”

She slept for an hour, wrapped in my cloak,
And I watched her till the morning broke;
The second day—and a harsher land,
And gray bare hills on either hand;
A surly land and a sullen folk,
And a fog that came like bitter smoke.
The road wound on like a twisted snake,
And our horses sobbed as they topped the brake.
Till we sprang to earth at Wyvern Fen,
Where fresh steeds stamped, and were off again.
Weary and sleepless, bruised and worn,
We still had strength for laughter and scorn;
Love held us up through the mire and mist,
Love fed us, while we clasped and kissed,
And still we sang as the night closed in,
Stealthy and slow as a hidden sin,
“_From Belton Castle to Solway side,
Ride how you will, is three days’ ride._”

My love drooped low on the black mare’s back,
Drowned in her hair ... the reins went slack ...
Yet she could not sleep, save to dream bad dreams,
And wake all trembling, till at last
Her golden head lay on my breast.

At last we saw the first faint gleams
Of day. Dawn broke. A sickly light
Came from the withered sun—a blight
Was on the land, and poisonous mist
Shrouded the rotting trees, unkissed
By any wind, and black crags glared
Like sightless, awful faces, spared
From death to live accursed for ay.

Dragging slow chains the hours went by.
We rode on, drunk and drugged with sleep,
Too deadly weary now to say
Whether our horses kept the way
Or no—like slaves stretched on a heap
Of poisoned arrows. Every limb
Shot with sharp pain; pain seemed to swim
Like a red cloud before our eyes....

The mist broke, and a moment showed,
Pricked clear against a splash of woad,
The spear-points where the hot chase rode.

Idly I watched them dance and rise
Till white wreaths wiped them out again ...
My love jerked at the bridle rein;
The black mare, dying, broke her heart
In one swift gallop; for my part
I dozed; and ever in my brain,
Four hoofs of fire beat out refrain,
A dirge to light us down to death,
A silly rhyme that saith and saith,
“_From Belton Castle to Solway side,
Though great hearts break, is three days’ ride!_”
The black mare staggered, reeled and fell,
Bearing my love down ... a great bell
Began to toll ... and sudden fire
Flared at me from the road, a pyre
It seemed, to burn our bodies in ...
And I fell down, far down, within
The pit’s mouth ... and my brain went blind....

I woke—a cold sun rose behind
Black evil hills—my love knelt near
Beside a stream, her golden hair
Streaming across the grass—below
The Solway eddied to and fro,
White with fierce whirlpools ... my love turned....
Thank God, some hours of joy are burned
Into the mind, and will remain,
Fierce-blazing still, in spite of pain!
They came behind us as we kissed,
Stealthily from the dripping mist,
Her brothers and their evil band.
They bound me fast and made me stand.
They forced her down upon her knees.
She did not strive or cry or call,
But knelt there dumb before them all—
I could not turn away my eyes—
There was no fear upon her face,
Although they slew her in that place.
The daggers rent and tore her breast
Like dogs that snarl above a kill,
Her proud face gazed above them still,
Seeking rest—Oh, seeking rest!
The blood swept like a crimson dress
Over her bosom’s nakedness,
A curtain for her weary eyes,
A muffling-cloth to stop her sighs ...
And she was gone—and a red thing lay
Silent, on the trampled clay.

Beneath my horse my feet are bound,
My hands are bound behind my back,
I feel the sinews start and crack—
And ever to the hoof-beats’ sound,
As we draw near the gallows-tree,
Where I shall hang right speedily,
A crazy tune rings in my brain,
Four hoofs of fire tramp the refrain,
Crashing clear o’er the roaring crowd,
Steadily galloping, strong and loud,
“_From Belton Castle to Solway side,
Hard by the bridge, is three days’ ride!_”

THE PLOW

(_A New England Tragedy_)