Chapter III

One listening bent, in dread of something coming,
He can not see nor balk--
A phantom footstep, in the ghostly gloaming,
That haunts a terraced walk.

Long has he given his whole heart's hard endeavor
Unto the work begun,
Still hoping love would watch it grow and ever
Turn kindly eyes thereon.

Now in his life he feels there nears an hour,
Inevitable, alas!
When in the darkness he shall cringe and cower,
And see his dead self pass.

THE LADY OF THE HILLS.

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

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

This hope still gives my body strength--
To kiss her eyes and lips at length
Where all her kin can see;
Then 'mid her towers of crime and gloom,
Sin-haunted like the Halls of Doom,
To smite her dead in that wild room
Red-lit with revelry.

Madly I rode; nor once did slack.
Before my face the world rolled, black
With nightmare wind and rain.
Witch-lights mocked at me on the fen;
And through the forest followed then
Gaunt eyes of wolves; and ghosts of men
Moaned by me on the plain.

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

And here I am. The blood may blind
My eyesight now ... yet I shall find
Her by some inner eye!
For God--He hath this deed in care!--
Yea! I shall kiss again her hair,
And tell her of her leman there,
Then smite her dead--and die.

REVEALMENT.

At moonset when ghost speaks with ghost,
And spirits meet where once they sinned,
Between the bournes of found and lost,
My soul met her soul on the wind,
My late-lost Evalind.

I kissed her mouth. Her face was wild.
Two burning shadows were her eyes,
Wherefrom the maiden love, that smiled
A heartbreak smile of severed ties,
Gazed with a wan surprise.

Then suddenly I seemed to see
No more her shape where beauty bloomed ...
My own sad self gazed up at me--
My sorrow, that had so assumed
The form of her entombed.

HEART'S ENCOURAGEMENT.

Nor time nor all his minions
Of sorrow or of pain,
Shall dash with vulture pinions
The cup she fills again
Within the dream-dominions
Of life where she doth reign.

Clothed on with bright desire
And hope that makes her strong,
With limbs of frost and fire,
She sits above all wrong,
Her heart, a living lyre,
Her love, its only song.

And in the waking pauses
Of weariness and care,
And when the dark hour draws his
Black weapon of despair,
Above effects and causes
We hear its music there.

The longings life hath near it
Of love we yearn to see;
The dreams it doth inherit
Of immortality;
Are callings of her spirit
To something yet to be.

NIGHTFALL.

O day, so sicklied o'er with night!
O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk!--
A Circe orange, golden-bright,
With horror 'neath its husk.

And I, who gave the promise heed
That made life's tempting surface fair,
Have I not eaten to the seed
Its ashes of despair!

O silence of the drifted grass!
And immemorial eloquence
Of stars and winds and waves that pass!
And God's indifference!

Leave me alone with sleep that knows
Not any thing that life may keep--
Not e'en the pulse that comes and goes
In germs that climb and creep.

Or if an aspiration pale
Must quicken there--oh, let the spot
Grow weeds! that dost may so prevail,
Where spirit once could not!

PAUSE.

So sick of dreams! the dreams, that stain
The aisle, along which life must pass,
With hues of mystic colored glass,
That fills the windows of the brain.

So sick of thoughts! the thoughts, that carve
The house of days with arabesques
And gargoyles, where the mind grotesques
In masks of hope and faith who starve.

Here lay thy over weary head
Upon my bosom! Do not weep!--
"He giveth His beloved sleep."--
Heart of my heart, be comforted.

ABOVE THE VALES.

We went by ways of bygone days,
Up mountain heights of story,
Where lost in vague, historic haze,
Tradition, crowned with battle-bays,
Sat 'mid her ruins hoary.

Where wing to wing the eagles cling
And torrents have their sources,
War rose with bugle voice to sing
Of wild spear thrust, and broadsword swing,
And rush of men and horses.

Then deep below, where orchards show
A home here, here a steeple,
We heard a simple shepherd go,
Singing, beneath the afterglow,
A love-song of the people.

As in the trees the song did cease,
With matron eyes and holy
Peace, from the cornlands of increase.
And rose-beds of love's victories,
Spake, smiling, of the lowly.

A SUNSET FANCY.

Wide in the west, a lake
Of flame that seems to shake
As if the Midgard snake
Deep down did breathe:
An isle of purple glow,
Where rosy rivers flow
Down peaks of cloudy snow
With fire beneath.

And there the Tower-of-Night,
With windows all a-light,
Frowns on a burning height;
Wherein she sleeps,--
Young through the years of doom,--
Veiled with her hair's gold gloom,
The pale Valkyrie whom
Enchantment keeps.

THE FEN-FIRE.

The misty rain makes dim my face,
The night's black cloak is o'er me;
I tread the dripping cypress-place,
A flickering light before me.

Out of the death of leaves that rot
And ooze and weedy water,
My form was breathed to haunt this spot,
Death's immaterial daughter.

The owl that whoops upon the yew,
The snake that lairs within it,
Have seen my wild face flashing blue
For one fantastic minute.

But should you follow where my eyes
Like some pale lamp decoy you,
Beware! lest suddenly I rise
With love that shall destroy you.

TO ONE READING THE MORTE D'ARTHURE.

O daughter of our Southern sun,
Sweet sister of each flower,
Dost dream in terraced Avalon
A shadow-haunted hour?
Or stand with Guinevere upon
Some ivied Camelot tower?

Or in the wind dost breathe the musk
That blows Tintagel's sea on?
Or 'mid the lists by castled Usk
Hear some wild tourney's paeon?
Or 'neath the Merlin moons of dusk
Dost muse in old Caerleon?

Or now of Launcelot, and then
Of Arthur, 'mid the roses,
Dost speak with wily Vivien?
Or where the shade reposes,
Dost walk with stately armored men
In marble-fountained closes?

So speak the dreams within thy gaze.
The dreams thy spirit cages,
Would that Romance--which on thee lays
The spell of bygone ages--
Held me! a memory of those days,
A portion of its pages!

STROLLERS.