{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_42052/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_42052","id":"gutenberg_42052","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42052","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","English poetry"],"text":"Produced by Al Haines.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Cover]\n\n\n\n\n                                  THE\n                              GOLDEN HELM\n                            AND OTHER VERSE\n\n\n                                   BY\n                         WILFRID WILSON GIBSON\n\n\n\n                                 LONDON\n                       ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET\n                                  1903\n\n\n\n\n                                   TO\n                              HOWARD PEASE\n\n\n\n\n                          _BY THE SAME WRITER_\n\n                   _URLYN THE HARPER AND OTHER SONG_\n                   _THE QUEEN'S VIGIL AND OTHER SONG_\n\n\n\n\nThanks are due to Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co., for permission to reprint\n\"The King's Death,\" \"The Three Kings,\" and the first part of \"Averlaine\nand Arkeld,\" from _The Cornhill Magazine_; to the editor of _Macmillan's\nMagazine_ for leave to reprint \"In the Valley\"; to the editor of _The\nSaturday Review_ for leave to reprint \"Notre Dame de la Belle-Verriere\";\nand to the editors of _The Pilot, The Outlook, The Pall Mall Gazette,\nCountry Life, The Week's Survey_, and _The Broadsheet_, for like\ncourtesy with regard to a number of \"The Songs of Queen Averlaine.\"\n\n\n\n\n                                Contents\n\nThe Torch\nThe Unknown Knight\nThe King's Death\nThe Knight of the Wood\nNotre Dame de la Belle-Verriere\nIn the Valley\nThe Vision: a Christmas Mystery\nThe Three Kings\nThe Songs of Queen Averlaine\nThe Golden Helm\n\n\n\n\n                               The Torch\n\n\nThrough skies blown clear by storm, o'er storm-spent seas,\nDay kindled pale with promise of full noon\nOf blue unclouded; no night-weary wind\nRuffled the slumberous, heaving deeps to white,\nThough round the Farne Isles the waves never sink\nIn foamless sleep--about the pillared crags\nFor ever circling with unresting spray.\nAt dawn's first glimmer, from his island-cell--\nRock-hewn, secure from tempest--Oswald came\nWith slow and weary step, white-faced and worn\nWith night-long vigil for storm-perilled souls.\nHis anxious eye with sharp foreboding bright--\nHe scanned the treacherous flood; the long froth-trail\nThat marks the lurking reefs; the jag-toothed chasms\nWhich, foaming, gape at night beneath the keel--\nThe mouth of hell to storm-bewildered ships:\nBut no scar-stranded vessel met his glance.\nRelieved, he drank the glistering calm of morn,\nWith nostril keen and warm lips parted wide;\nWhile, gradually, the sun-enkindled air\nQuickened his pallid cheek with youthful flame,\nThough lonely years had silvered his dark head,\nAnd round his eyes had woven shadow-meshes.\nClearly he caught the ever-clamorous cries\nOf guillemot and puffin from afar,\nWhere, canopied by hovering, white wings,\nThey crowded naked pinnacles of rock.\nHe watched, with eyes of glistening tenderness,\nThe brooding eider--Cuthbert's sacred bird,\nThat bears among the isles his saintly name--\nBreast the calm waves; a black, wet-gleaming fin\nCleft the blue waters with a foaming jag,\nWhere, close behind the restless herring-herd,\nWith ravening maw of death, the porpoise sped.\nOswald, light-tranced, dreamed in the sun awhile;\nTill, suddenly, as some old sorrow starts,\nThough years have glided by with soothing lull,\nThe gust of ancient longing rent his bliss:\nHis narrow isle, as by some darkling spell,\nMore narrow shrank; the gulls' unceasing cries\nGrew still more fretful; and his hermit-life\nA sea-scourged desolation to him seemed.\nThe holy tree of peace--which he had dreamt\nWould flourish in the wilderness afresh,\nUpspringing ever in new ecstasy\nOf branching beauty and white blooms of truth,\nTill its star-tangling crest should cleave the sky,\nAnd angels rustle through its topmost boughs--\nSeemed sapless, rootless.  Through his quivering limbs\nHis famine-wasted youth to life upleapt\nWith passionate yearning for humanity:\nThe stir of towns; the jostling of glad throngs;\nWelcoming faces and warm-clasping hands;\nYea, even for the lips and eyes of Love\nHe hungered with keen pangs of old desire:\nAnd, if for him these might not be, he craved\nAt least the exultation of swift peril--\nThe red-foamed riot of delirious strife\nThat rears a bloody crest o'er peaceful shires,\nAnd, slaying, in a swirl of slaughter dies.\nWith brow uplifted and strained, pulsing throat,\nAnd salt-parched lips out-thrust, unto the sun\nHe stretched beseeching hands, as though he sought\nTo snatch some glittering disaster thence.\nOne moment radiant thus; and then once more\nHis arms dropped listless, and he slowly shrank\nWithin his sea-stained habit, cowering dark\nAmid the azure blaze of sea and sky.\nThen, stirring, with impatient step he moved\nAcross the isle to where the rocky shore,\nForming a little, crag-encircled bay,\nSloped steeply to the level of the sea;\nBut, as he neared the edges of the tide,\nStartled, he paused, as, marvelling, he saw\nA woman on the shelving, wet, black rock,\nLying, forlorn, among the storm-wrack, white\nAnd motionless; still wet, her raiment clung\nAbout her limbs, and with her wet, gold hair\nGreen sea-weed tangled.  Oswald on her looked\nAmazed, as one who, in a sea-born trance,\nDiscovers the lone spirit of the storm,\nSelf-spent at last, and sunk in dreamless slumber\nWithin some caverned gloom.  Coldly he watched\nThe little waves creep up the glistening rock,\nAnd, faltering, slide once more into the deep,\nAs though they feared to waken her: at length,\nWhen one, more venturous, about her stole,\nAnd moved her heavy hair as if with life,\nHe shuddered; and a lightning-knowledge struck\nHis heart with fear; and in a flash he knew\nThat no sea-phantom couched before him lay,\nBut some frail fellow-creature, tempest-tost,\nHung yet in peril on the edge of death,\nHer weak life slipping from the saving grasp\nWhile he delayed.  He sprang through plashy weed,\nO'er slippery ridges, to the rock whereon\nShe lay with upturned face and close-shut eyes--\nOne hand across her breast, the other dipped\nWithin a shallow pool of emerald water,\nWith blue-veined fingers clutching the red fronds\nOf frail sea-weed.  Then Oswald, bending, felt\nUpon his cheek the feeble breath that still\nFluttered between the pallid, parted lips.\nIn trembling haste, he loosed the sodden cords\nThat bound her to a spar; and with hot hands\nHe chafed her icy limbs, until the glow\nOf life returned.  With fitful quivering\nThe white lids opened; and she looked on him\nWith dull, unwondering eyes whose deep-sea blue\nThe gloom of death's late passing shadowed yet;\nWhen suddenly light thrilled them, and bright fear\nFlashed from their depths, and, with a little gasp,\nShe strove to rise; but Oswald with quick words\nCalmed her weak terror, and she sank once more,\nClosing her eyes; and, gently lifting her\nWithin his arms--her gold hair hanging straight\nAnd heavy with sea-water, as he plunged\nKnee-deep through pools of crackling bladder-weed--\nHe bore her, unresisting, o'er the isle\nUnto the rock-built shelter he had reared,\nSome little way apart from his own cell,\nFor storm-stayed fishers or wrecked mariners.\nHe laid her on a bed of withered bents,\nAnd ministered to her with gentle hands\nAnd ceaseless care; till, wrapped in warm, deep sleep,\nShe sank oblivious.  Silently he placed\nHis island-fare beside her on the board,\nLest she should wake in need; then, with hushed step,\nHe turned to go; but, ere he reached the door,\nHe paused, and looked again towards the bed,\nAs though he feared his strange sea-guest might flee\nLike some wild spirit, born of wondering foam,\nThat wins from man the shelter of his breast,\nThen, on a night of moon-enchanted tides,\nLeaps with shrill laughter to its native seas,\nBearing his soul within its glistening arms,\nTo drown his peace on earth and hope of heaven\nIn cold eternities of lightless deeps.\nBut still in dreamless sleep the stranger lay,\nWith parted lips and breathing soft and calm;\nAbout her head unloosed, her hair outshone,\nAmong the grey-green bents, like fine, red gold.\nSo beautiful she was that Oswald, pierced\nWith quivering rapture, dared no longer bide,\nBut, with quick fingers, softly raised the latch,\nAnd stumbled o'er the threshold.  As he went,\nA flock of sea-gulls from the bent-thatched roof\nRose, querulous, and round him, wheeling, swept,\nWith creaking wings and cold, black eyes agleam;\nYet Oswald saw them not, nor heard their cries;\nNor saw he, as he paced the eastern crags,\nHow, round the Farnes, the dreaming ocean lay\nIn broad, unshadowed, sapphire ecstasy,\nThat glowed to noon through slow, uncounted hours.\nHis early gloom had vanished; time and space\nAnd earth and sea no longer compassed him;\nOne thought alone consumed him--beauty slept\nWithin the shelter of his hermitage,\nUpon grey, rustling bents, with golden hair.\nHe roamed, unresting, till the copper sun\nSank in a steel-grey sea, and earth and sky\nWere strewn with shadows--wavering and dim--\nTo weave a pathway for the dawning moon,\nThat she, from night's oblivion, might create\nWith the cold spell of her enchantments old\nA phantom earth with magical, bright seas,\nA vaster heaven of unrevealed stars.\nUnmoving, on a headland of swart crag\nThat jutted gaunt and sharp against the night,\nStood Oswald, cowled and silent.  Hour by hour\nHe gazed across the sea, which nothing shadowed,\nSave where--now dim, now white--a lonely sail\nHung, restless, o'er a fisher's barren toil.\nYet Oswald saw nor sail nor moon nor sea:\nHis heart kept vigil by the little house\nWherein the stranger slumbered; and it seemed\nHis life, by some strange power within him stayed,\nAwaited the unlatching of the door.\n\nBut now, within the hut, the sleeper dreamt\nOf foaming caverns and o'erwhelming waters;\nThen, shuddering awake, awhile she lay,\nAnd watched the moonlight, cold and white, which poured\nThrough the warm dusk, from the high window-slit;\nWhen, all at once, the strangeness of the room\nClosed in upon her with bewildering dread.\nShe stirred; the bents, beneath her, rustled strange;\nShe started in affright, and, swaying, stood\nWithin the streaming moonlight, till, at last,\nIn memory, once more disaster swept\nOver her life, and left her, desolate,\nUpon bleak crags of alien seas unknown.\nYet, through the tumult of tempestuous dark,\nAbove the echo of despairing cries,\nA calm voice sounded; and beyond the whirl\nOf foaming death, wherein she caught the gleam\nOf well-loved faces drowning in cold seas,\nA living face shone out--a beacon clear:\nThen numbing fear fell from her, and she moved,\nUnlatched the door, and stole into the night.\nOne moment, dazzled by the full-moon glare,\nShe paused, a shivering form within the wide\nAnd glittering desolation--lone and frail.\nBut Oswald, watchful on the eastern scars,\nSeeing her, forward came with eager pace\nTo meet her; and, as he drew swiftly near,\nHis cowl fell backward; and she knew again\nThe face that calmed the terrors of her dreams.\nYet, with the knowledge, through her being stole,\nVague fear more strange, more impotent than the blind\nUnquestioning dread when death had round her stormed;\nNo peril of the body could arouse\nSuch ecstasy of terror in her soul,\nWhich seemed upborne upon the shivering crest\nOf some great wave, just curving, ere it crash\nUpon the crags of time.  Yet, though she feared\nWhen Oswald paused, uncertain, quick she spake,\nAs though she sought to parry doom with words.\nShe questioned him--scarce heeding his replies--\nHow she had hither come; when, suddenly,\nSped by her fluttering words, the last, dim cloud\nRolled from her memory, and she saw revealed\nWithin a pitiless glare of naked light\nThe utmost horror of her desolation.\nMute with despair, she stood with parted lips,\nAnd then cried fiercely: \"Hath the sea upcast\nNone other on this shore?  Am I, alone,\nOf all my kin who sailed in that doomed ship,\nFlung back to life?\"  And as, with piteous glance,\nHe answered her: \"Ah God, that I, with them,\nHad died!  O traitor cords that held too sure\nMy body to the broken spar of life!\nO feeble seas, that fumed in such wild wrath,\nYet could not quench so frail a thing as I!\"\nWith passionate step, across the isle she ran,\nAnd leapt from crag to crag, until she stood\nUpon a dizzy scar that jutted sheer\nAbove low-lapping waves.  Then once again\nHer moaning cry was heard among the Isles:\n\"O bitter waters, give them back to me!\nYou shall not keep them; all your waves of woe\nCannot withhold from me those dauntless lives\nThat were my life.  Surely they cannot rest\nWithout me; even from your unfathomed graves\nSurely my love will draw them to my arms!\"\nAs though in tremulous expectation tranced,\nShe yearned, with arms outstretched; as dawn arose\nExultant from the sea, and with clear rays\nKindled her wind-tost hair to streaming flame.\n\nAwhile she stood, then, moaning, slowly sank\nUpon the crag; and Oswald came to her\nWith words of comfort which unloosed her pent\nAnd aching woe in swift, tumultuous tears.\nOswald, in silent anguish, drew apart,\nGazing, unseeing, o'er the dawning waves;\nUntil at last the tempest of her grief,\nIn low and fitful sobbing, spent itself;\nWhen, turning to him, once again she spake,\nAnd, shuddering, with faltering voice, outpoured\nThe tale of her despair: and Oswald heard\nHow she, who sat thus strangely by his side,\nMarna, a sea-earl's daughter, had besought\nHer father, when the old sea-hunger lit\nHis eyes--as waves shot through with stormy fight--\nFor leave to bear him company but once,\nWhen, with his sons, he rode the adventurous seas;\nHow he had yielded with reluctant love;\nAnd how, from out the firth of some far strand,\nTheir galley rode, beneath a flaming dawn;\nHow her young heart had leapt to see the sails\nUnfurled to take the wind, as, one by one,\nToil-glistening rowers shipped the dripping oars,\nAnd loosened every sheet before the breeze;\nHow, as the ship with timbers all astrain,\nLeapt to mid-sea, through Marna's body thrilled\nA kindred rapture, and there came to her\nThe sheer, delirious joy of them true-born\nTo wander with the foam--each creaking cord\nThat tugged the quivering mast unto her singing\nOf unknown shores and far, enchanted lands,\nBeyond the blue horizon; how, all day,\nThey rode, undaunted, through the spinning surf;\nBut, as the sun dipped, in the cold, grey tide,\nThe wind, that since the dawn with steady speed\nHad filled the sails, now came in fitful gusts,\nFierce and yet fiercer, till the sullen waves\nWere lashed to anger, and the waters leapt\nTo tussle with the furies of the air;\nAnd how the ship, in the encounter caught,\nWas tossed on crests of swirling dark, or dropped\nBetween o'er-toppling walls of whelming night;\nHow in those hours--too dread for thought or speech--\nHer father's hand had bound her to a spar;\nAnd, even as--the cord between his teeth--\nHe tugged the last knot sure, the vessel crashed\nUpon a cleaving scar; and she but saw\nThe strong, pale faces looking upon death,\nBefore the fierce, exultant waters closed\nWith cold oblivion o'er them; and no more\nShe knew, until she waked within the hut,\nTo find her world, in one disastrous night,\nIn one swift surge of roaring darkness, swept\nFrom her young feet; her kindred, home and friends,\nAnd all familiar hopes and joys and fears\nDropt like a garment from her life, which now\nStood naked on the edge of some new world\nOf unknown terrors.\n    Oswald heard her tale\nWith pitying glance; yet in his eyes arose\nA strange, new light, which as each gust of grief\nShook out the fluttering words, more brightly burned;\nSo that, when Marna ceased, it seemed to her\nThat he, in holy contemplation rapt,\nHad heeded not her woe; and from her heart\nBurst out a cry: \"Ah God, I am alone!\"\nBut, stung by her shrill anguish, Oswald waked\nFrom his bright reverie, and his shining eyes\nDarkened with swift compassion, as he turned\nAnd, trembling, spake: \"Nay, not alone...\"\n  Then mute\nHe stood--his pale lips clenched--as though within\nThere surged a torrent which he dared not loose.\nMarna looked wondering up; but, when her eyes\nSaw the white passion of his face, her soul\nWas tossed once more on crests of unknown fears;\nYet rapture warred with terror in her heart;\nShe trembled, and her breath came short and quick.\nShe dared not raise her eyes again to his,\nTill, on her straining ears, his words, once more,\nFell, slow and cold and clear as water dripping\nBetween locked sluice-gates: \"Nothing need you fear.\nBeyond the sea of unknown terrors lie\nWhite havens of an undiscovered peace.\nFor even this bleak, scar-embattled coast\nMay yield safe harbour to the storm-spent soul.\nYour world has fallen from you that you may\nEnter another world, more beautiful,\nBuilt 'neath the shadow of the throne of God.\nThere shall you find new friends, who yet will seem\nFamiliar to your eyes, because their souls\nHave passed through kindred perils and despairs.\"\nHe ceased; and silence, trembling, 'twixt them hung;\nTill Marna, gazing yet across the sea,\nRent it with words: \"Where may I find this peace?\"\nAnd Oswald answered: \"In an inland dale\nThe Sisters of the Cross await your coming,\nWith ever-open gate.  Within seven days,\nMy brethren from the mainland will put out,\nBringing me food; on their return with them\nYou may embark.  Till then, this barren rock\nMust be your home.\"  Exultant light once more\nLeapt, flashing, in the depths of his dark eyes.\nYet Marna looked not up, but, slowly, spake:\n\"Yea, I must go....  But you....\"\n  Then in dismay\nShe stopped, as though the thought had slipped unknown\nFrom her full heart; but Oswald caught the words,\nAnd spake with hard, quick speech, as if to baffle\nSome doubt that strove within him: \"On this Isle\nI bide, till God shall kindle my weak soul\nTo burn, a beacon o'er His lonely seas.\"\nOnce more he paused; and perilous silence swayed\nBetween them, until Oswald, quaking, rose,\nAs one who dared no longer rest beneath\nO'er-toppling doom.  Yet, with calm voice, he spake:\n\"Even within this wilderness abides\nSuch beauty that, in your brief sojourn here,\nYour soul shall starve not; all about you sweeps\nThe ever-changing wonder of the sea;\nBut if, too full of bitter memories,\nThe bright waves darken, you may lift your eyes\nTo watch the swooping gull; the flashing tern;\nThe stately cormorant and the kittiwake--\nMost beautiful of all the island-birds;\nOr, if your woman's heart should crave some grace\nMore exquisite, see, frail bell-campions blow,\nAs foam-flowers on the shallow, sandy turf.\"\nAs thus he spake, a light in Marna's eyes\nArose, and sorrow left her for awhile:\nAnd she with bright glance questioned him, and watched\nThe hovering gulls, and plucked the snowy blooms,\nWith little cries at each discovered beauty.\nYet Oswald by her side walked silently,\nAnd watched, as one struck mute with anguished fear,\nHer eager eyes, and heard her chattering words.\nThen, suddenly, he left her, but returned\nWithin the hour, with faltering step, and spake\nWith tremulous voice: \"We two must part awhile;\nFor I must keep lone vigil in my cell\nSix days and nights, with fasting and with prayer;\nMeanwhile, within the little hut for you\nAre food and shelter till the brethren come.\nWhen I must give you over to their care.\"\nMarna, with wondering heart, looked up at him;\nBut such a wild light flickered in his eyes\nShe dared not speak; and, shuddering, he turned,\nAnd strode back swiftly to the hermitage.\n\nMarna looked after him with yearning gaze,\nAs though her heart would have her call him back,\nYet her lips moved not; motionless, she watched\nUntil he passed from sight; then, sinking low\nAmong the flowers, she wept, she knew not why.\n\nAnd, as the door closed on him, Oswald fell\nProne on the cold, black, vigil-furrowed rock\nThat paved his narrow cell; and long he lay\nAs in the clutch of some dread waking-trance,\nNor stirred until the shadows into night\nWere woven.  Then unto his feet he leapt\nWith this wild cry: \"O God, why hast Thou sent\nThis scourge most bitter for my naked soul?\nI feared not storm nor solitude, O God;\nI shrank not from the tempest of Thy wrath;\nThough oft my weak soul wavered, trampled o'er\nBy deedless hours, and yearned unto the world,\nEver afresh Thy love hath bound me fast\nUnto this island of Thy lonely seas;\nAnd I, who deemed that I at last might reach--\nI who had come through all--Thy golden haven,\nKnew not Thy hand withheld this last despair,\nThis scourge most bitter, being most beautiful.\"\nThen on his knees he sank, and tried to pray\nBefore the Virgin's shrine, where ever burned\nHis votive taper with unfailing light.\nBut when his lips would breathe the holy name,\nHis heart cried: \"Marna!  Marna!\"  Every pulse\nThrobbed \"Marna!\"  And his body shook and swayed,\nAs though it strove to utter that one word,\nAnd cry it once unto eternal stars,\nThough it should perish crying.  Through the cell\nThe silence murmured: \"Marna!\"  And without\nA lone gull wailed it to the windy night.\nHe lifted his wild eyes, and in the shrine\nHe saw the face of Marna, which outburned\nThe flickering taper; on the gloom up-surged,\nFoam-white, the face of Marna; till the dark\nFlowed pitiful o'er him, and on the stone\nHe sank unconscious.  Night went slowly by,\nAnd pale dawn stole in silence through his cell;\nAnd, in the light of morn, the taper died,\nWith feeble guttering; yet he never stirred,\nThough noonday waxed and waned.\n  But Marna roamed\nAll night beneath the stars.  To her it seemed\nThat not until the closing of the door\nHad all hope perished: now death tore, afresh,\nHer father and her brothers from her arms.\nBy day and night and under sun and moon\nShe roamed unresting--seeing, heeding naught--\nTill weariness o'ercame her, and she slept;\nAnd, as she slumbered, snowy-plumed peace\nNestled within her heart; and, when she waked,\nShe only yearned for that dim, cloistral calm,\nEmbosomed deep in some bough-sheltered vale,\nWhither the boat must bear her.\n    In his cell,\nAs night paled slowly to the seventh morn,\nOswald arose--the fire within his eyes\nYet more intense, more fierce.  With eager hand\nHe clutched the latch, and, flinging wide the door,\nHe strode into the dawn.  One moment, dazed,\nAs though bewildered by the light, he paused;\nBut, when his glance in restless roving fell\nOn Marna, standing on the western crag\nAgainst the setting moon, beneath the dawn,\nHis passion surged upon him, and he shook;\nThen, springing madly forth, he, stumbling, ran,\nAnd, falling at her feet upon the rock,\nHis voice rang out in fearful exultation:\n\"You shall not go!  I cannot let you go!\nHas not the tumult tossed you to my breast?\nYea, and not all the storms of all the seas\nShall drag you from me!  Nay, you shall not go!\nFor we will live together on this isle\nWhich time has builded in the deeps for us--\nWe two together, one in ecstasy,\nThroughout eternity; for time shall fall\nFrom off us; and the world shall be no more:\nAnd God, if God should stand between us now...\"\nFaltering, he paused; and Marna stood, afraid,\nQuaking before him; but she spake no word.\nAcross the waters came the plash of oars;\nBut Oswald heard them not, and once more cried:\n\"You will not go--thrusting me back to death?\nFor now I know the strange, new thing you brought\nFor me from out the storm was life--yea, life;\nAnd I am one arisen from the grave.\nYou will not thrust me back and take again\nThat which you came through storm to bring to me?\nYou will not go?  I cannot let you go!\"\n\nHe ceased; and now the even plash of oars\nCame clearer.  One dread moment Marna stood\nSwaying; then, stretching forth her arms, she cried:\n\"Ah God!  Ah God!  Why hath Thy cold hand set\nThis doom upon me?  Must I ever bear\nDeath and disaster unto whom I love?\nOh, is it not enough that, 'neath the wave,\nBecause I sought to bear them company,\nMy father and my brothers lie in death?\nBut this--ah God--that it should come to this!\nMust I bear ever death within my hands?\"\n\nShe paused one moment, with wild-heaving breast;\nThen, turning unto Oswald, spake again,\nWith softer voice: \"But you--have you no pity?\nYou who are but God's servant--surely you\nHave pity on my weakness.  From this doom\nWhich overhangs me you must set me free.\nYou say I brought you life; but in me lies\nFor you--the priest of God--a death more deep\nThan all the drowning fathoms of the sea.\nI go, that you may live.  If life indeed\nI brought you, I was but the torch of God\nTo kindle the clear flame of your strong soul\nTo burn, a beacon o'er His lonely seas.\"\nShe ceased, with arms outstretched and lighted eyes.\nAs on some holy vision Oswald gazed\nIn rapt, adoring fear; nor spake, nor stirred.\nNear, and yet nearer, drew the plash of oars;\nAnd, turning in the boat, the brethren looked\nWith wondering eyes upon them, whispering: \"Lo,\nSome seraph-messenger of God most high\nTarries with Oswald.  See the strange new peace\nThat burns his face like a white altar-flame.\nNot yet must we draw near, lest our weak sight\nBe blinded by that glory of gold hair\nThat gleams so strangely in the light of dawn.\"\n\n\n\n\n                           The Unknown Knight\n\n\nWhen purple gloomed the wintry ridge\n  Against the sunset's windy flame,\nFrom pine-browed hills, along the bridge,\n  An unknown rider came.\n\nI watched him idly from the tower.\n  Though he nor looked nor raised his head;\nI felt my life before him cower\n  In dumb, foreboding dread.\n\nI saw him to the portal win\n  Unchallenged, and no lackey stirred\nTo take his bridle when within\n  He strode without a word.\n\nThrough all the house he passed unstayed,\n  Until he reached my father's door;\nThe hinge shrieked out like one afraid;\n  Then silence fell once more.\n\nAll night I hear the chafing ice\n  Float, griding, down the swollen stream;\nI lie fast-held in terror's vice,\n  Nor dare to think or dream.\n\nI only know the unknown knight\n  Keeps vigil by my father's bed:\nOh, who shall wake to see the light\n  Flame all the east with red?\n\n\n\n\n                            The King's Death\n\n\n_The sleeping-chamber of the King: a candle burns dimly by the curtained\nbed.  The arras parts, and two slaves enter with daggers.  A storm of\nwind rages without._\n\nFIRST SLAVE: He sleeps.\n\nSECOND SLAVE: He sleeps, whom only death shall rouse\nTo dread unsleeping in another world.\n\nFIRST SLAVE: How long the careful night has kept him wakeful,\nAs if sleep loathed to snare him for our knives!\n\nSECOND SLAVE: Yea, we have crouched so close in quaking dark\nI scarce can lift my sword-arm: strike you first.\n\nFIRST SLAVE: The heavy waiting hours have crushed my strength;\nThe hate that burst to such an eager flame\nWithin my heart has smouldered to dull ash,\nWhich pity breathes to scatter.\n\nSECOND SLAVE: Knows he pity?\n\nFIRST SLAVE: Nay, he is throned above his slaughtered kin,\nA reeking sword his sceptre.  He has broken,\nAs one across the knee a faggot snaps,\nStrong lives to feed the blaze of his ambition;\nYet shall a slave's hand strike cold death in him\nFor whom kings sweat like slaves?\n\nSECOND SLAVE: Yea, at the stroke\nOne slave lies dead--a hundred kings are born;\nFor every man that breathes will be a king;\nVast empires, beaten-dust beneath his feet,\nWill rise again and teem with kingly men,\nWhen he, their death, is dead\n\nFIRST SLAVE: How still he sleeps!\nThe tempest shrieks to wake him, yet he slumbers.\nAs seas that foam against unyielding scars,\nThe mad wind storms the castle, wall and tower,\nAnd is not spent.  Hark, it has found a breach--\nSome latch unloosed--the house is full of wind;\nIt rushes, wailing, down the corridor;\nIt seeks the King; it cries on him to waken;\nNow 'tis without, and shakes the rattling bolt;\nLo, it has broken in, in little gusts,\nI feel it in my hair; 'twill lay cold fingers\nUpon his lips, and start him from his sleep.\nSee, it has whipt the yellow flame to smoke.\n\nSECOND SLAVE: And now it fails; the heavy, hanging gold\nThat shelters him from night is all unstirred.\n\nFIRST SLAVE: Even the wind must pause.\n\nSECOND SLAVE: 'Twas but a breeze\nTo blow our sinking courage to clear fire.\nToo long we loiter; soon the approaching day\nWill take us, slaves who grasp the arms of men\nYet dare not plunge them save in our own breasts.\nCome, let us strike!\n\n(_They approach the bed and draw aside the curtain._)\n\nFIRST SLAVE: The King--how still he sleeps!\nCan majesty in such calm slumber lie?\n\nSECOND SLAVE: Come, falter not, strike home!\n\nFIRST SLAVE: Hold, hold your hand,\nFor death has stolen a march upon our hate;\nHe does not breathe.\n\nSECOND SLAVE: The stars have wrought for us,\nAnd we are conquerors with unbloodied hands.\n\nFIRST SLAVE: Nay, nay, for in our thoughts his life was spilt;\nWhile yet our bodies lagged in fettered fear,\nOur shafted breath sped on and stabbed his sleep.\nOh, red for all the world, across our brows,\nOur murderous thoughts have burned the brand of Cain.\nSee, through the window stares the pitiless day!\n\n\n\n\n                         The Knight of the Wood\n\n\n\"I fear the Knight of the Wood,\" she said\n\"For him may no man overthrow.\nWhere boughs are matted thick o'erhead,\nThere gleams, amid the shadows dread,\nThe terror of his armour red;\nAnd all men fear him, high and low;\nYet all must through the forest go.\"\n\nShe paused awhile where larches flame\nAbout the borders of the wood;\nThen, crying loud on Love's high name\nTo keep her maiden-heart from shame,\nShe entered, and full-swiftly came\nWhere, hooded with a scarlet hood,\nA rider in her pathway stood.\n\nShe saw the gleam of armour red;\nShe saw the fiery pennon wave\nIts flaming terror overhead\n'Mid writhing boughs and shadows dread.\n\"Ah God,\" she cried: \"that I were dead,\nAnd laid for ever in my grave!\"\nThen, swooning, called on Love to save.\n\nAmong the springing fern she fell,\nAnd very nigh to death she lay;\nTill, like the fading of a spell\nAt ringing of the matin-bell,\nThe darkness left her; by a well\nShe waked beneath the open day,\nAnd rose to go upon her way;\n\nWhen, once again, the ruddy light\nOf arms she saw, and turned to flee;\nBut clutching brambles stayed her flight;\nWhile, marvelling, she saw the Knight\nUnhooded; and his eyes were bright\nWith April colours of the sea;\nAnd crowned as a King was he.\n\nShe knelt before him in the ferns,\nAnd sang: \"O Lord of Love, I bow\nBefore thy shield, where blazoned burns\nThe flaming heart with light that turns\nThe night to day.  O heart that yearns\nFor love, lo, Love before thee now--\nThe wild-wood knight with crowned brow!\"\n\n\n\n\n                    Notre Dame de la Belle-Verriere\n\n\nAbove Thy halo's burning blue\nFor ever hovers the White Dove;\nThy heart enshrines, for ever new,\nThe Cross--the Crown of all Thy love;\nWhile, sapphire wing on sapphire wing,\nAbout Thee choiring angels swing\nGold censers, and bright candles bear.\nBecause I have no heart to sing,\nI come to Thee with all my care,\n_Notre Dame de la Belle-Verriere._\n\nBecause the sword hath pierced Thy side,\nThy brows are crowned with circling gold.\nThe woe of all the world doth hide\nWithin Thy mantle's azure fold.\nBecause Thou, too, hast dwelt with fears,\nThrough lingering days and endless years,\nI find no comfort otherwhere,\nOur Lady beautiful with tears,\nOur Lady sorrowfully fair,\n_Notre Dame de la Belle-Verriere._\n\nMy feet have travelled the hot road\nBetween the poppies' barren fires;\nBut now I cast aside the load\nOf burning hopes and wild desires\nThat ever fierce and fiercer grew.\nThy peace falls like a falling dew\nUpon me as I kneel in prayer,\nBecause Thou hast known sorrow, too,\nBecause Thou, too, hast known despair,\n_Notre Dame de la Belle-Verriere._\n\n\n\n\n                             In the Valley\n\n\nLove, take my hand, and look not with sad eyes\nThrough the valley-shades: for us, the mountains rise;\nBeneath the cold, blue-cleaving peaks of snow\nLike flame the April-blossomed almonds blow--\nSpring-grace and winter-glory intertwined\nWithin the glittering web that colour weaves.\n\n_Yet who are they who troop so close behind_\n_With raiment rustling like frost-withered leaves_\n_That burden winter-winds with ever-restless sighs?_\n\nLove, look not back, nor ever hearken more\nTo murmuring shades; for us, the river-shore\nIs lit with dew-hung daffodils that gleam\nOn either side the tawny, foaming stream\nThat bears through April with triumphal song\nDissolving winter to the brimming sea.\n\n_Yet who are they who, ever-whispering, throng,_\n_With lean, grey lips that shudder piteously,_\n_As if from some bright fruit of bitter-tasting core?_\n\nNay, look not back, for, lo, in tranced light\nLove stays awhile his world-encircling flight\nTo wait our coming from the valley-ways;\nSee where, a hovering fire amid the blaze,\nHe pants aflame with irised plumes unfurled\nAbove the utmost pinnacle of noon.\n\n_Yet who are they who wander through the world_\n_Like weary clouds about a wintry moon,_\n_With wan, bewildered brows that bear eternal night?_\n\nLove, look not back, nor fill thy heart with woe\nOf old, sad loves that perished long ago;\nFor ever after living lovers tread\nPale, yearning ghosts of all earth's lovers dead.\nA little while with life we lead the train\nEre we, too, follow, cold, some breathing love.\n\n_I fear their fevered eyes and hands that strain_\n_To snatch our joy that flutters bright above,_\n_To shadow with grey death its ruddy, pulsing glow._\n\nLove, look not back in this life-crowning hour\nWhen all our love breaks into perfect flower\nBeneath the kindling heights of frozen time.\nCome, Love, that we with happy haste may climb\nBeyond the valley, and may chance to see\nSome unknown peak that cleaves unfading skies.\n\n_Old sorrow saps my strength; I may not flee_\n_The flame of passionate hunger in their eyes;_\n_Beseeching shade on shade--they hold me in their power._\n\nLove, look not back, for, all too brief, our day,\nIn wilder glories flameth fast away.\nLo, even now, the northern snow-ridge glows--\nWith purple shadowed--from pale gold to rose\nThat shivers white beneath stars dawning cold.\nLift up thine eyes ere all the colour fades.\n\n_Ah, rainbow-plumed Love in airs of gold,_\n_Too late I turn, a shade among the shades._\n_To follow, death-enthralled, thy flight through ages grey._\n\n\n\n\n                              The Vision.\n\n\n                          A CHRISTMAS MYSTERY.\n\nPERSONS: A YOUNG HERD.  HIS MOTHER.\nSCENE: THE QUEEN'S CRAGS.\nTIME: CHRISTMAS EVE.\n\n_The herd stands at the foot of the Crags, gazing across the dark fells.\nHis mother enters._\n\nMOTHER: Son, come home, nor tarry here\nIn this peril-haunted place.\nMy old heart is filled with fear\nBy the white flame of thy face,\nAnd thine eyes whose restless fire\nBurneth ever wild and clear\nAs red peats between the bars.\nSon, come home; the night is cold;\nDropping from the wintry stars,\nTingling frost falls through the air;\nSee, the bents are white with rime;\nAll the sheep are in the fold;\nAll the cattle in the byre;\nOnly we, of live things, roam\nO'er the fells so far from home;\nE'en the red fox in his lair\nSnuggles close to keep him warm;\nAnd the lonely, wandering hare\nCrouches, shivering, in her form;\nWhile by Greenlea's frozen edge\nHides the mallard in the sedge.\nSon, come home; the ingle-seat\nWaits thee by the glowing peat,\nAnd the door is off the latch.\nCome, and we will feast and sing,\nAs of old at Christmas time,\nUntil thou wilt drowse and nod\nAnd with slumber-drooping head\nGladly seek thy bracken-bed\nUnderneath the heather-thatch;\nWhere the healing sleep will bring\nUnto thee the peace of God.\nSon, come home!  Whom seekest thou there?\n\nHERD: Guenevere!  O Guenevere!\n\nMOTHER: Cry no more on Guenevere.\nSome wild warlock of the fells,\nBorn beneath the Devil's Scars,\nLures thee forth to drown thy soul\nDeep in Broomlea-water cold.\nGuenevere no longer dwells\nAnywhere beneath the stars;\nThough she walked these Crags of old,\nMany hundred years ago,\nInto earth she sank like snow;\nAs a sunset-cloud in rain\nBreaks, and showers the thirsty plain,\nAll the glory of her hair\nFell to earth, we know not where.\nLeave thy foolish quest forlorn.\nLo, to-night a King is born,\nWho, when earthly kings at last\nInto wildering night are passed,\nYet shall wear the crown of morn.\n\nMary, Thou whose love may turn\nEyes that after evil burn,\nDraw his soul, that strays so far,\nTo Thy Son's white throning-star.\nQueen of Heaven, hear my prayer!\n\nHERD: Guenevere!  O Guenevere!\n\nMOTHER: Low she lies, and may not hear.\nThe white lily, Guenevere,\nRuthless time has trodden down;\nArthur is a tarnished crown,\nHigh Gawain a broken spear,\nPercival a riven shield;\nThey, who taught the world to yield,\nClosed with death and lost the field,\nStricken by the last despair:\nLauncelot is but a name\nBlown about the winds of shame;\nSurely God has quenched the flame\nThat burned men's souls for Guenevere.\n\nMary, heed a mother's woe;\nMary, heed a mother's tears!\nThou, whose heart so long ago\nKnew the pangs and hopes and fears\nWe poor mortal mothers know;\nThou, to whom, on Christmas-morn,\nChrist, the Son of God, was born;\nThou whose mother-love hath pressed\nThe sweet Babe against thy breast;\nAnd with wondering joy hath felt\nThe warm clutch of little hands,\nWhen the Kings from far-off lands--\nCrowned with gold, in gold attire--\nWith the simple shepherds knelt\n'Mid the beasts within the byre;\nMary, if Thy heart, afraid,\nWhen beyond Thy care he strayed,\nSometimes grieved that he must grow\nUnlike other boys and men--\nFilled with dreams beyond Thy ken,\nAnguished with diviner woe,\nPangs more fiery than Thy pain,\nDeeper than Thy dark despair--\nFrom the perils of the night\nGive me back my son again.\nThou, whose love may never fail,\nHeed a lonely mother's prayer!\nCome in all Thy healing might!\n\n_A sudden glory sweeps across the Fells.  The vision appears in a cleft\nof the Crags.  The herd and his mother kneel before it._\n\nMOTHER: Mary, Queen of Heaven, hail!\n\nHERD (_falling forward_): Guenevere!  Guenevere!\n\n\n\n\n                            THE THREE KINGS.\n\n\n                              To C. J. S.\n\n\n\n                            The Three Kings\n\nPERSONS: KING GARLAND, KING ARLO, KING ASHALORN.\n\nSEA-VOICES, WAVE-VOICES, AND WIND-VOICES.\n\nSCENE: _A rock in the midst of the North Sea,_\n_whereon the three kings, bound naked by conquering_\n_sea-rovers, have been left to perish._\n\nVOICE OF THE DAWN-WIND: Awaken, O sea, from thy starry dream;\nAwaken, awaken!\nFor delight of thy slumber not one pale gleam\nFrom dim star-clusters remaineth unshaken.\nAll night I have haunted the valleys and rivers;\nNow hither I come--\nEre, quickened with sunlight, the drowsy east quivers--\nTo waken thy song, night-bewildered and dumb;\nTo stir thy grey waters, of starlight forsaken,\nTo loosen white foam in the red of the dawn.\n\nWAVE-VOICES: The sound of thy voice\nHas broken our sleep;\nAll night we have waited thee, herald of light.\nWe arise, we rejoice\nAt thy bidding to leap,\nAnd spray with our laughter the trail of the night.\nAll night we have waited thee, weary of stars--\nThe little star-dreams, and the sleep without song;\nThe deep-brooding slumber of silence that holds\nOur melody mute in the uttermost deep.\nO Wind of the Dawn, we have waited thee long;\nThe sound of thy voice\nHas broken our sleep;\nWe arise, we rejoice\nAt thy bidding to leap,\nWith a tumult of singing, a rapture of spray,\nTo scatter our joy in the path of the day.\n\nGARLAND: Day comes at last, beyond the sea's grey rim;\nThe young sun leaps in sudden might of gold.\n\nASHALORN: Before his fire our lives will smoulder dim;\nLike stars we shine, we fade; the tale is told,\nAnd all our empty splendour put to scorn;\nFate leaves us, who were clothed in pride, forlorn,\nTo perish, naked, in this lonely sea.\nBut yesterday we ruled as kings of earth;\nFrail men to-day; to-morrow, who shall be?\n\nARLO: But yesterday my cup of life was filled\nTo overflowing with the wine of mirth--\nThe plashing joy from fruitful years distilled.\n\nGARLAND: But yesterday my kinghood sprang to birth;\nMy fingers scarce had grasped the might new-born,\nWhen from my clutch the glittering pomp was torn.\n\nSEA-VOICES: They slumber, they slumber, the kings in their pride.\nThe beak of the Rover is dipt in the tide;\nThe sails of the Rover are red in the wind;\nAnd white is the trail of the foam flung behind.\nThey have fallen, have fallen, the kings in their pride;\nTheir sea-gates are forced by the rush of the tide;\nTheir splendour is scattered as surf on the wind;\nAnd red is the trail of the terror behind.\n\nForsaken, forlorn,\nOn a rock of the sea,\nIn anguish they bow,\nAnd wait for the night and the darkness to be;\nOh, bright was the gold in their hair;\nThe sea-weed, in scorn,\nIs twined in it now;\nOh, rich was their raiment and rare,\nBlue, purple, and gold,\nIn fold upon fold;\nOf glory and majesty shorn,\nThey are clothed with the wind of despair.\n\nGARLAND: Lo, the live waters run to greet the day:\nEven so I laughed to see the soaring light;\nMy life was poised like yonder curving wave\nTo break in such bright revel of keen spray.\n\nARLO: I counted not the years that took their flight,\nGold-crowned and singing; every hour I stood,\nAs one enchanted in an April wood,\nIn some new paradise of scent and flowers.\nI counted not the countless, careless hours,\nThe days of rapture and the nights of peace.\nHow should I dream that such delight could pass,\nSuch colour fade, such flowing numbers cease,\nMy glory perish where was none to save,\nAnd all my strength be trodden in the grass?\n\nASHALORN: Oh, blest art thou who diest in thy youth;\nOh, blest art thou who failest in thy prime;\nWhile yet thine eyes are full of wondering truth;\nEre yet thy feet have found the ways of thorn.\nToo long I wandered down the vale of time,\nA lonely wind, all songless and forlorn;\nFor I have found the empty heart of things,\nThe secret sorrow of the summer rose,\nAnd all the sadness of the April green;\nI know that every happy stream that springs\nInto a sea of bitter memories flows;\nI know the curse that God has set on kings--\nThe solitary splendour and the crown\nOf desolation, and the prisoning state;\nThe heart that yearns beneath the robe of gold,\nThe soul that starves behind the golden gate.\nI know how chance has reared our earthly thrones\nUpon a shifting wrack of whitened bones,\nOf heroes fallen in the wars of old--\nBy wind upbuilded and by wind cast down.\n\nSEA-VOICES: As foam on the edge of the waters of night,\nThey flicker and fall;\nMore brief than delight,\nMore frail than their tears,\nThey flicker and fall\nIn the tide of the years;\nAwhile they may triumph, as lords of the earth,\nWith feasting and mirth,\nYet the winds and the waters shall sweep over all.\n\nVOICE OF THE WEST WIND: O wide-shifting wonder of sapphire and gold,\nO wandering glory of emerald and white,\nFrom the purple and green of the moorlands I come,\nTo sweep o'er thy waters with turbulent flight,\nTo sway thee, and swing thee abroad in my might;\nI lean to thy lips, to their white, curling foam,\nWith laughter and kisses, to smite it to spray;\nTo thine uttermost deep, unlitten and cold,\nI thrill thee with rapture, then wander away.\n\nI have drunk the red wine of the heather, and swept\nOver moorland and fell, for mile upon mile.\nThe little blue loughs were merry, and leapt,\nWith a shaking of laughter, in dim, dreaming hollows;\nThe little blue loughs were merry, and flung\nTheir spray on my wings as above them I swung;\nI laughed to their laughter, and dallied awhile;\nThen left them to sink in the silence that follows.\n\nIn the forest I stirred, like the chant of thy tides,\nThe song of the boughs and the branches a-swinging;\nThe ashes and beeches and oak-trees were singing,\nLike the noise of thy waters when dark tempest rides.\nI swung on the crest of the pine-trees a-swaying,\nAs now on thy green, flowing surges, O sea;\nI piped in my triumph, they danced to my playing;\nI left them a-murmur, to hasten to thee.\n\nThe white clouds were driven like ships through the air,\nAnd grey flowed the shadows o'er sea-coloured bent,\nAnd dark on the heathland, and dark on the wold:\nBut here on thy waters, where all things grow fair,\nThey shadow with purple thine emerald and gold.\nMy revel unbroken, my rapture unspent,\nTo thy far-shining wonder, O sea, I have come,\nTo sweep o'er thy splendour with turbulent flight;\nTo sway thee, and swing thee abroad in my might;\nI lean to thy lips, to their white, curling foam,\nWith laughter and kisses, to smite it to spray;\nTo thine uttermost deep, unlitten and cold,\nI thrill thee with rapture, then wander away.\n\nGARLAND: There is no sadness in the world but death.\nThe years that whitened o'er thy head have taken\nThe colour from thy life, but still in me\nThe blood beats young and red; yea, still my breath\nIs full of freshness as the wind that blows\nAcross the morning-fells when night has shaken\nHis cooling dews among the wakening heath.\nYea, now the wind that lashes o'er the sea\nStings all my quivering body to keen life\nAnd whips the blood into my straining limbs;\nAnd all the youth within me springs to fire;\nI am consumed with ravening desire\nFor one brief, wild, delirious hour of strife;\nI yearn for every joy that flies or swims,\nRides on the wind or with the water flows.\nYet I must die by patient, slow degrees,\nWith hourly wasting flesh and parching blood;\nAh God, that I might leap into the flood,\nAnd perish struggling in the adventurous seas!\n\nARLO: My mouth is filled with saltness, and I thirst\nFor forest-pools that bubble in the shade,\nWhen loud the hot chase pants through every glade,\nAnd fleeing fawns from every thicket burst;\nOr clear wine vintaged when the world was young,\nGurgling from deep-mouthed jars of coloured stone.\n\nASHALORN: The noonday burns my body to the bone,\nAnd sets a coal of fire upon my tongue,\nBetween my lips, and stifles all my breath.\nOh come, thou only joy undying, death!\n\nWAVE-VOICES: O wind, that failing, failing, failing, dies,\nBeneath the heat of August-laden skies,\nSinking in sleep, sinking in quiet sleep--\nThy blue wings folded o'er our dreaming deep\n\nWe too are weary, weary in the noon;\nWe too will fall in shining slumber soon--\nFoamless and still, foamless and very still,\nUnstirred, unshaken by thy restless will.\n\nYet there are eyes that cannot, cannot close,\nAnd strong souls racked by fiery, rending woes--\nNever to rest, never to gather rest\nBy any stream of murmuring waters blest.\n\nBut slumber falling, falling, on us lies,\nSilent and deep, beneath noon-laden skies,\nSilent and deep, silent and very deep,\nWith blue wings folded o'er our dreaming sleep.\n\n                     *      *      *      *      *\n\nVOICE OF THE EVENING WIND: I have shaken the noon\n  from my wings, I arise\nTo quicken the flame in the western skies--\nTo blow the clouds to a streaming flame,\nWhere the red sun sinks in the opal sea,\nAnd red as the heart of the opal glows\nHis last wild gleam in the waters grey.\nO grey-green waters, curling to rose,\nThe kings are glad of the dying day;\nThe kings are weary; the white mists close--\nThe white mists gather to cover their shame.\n\nASHALORN: The evening mist is dank upon my brow,\nAnd cold upon my lips--yea, cold as death;\nYet, through the gloom, she gazes on me now,\nAs in our early-wedded days; her breath\nIs warm once more upon my withered cheek.\nO gaunt, grey lips, that strive but may not speak;\nO cold, grey eyes, that flicker in the gloam--\nLong have we strayed; come, let us wander home!\n\nARLO: Like lit September woodlands, streameth down\nHer hair, beneath the circle of her crown;\nOf rarer, redder glory than the cold\nDead metal that for ever strives to hold\nThe ever-straying wonder of live gold!\nLike woodland pools, her eyes, a dreaming brown--\nLike woodland pools where autumn-splendours drown!\nO red-gold tresses, shaking in the gloam,\nUnto your light, unto your shade I come!\n\nGARLAND: Her eyes are azure as the wind-blown sea,\nWith deep sea-shadowings of grey and green;\nAnd like an April storm her shining hair--\nYea, all the glittering Aprils that have been,\nAnd all the wondering Aprils yet to be,\nHave stored their wealth of shower and sunshine there;\nYea, all the thousand, thousand springs of earth\nNew-lit and re-awakened at her birth,\nIn her sweet body glow and glimmer fair.\nO wonder of sea-colours and white foam\nAnd April glories, to thine arms I come!\n\nVOICE OF THE EVENING WIND: The sun is gone,\n  and the last, red flame\nHas faded away in a shimmer of rose--\nA shimmer of rose that shivers to grey.\nThe kings are glad of the dying day--\nThe kings are weary; the white mists close,\nThe white mists gather to cover their shame.\n\n\n\n\n                     THE SONGS OF QUEEN AVERLAINE.\n\n\n                                To M. B.\n\n\n\nPERSONS: THE KING,\n  QUEEN AVERLAINE,\n  THE KNIGHT ARKELD.\n\n\n                                   I.\n                            KING AND QUEEN.\n\n\n                                   1.\n\nThe day has come; at last my dream unfolds\n  White, wondering petals with the rising sun.\nNo other glade in Love's world-garden holds\n  So fair a bloom from vanquished winter won.\n\nLong, oh, so long I watched through budding hours,\n  And, trembling, feared my dream would never wake;\nAs, one by one, I saw star-tranced flowers\n  Out on the night their dewy splendour shake.\n\nBut with the earliest gleam of dawn it stirred,\n  Knowing that Love had put the dark to flight;\nAnd I must sing more glad than any bird\n  Because the sun has filled my dream with light.\n\n\n                                   2.\n\nIs it high noon, already, in the land?\nO Love, I dreamed that morn could never pass;\nThat we might ever wander, hand in hand,\nAs children in June-meadows plucking flowers,\nThrough ever-waking, fresh-unfolding hours:\nYet now we sink love-wearied in the grass;\nYea, it is noon, high noon in all the land.\n\nThe young wind slumbers; all the little birds\nThat sang about us in the fields of morn\nAre songless now; no happy flight of words\nOn Love's lip hovers--Love has waxed to noon.\nAh, God, if Love should wane to evening soon\nTo perish in a sunless world, forlorn,\nAnd cease with the last song of weary birds!\n\n\n                                   3.\n\nAt dawn I gathered flowers of white,\nTo garland them for your delight.\n\nAt noon I gathered flowers of blue,\nTo weave them into joy for you.\n\nAt eve I gather purple flowers,\nTo strew above the withered hours.\n\n\n                                   4.\n\nShe knelt at eve beside the stream,\nAnd, sighing, sang: \"O waters clear,\nForsaken now of joy and fear,\nI come to drown a withered dream.\n\n\"Unseen of day, I let it fall\nWithin the shadow of my hair.\nO little dream, that bloomed so fair,\nThe waters hide you after all!\"\n\n\n                                   5.\n\n\"Is it not dawn?\" she cried, and raised her head,\n\"Or hath the sun, grey-shrouded, yesternight,\nGone down with Love for ever to the dead?\nWhen Love has perished, can there yet be light?\"\n\n\"Yea, it is dawn,\" one answered: \"see the dew\nQuivers agleam, and all the east is white;\nWhile in the willow song begins anew.\"\n\"When Love has perished, can there yet be light?\"\n\n\n\n                                  II.\n                         AVERLAINE AND ARKELD.\n\n\n                                   1.\n\nARKELD: Oh, why did you lift your eyes to mine?\nOh, why did you lift your drooping head?\n\nAVERLAINE: The tangled threads of the fates entwine\nOur hearts that follow as children led.\n\nARKELD: From the utmost ends of the earth we came,\nAs star moves starward through wildering night.\n\nAVERLAINE: Our souls have mingled as flame with flame,\nYea, they have mingled as light with light.\n\nARKELD: Ah God, ah God, that it never had been!\n\nAVERLAINE: The Shadow, the Shadow that falls between!\n\nARKELD: The stars in their courses move through the sky\nUnswerving, unheeding, cold and blind.\n\nAVERLAINE: Why did you linger nor pass me by\nWhere the cross-roads meet in the ways that wind?\n\nARKELD: I saw your eyes from the dusk of your hair\nFlame out with sorrow and yearning love.\n\nAVERLAINE: And I, who wandered with grey despair,\nLooking up, saw heaven in blossom above.\n\nARKELD: Ah God, ah God, that it never had been!\n\nAVERLAINE: The Shadow, the Shadow that falls between!\n\nARKELD: May we not go as we came, alone,\nUnto the ends of the earth anew?\n\nAVERLAINE: May we draw afresh from the rose new-blown\nThe golden sunlight, the crystal dew?\n\nARKELD: Yea, love between us has bloomed as a rose\nOut of the desert under our feet.\n\nAVERLAINE: May we forget how the red heart glows,\nForget that the dew on the petals is sweet?\n\nARKELD: Ah God, ah God, that it never had been!\n\nAVERLAINE: The Shadow, the Shadow that falls between!\n\nARKELD: Have the ages brought us together that we\nMight tremble, start at shadows, and cry?\n\nAVERLAINE: Yea, it has been, and ever will be\nTill Sorrow be slain or Love's self die.\n\nARKELD: Stronger than Sorrow is Love; and Hate,\nThe brother of Love, shall end our Sorrow.\n\nAVERLAINE: The Shadow is strong with the strength of Fate,\nAnd, slain, would rise from the grave to-morrow.\n\nARKELD: Ah God, ah God, that it never had been!\n\nAVERLAINE: The Shadow, the Shadow for ever between!\n\n\n                                   2.\n\nAVERLAINE: Yea, we must part, and tear with ruthless hands\nThe golden web wherein, too late, Love strove\nTo weave us joy and bind us heart to heart.\n\nARKELD: Yea, we must part, and strew on desert-sands\nPetal by petal all the rose of Love,\nAnd part for ever where the cross-ways part.\n\nAVERLAINE: Yea, we must part, and never turn our eyes\nFrom strange horizons, desolate and far,\nThough Love cry ever: \"Turn but once, sad heart!\"\n\nARKELD: Yea, we must part, and under alien skies\nMust follow after some cold, gleaming star,\nAnd roam, as north and south winds roam, apart.\n\nAVERLAINE: Yea, we must part, ere Love be grown too strong\nAnd we too helpless to resist his might;\nWhile each may go with pure, unshamed heart.\n\nARKELD: Yea, we must part; and though we do Love wrong,\nHe will the more subdue us in our flight,\nAnd hold us each more surely his, apart.\n\n\n\n                         III. QUEEN AVERLAINE.\n\n\n                                   1.\n\nO love, I bade you go; and you have borne\nThe summer with you from the valley-lands;\nThe poppy-flame has perished from the corn;\nAnd in the chill, wan light of early morn\nThe reapers come in doleful, starveling bands,\nTo bind the blackened sheaves with listless hands;\nFor rain has put their sowing-toil to scorn.\n\nO Love, I bade you go; and autumn brings\nBleak desolation; yet within my heart\nUnquenched and fierce the flame you kindled springs;\nFor, echoing all day long, the courtyard rings\nAs loud it rang when, rending Love apart,\nYour white horse cantered--swift and keen to start--\nInto a world of other queens and kings.\n\n\n                                   2.\n\nI bade you go; ah, wherefore are you gone?\nHow could you leave me dark and desolate,\nO Sun of Love, that for brief summer shone?\nMine eyes are ever on the western gate,\nHalf-wishing, half-foredreading your return.\nReturn, O Love, return!\n\nI cannot live without you; through the dark\nI stretch blind hands to you across the world;\nAll day on unknown battle-fields I mark\nYour sword's red course, your banner blue unfurled;\nYet never, in my day-dreams, you return.\nReturn, O Love, return!\n\nNay, you are gone: O Love, I bade you go.\nI would not have you come again to be\nA stranger in this house of silent woe,\nWhere, being all, you would be naught to me.\nMine, mine in dreams, but lost if you return;\nOh, nevermore return!\n\n\n                                   3.\n\n\"To-day a wandering harper came\nWith outland tales of deeds of fame;\nI hearkened from the noonday bright\nUntil the failing of the light,\nThe while he sang of joust and fight;\nYet never once I caught your name.\n\nOh, whither, whither are you gone,\nWhose name victorious ever shone\nAbove all knights of other lands?\nAcross what wilderness of sands?\nBy what dead sea-deserted strands?\nOn what far quest of Love forlorn?\n\nI loved you when men called you Lord\nArkeld, the never-sleeping sword;\nYet now, when all your might is furled,\nAnd you no longer crest the world,\nMore are you mine than when you hurled\nDestruction on the embattled horde.\n\n\n                                   4.\n\nOh, deeper in the silent house\n  The silence falls;\nOnly the stir of bat or mouse\n  About the walls.\n\nNo cry, no voice in any room,\n  No gust of breath;\nAs if, within the clutch of doom,\n  We waited death.\n\n\n                                   5.\n\nThe King is dead;\n  No longer now\nThe cold eyes gleam\n  Beneath his brow.\n\nO cold, grey eyes,\n  Wherein the light\nOf Love at dawn\n  Seemed clear and bright,\n\nNo true Love burned\n  Your cold desire,\nWhich mirrored but\n  My own heart's fire.\n\n\n                                   6.\n\nThe King died yesterday....  Ah, no, he died\n  When young Love perished long, so long ago;\nAnd on his throne, as marble at my side,\n  Has reigned a carven image, cold as snow,\nThough all men bowed before it, crying: \"King!\"\n\nToo late, too late the chains which held me fall;\n  Rock-bound, I bade the victor-knight go by;\nAnd now, when time has loosed me from the thrall,\n  I know not where he tarries, 'neath what sky\nHe waits the winter's end, the dawn of spring.\n\n\n                                   7.\n\nSpring comes no more for me: though young March blow\nTo flame the larches, and from tree to tree\nThe green fire leap, till all the woodlands glow--\nThough every runnel, filled to overflow,\nBear sea-ward, loud and brown with melted snow,\nSpring comes no more for me!\n\nSpring comes no more for me: though April light\nThe flame of gorse above the peacock sea;\nThough in an interweaving mesh of white\nThe seagulls hover 'neath the cliff's sheer height;\nThough, hour by hour, new joys are winged for flight,\nSpring comes no more for me!\n\nSpring comes no more for me: though May will shake\nWhite flame of hawthorn over all the lea,\nTill every thick-set hedge and tangled brake\nPuts on fresh flower of beauty for her sake;\nThough all the world from winter-sleep awake,\nSpring comes no more for me!\n\n\n                                   8.\n\nI wandered through the city till I came\n  Within the vast cathedral, cool and dim;\nI looked upon the windows all aflame\n  With blazoned knights and saints and seraphim.\n\nI looked on kings in purple, gold and blue,\n  On martyrs high before whom all men bow;\nUntil a gleam of light my footsteps drew\n  Before a shining seraph, on whose brow\n\nA little flame, for ever pure and white,\n  Unwavering burns--the symbol of our love;\nAnd as I knelt before him in the night,\n  He looked, compassionate, on me from above.\n\n\n                                   9.\n\nI heard a harper 'neath the castle walls\nSing, for night-shelter in the house of thralls,\nA song of hapless lovers; in the shade\nI paused awhile, unseen of man or maid.\n\nTaking his harp, he touched the moaning strings,\nAnd sang of queens unloved and loveless kings;\nHis song shot through my fluttering heart like flame\nTill, wondering, I heard him breathe your name.\n\nOh, then I knew how all the deathless wrong\nTime wrought of old is but a harper's song;\nAnd all the hopeless sorrow of long years\nAn idle tale to win a stranger's tears.\n\nYea, in the song of Love's immortal dead\nOur love was told; with shuddering heart I fled,\nAnd strove to pass upon my way unseen,\nBut song was hushed with whispers: \"Lo, the Queen!\"\n\n\n                                  10.\n\nWas it for this we loved, O Time, to be\nAmong Love's deathless through eternity,\nSet high on lone, divided peaks above\nThe sheltered summer-valley, broad and green?\nWas it for this our joy and grief have been,\nOur barren day-dreams, dream-deserted nights--\nThat valley-lovers, looking up, might see\nHow vain is Love among the starry heights,\nAnd, loving, sigh: \"How vain a thing is Love!\"?\n\nO Love, that we had found thee in the shade\nWhere, all day long, the deep, leaf-hidden glade\nHears but the moan of some forsaken dove,\nOr the clear song of happy, nameless streams;\nWhere, all night long, the August moonlight gleams\nThrough warm, green dusk, no longer cold and white!\nO Love, that we had found thee, unafraid,\nOne summer morn, and followed thee till night,\nAs unknown valley-lovers follow Love!\n\n\n                                  11.\n\nI have grown old, awaiting spring's return,\n  And, now spring comes, I stand like winter grey\nIn a young world; yet warm within me burn\n  The morning-fires Love kindled in youth's day.\n\nI have grown old; the young folk look on me\n  With sighs, and wonder that I once was fair,\nAnd whisper one another: \"Is this she?\n  Did summer ever light that winter hair?\n\n\"Ah, she is old; yet, she, too, once was young:\n  Yea, loved as we love even, for men tell\nHow bright her beauty burned on every tongue,\n  And how a knightly stranger loved her well.\n\n\"Yet Love grows old that beats so young and warm;\n  His leaping fires in dust and ashes fail;\nShall we, too, wither in the winter-storm,\n  And wander thus one April, old and frail?\"\n\nLove grows not old, O lovers, though youth die,\n  And bodily beauty perish as the flower;\nThough all things fail, though spring and summer fly,\n  Love's fire burns quenchless till the last dark hour.\n\n\n                                  12.\n\nO valley-lovers, think you love,\nBeing all of joy, knows naught of sorrow?\nA day, a night\nOf swift delight\nThat fears no dread, grey-dawning morrow?\n\nO valley-lovers, think you love\nKnows only laughter, naught of weeping?\nA rose-red fire\nOf warm desire\nFor ever burning, never sleeping?\n\nO lovers, little know ye Love.\nLove is a flame that feeds on sorrow--\nA lone star bright\nThrough endless night\nThat waits a never-dawning morrow.\n\n\n                                  13.\n\n\"Thus would I sing of life,\nEre I must yield my breath:\nThough broken in the strife,\nI sought not after death.\nThough ruthless years have scourged\nMy soul with sorrow's brands,\nAnd, day by day, have urged\nMy feet o'er desert-sands;\nYet would I rather tread\nAgain the bitter trail,\nThan lie, calm-browed and pale,\nAmong the loveless dead.\n\nNo pang would I forego,\nNo stab of suffering,\nNo agony of woe,\nIf I to life might cling;\nIf I might follow still,\nFor evermore, afar,\nO'er barren dale and hill,\nMy Love's unfading star.\nYea, now, with failing breath,\nThus would I sing of life:\nThough broken in the strife,\nI sought not after death.\n\n\n                                  14.\n\nDarkness has come upon me in the end;\nDarkness has come upon me like a friend,\nYet undesired; why comest thou, O night,\nTo seal mine eyes for ever from the light?\n\nDarkness has come upon me; yet a star\nBurns through the night and beckons me from far.\nLook up, O eyes, unfaltering, without fear;\nO morning-star of Love, the dawn is near!\n\n\n\n\n                            THE GOLDEN HELM.\n\n\n\n                            The Golden Helm\n\n\n                                   I.\n\nAcross his stripling shoulders Geoffrey felt\nThe knighting-sword fall lightly, and he heard\nThe King's voice bid him rise; and at the word\nHe rose, new-flushed with knighthood, swiftly grown\nTo sudden manhood, though, but now, he knelt\nA vigil-wearied squire before the throne.\nHe paused one moment while the people turned\nTo look on him with eyes that kindled bright,\nSeeing his face aglow with strange, new light;\nYet them he saw not where they watched amazed,\nAnd, though like azure flames Queen Hild's eyes burned,\nBeyond the shadow of the throne he gazed\nTo where, in kindred rapture, young Christine\nStood, tremulous and white, in wind-flower grace--\nBeneath her thick, dark hair, her happy face\nPale-gleaming 'midst the ruddy maiden-throng;\nBut, following Geoffrey's eyes, the trembling Queen\nNow bade the harpers rouse the air with song:\nFrom pulsing throat and silver-throbbing string\nThe music soared, light-winged, and, fluttering, fell;\nWhen, startled as one waking from a spell,\nGeoffrey stepped back among the waiting knights;\nWhile knelt another squire before the King.\nIn Queen Hild's eyes yet hovered stormy lights,\nBeneath her glooming brows, as waters gleam\nUnder snow-laden skies; the summer day\nFor her in that brief glance had shivered grey,\nEmpty of light and song.  She only heard\nThe King and knights as people of a dream;\nYet keenly Geoffrey's lightest, laughing word\nStung to the quick, and stabbed her quivering life,\nTill from each shuddering wound the red joy flowed;\nAnd, though a ruddy fire on each cheek glowed,\nShe felt her drained heart within her cold;\nThen all at once a hot thought stirred new strife\nWithin her breast, and suddenly grown old\nAnd wise in treacherous imagining,\nShe pressed her thin lips to a bitter smile,\nAnd strove with laughing mask to hide the guile\nThat, slowly welling, through her body poured\nCold-blooded life that feels no arrowy sting\nOf joy or hope, nor thrust of pity's sword.\nTo Christine, where she yet enraptured stood,\nHild, turning, spake kind words, and coldly praised\nThe new-made knight.  Each word Christine amazed\nDrank in with joyous heart and eager ears;\nTo her it seemed ne'er lived a Queen so good;\nAnd love's swift rapture filled her eyes with tears.\nFor her true heart, the day-long pageant moved\nRound Geoffrey's shining presence; king and knight\nBut shone for her with pale, reflected light.\nAs tranced planets circling round the sun,\nAbout the radiant head of her beloved\nThe dim throngs moved until the day was done.\nWhen lucent gold suffused the cloudless west,\nAnd lingering thrush-notes failed in drowsy song,\nShe left, at last, the weary maiden-throng,\nTo stray alone through dew-hung garden-glades;\nAnd all the love unsealed within her breast\nFlowed out from her to light the darkest shades.\nHer quivering maiden-body could not hold\nThe sudden welling of love's loosened flood;\nThrough all her limbs it gushed, and in her blood\nIt stormed each throbbing pulse with blissful ache;\nIt seemed to spray the utmost glooms with gold,\nAnd scatter glistening dews in every brake.\nWhile yet she moved in rapture unafraid\nAmong the lilies, down the Grey Nun's Walk,\nShe heard behind the snapping of a stalk,\nAnd stayed transfixed, nor dared to turn her head,\nBut stood a solitary, trembling maid--\nForlorn and frail, with all her courage fled.\nThus Geoffrey found her as, hot-foot, he pressed\nTo pour about her all the glowing tide\nDay-pent within his heart; the flood-gates wide,\nHis love swept over her, sea after sea,\nUntil life almost swooned within her breast,\nAnd she seemed like to drown in ecstasy.\nYet, as the tempest sank in calm at last,\nShe rose from out the foam of love, new-born--\nAs Venus from the irised surf of morn--\nTo such triumphant beauty, Geoffrey, thralled,\nBefore her stood in wonder rooted fast;\nEven his love within him bowed appalled\nIn tongueless worship as he gazed on her;\nWhile, lily-like, the tranced flowers among,\nShe stood, love-radiant, and above her hung\nThe canopy of star-enkindling night;\nThough, when again she moved with joyous stir,\nHe sprang to her in love's unchallenged might.\n\n\n                                  II.\n\nAll night, beside her slumbering lord, the Queen\nTossed sleepless--every aching sense astrain\nWith tingling wakefulness that racked like pain\nHer weary limbs; all night, in wide-eyed dread,\nShe watched the slow hours moving dark between\nThe glimmering window and the curtained bed.\nThe fitful calling of the owl, all night,\nStruck like the voice of terror on her ears;\nWith brushing wings, about her taloned fears\nFluttered till dawn: when, as the summer gloom,\nGrey-quivering, spilt in silver-showering light,\nShe rose and stood within the dawning room,\nShivering and pale--her long, unbraided hair\nEach moment quickening to a livelier gold\nAbout her snowy shoulders; yet, more cold\nThan the still gleam of winter-frozen meres,\nHer blue eyes shone with strange, unseeing stare,\nAs though they sought to pierce some mist of fears;\nAnd, when she turned, the old familiar things\nUnknown and alien seemed to her sight--\nOutworn and faded in the morning light\nThe rose-embroidered tapestries, and frail\nThe painted Love that hung on irised wings\nAbove the sleeping King.  Dark-browed and pale\nShe looked upon her lord, and fresh despair\nWith dreadful calm through all her being stole,\nAnd froze with icy breath the flickering soul\nThat strove within her.  Evil courage steeled\nHer heart once more, as, combing back her hair,\nShe watched the waking world of wood and field:\nHay-harvesters with long scythes flashing white;\nThe dewy-browsing deer; the blue smoke-curl\nAbove some woodland hut; a kerchiefed girl\nDriving the kine afield with loitering pace.\nBut, as a youthful rider came in sight,\nShe from the casement turned with darkening face,\nAnd looked not out again, and fiercely pressed\nHer white teeth in her quivering underlip,\nTo stifle the wild cry that strove to slip\nFrom her strained throat; with clutching hands she sought\nTo stay the throbbing tumult of her breast\nThat fluttered like a bird in meshes caught.\n\nChristine as yet in dreamless slumber lay\nWithin her turret-chamber; but a bird\nWithin the laurel singing softly stirred\nHer eyes to wakeful life, and from her bed\nShe rose and stood within the light of day,\nWhite-faced and wondering, with lifted head.\nAs April-butterflies, new-winged for flight,\nThat poise awhile in quivering amaze,\nEre they may dare the unknown, glittering ways\nOf perilous airs--upon the brink of morn\nShe paused one moment in the showering light,\nIn radiant ecstasy of youth forlorn.\nThen swift remembrance flushed her virgin snow,\nAnd wakened in her eyes the living fire;\nWith joyous haste she drew her bright attire\nAbout her trembling limbs, with eager hands,\nVeiling her maiden beauty's morning glow,\nBefore she looked abroad on meadowlands,\nWhere Geoffrey rode at dawn.  Across the blaze\nOf dandelions silvering to seed,\nShe saw his white horse swing with easy speed;\nHe rode with head exultant in the breeze\nThat lifted his brown hair.  With lingering gaze\nShe watched him vanish down an aisle of trees;\nThen, swiftly gathering her dark hair in braids\nAbove her slender neck, she crossed the floor\nWith noiseless step, unlatched the creaking door,\nAnd stole in trembling silence down the stair,\nIntent to reach the garden ere the maids\nShould come with chattering tongues and laughter there;\nWhen by her side she heard a rustling stir:\nThe arras parted, and before her stood\nQueen Hild in proud, imperious womanhood,\nLooking upon her with cold, smiling eyes.\nIn startled wonder Christine glanced at her.\nThen spake the Queen: \"Do maids thus early rise\nTo tend their household duties, or to feed\nThe doves, relinquishing sleep's precious hours\nTo see the morning dew upon the flowers\nAnd what frail blooms have perished 'neath the moon?\nTo reach the Grey Nun's Walk, mayhap you speed--\nTo count the stricken buds of lilies strewn\nO'ernight upon the soil by careless feet\nThat wandered there so late?  Yea, now I know,\nChristine, because you flush and tremble so.\nYet look you not on me with eyes that burn;\nI would not stay you when you go to greet\nThe rider of the dawn on his return.\nThink you I leave my bed at break of day--\nI, Hild the Queen--to thwart a lover's kiss?\nThink you my love of you could stoop to this,\nThough you would wed a fledgling, deedless Knight?\nNay, shrink you not from me, turn not away;\nBecause my heart has never known love's light,\nI fain would hear your happy tale of love,\nThat I may prosper you and your fair youth.\nWill you not trust me?\"  Blind with love's glad truth,\nChristine sank down within Hild's outstretched arms.\nSpeechless, awhile, with sobbing breath she strove;\nThen poured out all the tale of love's alarms,\nRaptures, despairs, and deathless ecstasies,\nIn one quick torrent from her brimming heart;\nThen, quaking, ceased, and drew herself apart,\nDismayed that she so easily had revealed\nTo this white, cold-eyed Queen love's sanctities.\nYet Hild moved not, but stood, with hard lips sealed,\nUntil, the chiming of the turret-bell\nRecalling her, she spake with far-off voice:\n\"I, loveless, in your innocent love rejoice.\nMay nothing stem its eager raptured course!\nOh, that my barren heart could love so well,\nAnd feel the surge of love's subduing force!\nYet even I from out my dearth may give\nTo you, Christine.  Would you that Geoffrey's name\nShall shine, unchallenged, on the lists of fame?\nIf you would have him win for you the crown\nOf knightly immortality, and live\nTriumphant on men's tongues in high renown,\nFollow me now.\"  With cold, exulting eyes\nShe raised the arras, opening to the light\nAn unknown stair-way clambering into night.\nWithin the caverned wall she swiftly passed.\nChristine for one brief moment in surprise\nUncertain paused; then, wondering, followed fast.\nThe falling arras shutting out the day,\nShe stumbled blindly through the soaring gloom--\nEnclosing dank and chilly as the tomb\nHer panting life; and unto her it seemed\nThat ever, as she climbed, more sheer the way\nBefore her rose, and ever fainter gleamed\nThe wan, white star of light that overhead\nHovered remote.  Far up the stair she heard\nA silken rustling as, without a word,\nRelentlessly Queen Hild before her sped\nFor ever up the ever-soaring steep.\nBut when it almost seemed that she must fall--\nSo loudly in her ears the pulses beat,\nAnd each step seemed to sink beneath her feet--\nShe heard the shrilly grating of a key,\nAnd saw, above her, in the unseen wall,\nA dazzling square of day break suddenly.\nWithin the lighted doorway Queen Hild turned\nTo reach a helping hand, and, as she bent\nTo clutch the swooning maiden, well-nigh spent,\nAnd drew her to the chamber, weak and faint,\nThrough her gold hair so rare a lustre burned,\nIt seemed to Christine that an aureoled saint\nLeaned out from heaven to snatch her from the deep.\nThen, dizzily, she sank upon the floor,\nDreaming that toil was over evermore,\nAnd she secure in Love's celestial fold;\nTill, waking gradually as from a sleep,\nHer dark eyes opened on a blaze of gold.\nShe sat within a chamber hung around\nWith glistering tapestry, whereon a knight,\nWho bore a golden helm above the fight,\nFor ever triumphed o'er assailing swords,\nOr led the greenwood chase with horse and hound,\nWhile far behind him lagged the dames and lords\nAnd all the hunting train; till he, at length,\nBrought low the antlered quarry on the brink\nOf some deep, craggy cleft, wherefrom did shrink\nThe quailing hounds with lathered flanks aquake.\nAs Christine looked on them, her maiden-strength\nReturned to her; and now, more broad awake,\nShe saw, within the centre of the room,\nA golden table whereon glittered bright\nA casket of wrought gold, and, in the light,\nQueen Hild, awaiting her, with smiling lips,\nAnd laughing words: \"Is this then love's sad doom,\nTo perish, fainting, in light's brief eclipse\nBetween a curtain and a closed door?\nShall this bright casket ever hold, unsought,\nThe golden helm--in elfin-ages wrought\nFor some star-destined knight--because love's heart\nGrows faint within her?  Shall the world no more\nAcclaim its helmed lord?\"  But, with a start,\nChristine arose, and swiftly forward came\nWith eager eyes, and stooped with fluttering breast--\nHer slender, shapely hands together pressed\nIn tense expectancy, and all her face\nWith quivering light of wondering love aflame.\nThe Queen bent down, and in a breathing space\nUnlocked the casket with a golden key,\nAnd deftly loosed a little golden pin;\nThe heavy lid swung open and, within,\nTo Christine's eyes revealed the golden helm.\nThen spake Queen Hild, once more: \"Your love-gift see!\nThink you that any smith in all the realm\nCan beat dull metal to so fair a casque?\nIn jewelled caverns of enchantment old\nThis helm was wrought of magic-tempered gold\nTo yieldless strength, by elfin-hammers chased,\nThat toiled unwearied at their age-long task,\nAnd over it an unknown legend traced\nIn letters of some world-forgotten tongue.\nAt noon, with careful footing, down the stair\nUnto the hall the casket you must bear,\nWhen King and knight are gathered round the board,\nAnd, ere the tales be told or songs be sung,\nAcclaim your love the golden-helmed lord.\"\nChristine, awhile, in speechless wonderment,\nHung o'er the glistering helm, and silence fell\nWithin the arrased chamber like a spell;\nWhile softly, on some distant, sunlit roof,\nThe basking pigeons cooed with deep content;\nTill, far below, a sudden-clanging hoof\nStartled the morn.  The women's lifted eyes\nOne moment met in kindred ecstasy;\nThen Hild, with hopeless shudder, shaking free,\nWith strained voice spake: \"Why do you longer wait?\nYour love returns; shall he, in sad surprise,\nFind no glad face to greet him at the gate?\"\n\n\n                                  III.\n\nAs some new jest was tossed from tongue to tongue,\nLight laughter rippled round the midday board,\nBeneath the bannered rafters: dame and lord\nAnd maid and squire with merry chattering\nSat feasting; though no motley humour wrung\nA smile from Hild, where she, beside the King,\nWatched pale and still.  She saw on Geoffrey's face\nGrave wonder that he caught not anywhere\nAmong the maids the dusk of Christine's hair,\nOr sunlight of her glance.  His eyes, between\nThe curtained doorway and her empty place,\nKept eager, anxious vigil for Christine.\nBut when, at last, the lingering meal nigh o'er,\nThe waking harp-notes trembled through the hush,\nLike the light, fitful prelude of the thrush\nEre his full song enchant the domed elm;\nThe arras parting, through the open door\nShe came.  Before her borne, the golden helm\nWithin the dim-lit hall shone out so bright,\nThat lord and dame in rustling wonder rose,\nAnd squire and maiden sought to gather close,\nWith questioning lips, about the love-bright maid.\nChristine, unheeding, turned nor left nor right;\nWith lifted head and eager step unstayed,\nShe strode to Geoffrey, while he stood alone,\nRadiant with wondering love--as one who sees\nThe light of high, eternal mysteries\nIllume awhile the mortal shade that moves\nFrom out oblivion unto night unknown,\nHugging a little grace of joys and loves.\nBefore him now she came and, kneeling, spake,\nWith slow, clear-welling voice: \"In ages old\nThis helm was wrought from elfin-hammered gold,\nFor one who, in the after-days, should be\nSupreme above his kind, as, in the brake\nOf branching fern, the solitary tree\nThat crests the fell-top.  Unto you I bring\nThe gift of destiny, that, as the sun\nNew-risen of your knighthood, newly-won,\nThe wondering world may see its glory shine.\"\nAs Christine spake, with questioning glance the King\nTurned to the Queen, who gave no answering sign.\nThen, stretching forth his arm, he cried: \"Sir knight,\nI know not by what evil chance this maid\nHas climbed the secret newell-stair unstayed\nAnd reached the casket-chamber, and has borne\nFrom thence the Helm of Strife, whereon the light\nOf day has never fallen, night or morn,\nFor seven hundred years; but, ere you take\nThe doomful gift, know this: he who shall dare\nTo don the golden helm must ever fare\nUpon the edge of peril, ever ride\nBetween dark-ambushed dangers, ever wake\nUnto the thunderous crash of battle-tide.\nOh, pause before you take the fateful helm.\nWill you, so young, forego, for evermore,\nThe sheltered haven-raptures of the shore,\nTo strive in ceaseless tempest, till, at last,\nThe fury-crested wave shall overwhelm\nYour broken life on death's dark crag upcast?\"\nHe ceased, and stood with eyes of hot appeal;\nAn aching silence shuddered through the hall;\nNone stirred nor spake, though, swaying like to fall,\nChristine, in mute, imploring agony,\nWavered nigh death.  As glittering points of steel\nQueen Hild's eyes gleamed in bitter victory.\nBut all were turned to Geoffrey, where he stood\nIn pillared might of manhood, very fair;\nHis face a little paled beneath his hair,\nThough bright his eyes with all the light of day.\nAt length he spake: \"For evil or for good,\nI take the Helm of Strife; let come what may.\"\n\n\n                                  IV.\n\nDawn shivered coldly through the meadowlands;\nThe ever-trembling aspens by the stream\nQuivered with chilly light and fitful gleam;\nRuffling the heavy foliage of the plane,\nUntil the leaves turned, like pale, lifted hands,\nA cold gust stirred with presage of near rain.\nColdly the light on Geoffrey's hauberk fell;\nBut yet more cold on Christine's heart there lay\nThe winter-clutch of grief, as, far away,\nShe saw him ride, and in the stirrup rise\nAnd, turning, wave to her a last farewell.\nBeyond the ridge he vanished, and her eyes\nCaught the far flashing of the helm of gold\nOne moment as it glanced with mocking light;\nThen naught but tossing pine-trees filled her sight.\nYet darker gloomed the woodlands 'neath the drench\nOf pillared showers; colder and yet more cold\nHer heart had shuddered since the last, hot wrench\nOf parting overnight.  Though still her mouth\nFelt the mute impress of love's sacred seal;\nThough still through all her senses seemed to steal\nThe heavy fume of wound-wort that had hung\nAll night about the hedgerows--parched with drouth;\nThough the first notes the missel-cock had sung,\nEre darkness fled, resounded in her ears;\nYet no hot tempest of tumultuous woe\nShook her young body.  As night-fallen snow\nBurdens with numb despair young April's green,\nHer sorrow lay upon her; hopes and fears\nWithin her slept.  As something vaguely seen\nNor realised--since yesterday's dread noon\nHad shattered all love's triumph--life had passed\nAbout her like a dream by doom o'ercast.\nLong hours she sat, with silent, folded hands,\nAnd face that glimmered like a winter moon\nIn cloudy hair.  Across the rain-grey lands\nShe gazed with eyes unseeing; till she heard\nA step within her chamber, and her name\nFell dully on her ear; then like a flame\nSharp anguish shot through every aching limb\nWith keen remembrance.  Suddenly she stirred,\nAnd, turning, looked on Hild.  \"Grieve you for him...\"\nThe Queen began; then, with a little gasp,\nHer voice failed, and she shrank before the gaze\nOf Christine's eyes, and, shrivelled by the blaze\nOf fires her hand had kindled, all her pride\nFell shredded, and not even the gold clasp\nOf queenhood held, her naked deed to hide.\nShe quailed, and, turning, fled from out the room.\nSoon Christine's wrath was drowned in whelming grief,\nAnd in the fall of tears she found relief--\nAs brooding skies in sweet release of rain.\nAll day she wept, until, at length, the gloom\nOf eve laid soothing hands upon her pain.\nThen, once again, she rose, calm-browed, and sped\nDownstairs with silent step, and reached, unstayed,\nThe Grey Nun's Walk, where all alone a maid\nDrank in the rain-cooled air.  With low-breathed words,\nThey whispered long together, while, o'erhead,\nFrom rain-wet branches rang the song of birds.\nThe maiden often paused as in alarm;\nThen, with uncertain, half-delaying pace,\nShe left Christine, returning in a space\nWith Philip, Christine's brother, a young squire,\nWho strode by her with careless, swinging arm\nAnd eager face, with keen, blue eyes afire.\nThen all three stood, with whispering heads bent low,\nIn eager converse clustered; till, at last,\nThey parted, and, with high hopes beating fast,\nChristine unto her turret-room returned--\nHer dark eyes bright and all her face aglow,\nAs if some new-lit rapture in her burned.\nAbout her little chamber swift she moved,\nUntil, at length, in travelling array,\nShe paused to rest, and all-impatient lay\nUpon her snow-white bed, and watched the light\nFail from the lilied arras that she loved\nBecause her hand had wrought each petal white\nAnd slender, emerald stem.  The falling night\nWas lit for her with many a memory\nOf little things she could no longer see,\nThat had been with her in old, happy hours,\nBefore her girlish joys had taken flight\nAs morning dews from noon-unfolding flowers.\nFor her, with laggard pace the minutes trailed,\nTill night seemed to eternity outdrawn.\nAt last, an hour before the summer-dawn,\nShe rose and once again, with noiseless tread,\nCrept down the stair, grey-cloaked and closely veiled,\nWhile every shadow struck her cold with dread\nLest, drawing back the arras, Hild should stand\nWith mocking smile before her; but, unstayed,\nShe reached the stair-foot, and, no more afraid,\nShe sought a low and shadow-hidden door,\nSlid back the silent bolts with eager hand,\nAnd stepped into the garden dim once more.\nShe quickly crossed a dewy-plashing lawn,\nAnd, passing through a little wicket-gate,\nShe reached the road.  Not long had she to wait\nEre, with two bridled horses, Philip came.\nSilent they mounted; far they fared ere dawn\nBurnished the castle-weathercock to flame.\n\n\n                                   V.\n\nNorthward they climbed from out the valley mist;\nNorthward they crossed the sun-enchanted fells;\nNorthward they plunged down deep, fern-hidden dells;\nAnd northward yet--until the sapphire noon\nHad burned and glowed to thunderous amethyst\nOf evening skies about an opal moon;\nNorthward they followed fast the loud-tongued fame\nOf young Sir Geoffrey of the golden helm;\nUntil it seemed that storm must overwhelm\nTheir weary flight.  They sought a lodging-place,\nAnd soon upon a lonely cell they came\nWherein a hermit laboured after grace.\nOn beds of withered bracken, soft and warm,\nHe housed them, and himself, all night, alone,\nKnelt in long vigil on the aching stone,\nWithin his little chapel, though, all night,\nHis prayers were drowned by thunders of the storm,\nAnd all about him flashed blue, pulsing light.\nChristine in calm, undreaming slumber lay,\nNor stirred till, clear and glittering, the morn\nSang through the forest; though, with roots uptorn,\nThe mightiest-limbed and highest-soaring oak\nHad fallen charred, with green leaves shrivelled grey.\nAt tinkling of the matin-bell she woke,\nAnd soon with Philip left the woodland boughs\nFor barer uplands.  Over tawny bent\nAnd purpling heath they rode till day was spent;\nWhen, down within a broad, green-dusking dale,\nThey sought the shelter of the holy house\nOf God's White Sisters of the Virgin's Veil.\nSo, day by day, they ever northward pressed,\nUntil they left the lands of peace behind,\nAnd rode among the border-hills, where blind\nInsatiate warfare ever rages fierce;\nWhere night-winds ever fan a fiery crest,\nAnd dawn's light breaks on bright, embattled spears:\nA land whose barren hills are helmed with towers;\nA lone, grey land of battle-wasted shires;\nA land of blackened barns and empty byres;\nA land of rock-bound holds and robber-hordes,\nOf slumberous noons and wakeful midnight hours,\nOf ambushed dark and moonlight flashing swords.\nWith hand on hilt and ever-kindling eyes,\nFlushed face and quivering nostril, Philip rode;\nBut nought assailed them; every lone abode\nForsaken seemed; all empty lay the land\nBeneath the empty sky; only the cries\nOf plovers pierced the blue on either hand;\nUntil, at sudden cresting of a hill,\nThe clang of battle sounded on their ears,\nAnd, far below, they saw a surge of spears\nCrash on unyielding ranks; while, from the sea\nOf striving steel, with deathly singing shrill,\nA spray of arrows flickered fitfully.\nAmazed they stood, wide-eyed, with holden breath;\nWhen, of a sudden, flashed upon their sight\nThe golden helm in midmost of the fight,\nWhere, with high-lifted head and undismayed,\nSir Geoffrey rode, a very lord of death,\nWith ever-leaping, ever-crashing blade.\nChristine watched long, now cold with quaking dread,\nNow hot with hope as each assailant fell;\nThe bright sword held her gaze as by a spell;\nBecause love blinded her to all but love,\nUnmoved she watched the foemen shudder dead,\nShe whose heart erst the meanest woe could move.\nThen, dazed, she saw a solitary shaft,\nUnloosed with certain aim from out the bow,\nStrike clean through Geoffrey's hauberk, and bring low\nThe golden helm, while o'er him swiftly met\nThe tides of fight.  Christine a little laughed\nWith rattling throat, and stood with still eyes set.\nScarce Philip dared to raise his eyes to hers\nTo see the terror there.  No word she spake,\nBut leaned a little forward through the brake\nThat bloomed about her in a golden blaze;\nHer hands were torn to bleeding by the furze,\nYet nothing could disturb that dreadful gaze.\nThen, gradually, the heaving battle swerved\nTo northward, faltering broken, and afar\nIt closed again, where, round a jutting scar,\nThe flashing torrent of the river curved.\nWith eager step Christine ran down the hill,\nAnd sped across the late-forsaken field\nTo where, with shattered sword and splintered shield,\nAmong the mounded bodies Geoffrey lay.\nShe loosed his helm, but deathly pale and still\nHis young face gleamed within the light of day.\nChristine beside him knelt, as Philip sought\nA draught of water from the peat-born stream;\nWhen, in his eyes, at last, a fitful gleam\nFlickered, and bending low, with straining ears,\nThe laboured breathing of her name she caught;\nAnd over his dead face fell fast her tears.\nOnce more towards them the tide of battle swept;\nChristine moved not.  Young Philip on her cried,\nAnd strove, in vain, to draw her safe aside.\nA random shaft in her unshielded breast--\nThough hot to stay its course her brother leapt--\nStruck quivering, and she slowly sank to rest.\n\n\n                                  VI.\n\nQueen Hild sat weaving in her garden-close,\nWhen on her startled ear there fell the news\nOf Christine's flight before the darkling dews\nHad thrilled with dawn.  A strand of golden thread\nSlipped from her trembling fingers as she rose\nAnd hastened to the castle with drooped head.\nAll morn she paced within her blinded room,\nUnresting, to and fro, her white hands clenched;\nAll morn within her tearless eyes, unquenched,\nBlue fires of anger smouldered, yet no moan\nEscaped her lips.  Without, in summer bloom,\nThe garden murmured with bliss-burdened drone\nOf hover-flies and lily-charmed bees;\nSometimes a finch lit on the window-ledge,\nWith shrilly pipe, or, from the rose-hung hedge,\nA blackbird fluted; yet she neither heard\nNor heeded aught; until, by rich degrees,\nDrowsed into noon the noise of bee and bird.\nYea, even when, without her chamber, stayed\nA doubtful step, and timid fingers knocked,\nShe answered not, but, swiftly striding, locked\nYet more secure, with angry-clicking key,\nThe bolted door, and the affrighted maid\nUnto the waiting hall fled, fearfully.\nWearied at last, upon her bed Queen Hild\nIn fitful slumber sank; but evil dreams\nOf battle-stricken lands and blood-red streams\nSwirled through her brain.  Then, suddenly, she woke,\nWide-eyed, and sat upright, with body chilled,\nThough in her throat the hot air seemed to choke.\nSwiftly she rose; then, binding her loosed hair,\nShe bathed her throbbing brows, and, cold and calm,\nDownstairs she glided, while the evening-psalm\nIn maiden-voices quavered, faint and sweet,\nAnd from the chapel-tower, through quivering air,\nThe bell's clear silver-tinkling clove the heat.\nShe strode into the hall where yet the King\nSat with his knights; a weary minstrel stirred\nCool, throbbing wood-notes, throated like a bird,\nFrom his soft-stringed lute.  With scornful eyes\nHild looked on them and spake: \"Can nothing sting\nYour slumberous hearts from slothful peace to rise?\nMust only stripling-knights and maidens ride\nTo battle, where, unceasing, foemen wage\nWar on your marches, and your wardens rage\nIn impotent despair with desperate swords,\nWhile you, O King, with sheathed arms abide?\"\nShe paused, and, wondering, the King and lords\nLooked on her mutely; then, again, she spake:\n\"Shall I, then, and my maidens sally forth\nWith battle-brands to conquer the wild north?\nYea, I will go!  Who follows after me?\"\nAs by a blow struck suddenly awake,\nThe King leapt up, and, like a clamorous sea,\nThe knights about him.  Scornfully the Queen\nLooked on them: \"So my woman's words have roused\nThe hands that slumbered and the hearts that drowsed.\nMake ready then for battle; ere seven days\nHave passed, the dawn must light your armour's sheen,\nAnd in the sun your pennoned lances blaze.\"\nHer voice ceased; and a pulsing flame of light\nFlashed through the hall; in crashing thunder broke\nThe heavy, hanging heat; the rafters woke\nIn echo as the rainy torrent poured;\nBright gleamed the rapid lightning; yet more bright\nThe war-lust kindled hot in every lord.\nTo clang of armour the seventh morning stirred\nFrom slumber; restless hoof and champing bit\nAroused the garth; and day, arising, lit\nA hundred lances, as, each bolt withdrawn,\nThe courtyard-gate swung wide with noise far-heard,\nAnd flickering pennons rode into the dawn--\nBefore his knights, the King, and at his side,\nQueen Hild, with ever-northward-gazing eyes;\nBut, ere they far had fared, in mute surprise\nThey stayed and all drew rein, as down the road\nThey saw a little band of warriors ride--\nSore travel-stained--who bore a heavy load\nUpon a branch-hung litter; while before\nCame Philip, bearing a war-broken lance.\nThough King and lords looked, wondering, in a glance\nQueen Hild had read the sorrow of his face\nAnd pierced the leaf-hid secret--which e'ermore\nA brand of fire upon her heart would trace.\nDarkness about her swirled, but, with a fierce\nWild, conquering shudder, shaking herself free,\nUnto the light she clung, though like a sea\nIt surged and eddied round her; yet so still\nShe sat, none knew her steely eyes could pierce\nThe leafy screen.  With guilty terror chill,\nShe heard the king speak--sadly riding forth:\n\"Whence come you, Philip, battle-stained and slow?\nWhat burden bear you with such brows of woe?\"\nThen Philip answered, mournfully: \"I bring\nTwo wanderers home from out the perilous north.\nPrepare to gaze on death's defeat, O King.\"\nThey lowered the litter slowly to the ground;\nBack fell the branches; in the light of day,\nIn calm, white sleep Christine and Geoffrey lay,\nAnd at their feet the baleful Helm of Strife\nSword-cloven.  Hushed stood all the knights around,\nWhen spake the King, alighting: \"Come, O wife,\nAnd let us twain, with humble heads low-bowed,\nEven at the feet of love triumphant stand,\nA little while together, hand in hand.\"\nThe Queen obeyed; but, fearfully, she shrank\nBefore the eyes of death, and, quaking, cowed,\nWith moaning cry, low in the dust she sank.\n\n\n\n                     PRINTED BY R. FOLKARD AND SON,\n            23, DEVONSHIRE STREET, QUEEN SQUARE, BLOOMSBURY.","title":"The Golden Helm, and Other Verse","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":15906}