Myth and Romance Part 4

"He would not listen, he would not hear, Though I wailed my longing into his ear.

"O moon, steal in where he stands so grim, And tell him I love him, and plead with him.

"Soften his face that is cold and stern And brighten his eyes and make them burn,

"O moon, O moon, so my soul can see That his heart still glows with love for me!" ...

When the moon was set, and the woods were dark, The wild deer came and stood as stark

As phantoms with eyes of fire; or fled Like a ghostly hunt of the herded dead.

And the hoot-owl called; and the were-wolf snarled; And a voice, in the boughs of the oak-tree gnarled,--

Like the whining rush of the hags that ride To the witches' sabboth,--crooned and cried.

And wrapped in his mantle of wind and cloud The storm-fiend stalked through the forest loud.

When she heard the dead man rattle and groan As the oak was bent and its leaves were blown,

And the lightning vanished and s.h.i.+mmered his mail, Through the swirling sweep of the rain and hail,

She seemed to hear him, who seemed to call,-- "Come hither, Maurine, the wild leaves fall!

"The wild leaves rustle, the wild leaves flee; Come hither, Maurine, to the hollow tree!

"To the trysting tree, to the tree once green; Come hither, Maurine! come hither, Maurine!" ...

They found her closed in his armored arms-- Had he claimed his bride on that night of storms?

_Morgan le Fay_

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

With soft gray eyes she gloomed and glowered; With soft red lips she sang a song: What knight might gaze upon her face, Nor fare along?

For all her looks were full of spells, And all her words of sorcery; And in some way they seemed to say "Oh, come with me!

"Oh, come with me! oh, come with me!

Oh, come with me, my love, Sir Kay!"-- How should he know the witch, I trow, Morgan le Fay?

How should he know the wily witch, With sweet white face and raven hair?

Who by her art bewitched his heart And held him there.

For soul and sense had waxed amort To wold and weald, to slade and stream; And all he heard was her soft word As one adream.

And all he saw was her bright eyes, And her fair face that held him still; And wild and wan she led him on O'er vale and hill.

Until at last a castle lay Beneath the moon, among the trees; Its Gothic towers old and gray With mysteries.

Tall in its hall an hundred knights In armor stood with glaive in hand; The following of some great King, Lord of that land.

Sir Bors, Sir Balin, and Gawain, All Arthur's knights, and many mo; But these in battle had been slain Long years ago.

But when Morgan with lifted hand Moved down the hall, they louted low; For she was Queen of Shadowland, That woman of snow.

Then from Sir Kay she drew away, And mocking at him by her side,-- "Behold, Sir Knights, the knave who slew Your King," she cried.

Then like one man those shadows raised Their swords, whereon the moon glanced gray; And clas.h.i.+ng all strode from the wall Against Sir Kay.

And on his body, bent and bowed, The hundred blades like one blade fell; While over all rang long and loud The mirth of h.e.l.l.

_The Dream of Roderick_

Below, the tawny Tagus swept Past royal gardens, breathing balm; Upon his couch the monarch slept; The world was still; the night was calm.

Gray, Gothic-gated, in the ray Of moonrise, tower-and castle-crowned, The city of Toledo lay Beneath the terraced palace-ground.

Again, he dreamed, in kingly sport He sought the tree-sequestered path, And watched the ladies of his Court Within the marble-basined bath.

Its porphyry stairs and fountained base Shone, houried with voluptuous forms, Where Andalusia vied in grace With old Castile, in female charms.

And laughter, song, and water-splash Rang round the place, with stone arcaded, As here a breast or limb would flash Where beauty swam or beauty waded.

And then, like Venus, from the wave A maiden came, and stood below; And by her side a woman slave Bent down to dry her limbs of snow.

Then on the tesselated bank, Robed on with fragrance and with fire,-- Like some exotic flower--she sank, The type of all divine desire.

Then her dark curls, that sparkled wet, She parted from her perfect brows, And, lo, her eyes, like lamps of jet Within an alabaster house.

And in his sleep the monarch sighed, "Florinda!"--Dreaming still he moaned, "Ah, would that I had died, had died!

I have atoned! I have atoned!" ...

And then the vision changed: O'erhead Tempest and darkness were unrolled, Full of wild voices of the dead, And lamentations manifold.

And wandering shapes of gaunt despair Swept by, with faces pale as pain, Whose eyes wept blood and seemed to glare Fierce curses on him through the rain.

And then, it seemed, 'gainst blazing skies A necromantic tower sate, Crag-like on crags, of giant size; Of adamant its walls and gate.

And from the storm a hand of might Red-rolled in thunder, reached among The gate's huge bolts--that burst; and night Clanged ruin as its hinges swung.

Then far away a murmur trailed,-- As of sad seas on cavern'd sh.o.r.es,-- That grew into a voice that wailed, "They come! they come! the Moors! the Moors!"