Collected Poems 1901-1918 in Two Volumes - Volume II. | Page 5

do, and trouble poor me."
THE PILGRIM
"Shall we carry now your bundle,
You old grey man?
Over hill and
dale and meadow
Lighter than an owlet's shadow
We will whirl it
through the air,
Through blue regions shrill and bare,
So you may in
comfort fare--
Shall we carry now your bundle,
You old grey man?"
The Pilgrim lifted up his eyes
And saw three fiends, in the skies,

Stooping o'er that lonely place
Evil in form and face.
"Nay," he answered, "leave me, leave me,
Ye three wild fiends!
Far
it is my feet must wander,
And my city lieth yonder
I must bear my
bundle alone,
Till the day be done."
The fiends stared down with leaden eye,


Fanning the chill air duskily,
'Twixt their hoods they stoop and cry:--
"Shall we smooth the path before you,
You old grey man?
Sprinkle it green with gilded showers,
Strew it
o'er with painted flowers,
Lure bright birds to sing and flit
In the
honeyed airs of it?
Shall we smooth the path before you,
Grey old man?"
"O, 'tis better silence, silence,
Ye three wild fiends!
Footsore am I, faint and weary,
Dark the way,
forlorn and dreary,
Beaten of wind, torn of briar,
Smitten of rain,
parched with fire:
O, silence, silence, silence,
Ye three wild fiends!"
It seemed a smoke obscured the air,
Bright lightning quivered in the
gloom,
And a faint voice of thunder spake
Far in the lone
hill-hollows--"Come!"
Then, half in fury, half in dread,
The fiends
drew closer down, and said:
"Nay, thou stubborn fond old man,
Hearken awhile!
Thorn, and dust, and ice and heat,
Tarry now, sit
down and eat:
Heat, and ice, and dust and thorn;
Stricken, footsore,
parched, forlorn--
Juice of purple grape shall be
Youth and solace
unto thee.
Music of tambour, wire and wind,
Ease shall bring to
heart and mind;
Wonderful sweet mouths shall sigh
Languishing
and lullaby;
Turn then! Curse the dream that lures thee;
Turn thee,
ere too late it be,
Lest thy three true friends grow weary
Of comforting thee!"
The Pilgrim crouches terrified
As stooping hood, and glassy face,


Gloating, evil, side by side,
Terror and hate brood o'er the place;
He
flings his withered hands on high
With a bitter, breaking cry:--

"Leave me, leave me, leave me, leave me,
Ye three wild fiends!
If I lay me down in slumber,
Then I lay me
down in wrath;
If I stir not in dark dreaming,
Then I wither in my
path;
If I hear sweet voices singing,
'Tis a demon's lullaby:
And,
in 'hideous storm and terror,'
Wake but to die."
And even as he spake, on high
Arrows of sunlight pierced the sky.

Bright streamed the rain. O'er burning snow
From hill to hill a
wondrous bow
Of colour and fire trembled in air,
Painting its
heavenly beauty there.
Wild flapped each fiend a batlike hood

Against that 'frighting light, and stood
Beating the windless rain, and
then
Rose heavy and slow with cowering head,
Circled in company
again,
And into darkness fled.
Marvellous sweet it was to hear
The waters gushing loud and clear;

Marvellous happy it was to be
Alone, and yet not solitary;
Oh, out
of terror and dark to come
In sight of home!
THE GAGE
"Lady Jane, O Lady Jane!
Your hound hath broken bounds again,

And chased my timorous deer, O;
If him I see,
That hour he'll dee;

My brakes shall be his bier, O."
"Hoots! lord, speak not so proud to me!
My hound, I trow, is fleet and
free,
He's welcome to your deer, O;
Shoot, shoot you may,
He'll
gang his way,
Your threats we nothing fear, O."
He's fetched him in, he's laid him low,
Drips his lifeblood red and

slow,
Darkens his dreary eye, O;
"Here is your beast,
And now at
least
My herds in peace shall lie, O."
"'In peace!' my lord, O mark me well!
For what my jolly hound befell

You shall sup twenty-fold, O!
For every tooth
Of his, in sooth,

A stag in pawn, I hold, O.
"Huntsman and horn, huntsman and horn,
Shall scour your heaths and
coverts lorn,
Braying 'em shrill and clear, O;
But lone and still

Shall lift each hill,
Each valley wan and sere, O.
"Ride up you may, ride down you may,
Lonely or trooped, by night
or day,
My hound shall haunt you ever:
Bird, beast, and game

Shall dread the same,
The wild fish of your river."
Her cheek burns angry as the rose,
Her eye with wrath and pity flows:

He gazes fierce and round, O--
"Dear Lord!" he says,
"What
loveliness
To waste upon a hound, O.
"I'd give my stags, my hills and dales,
My stormcocks and my
nightingales
To have undone this deed, O;
For deep beneath
My
heart is death
Which for her love doth bleed, O."
He wanders up, he wanders down,
On foot, a-horse, by night and
noon:
His lands are bleak and drear, O;
Forsook his dales
Of
nightingales,
Forsook his moors of deer, O,
Forsook his heart, ah me! of mirth;
There's nothing gladsome left on
earth;
All thoughts and dreams seem vain, O,
Save where remote

The moonbeams gloat,
And sleeps the lovely Jane, O.
Until an even when lone he went,
Gnawing his beard in dreariment--

Lo! from a thicket hidden,

Lovely as flower
In April hour,

Steps forth a form unbidden.

"Get ye now down, my lord, to me!
I'm troubled so I'm like to dee,"

She cries, 'twixt joy and grief,