Ride to the Lady | Page 7

light to
me!"
THE TRUMPETER

Two ships, alone in sky and sea,
Hang clinched, with crash and roar;

There is but one--whiche'er it be--
Will ever come to shore.
And will it be the grim black bulk,
That towers so evil now?
Or will
it be The Grace of God,
With the angel at her prow?
The man that breathes the battle's breath
May live at last to know;

But the trumpeter lies sick to death
In the stifling dark below.
He hears the fight above him rave;
He fears his mates must yield;

He lies as in a narrow grave
Beneath a battle-field.
His fate will fall before the ship's,
Whate'er the ship betide;
He lifts
the trumpet to his lips
As though he kissed a bride.
"Now blow thy best, blow thy last,
My trumpet, for the Right!"--

He has sent his soul in one strong blast,
To hearten them that fight.
COMRADES
"Oh, whither, whither, rider toward the west?"
"And whither, whither,
rider toward the east?"
"I rode we ride upon the same high quest,

Whereon who enters may not be released;
"To seek the Cup whose form none ever saw,--
A nobler form than
e'er was shapen yet,
Though million million cups without a flaw,

Afire with gems, on princes' boards are set;
"To seek the Wine whereof none ever had
One draught, though many
a generous wine flows free,--
The spiritual blood that shall make glad

The hearts of mighty men that are to be."
"But shall one find it, brother? Where I ride,
Men mock and stare,
who never had the dream,
Yet hope within my breast has never died."

"Nor ever died in mine that trembling gleam."

"Eastward, I deem: the sun and all good things
Are born to bless us of
the Orient old."
"Westward, I deem: an untried ocean sings
Against
that coast, 'New shores await the bold.'"
"God speed or thee or me, so coming men
But have the Cup!" "God
speed!"--Not once before
Their eyes had met, nor ever met again,

Yet were they loving comrades evermore.
THE HOUSE OF HATE
Mine enemy builded well, with the soft blue hills in sight; But betwixt
his house and the hills I builded a house for spite: And the name thereof
I set in the stone-work over the gate, With a carving of bats and apes;
and I called it the House of Hate.
And the front was alive with masks of malice and of despair; Horned
demons that leered in stone, and women with serpent hair; That
whenever his glance would rest on the soft hills far and blue, It must
fall on mine evil work, and my hatred should pierce
him through.
And I said, "I will dwell herein, for beholding my heart's desire On my
foe;" and I knelt, and fain had brightened the hearth with fire; But the
brands they would hiss and die, as with curses a strangled man, And the
hearth was cold from the day that the House of Hate began.
And I called at the open door, "Make ye merry, all friends of mine, In
the hall of my House of Hate, where is plentiful store and wine. We
will drink unhealth together unto him I have foiled and fooled!" And
they stared and they passed me by; but I scorned to be thereby
schooled.
And I ordered my board for feast; and I drank, in the topmost seat,
Choice grape from a curious cup; and the first it was wonder-sweet;
But the second was bitter indeed, and the third was bitter and black,
And the gloom of the grave came on me, and I cast the cup to wrack.

Alone, I was stark alone, and the shadows were each a fear; And thinly
I laughed, but once, for the echoes were strange to hear; And the wind
in the hallways howled as a green-eyed wolf might cry, And I heard my
heart: I must look on the face of a man, or die!
So I crept to my mirrored face, and I looked, and I saw it grown (By the
light in my shaking hand) to the like of the masks of stone; And with
horror I shrieked aloud as I flung my torch and fled, And a fire-snake
writhed where it fell; and at midnight
the sky was red.
And at morn, when the House of Hate was a ruin, despoiled of flame, I
fell at mine enemy's feet, and besought him to slay my shame; But he
looked in mine eyes and smiled, and his eyes were
calm and great:
"You rave, or have dreamed," he said; "I saw not
your House of Hate."
THE ARROWMAKER
Day in, day out, or sun or rain,
Or sallow leaf, or summer grain,

Beneath a wintry morning moon
Or through red smouldering
afternoon,
With simple joy, with careful pride,
He plies the craft he
long has plied:
To shape the stave, to set the sting,
To fit the shaft
with irised wing;
And farers by may hear him sing,
For still his