Songs of Childhood | Page 9

saw three fiends, in the skies,?Stooping o'er that lonely place
Evil in form and face.
'O leave me, 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,?Help nor solace suffer none:
O leave me, leave me, leave me,
Ye three wild fiends!'
The fiends stared down with greedy 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??Shall we blow sweet airs on it,?Lure the magpie there to flit?
Shall we smooth the path before you,
You old grey man?'
'O silence, silence, silence!
Ye three wild fiends!
Over bog, and fen, and boulder,?I must bear it on my shoulder,?Beaten of wind, torn of briar,?Smitten of rain, parched of 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:--
'Grey old man but sleep awhile;
Sad old man!
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.
With sweet wire and reed we'll haunt you;?Songs of the valley shall enchant you;?Rest now, lest this night you die:?Sweet be now our lullaby:
'Grey old man, come sleep awhile,
Stubborn old man!'
The pilgrim crouches terrified?At 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 sweet 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 while he spake, the sun?From the sweet hills pierced the gloom,?Kindling th' affrighted fiends upon.?Wild flapped their wings, as if in doom,?He heard a dismal hooting laughter:--
Nought but a little rain fell after,?And from the cloud whither they flew?A storm-sweet lark rose in the blue:?And his bundle seemed of flowers
In his solitary hours.
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.'
'Lord A?rie, Lord A?rie,?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 fetched him in,?Gone all his swiftness, all his din,?White fang, and glowering 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, i'sooth,?A stag in pawn I hold, O.
'Huntsman and horn, huntsman and horn,?Shall scare 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 is like the angry 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.'
Wanders he up, wanders he 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 lightsome left on earth:?Only one scene is fain, O,?Where far remote?The moonbeams gloat,?And sleeps the lovely Jane, O.
Until an eve 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, Lord A?rie,?I'm troubled so I'm like to dee,'?She cries, 'twixt joy and grief, O;?'The hound is dead,?When all is said,?But love is past belief, O.
'Nights, nights I've lain your lands to see,?Forlorn and still--and all for me,?All for a foolish curse, O;?Now here am I?Come out to die,?To live unlov'd is worse, O!'
In faith, this lord, in that lone dale,?Hears now a sweeter nightingale,?And lairs a tend'rer deer, O;?His sorrow goes?Like mountain snows?In waters sweet and clear, O!
Let the hound bay in Shadowland,?Tuning his ear to understand?What voice hath tamed this A?rie;?Chafe, chafe he may?The stag all day,?And never thirst nor weary.
Now here he smells, now there he smells,?Winding his voice along the dells,?Till grey flows up the morn, O;?Then hies again?To Lady Jane,?No longer now forlorn, O.
Ay, as it were a bud, did break?To loveliness for A?rie's