THE LAST TILT.
Reading edition
———
BY HENRY B. HIRST.
———
At twilight, through the shadow, fled
An ancient, war-worn knight,
Arrayed in steel, from head to heel,
And on a steed of white;
And, in the knight’s despite,
The horse pursued his flight:
For the old man’s cheek was pale,
And his hands strove at the rein,
With the clutch of frenzied pain;
And his courser’s streaming mane
Swept, disheveled, on the gale.
“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell
Went wailing away over meadow and mere—“Seven!”
Counted aloud by the sentinel clock
On the turret of Time; and the regular beat
Of his echoing feet
Fell—like lead—on the ear—
As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier.
The old knight heard the mystic clock;
And the sound, like a funeral bell,
Rang in his ears till their caverns were full
Of the knoll of the desolate knell.
And the steed, as aroused by a spell,
Sprang away with a withering yell,
While the old man strove again,
But each time, with feebler force,
To arrest the spectral horse
In its mad, remorseless course,
But, alas! he strove in vain.
“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell
Went wailing away over meadow and mere— “Eight!”
Counted aloud by the sentinel clock
On the turret of Time; and the regular beat
Of his echoing feet
Fell—like lead—on the ear—
As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier.
The steed was white, and gaunt, and grim,
With lidless, leaden eyes
That burned with the lurid, livid glare
Of the stars of Stygian skies;
And the wind, behind, with sighs,
Mimicked his maniac cries,
While through the ebony gloom, alone,
Wan-visaged Saturn gazed
On the warrior—unamazed—
On the steed whose eye-balls blazed
With a lustre like his own.
“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell
Went wailing away over meadow and mere— “Nine!”
Counted aloud by the sentinel clock
On the turret of Time; and the regular beat
Of his echoing feet
Fell—like lead—on the ear—
As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier.
Athwart a swart and shadowy moor
The struggling knight was borne,
And far away, before him, gleamed
A light like the gray of morn;
While the old man, weak, forlorn,
And wan, and travel-worn,
Gazed, mad with deathly fear:
For he dreamed it was the day,
Though the dawn was far away,
And he trembled with dismay
In the desert—dark and drear.
“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell
Went wailing away over meadow and mere—“Ten!”
Counted aloud by the sentinel clock
On the turret of Time; and the regular beat
Of his echoing feet
Fell—like lead—on the ear—
As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier.
In casque and cuirass, white as snow,
Came, merrily, over the wold,
A maiden knight, with lance and shield,
And a form of manly mould,
And a beard of woven gold,
When—suddenly!—behold!
With a loud defiant cry,
And a tone of stern command,
The ancient knight, with lance in hand,
Rushed, thundering, over the frozen land,
And bade him “Stand! or die!”
“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell
Went wailing away over meadow and mere—“Eleven!”
Counted aloud by the sentinel clock
On the turret of Time; and the regular beat
Of his echoing feet
Fell—like lead—on the ear—
As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier.
With his ashen lance in rest,
Careered the youthful knight,
With a haughty heart, and an eagle eye,
And a visage burning bright—
For he loved the tilted fight—
And, under Saturn’s light,
With a shock that shook the world,
The rude old warrior fell—and lay
A corpse—along the frozen clay!
As with a crash the gates of day
Their brazen valves unfurled.
“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell
Went wailing away over meadow and mere—“Twelve!”
Counted aloud by the sentinel clock
On the turret of Time; and the regular beat
Of his echoing feet
Fell—like lead—on the ear—
As he left the dead Year on his desolate bier.