ORIGINAL

It was the outworn clay That slept in endless peace; It was the dead man’s sprite, All in the wan moonlight An hour before the day, That mourned, and might not cease. “Oh body, oh body of mine, Deep, deep and soft thy rest! Thy burning now is cold In kindly churchyard and mould, That weights thy wearied eyne And thine untroubled breast. “But I must wander and wail— Must bear, in wrath and rue, The burning of quenchless fire— The frustrate, deep desire For heights I did not scale, For deeds I did not do. “Oh warm life left behind! Oh hearts that held me dear! In my remembered place Dwells healing and solace, Among the kinsmen kind Who decked my sepulchre.” He sought his father’s castle— But lo! in bower and hall The time was come for mirth. No place, by that glad hearth, ’Mid song and feast and wassail, For care funereal. “Where hushed is earthly din, And dreams may come and go; Where day is drowned deep All under the wings of sleep, There will I enter in, And there will tell my woe.” He mixed with the drifting dance Of dreams that went and came— But by the sleeper’s head An angel watched the bed; His pure and piercing glance Was like a sword of flame. “Hence, thou overbold, Wouldst do the deed forbid! Unmeet that flesh should hear Thy tale of woe and fear— Unmeet that flesh should see What God with a veil hath hid.” “Oh eyes that have grown blind! Oh hearts that have forgot! Of human love bereft, One hope to me is left; The beast’s dumb soul is kind, Faithful, forsaking not.” But the petted palfrey neighed In fear, with starting eye That searched the shades around— And shrank the faithful hound, Bristling, sore afraid, When he felt the dead draw nigh. Then the spirit turned and fled, Wailing, along the blast; “Torn, torn from life’s warm breast, In death I find no rest! Where hide my shameful head? What refuge find at last?” Around and about and abroad He went, while the stars grew dim, Till ’neath a sombre pine He saw a wayside shrine, And heard how Christ the Lord Spake from the Rood to him. Yea, once and yet again Spake that small voice and still: “I bear thy sins for thee; Canst thou not wait with Me The slow-wrought fruit of pain, The long redress of ill?” It was the outworn clay That slept beneath the sod: It was the dead man’s sprite, While all the east grew white In the wide dawn of day, That waited, praising God.

The mermaid sat in Sundal Sound, Combing her lint-white locks; She saw the ships sail in and out Among the rugged rocks. The mermaid sat in Sundal Sound, Combing her locks so wet— “I’ve laid my love on a mortal man, And I will have him yet!” It was the maiden Æthelgif Walked in the blowing meads, And she marked how the tide came in from sea, And whispered among the reeds. The tide so free came in from sea, And filled the banks to the brim— And up sailed Ragnar the rover bold, And his merry men with him. Ragnar the rover leapt to land Before the maiden pale; She saw the stars in his haughty helm, The low moon in his mail. Sir Ragnar stared on Æthelgif, And uttered never a sound; But in the song of the nightingale His secret thoughts she found. And all the tale he might not tell, The lore of the North and the South, Was in the look of his eyes, and the kiss That he pressed on her trembling mouth. Up and spake the mermaiden, Beneath the keel did swim: “Would Ragnar woo a mortal maid, The worser woe for him!” The mermaid fell, she spoke a spell, And said a secret rune Or ever he wist, and the maid he kissed Grew faded and faint eftsoon, As the wavering mist, or ever he wist, All under the mighty charm— And like a wraith of wind and breath She vanished from out his arm. It was the mermaid fair and fell That sang by the good ship’s side “Ho, ho, for the kiss of the salt sea-spray, And the toss o’ the turning tide!” Alone in the mead the maiden stood Like one in a waking dream; She saw the sail wind in and out Along the level stream; Like wan marsh-fire were the shields that shone Afar in the faint moonbeam. “Oh the gulls fly out with the turning tide And cry across the land, Each to each in an alien speech That I fain would understand.” When days were done and years came on, Her sire did speak and say: “Let bells be rung and Mass be sung For a blithesome bridal-day!” “Oh sweeter to me the wind from sea That whispers among the reeds, Than the wooing words of a bridegroom blithe, Or the tramp of the festal steeds!” Up and spake the groom so gay: “Come, pour the red, red wine! Play up, play up, ye minstrel men, To cheer this bride o’ mine! “For the evening-star, like a bridal lamp, Over the tower doth stand; While thin and pale as a wedding-veil The mist steals o’er the land.” She let the golden cup fall down, And stared as she were wood; “Oh is it wine ye pour for me, Or a beaker of red, red blood? “Like a dirge for the dead is the music glad That the minstrels play so loud; And the mist that’s pale as a bridal-veil Is white as a waiting shroud!” Up and spake the mermaiden All under the waning moon: “Ho, ho for the ship that sails at dawn, And sinks ere afternoon! “Ho, ho! for the blood of Ragnar’s breast On his foeman’s sword is wet! I laid my love on a mortal man, And I will have him yet!” It was Sir Ragnar, the rover bold, Clung to a floating spar And drifted in with the turn o’ the tide Across the harbour-bar. Oh his look was shent, and his helm was bent, And his mail was riven and brast, And the stream that was so clear before Ran red where’er he passed. Red, red his blood ran down the flood— And, wavering, drowned, and dim, Like the face of death, from the dark beneath, The cold moon stared at him. Into the hall Sir Ragnar went— God wot, his face was pale! The spray was on his dinted helm, The red blood on his mail. “Turn round, turn round, thou beauteous bride! Turn round and look on me! Say, wilt thou wed a living man, Or a dead man out o’ the sea?” She took him in her lily-white arms— She kissed him on the brow— “I loved thee well for seven long years, And well I love thee now!” It was Sir Ragnar laid him down Dead at the maiden’s feet; She’s wrapped him in her bridal veil, All for a winding-sheet. Up and spake the shaven priest— “Woe worth the paynim foul! Ye may not lay him in holy ground, Nor sing for his sinful soul. “Cast out his corse to sink or swim With the toss o’ the turning tide! Let it ne’er be said that Christian maid Would be a rover’s bride!” Up and spake the mermaiden— “Ho, ho, for his pallid lips! Ho for the merry fish that swim Among the sunken ships! “Ho, ho! for see where he comes to A-floating down so fast! I laid my love on a mortal man, And he is mine at last!”

Between the shrouded fen, and the desolate dunes of sand Where the fretting seas gnash white, there lies a lonely land. No heights about it couch their grim flanks seamed with scars; But it hath the wider heaven, and the sky more full of stars. Like the verge of the ultimate seas are its long horizon lines; Like the moan of mourning waves the song of its sombre pines. The minstrel’s out on the moor; while far and faint in the wind Ring the bells of All Souls’ Eve in the town he has left behind. Beneath the sombre pine he has laid him down to sleep, With his harp beside his head; and night grows dark and deep. Softly the wind came sighing, and as it sighed he heard In the harp a voice that moaned and mourned on a woeful word; “Lo, is it naught?” said the voice in the sobbing strings that sighed— With the wind it wailed and rose, with the wind it sank and died. Spell-bound he, Herluin, lay, and watched like one in a dream, The moonbeams quiver and dance, and the long reeds sway in the stream, Till again, an icy breath, the wind came whispering, And stirred his stiffened hair, and sighed from string to string, And sobbed into speech; “Is it naught,” the low voice singing said, “Is it naught to thee at all that dust of uncounted dead “Is mixed in this lean grey soil? that on this moorland lone The hosts of mighty men lie scattered bone from bone? “Go search the monkish records, and scarce shall be descried Thro’ the dust on an ancient page, the tale of us who died! “Ho, morn of shrieks and slaughter, when my Danes and I came down, Driving our foes like flocks, and sacked the trembling town!— “When I struck to my battle-song, and the swords rang round my head That I heard not mine own voice, and knew not that I bled! “Woe worth the brand that broke! Woe worth the blinding blow! Woe worth, woe worth the day when I felt my life-blood flow! “I felt my life-blood flow; I felt my strength and my wit, My heart and my hope and my valour flow drop by drop with it. “Under these pines I fell, and under these pines I woke; And I saw their stems as a fire, their boughs as a brooding smoke. “Woe, woe! for the fight was over, and all around was peace, Save for a moan on the moor, and a long sigh in the trees, “And a voice that came and went and wailed in its wandering— Deep in my mazèd mind I knew ’twas an evil thing. “Oh for the age that I heard, dying alone in the dark, That baleful voice, and watched the green and glimmering spark, “The eye of the prowling wolf, draw near and near and near!— Thou of the stone-built dwelling what dost thou know of fear?” Sudden, the wind dropped. The voice died into the night As the ripples died on the river, and, in the wan moonlight, Still grew the wavering rushes, and still the trembling strings: Spell-bound lay Herluin, who gazed on all these things, And knew not that he saw—while o’er the moorland’s rim, Lucent, and wan, and lone, the cold moon stared at him. Long, long it seemed till the wind, a frozen, fleeting breath, Wailed back from far away, “What dost thou know of Death?” Murmured the voice, “Give heed, list to the dark, oh day! Hot heart, hear thou the dust! For, as in fear I lay, “Cursing my limbs of lead, Death’s icy hand took hold Of my heart; the stars went out; thus, thus my tale was told! “I stood, a naked soul; ’tis strange and still, I trow, When the heart has ceased to beat, and the blood has ceased to flow. “Ay, strange to the shuddering soul, when the heart has ceased to beat, And it sees the wan corse lie, unheeding at its feet!— “I hear a rush in the firs, a rush as of hastening horse— Like the forelocks of fiery steeds the branches waver and toss. “See, see where Odin’s war-maids to choose the dead draw nigh! They come with the shout o’ the storm along the scurrying sky. “See where their lucent spears, like shafts of wan moonlight, Pierce from the height of the heavens, lay bare the heart of night! “See, see where Bifrost Bridge arches from cloud to cloud, Built of the gleaming rainbow! See the exulting crowd. “Of the heroes that shouting cross to feast in high Valhall, Where the Maids pour the Æsir-mead to glad their souls withal! “And I—I strained and strove” (and the voice grew shrill and thin; Like to the shuddering harp was the soul of Herluin). “But the Maids were drifting clouds, and the Bridge that spanned the skies Was the glint of the mocking moon on the tears that filled mine eyes. “Dead, they are dead, the gods in whom we have put our trust; The hopes of heroes’ hearts are ashes and dross and dust. “We have seen our flesh the sport of the crows and the creeping things— We have seen the moss and the lichen grow over the bones of kings— “The firs from us have fed their writhen boughs and thin Our burning blood springs up in the cold green sap o’ the whin— “A whirl of withered leaves in the desolate land of death, Such are our haughty hosts, and our foes are wind and breath. “I found in thy harp a voice; and, after uncounted years, As a man to a man I spoke, and thou couldst not close thine ears. “Yea, now thine ears are opened, for I saw thy soul as a fire Aflame in the wastes of the night, the depth of my vain desire. “As a moth to the torch’s flame, as to the moon the tide, Drawn by thy tameless spirit, drawn by thy passion and pride, “Storming the gates of Sense, as the cry of the chords outbroke, Out of the deep I called, and unto the deep I spoke!” Darkness dissolved; the earth stole back to sight; and shrill A cock crew far away; like tears the dew lay chill; And Herluin raised his head, and saw the pallid gleam Stand in the face of the East above the shimmering stream, While o’er him as he lay, half-mazed in a magic sweven, The black pine-branches hovered like torn clouds hung in heaven. Day stood upon the moor; and the wailing voice, withdrawn, Sighed o’er the sobbing harp-strings, and died in the wind of dawn.

The King went forth at dawning To watch the turn of the tide: “Be still, my soul, be still! To-day shall bring the bride. “Sea-gull, oh sea-gull, Stay thy shifting wings! Hast seen the ship a-sailing, My love that brings? “The ship with sails of scarlet Where threads of gold entwine— With maids and merry minstrels, And gifts of mine, “A veil for her head, and a girdle, And a bracelet all of gold, Wrought by a cunning craftsman With labours manifold.” The King went forth at even To watch the silver web Woven by wavering moonbeams Over the tide at ebb. “Oh nights are short in summer! She will come to me soon; To-morrow at dawn of day Or at height of noon.” Oh the sea grew hoary and grey At the turn of the year; The fire of the whin was faded, The heather was brown and sere. All the air was filled With the moan of the mourning main; And the ship with sails of scarlet Came not home again. The King went forth in the night— For care he could not sleep— Down the perilous pathway— Down to the edge of the deep. There was never a star to shine; Nor sea from shore he wist, Till he felt around his feet The chill of the foam that hissed. There was never a star in the skies, And the face of the deep was dim— Yet he saw a wavering wanness Like the cold moon sink and swim. Yea, as in the heart of the billow Quivers the wan sea-flame, Drifting in the darkness The mermaiden came. And on the long sea-swell, Like to a foam-wreath pale, Among her locks a-floating He saw a costly veil, That a queen might wear to wed in— And on her arm so cold He saw a gallant bracelet All of the gleaming gold, Wrought by a cunning craftsman With labours manifold. Then the eyes of the King were darkened, And his shuddering soul went down Like a stone in the dark o’ the deeps Where shipwrecked sailors drown. The mermaid shimmering sank Like a moon that clouds eclipse— And the spray of the salt sea mingled With the salt tears on his lips. The King goes forth at even By the sea-side; He hears in the long dark caverns The sobbing of the tide. Pale is the face of the King Like one in a deadly swoon; Wan o’er the waste of waters Glimmers the waning moon.

Ho for the white of the withered bough And the red of the wrinkled leaf! Sir Arngrim sits in Ironwood, And his heart is filled with grief. The sun sinks down on Ironwood Blood-red behind the trees; Sir Arngrim stares upon the sword That lies across his knees. “Oh my father died a death of blood, And my mother of wasting woe; And their spirits dwell in the rocky fell Where the trees of Ironwood grow. “And still the guilt of the life-blood spilt Doth unavenged remain; And in the red of the wrinkled leaf I read my father’s pain. “Oh the kings were three, sailed o’er the sea To work us havoc and harm; And I see in the white of the wizened bough My mother’s beckoning arm.” Sir Arngrim stood with the sea beneath And the rocky fell behind, And there he saw three gallant ships That sailed before the wind. “Oh red of hand, they come to land With a host and a mighty horde! And how shall I wreak my father’s death With the power of a single sword?” When the writhen shadows in Ironwood Grew long, and the fading rim Of the sun sank low behind the fell, The witch-wife came to him. “Now hearken to me, thou goodly knight! And, if thou grant me grace, I’ll work a spell shall serve thee well For love of thy fair young face. “Oh a maid am I from dawn till dusk— But by night of a magic rune, And a weird of woe, a wolf I go O’ nights beneath the moon. “Thou shalt slay three hosts in Ironwood That the wolf her fill may feed— Then as lover true, when the fight is done, Shalt pay the maiden’s meed.” Sir Arngrim looked upon the witch, And her face was fair to see. He’s plighted her troth on his knightly oath And sealed it with kisses three. It was the first o’ the hosts came on With the rush of a roaring gale— But they might not stir the single sword That bit through bone and mail. Oh half o’ the host at eve were slain, And half o’ the host were fled; And all night long in Ironwood The wolf howled o’er the dead. It was the second host came on As levin leaps from the sky; But they might not quell the witch’s spell And the sword of grammarye. Oh half o’ the host at eve were fled, And half in their blood lay still; And all night long in Ironwood The wolf did feed her fill. It was the third o’ the hosts came on Like the waves of a winter sea; But they broke on the sword as billows break Where the hidden skerries be. Oh half o’ the host at eve were slain, And half were fled away; And like the dead, among the dead, In a swoon Sir Arngrim lay. The moon shone down on Ironwood Above the trees so tall; And lo! the red and wrinkled leaves Upon his face did fall. And lo! the shade of the withered bough Across his face lay dim, And the wolf she leapt, and seized, and tore The warrior limb from limb. Ho ho for the red of the wrinkled leaf! His spirit has gone to dwell With the grimly ghosts of the ancient hosts That haunt the rocky fell! Ho ho for the white of the withered bough! The witch she wails full sore; And Ironwood, for that deed of blood, Is accursèd evermore!

The throstle he roused him at fall of eve And said to the owlet grey, “Lo, brother, look through the dusky wood And tell who comes this way.” The owlet stirred on the swaying bough Of the slender birchen-tree: “And seest thou not the minstrel-wight A-roaming along the lea?” “And what of the voice that comes with him, The voice that sighs and sings?” “Oh, that’s the sound of the harp he bears As the wind blows over the strings.” “And is it for love of a fair young maid That his cheek is pale and wan?” “Ay, a maid I wis, but never a kiss Will she lay on the lips of man. “He must sit all day at the ale-house door Amid the talk o’ the town, With a merry stave for knight and knave And a jest for the staring clown. “But when bells are rung and songs are sung And all men lie and sleep, The merry minstrel forth must fare His secret tryst to keep. “The merry minstrel forth must fare, All in the twilight dim, To woo the queen o’ Fairyland That’s cast a spell on him. “Oh her form’s the form of the lily-white birch That sways to the breeze, and her breath Is the scent o’ the thyme and the blowing furze And the honey that’s stored in the heath. “And her dark eyes’ beam is the wavering gleam On the water that’s wan to see When the evening star hangs faint and far Above the birchen-tree. “And wouldst thou learn her secret lore, Go, read the magic rune That the writhen boughs of the thorn-tree trace O’ nights across the moon.” “And what’s the guerdon he shall gain By grace of the Fairy-queen?” “Oh, a hope that’s lost and a love that’s crossed, And tears and toil and tene, “And feet astray in the paths of day, And a song that cannot be sung— For elfin music is wind and breath When the matin-bell is rung. “For the cock crows shrill, and the dew lies chill, And the faint stars die, withdrawn; And elfin gold is withered leaves At the coming of the dawn.”