Part 23 (1/2)

I lost her; then I said, ”There is No fiercer pang in h.e.l.l!”)

We have upheld each other's rights, Shared purse, and borrow'd blade; Have stricken side by side in fights; And side by side have prayed In churches. We were Christian knights, And she a Christian maid.

We met at sunrise, he and I, My comrade--'twas agreed The steel our quarrel first should try, The poison should succeed; For two of three were doom'd to die, And one was doom'd to bleed.

We buckled to the doubtful fray, At first with some remorse; But he who must be slain, or slay, Soon strikes with vengeful force.

He fell; I left him where he lay, Among the trampled gorse.

Did pa.s.sion warp my heart and head To madness? And, if so, Can madness palliate bloodshed?-- It may be--I shall know When G.o.d shall gather up the dead From where the four winds blow.

We met at sunset, he and I-- My second comrade true; Two cups with wine were br.i.m.m.i.n.g high, And one was drugg'd--we knew Not which, nor sought we to descry; Our choice by lot we drew.

And there I sat with him to sup; I heard him blithely speak Of by-gone days--the fatal cup Forgotten seem'd--his cheek Was ruddy: father, raise me up, My voice is waxing weak.

We drank; his lips turned livid white, His cheeks grew leaden ash; He reel'd--I heard his temples smite The threshold with a cras.h.!.+

And from his hand, in s.h.i.+vers bright, I saw the goblet flash.

The morrow dawn'd with fragrance rare, The May breeze, from the west, Just fann'd the sleepy olives, where She heard and I confess'd; My hair entangled with her hair, Her breast strained to my breast.

On the dread verge of endless gloom My soul recalls that hour; Skies languis.h.i.+ng with balm of bloom, And fields aflame with flower; And slow caresses that consume, And kisses that devour.

Ah! now with storm the day seems rife, My dull ears catch the roll Of thunder, and the far sea strife, On beach and bar and shoal-- I loved her better than my life, And better than my soul.

She fled! I cannot prove her guilt, Nor would I an I could; See, life for life is fairly spilt!

And blood is shed for blood; Her white hands neither touched the hilt, Nor yet the potion brew'd.

Aye! turn me from the sickly south, Towards the gusty north; The fruits of sin are dust and drouth, The end of crime is wrath-- The lips that pressed her rose-like mouth Are choked with blood-red froth.

Then dig the grave-pit deep and wide, Three graves thrown into one, And lay three corpses side by side, And tell their tale to none; But bring her back in all her pride To see what she hath done.

A Song of Autumn

”Where shall we go for our garlands glad At the falling of the year, When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad, When the boughs are yellow and sere?

Where are the old ones that once we had, And when are the new ones near?

What shall we do for our garlands glad At the falling of the year?”

”Child! can I tell where the garlands go?

Can I say where the lost leaves veer On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow, When they drift through the dead-wood drear?

Girl! when the garlands of next year glow, YOU may gather again, my dear-- But I go where the last year's lost leaves go At the falling of the year.”

The Romance of Britomarte

As related by Sergeant Leigh on the night he got his captaincy at the Restoration.

I'll tell you a story; but pa.s.s the ”jack”, And let us make merry to-night, my men.

Aye, those were the days when my beard was black-- I like to remember them now and then-- Then Miles was living, and Cuthbert there, On his lip was never a sign of down; But I carry about some braided hair, That has not yet changed from the glossy brown That it showed the day when I broke the heart Of that bravest of destriers, ”Britomarte”.

Sir Hugh was slain (may his soul find grace!) In the fray that was neither lost nor won At Edgehill--then to St. Hubert's Chase Lord Goring despatched a garrison-- But men and horses were ill to spare, And ere long the soldiers were s.h.i.+fted fast.