The Cup of Comus Part 4

And my Lord saw: gave commands: I was of his bandit bands.-- Love should perish at our hands.

Young the Knight was. He should sing Nevermore of love or spring, Or of any gentle thing.

When he stole at midnight's hour, To my Lady's forest bower, We were hidden near the tower.

In the woods of Trebizend There he met an evil end.-- Night, you know, is no man's friend.

He has fought in fort and field; Borne for years a stainless shield, And in strength to none would yield.

But we seized him unaware, Bound and hung him; stripped him bare, Left him to the wild boars there.

Never has my Lady known.-- But she often sits alone, Weeping when my Lord is gone....

Night, they say, is no man's friend.-- In the woods of Trebizend There he met an evil end.

Now my old Lord sleeps in peace, While my Lady--each one sees-- Waits, and keeps her memories.

_GHOSTS_

Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon The sea-mists swoon: Wind-twisted pines, through which the crow Goes winging slow: Dim fields, the sower never sows, Or reaps or mows: And near the sea a ghostly house of stone Where all is old and lone.

A garden, falling in decay, Where statues gray Peer, broken, out of tangled weed And th.o.r.n.y seed: Satyr and Nymph, that once made love By walk and grove: And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mold, A sundial, lichen-old.

Like some sad life bereft, To musing left, The house stands: love and youth Both gone, in sooth: But still it sits and dreams: And round it seems Some memory of the past, still young and fair, Haunting each crumbling stair.

And suddenly one dimly sees, Come through the trees, A woman, like a wild moss-rose: A man, who goes Softly: and by the dial They kiss a while: Then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan, And they, like ghosts, are gone.

_THE LONELY LAND_

A river binds the lonely land, A river like a silver band, To crags and sh.o.r.es of yellow sand.

It is a place where kildees cry, And endless marches eastward lie, Whereon looks down a ghostly sky.

A house stands gray and all alone Upon a hill, as dim of tone, And lonely, as a lonely stone.

There are no signs of life about: No barnyard bustle, cry and shout Of children who run laughing out.

No crow of c.o.c.ks, no low of cows, No sheep-bell tinkling under boughs Of beech, or song in garth or house.

Only the curlew's mournful call, Circling the sky at evenfall, And loon lamenting over all.

A garden, where the sunflower dies And lily on the pathway lies, Looks blindly at the blinder skies.

And round the place a lone wind blows, As when the Autumn grieving goes, Tattered and dripping, to its close.

And on decaying shrubs and vines The moon's thin crescent, dwindling shines, Caught in the claws of sombre pines.

And then a pale girl, like a flower, Enters the garden: for an hour She waits beside a wild-rose bower.

There is no other one around; No sound, except the cricket's sound And far-off baying of a hound.

There is no fire or candle-light To flash its message through the night Of welcome from some cas.e.m.e.nt bright.

Only the moon, that thinly throws A shadow on the girl and rose, As to its setting slow it goes.

And when 'tis gone, from sh.o.r.e and stream There steals a mist, that turns to dream That place where all things merely seem.

And through the mist there goes a cry, Not of the earth nor of the sky, But of the years that have pa.s.sed by.

And with the cry there comes the rain, Whispering of all that was in vain At every door and window-pane.

And she, who waits beside the rose, Hears, with her heart, a hoof that goes, Galloping afar to where none knows.

And then she bows her head and weeps....

And suddenly a shadow sweeps Around, and in its darkening deeps.

The house, the girl, the cliffs and stream Are gone.--And they, and all things seem But phantoms, merely, in a dream.

_THE WIND WITCH_

The wind that met her in the park, Came hurrying to my side-- It ran to me, it leapt to me, And nowhere would abide.

It whispered in my ear a word, So sweet a word, I swear, It smelt of honey and the kiss It'd stolen from her hair.

Then shouted me the flowery way Whereon she walked with dreams, And bade me wait and watch her pa.s.s Among the glooms and gleams.

It ran to meet her as she came And clasped her to its breast; It kissed her throat, her chin, her mouth, And laughed its merriest.

Then to my side it leapt again, And took me by surprise: The kiss it'd stolen from her lips It blew into my eyes.

Since then, it seems, I have grown blind To every face but hers: It haunts me sleeping or awake, And is become my curse.

The spell, that kiss has laid on me, Shall hold my eyes the same, Until I give it back again To lips from which it came.