I must tell you why and have done: "T is said, On the brink of the marriage she fled the side Of the guests and the bridegroom there; she fled With a mischievous laugh,--"I"ll hide! I"ll hide!
Seek! and be sure that you find!"--so led A long search after her; but defied All search for--a score and ten long years....
Well, the laughter of Yule was turned to tears For them and for us. We saw the glare Of torches that hurried from chamber to stair; And we heard the castle re-echo her name, But neither to them nor to us she came.
And that was the last of Clara of Clare.
That winter it was, a month thereafter, That the home of the Cliffords, roof and rafter, Burned.--I could swear "t was the Strongbow"s doing, Were I sure that he knew of the Clifford"s wooing His daughter; and so, by the Rood and Cross!
Had burned Hugh"s home to avenge his loss.-- So over the channel to France with his King, The Black Prince, sailed to the wars--to deaden The ache of the mystery--Hugh that spring, And fell at Poitiers; for his loss made leaden His heart; and his life was a weary sadness, So he flung it away in a moment"s madness.
And the Baron died. And the bridegroom?--well, Unlucky was he in truth!--to tell Of him there is nothing. The Baron died, The last of the Strongbows he--gramercy!
And the Clare estate with its wealth and pride Devolved to the Bloets, Walter and Percy.
And years went by. And it happened that they Ransacked the old castle; and so, one day, In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest, From Flanders; of ebon, and wildly carved All over with things: a sinister crest, And evil faces, distorted and starved; Fast-locked with a spring, which they forced and, lo!
When they opened it--Death, like a lady dressed, Grinned up at their terror!--but no, not so!
A skeleton, jeweled and laced, and wreathed With flowers of dust; and a miniver Around it clasped, that the ruin sheathed Of a once rich raiment of silk and fur.
I"d have given my life to hear him tell, The courtly Clifford, how this befell!
He"d have known how it was: For, you see, in groping For the secret spring of that panel, hoping And fearing as nearer and nearer drew The search of retainers, why, out she blew The tell-tale taper; and, seeing this chest, Would hide her a minute in it, mayhap, Till the hurry had pa.s.sed; but the death-lock, pressed By the lid"s great weight, closed fast with a snap, Ere her heart was aware of the fiendish trap.
The Water Witch
See! the milk-white doe is wounded.
He will follow as it bounds Through the woods. His horn has sounded.
Echoing, for his men and hounds.
But no answering bugle blew.
He has lost his retinue For the shapely deer that bounded Past him when his bow he drew.
Not one hound or huntsman follows.
Through the underbrush and moss Goes the slot; and in the hollows Of the hills, that he must cross, He has lost it. He must fare Over rocks where she-wolves lair; Wood-pools where the wild-boar wallows; So he leaves his good steed there.
Through his mind then flashed an olden Legend told him by the monks:-- Of a girl, whose hair is golden, Haunting fountains and the trunks Of the woodland; who, they say, Is a white doe all the day; But when woods are night-enfolden Turns into an evil fay.
Then the story oft his teacher Told him; of a mountain lake Demons dwell in; vague of feature, Human-like, but each a snake, She is queen of.--Did he hear Laughter at his startled ear?
Or a bird? And now, what creature Is it, or the wind, stirs near?
Fever of the hunt. This water, Murmuring here, will cool his head.
Through the forest, fierce as slaughter, Slants the sunset; ruby red Are the drops that slip between His cupped hands, while on the green,-- Like the couch of some wild daughter Of the forest,--he doth lean.
But the runnel, bubbling, dripping, Seems to bid him to be gone; As with crystal words, and tripping Steps of sparkle luring on.
Now a spirit in the rocks Calls him; now a face that mocks, From behind some bowlder slipping, Laughs at him with lilied locks.
So he follows through the flowers, Blue and gold, that blossom there; Thridding twilight-haunted bowers Where each ripple seems the bare Beauty of white limbs that gleam Rosy through the running stream; Or bright-shaken hair, that showers Starlight in the sunset"s beam.
Till, far in the forest, sleeping Like a luminous darkness, lay A deep water, wherein, leaping, Fell the Fountain of the Fay, With a singing, sighing sound, As of spirit things around, Musically laughing, weeping In the air and underground.
Not a ripple o"er it merried: Like the round moon "neath a cloud, In its rocks the lake lay buried: And strange creatures seemed to crowd Its dark depths; vague limbs and eyes To the surface seemed to rise Sp.a.w.n-like and, as formless, ferried Through the water, shadow-wise.
Foliage things with human faces, Demon-dreadful, pale and wild As the forms the lightning traces On the clouds the storm has piled, Seeming now to draw to land, Now away--Then up the strand Comes a woman; and she places On his arm a spray-white hand.
Ah! an untold world of sorrow Were her eyes; her hair, a place Whence the moon its gold might borrow; And a dream of ice her face: "Round her hair and throat in rims Pearls of foam hung; and through whims Of her robe, as breaks the morrow, Shone the rose-light of her limbs.
Who could help but look with gladness On such beauty? though within, Deep within the beryl sadness Of those eyes, the serpent sin Coil?--When she hath placed her cheek Chilly upon his, and weak, With love longing and its madness, Is his will grown, then she"ll speak:
"Dost thou love me?"--"If surrender Is to love thee, then I love."-- "Hast no fear then?"--"In the splendor Of thy gaze who knows thereof?
Yet I fear--I fear to lose Thee, thy love!"--"And thou dost choose Aye to be my heart"s defender?"-- "Take me. I am thine to use."
"Follow then. Ah, love, no lowly Home I give thee."--With fixed eyes, To the water"s edge she slowly Drew him.... And he did surmise "Twas her lips on his, until O"er his face the foam closed chill, Whisp"ring, and the lake unholy Rippled, rippled and was still.
At Nineveh
Written for my friend Walter S. Mathews.
There was a princess once, who loved the slave Of an a.s.syrian king, her father; known At Nineveh as Hadria; o"er whose grave The sands of centuries have long been blown; Yet sooner shall the night forget its stars Than love her story:--How, unto his throne, One day she came, where, with his warriors, The king sat in the hall of audience, "Mid pillared trophies of barbaric wars, And, kneeling to him, asked, "O father, whence Comes love and why?"--He, smiling on her, said,-- "O Hadria, love is of the G.o.ds, and hence Divine, is only soul-interpreted.
But why love is, ah, child, we do not know, Unless "tis love that gives us life when dead."-- And then his daughter, with a face aglow With all the love that clamored in her blood Its sweet avowal, lifted arms of snow, And, like Aurora"s rose, before him stood, Saying,--"Since love is of the powers above, I love a slave, O a.s.shur! Let the good The G.o.ds have giv"n be sanctioned. Speak not of Dishonor and our line"s ancestral dead!
They are imperial dust. I live and love."-- Black as black storm then rose the king and said,-- A lightning gesture at her standing there,-- "Enough! ho, Rhana, strike me off her head!"
And at the mandate, with his limbs half bare A slave strode forth. Majestic was his form As some young G.o.d"s. He, gathering up her hair, Wound it three times around his sinewy arm.
Then drew his sword. It for one moment shone A semicircling light, and, dripping warm, Lifting the head he stood before the throne.
Then cried the despot, "By the horn of Bel!
This was no child of mine!"--Like chiselled stone Still stood the slave, a son of Israel.
Then striding towards the monarch, in his eye The wrath of heaven and the hate of h.e.l.l, Shrieked, "l.u.s.t! I loved her! look on us and die!"
Swifter than fire clove him to the brain.
Then kissed the dead fair face of her held high, And crying, "Judge, O G.o.d, between us twain!"
A thousand daggers in his heart, fell slain.
How They Brought Aid to Bryan"s Station
During the siege of Bryan"s Station, Kentucky, August 16, 1782, Nicholas Tomlinson and Thomas Bell, two inhabitants of the Fort, undertook to ride through the besieging Indian and Tory lines to Lexington, Ky., for aid. It happened also during this siege that the pioneer women of the Fort, when the water supply was exhausted, heroically carried water from a spring, at a considerable distance outside the palisades of the Station, to its inmates, under the very guns of the enemy.
With saddles girt and reins held fast, Our rifles well in front, at last Tom Bell and I were mounted.
The gate swung wide. We said, "Good-bye."
No time for talk had Bell and I.
One said, "G.o.d speed!" another, "Fly!"
Then out we galloped. Live or die, We felt each moment counted.
The trace, the buffaloes had worn, Stretched broad before us; and the corn And cane through which it wended, We knew for acres from the gate Hid Indian guile and Tory hate.
We rode with hearts that seemed to wait For instant death; and on our fate The Station"s fate depended.
No rifle cracked. No creature stirred, As on towards Lexington we spurred Unflinchingly together.
We reached the woods: no savage shout Of all the wild Wyandotte rout And Shawanese had yet rung out: But now and then an Indian scout Showed here a face and feather.