THE RIDE TO THE LADY

"Now since mine even is come at last,
For I have been the sport of steel,
And hot life ebbeth from me fast,
And I in saddle roll and reel,
Come biud me, bind me on my steed!
Of fingering leech I have no need !”
The chaplain clasped his mailed knee.
"Nor need I more thy whine and thee !
No time is left my sins to tell;
But look ye bind me, bind me well!"
They bound him strong with leathern
thong,

For the ride to the lady should be long.

Day was dying; the poplars fled,
Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red;
Out of the sky the fierce hue fell,

Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein, — But the viewless rider rode to win.

Out of the wood to the highway's light Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright; The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried,

And the weight of the dead oppressed his side.

Fast, and fast, by the road he knew;
And slow, and slow, the stars withdrew;
And the waiting heaven turned weirdly
blue,

As a garment worn of a wizard grim.
He neighed at the gate in the morning
dim.

She heard no sound before her gate,

hell.

All his thoughts as a river flowed,

Flowed aflame as fleet he rode,
Onward flowed to her abode,

Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face.
(Viewless Death apace, apace,
Rode behind him in that race.)

"Face, mine own, mine alone,
Trembling lips my lips have known,
Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne
Under the kisses that make them mine!
Only of thee, of thee, my need!
Only to thee, to thee, I speed !"

The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn; In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern.

Far behind had the fight's din died;
The shuddering stars in the welkin wide
Crowded, crowded, to see him ride.
The beating hearts of the stars aloof
Kept time to the beat of the horse's hoof.
"What is the throb that thrills so sweet?
Heart of my lady, I feel it beat!"
But his own strong pulse the fainter fell,
Like the failing tongue of a hushing bell.
The flank of the great-limbed steed was wet
Not alone with the started sweat.

Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood Arched its cowl like a black friar's hood;

All was as her hand had left it late:
The needle slept on the broidered vine,
Where the hammer and spikes of the pas-
sion-flower

Her fashioning did wait.

On the couch lay something fair,
With steadfast lips and veiled eyne;
But the lady was not there.

On the wings of shrift and prayer,

Pure as winds that winnow snow,

Her soul had risen twelve hours ago.

The burdened steed at the barred gate

SIR HARRY LOVELOCK, 1645

So, the powder's low, and the larder's clean,

And surrender drapes, with its blacks impending,

All the stage for a sorry and sullen scene: Yet indulge me my whim of a madcap ending!

Let us once more fill, ere the final chill, Every vein with the glow of the rich canary!

Since the sweet hot liquor of life's to spill, Of the last of the cellar what boots be chary ?

Then hear the conclusion: I'll yield my breath,

But my leal old house and my good blade

never!