A TALE
IHe bends his travel-tarnished feet To where she wastes in clay:
From day-dawn until eve he fares Along the wintry way;From day-dawn until eve repairs Unto her mound to pray.
II
"Are these the gravestone shapes that meet My forward-straining view?
Or forms that cross a window-blind In circle, knot, and queue:
Gay forms, that cross and whirl and wind To music throbbing through?" -III"The Keeper of the Field of Tombs Dwells by its gateway-pier;He celebrates with feast and dance His daughter's twentieth year:
He celebrates with wine of France The birthday of his dear." -IV"The gates are shut when evening glooms:
Lay down your wreath, sad wight;
To-morrow is a time more fit For placing flowers aright:
The morning is the time for it;
Come, wake with us to-night!" -
VHe grounds his wreath, and enters in, And sits, and shares their cheer. -"I fain would foot with you, young man, Before all others here;I fain would foot it for a span With such a cavalier!"VIShe coaxes, clasps, nor fails to win His first-unwilling hand:
The merry music strikes its staves, The dancers quickly band;And with the damsel of the graves He duly takes his stand.
VII
"You dance divinely, stranger swain, Such grace I've never known.
O longer stay! Breathe not adieu And leave me here alone!
O longer stay: to her be true Whose heart is all your own!" -VIII"I mark a phantom through the pane, That beckons in despair, Its mouth all drawn with heavy moan -Her to whom once I sware!" -"Nay; 'tis the lately carven stone Of some strange girl laid there!" -IX"I see white flowers upon the floor Betrodden to a clot;My wreath were they?"--"Nay; love me much, Swear you'll forget me not!
'Twas but a wreath! Full many such Are brought here and forgot."* * *XThe watches of the night grow hoar, He rises ere the sun;"Now could I kill thee here!" he says, "For winning me from one Who ever in her living days Was pure as cloistered nun!"XIShe cowers, and he takes his track Afar for many a mile, For evermore to be apart From her who could beguile His senses by her burning heart, And win his love awhile.
XII
A year: and he is travelling back To her who wastes in clay;From day-dawn until eve he fares Along the wintry way, From day-dawn until eve repairs Unto her mound to pray.
XIII
And there he sets him to fulfil His frustrate first intent:
And lay upon her bed, at last, The offering earlier meant:
When, on his stooping figure, ghast And haggard eyes are bent.
XIV
"O surely for a little while You can be kind to me!
For do you love her, do you hate, She knows not--cares not she:
Only the living feel the weight Of loveless misery!
XV
"I own my sin; I've paid its cost, Being outcast, shamed, and bare:
I give you daily my whole heart, Your babe my tender care, I pour you prayers; and aye to part Is more than I can bear!"XVIHe turns--unpitying, passion-tossed;
"I know you not!" he cries, "Nor know your child. I knew this maid, But she's in Paradise!"And swiftly in the winter shade He breaks from her and flies.
