But when a long way off the town

  The cliffs were wholly sunken down,

  And on the marshland’s edge he went,

  For all sounds then the night-jar sent

  Its melancholy laugh across

  The sea-wind moaning for the loss

  Of long-drowned lands, that in old time

  Were known for great in many a clime.

  But the moon rose, and ‘neath its light,

  Cloud-barred, the wide wastes came in sight,

  With gleaming, sand-choked, reed-clad pools,

  And marsh-lights for the mock of fools;

  And o’er the waste beneath the moon

  The sea-wind piped a dreary tune,

  And louder grew, and the world then

  No more seemed made for sons of men,

  And summer seemed an empty name,

  And harvest-time a mock and shame:

  Such hopeless ruin seemed settled there,

  On acres sunny once and fair.

  But Laurence now could well behold

  The sandy headland bare and bold

  Against the sea, and stayed his feet

  Awhile, to think how he should meet

  These nameless things, his enemies,

  The lords of terror and disease;

  Then trembling, hastened on, for thought

  Full many an image to him brought,

  Once seen, with loathing cast aside,

  But ready e’en for such a tide,

  Come back with longing’s added sting,

  And whatso horrors time could bring.

  Now thrusting all these thoughts apart

  He hastened on with hardy heart,

  Till on the doubtful place he stood

  Where the sea sucked the pasture’s blood,

  And with back turned unto the sea

  He strove to think right strenuously

  Of this and that well-liking place;

  The merry clamour of the chase,

  Pageant of soldier or of priest,

  Or market-place or crowded feast,

  Or splintered spears for ladies’ sake,

  Until he ‘gan to dream awake:

  Then, midst of all his striving, still

  His happiest thoughts must turn to ill,

  As in a fevered, restless dream.

  He thought about some flowery stream,

  Himself in gilded boat thereon —

  A livid cloud came o’er the sun,

  A great wave swept from bank to bank;

  Or flower-crowned amid friends he drank,

  And as he raised the red wine up

  Fell poison shrieked from out the cup;

  The garland when his heart was full

  He set upon a fleshless skull;

  The lute turned to a funeral bell,

  The golden door led down to hell.

  Then back from dreams his soul he brought,

  And of his own ill matters thought,

  And found his fear the lesser grew

  When all his heart therein he threw.

  Yet awful was the time indeed,

  And of good heart sore had he need:

  The wind’s moan louder than before,

  Some wave cast higher up the shore,

  The night-bird’s brushing past his head, —

  All little things grew full of dread;

  Yet did he waver nought at all,

  Or turn, for whatso thing might fall.

  The moon was growing higher now,

  The east wind had been strong to blow

  The night sky clear from vexing cloud,

  And in the west his flock did crowd;

  Sharper things grew beneath the light,

  As with a false dawn; thin and bright

  The horned poppies’ blossoms shone

  Upon a shingle-bank, thrust on

  By the high tide to choke the grass;

  And nigh it the sea-holly was,

  Whose cold grey leaves and stiff stark shade

  On earth a double moonlight made:

  Above him, specked with thorn and whin,

  And clad with short grey grass and thin,

  The hill ran up, and Laurence knew

  That down the other slope there grew

  A dark pine-wood, whose added sound

  Scarce noted, yet did more confound,

  With changing note, his wearied mind.

  But now with drowsiness grown blind,

  Once more he tottered on his place,

  And let fall down his weary face;

  But then remembering all his part,

  Once and again woke with a start,

  And dozed again; and then at last,

  Shuddering, all slumber from him cast,

  Yet scarce knew if he lived or no:

  For by his scared wild eyes did go

  A wondrous pageant, noiselessly,

  Although so close it passed him by;

  The fluttering raiment by him brushed,

  As through its folds the sea-wind rushed.

  By then his eyes were opened wide.

  Already up the grey hill-side

  The backs of two were turned to him:

  One like a young man tall and slim,

  Whose heels with rosy wings were dight;

  One like a woman clad in white,

  With glittering wings of many a hue,

  Still changing, and whose shape none knew.

  In aftertime would Laurence say,

  That though the moonshine, cold and grey,

  Flooded the lonely earth that night,

  These creatures in the moon’s despite

  Were coloured clear, as though the sun

  Shone through the earth to light each one,

  And terrible was that to see.

  But while he stood, and shudderingly

  Still gazed on those departing twain,

  Yet ‘gan to gather heart again,

  A noise like echoes of a shout

  Seemed in the cold air all about,

  And therewithal came faint and thin

  What seemed a far-off battle’s din,

  And on a sight most terrible

  His eyes in that same minute fell, —

  The images of slaughtered men,

  With set eyes and wide wounds, as when

  Upon the field they first lay slain;

  And those who there had been their bane

  With open mouths as if to shout,

  And frightful eyes of rage and doubt,

  And hate that never more should die.

  Then went the shivering fleers by,

  With death’s fear ever in their eyes;

  And then the heaped-up fatal prize,

  The blood-stained coin, the unset gem,

  The gold robe torn from hem to hem,

  The headless, shattered golden God,

  The dead priest’s crushed divining-rod;

  The captives, weak from blow and wound,

  Toiling along; the maiden, bound

  And helpless, in her raiment torn;

  The ancient man’s last day forlorn:

  Onward they pressed, and though no sound

  Their footfalls made upon the ground,

  Most real indeed they seemed to be.

  The spilt blood savoured horribly,

  Heart-breaking the dumb writhings were,

  Unuttered curses filled the air;

  Yea, as the wretched band went past,

  A dreadful look one woman cast

  On Laurence, and upon his breast

  A wounded blood-stained hand she pressed.

  But on the heels of these there came

  A King, that through the night did flame,

  For something more than steel or brass

  The matter of his armour was;

  Its fashion strange past words to say;

  Who knows where first it saw the day?

  On a red horse he rode; his face

  Gave no more hope of any grace

  Than through the blackness of the night

  The swift-descending lightning might;

  And yet therein great joy indeed

  The brightness of his eyes did feed;; —

  A joy as of the leaping fire

  Over the house-roof rising higher

  To greet the noon-sun, when the glaive

  Forbids all folk to help or save.

  Yet harmless this one passed him by,

  And through the air deliciously

  Faint pensive music breathed, and then

  There came a throng of maids and men —

  A young and fair and gentle band;

  Whereof some passed him hand in hand,

  Some side by side not touching walked,

  As though of happy things they talked;

  Noiseless they were like all the rest

  As past him up the hill they pressed;

  Yet she who brushed by him most close

  Cast to his feet a fresh red rose.

  Then somewhat of a space there was

  Before the next band ‘gan to pass,

  So faint they moved for very woe;

  And these were men and maids also,

  And young were most, and most were fair;

  And hand in hand some few went there,

  And still were fain with love to see

  Each other’s bitter misery;

  But most, just sundered, went along,

  With faces drawn by hidden wrong,

  Clenched hands and muttering lips that cursed

  From brooding hearts their sin that nursed.

  And she that went the last of all,

  Black-robed, in passing by let fall

  At Laurence’s feet a black-bound wreath

  Of bitter herbs long come to death.

  Alone, afoot, when these were gone,

  A bright one came, whose garments shone

  In wondrous wise; a bow he bore,

  And deadly feathered shafts’ good store;

  Winged was he and most Godlike fair;

  Slowly he went, and oft would stare

  With eyes distraught down on the grass,

  As waiting what might come to pass;

  Then whiles would he look up again,

  And set his teeth as if with pain;

  And whiles for very joy of heart

  His eyes would gleam, his lips would part

  With such a smile as though the earth

  Were newly made to give him mirth;

  Back o’er his shoulder would he gaze

  Seaward, or through the marshland haze

  That lay before, strain long and hard,

  Till fast the tears fell on the sward: —

  So towards the hill’s brow wandered he.

  Then through the moaning of the sea

  There came a faint and thrilling strain,

  Till Laurence strove with tears in vain,

  I And his flesh trembled, part with fear,

  Part as with some great pleasure near,

  And then his dazzled eyes could see

  Once more a noiseless company;

  And his heart failed him at the sight,

  And he forgot both wrong and right,

  And nothing thought of his intent;

  For close before him now there went

  Fair women clad in ancient guise

  That hid but little from his eyes

  More loveliness than earth doth hold

  Now, when her bones are growing old;

  But all too swift they went by him,

  And fluttering gown and ivory limb

  Went twinkling up the bare hill-side,

  And lonely there must he abide.

  Then seaward had he nigh turned round,

  And thus the end of life had found,

  When even before his wildered sight

  There glided forth a figure white,

  And passed him by afoot, alone;

  No raiment on her sweet limbs shone,

  Only the tresses of her hair

  The wind drove round her body fair;

  No sandals were there on her feet,

  But still before them blossoms sweet

  Unnamed, unknown within that land,

  Sprang up; she held aloft her hand

  As to the trembling man she turned

  Her glorious eyes, and on it burned

  The dreadful pledge, the looked-for thing,

  The well-wrought, lovely spousal ring.

  Then Laurence trembled more and more;

  Huge longing his faint heart swept o’er,

  As one who would a boon beseech.

  His fevered hand forth did he reach,

  And then she stayed and gazed at him,

  Just moving lightly each fair limb

  As one who loiters, but must go;

  But even as the twain stood so,

  She saying nought, he saying nought,

  And who knows what wild wave of thought

  Beating betwixt them, from his girth

  The dread scroll loosened fell to earth,

  And to his ears where sounds waxed dim

  Louder its rustle seemed to him

  Than loudest thunder; down he bent,

  Remembering now his good intent,

  And got the scroll within his hand;

  And when mid prayers he came to stand

  Upright again, then was she gone,

  And he once more was left alone.

  Foredone, bewildered, downcast now,

  Confused clamour heard he grow,

  And then swept onward through the night

  A babbling crowd in raiment bright,

  Wherein none listened aught at all

  To what from other lips might fall,

  And none might meet his fellow’s gaze;

  And still o’er every restless face

  Passed restless shades of rage and pain,

  And sickening fear and longing vain.

  On wound that manifold agony

  Unholpen, vile, till earth and sea

  Grew silent, till the moonlight died

  Before a false light blaring wide,

  And from amidst that fearful folk

  The Lord of all the pageant broke.

  Most like a mighty king was he,

  And crowned and sceptered royally;

  As a white flame his visage shone,

  Sharp, clear-cut as a face of stone;

  But flickering flame, not flesh, it was;

  And over it such looks did pass

  Of wild desire, and pain, and fear,

  As in his people’s faces were,

  But tenfold fiercer: furthermore,

  A wondrous steed the Master bore,

  Unnameable of kind or make,

  Not horse, nor hippogriff, nor drake.

  Like and unlike to all of these,

  And flickering like the semblances

  Of an ill dream, wrought as in scorn

  Of sunny noon, fresh eve, and morn,

  That feed the fair things of the earth.

  And now brake out a mock of mirth

  From all that host, and all their eyes

  Were turned on Laurence in strange wise,

  Who met the maddening fear that burned

  Round his unholpen heart, and turned

  Unto the dreadful king and cried:

  “What errand go ye on? Abide,

  Abide! for I have tarried long;

  Turn thou to me, and right my wrong!

  One of thy servants keeps from me

  That which I gave her not; nay, see

  What thing thy Master bids thee do!”

  Then wearily, as though he knew

  How all should be, the Master turned,

  And his red eyes on Laurence burned,

  As without word the scroll he took;

  But as he touched the skin he shook

  As though for fear, and presently

  In a great voice he ‘gan to cry:

  “Shall this endure for ever, Lord?

  Hast thou no care to keep thy word?

  And must such double men abide?

  Not mine, not mine, nor on thy side?

  For as thou cursest them I curse: —

  Make thy souls better, Lord, or worse!”

  Then spake he to the trembling man,

  “What I am bidden, that I can;

  Bide here, and thou shalt see thine own

  Unto thy very feet cast down;

  Then go and dwell in peace awhile.”

  Then round he turned with sneering smile,

  And once more lonely was the night,

  And colourless with grey moonlight.

  But soon indeed the dawn drew near,

  As Laurence stood ‘twixt hope and fear,

  Still doubting, now that all was gone,

  If his own heart the thing had done,

  Though on his coat the blood-mark was,

  Though rose and wreath lay on the grass;

  So long he waited wearily,

  Until, when dawn ‘gan stripe the sky,

  If he were waking scarce he knew,

  When, as he deemed, a white cloud drew

  Anigh him from the marshland grey,

  Over the empty ghost-trod way,

  And from its midst a voice there’ came:

  “Thou who hast wrought me added shame,

  Take back thine own and go thy ways;

  And think, perchance, in coming days,

  When all grows old about thee, how

  From foolish hands thou needs must throw

  A gift of unhoped great delight.”

  It vanished as the east grew bright,

  And in the shadowless still morn

  A sense of rest to him was born,

  And looking down unto his feet,

  His eyes the spousal-ring did meet.

  He caught it up with a glad cry,

  And kissed it over longingly,

  And set it on his hand again;

  And dreamlike now, and vague and vain,

  Seemed all those images of fear,

  The wicked sights that held him there;

  And rather now his eyes could see

  Her that was his now verily.

  Then from that drear unhallowed place

  With merry heart he set his face.

  A light wind o’er the ocean blew,

  And fresh and fair the young day grew;

  The sun rose o’er the green sea’s rim,

  And gave new life and joy to him;

  The white birds crying o’er his head

  Seemed praising all his hardihead,

  And laughing at the worsted foe;

  So, joyous, onward did he go,

  And in a little sheltered bay

  His weariness he washed away,

  And made afresh on toward the town:

 

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