Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe, A tale of folly and of wasted life, Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife, Ending, where all things end, in death at last: So if I tell the story of the past, Let it be worth some little rest, I pray, A little slumber ere the end of day. No wonder if the Grecian tongue I know, Since at Byzantium many a year ago My father bore the twibil valiantly; There did he marry, and get me, and die, And I went back to Norway to my kin, Long ere this beard ye see did first begin To shade my mouth, but nathless not before Among the Greeks I gathered some small lore, And standing midst the Væringers, still heard From this or that man many a wondrous word; For ye shall know that though we worshipped God, And heard mass duly, still of Swithiod The Greater, Odin and his house of gold, The noble stories ceased not to be told; These moved me more than words of mine can say E'en while at Micklegarth my folks did stay; But when I reached one dying autumn-tide My uncle's dwelling near the forest side, And saw the land so scanty and so bare, And all the hard things men contend with there, A little and unworthy land it seemed, And yet the more of Asagard I dreamed, And worthier seemed the ancient faith of praise. But now, but now—when one of all those days Like Lazarus' finger on my heart should be Breaking the fiery fixed eternity, But for one moment—could I see once more The grey-roofed sea-port sloping towards the shore, Or note the brown boats standing in from sea, Or the great dromond swinging from the quay, Or in the beech-woods watch the screaming jay Shoot up betwixt the tall trunks, smooth and grey— Yea, could I see the days before distress When very longing was but happiness. Within our house there was a Breton squire Well learned, who fail'd not to fan the fire That evermore unholpen burned in me Strange lands and things beyond belief to see; Much lore of many lands this Breton knew; And for one tale I told, he told me two. He, counting Asagard a new-told thing, Yet spoke of gardens ever blossoming Across the western sea where none grew old, E'en as the books at Micklegarth had told, And said moreover that an English knight Had had the Earthly Paradise in sight, And heard the songs of those that dwelt therein. But entered not, being hindered by his sin. Shortly, so much of this and that he said That in my heart the sharp barb entered, And like real life would empty stories seem, And life from day to day an empty dream. Another man there was, a Swabian priest, Who knew the maladies of man and beast, And what things helped them; he the stone still sought Whereby base metal into gold is brought, And strove to gain the precious draught, whereby Men live midst mortal men yet never die; Tales of the Kaiser Redbeard could he tell Who neither went to Heaven nor yet to Hell, When from that fight upon the Asian plain He vanished, but still lives to come again Men know not how or when; but I listening Unto this tale thought it a certain thing That in some hidden vale of Swithiod Across the golden pavement still he trod. But while our longing for such things so grew, And ever more and more we deemed them true, Upon the land a pestilence there fell Unheard of yet in any chronicle, And, as the people died full fast of it, With these two men it chanced me once to sit, This learned squire whose name was Nicholas, And Swabian Laurence, as our manner was; For could we help it scarcely did we part From dawn to dusk: so heavy, sad at heart, We from the castle-yard beheld the bay Upon that ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Little we said amidst that dreary mood, And certes nought that we could say was good. It was a bright September afternoon, The parched-up beech-trees would be yellowing soon The yellow flowers grown deeper with the sun Were letting fall their petals one by one; No wind there was, a haze was gathering o'er The furthest bound of the faint yellow shore; And in the oily waters of the bay Scarce moving aught some fisher-cobles lay, And all seemed peace; and had been peace indeed But that we young men of our life had need, And to our listening ears a sound was borne That made the sunlight wretched and forlorn— —The heavy tolling of the minster bell— And nigher yet a tinkling sound did tell That through the streets they bore our Saviour Christ By dying lips in anguish to be kissed. At last spoke Nicholas, "How long shall we Abide here, looking forth into the sea Expecting when our turn shall come to die? Fair fellows, will ye come with me and try Now at our worst that long-desired quest, Now—when our worst is death, and life our best." "Nay, but thou know'st," I said, "that I but wait The coming of some man, the turn of fate, To make this voyage—but I die meanwhile, For I am poor, though my blood be not vile, Nor yet for all his lore doth Laurence hold Within his crucibles aught like to gold; And what hast thou, whose father driven forth By Charles of Blois, found shelter in the North? But little riches as I needs must deem." "Well," said he, "things are better than they seem, For 'neath my bed an iron chest I have That holdeth things I have made shift to save E'en for this end; moreover, hark to this, In the next firth a fair long ship there is Well victualled, ready even now for sea, And I may say it 'longeth unto me; Since Marcus Erling, late its owner, lies Dead at the end of many miseries, And little Kirstin, as thou well mayst know, Would be content throughout the world to go If I but took her hand, and now still more Hath heart to leave this poor death-stricken shore. Therefore my gold shall buy us Bordeaux swords And Bordeaux wine as we go oceanwards. "What say ye, will ye go with me to-night, Setting your faces to undreamed delight, Turning your backs unto this troublous hell, Or is the time too short to say farewell?" "Not so," I said, "rather would I depart Now while thou speakest, never has my heart Been set on anything within this land." Then said the Swabian, "Let us now take hand And swear to follow evermore this quest Till death or life have set our hearts at rest." So with joined hands we swore, and Nicholas said, "To-night, fair friends, be ye apparelled To leave this land, bring all the arms ye can And such men as ye trust, my own good man Guards the small postern looking towards St. Bride, And good it were ye should not be espied, Since mayhap freely ye should not go hence, Thou Rolf in special, for this pestilence Makes all men hard and cruel, nor are they Willing that folk should 'scape if they must stay: Be wise; I bid you for a while farewell, Leave ye this stronghold when St. Peter's bell Strikes midnight, all will surely then be still, And I will bide you at King Tryggve's hill Outside the city gates." Each went his way Therewith, and I the remnant of that day Gained for the quest three men that I deemed true, And did such other things as I must do, And still was ever listening for the chime Half maddened by the lazy lapse of time, Yea, scarce I thought indeed that I should live Till the great tower the joyful sound should give That set us free: and so the hours went past, Till startled by the echoing clang at last That told of midnight, armed from head to heel Down to the open postern did I steal, Bearing small wealth—this sword that yet hangs here Worn thin and narrow with so many a year, My father's axe that from Byzantium, With some few gems my pouch yet held, had come, Nought else that shone with silver or with gold. But by the postern gate could I behold Laurence the priest all armed as if for war, From off the town-wall, having some small store Of arms and furs and raiment: then once more I turned, and saw the autumn moonlight fall Upon the new-built bastions of the wall, Strange with black shadow and grey flood of light, And further off I saw the lead shine bright On tower and turret-roof against the sky, And looking down I saw the old town lie Black in the shade of the o'er-hanging hill, Stricken with death, and dreary, but all still Until it reached the water of the bay, That in the dead night smote against the quay Not all unheard, though there was little wind. But as I turned to leave the place behind, The wind's light sound, the slowly falling swell, Were hushed at once by that shrill-tinkling bell, That in that stillness jarring on mine ears, With sudden jangle checked the rising tears, And now the freshness of the open sea Seemed ease and joy and very life to me. So greeting my new mates with little sound, We made good haste to reach King Tryggve's mound, And there the Breton Nicholas beheld, Who by the hand fair Kirstin Erling held, And round about them twenty men there stood, Of whom the more part on the holy rood Were sworn till death to follow up the quest, And Kirstin was the mistress of the rest. Again betwixt us was there little speech, But swiftly did we set on toward the beach, And coming there our keel, the Fighting Man, We boarded, and the long oars out we ran, And swept from out the firth, and sped so well That scarcely could we hear St. Peter's bell Toll one, although the light wind blew from land; Then hoisting sail southward we 'gan to stand, And much I joyed beneath the moon to see The lessening land that might have been to me A kindly giver of wife, child, and friend, And happy life, or at the worser end A quiet grave till doomsday rend the earth. Night passed, day dawned, and we grew full of mirth As with the ever-rising morning wind Still further lay our threatened death behind, Or so we thought: some eighty men we were, Of whom but fifty knew the shipman's gear, The rest were uplanders; midst such of these As knew not of our quest, with promises Went Nicholas dealing florins round about, With still a fresh tale for each new man's doubt, Till all were fairly won or seemed to be To that strange desperate voyage o'er the sea.
OGIER THE DANE.
ARGUMENT.
When Ogier was born, six fay ladies came to the cradle where he lay, and gave him various gifts, as to be brave and happy and the like; but the sixth gave him to be her love when he should have lived long in the world: so Ogier grew up and became the greatest of knights, and at last, after many years, fell into the hands of that fay, and with her, as the story tells, he lives now, though he returned once to the world, as is shown in the process of this tale.
Within some Danish city by the sea, Whose name, changed now, is all unknown to me, Great mourning was there one fair summer eve, Because the angels, bidden to receive The fair Queen's lovely soul in Paradise, Had done their bidding, and in royal guise Her helpless body, once the prize of love, Unable now for fear or hope to move, Lay underneath the golden canopy; And bowed down by unkingly misery The King sat by it, and not far away, Within the chamber a fair man-child lay, His mother's bane, the king that was to be, Not witting yet of any royalty, Harmless and loved, although so new to life. Calm the June evening was, no sign of strife The clear sky showed, no storm grew round the sun, Unhappy that his day of bliss was done; Dumb was the sea, and if the beech-wood stirred, 'Twas with the nestling of the grey-winged bird Midst its thick leaves; and though the nightingale Her ancient, hapless sorrow must bewail, No more of woe there seemed in her song Than such as doth to lovers' words belong, Because their love is still unsatisfied. But to the King, on that sweet eventide, No earth there seemed, no heaven when earth was gone; No help, no God! but lonely pain alone; And he, midst unreal shadows, seemed to sit Himself the very heart and soul of it. But round the cradle of the new-born child The nurses now the weary time beguiled With stories of the just departed Queen; And how, amid the heathen folk first seen, She had been won to love and godliness; And as they spoke, e'en midst his dull distress, An eager whisper now and then would smite Upon the King's ear, of some past delight, Some once familiar name, and he would raise His weary head, and on the speaker gaze Like one about to speak, but soon again Would drop his head and be alone with pain, Nor think of these; who, silent in their turn, Would sit and watch the waxen tapers burn Amidst the dusk of the quick-gathering night, Until beneath the high stars' glimmering light, The fresh earth lay in colourless repose. So passed the night, and now and then one rose From out her place to do what might avail To still the new-born infant's fretful wail; Or through the softly-opened door there came Some nurse new waked, who, whispering low the name Of her whose turn was come, would take her place; Then toward the King would turn about her face And to her fellows whisper of the day, And tell again of her just past away. So passed the night, the moon arose and grew, From off the sea a little west-wind blew, Rustling the garden-leaves like sudden rain; And ere the moon had 'gun to fall again The wind grew cold, a change was in the sky, And in deep silence did the dawn draw nigh; Then from her place a nurse arose to light Fresh hallowed lights, for, dying with the night, The tapers round about the dead Queen were; But the King raised his head and 'gan to stare Upon her, as her sweeping gown did glide About the floor, that in the stillness cried Beneath her careful feet; and now as she Had lit the second candle carefully, And on its silver spike another one Was setting, through her body did there run A sudden tremor, and the hand was stayed That on the dainty painted wax was laid; Her eyelids fell down and she seemed to sleep, And o'er the staring King began to creep Sweet slumber too; the bitter lines of woe That drew his weary face did softer grow, His eyelids dropped, his arms fell to his side; And moveless in their places did abide The nursing women, held by some strong spell, E'en as they were, and utter silence fell Upon the mournful, glimmering chamber fair. But now light footsteps coming up the stair, Smote on the deadly stillness, and the sound Of silken dresses trailing o'er the ground; And heavenly odours through the chamber passed, Unlike the scents that rose and lily cast Upon the freshness of the dying night; Then nigher drew the sound of footsteps light Until the door swung open noiselessly— A mass of sunlit flowers there seemed to be Within the doorway, and but pale and wan The flame showed now that serveth mortal man, As one by one six seeming ladies passed Into the room, and o'er its sorrow cast That thoughtless sense of joy bewildering, That kisses youthful hearts amidst of spring; Crowned were they, in such glorious raiment clad, As yet no merchant of the world has had Within his coffers; yet those crowns seemed fair Only because they kissed their odorous hair, And all that flowery raiment was but blessed By those fair bodies that its splendour pressed. Now to the cradle from that glorious band, A woman passed, and laid a tender hand Upon the babe, and gently drew aside The swathings soft that did his body hide; And, seeing him so fair and great, she smiled, And stooped, and kissed him, saying, "O noble child, Have thou a gift from Gloriande this day; For to the time when life shall pass away From this dear heart, no fear of death or shame, No weariness of good shall foul thy name." So saying, to her sisters she returned; And one came forth, upon whose brow there burned A crown of rubies, and whose heaving breast With happy rings a golden hauberk pressed; She took the babe, and somewhat frowning said, "This gift I give, that till thy limbs are laid At rest for ever, to thine honoured life There never shall be lacking war and strife, That thou a long-enduring name mayst win, And by thy deeds, good pardon for thy sin." With that another, who, unseen, meanwhile Had drawn anigh, said with a joyous smile, "And this forgotten gift to thee I give, That while amidst the turmoil thou dost live, Still shalt thou win the game, and unto thee Defeat and shame but idle words shall be." Then back they turned, and therewithal, the fourth Said, "Take this gift for what it may be worth For that is mine to give; lo, thou shalt be Gentle of speech, and in all courtesy The first of men: a little gift this is, After these promises of fame and bliss." Then toward the babe the fifth fair woman went; Grey-eyed she was, and simple, with eyes bent Down on the floor, parted her red lips were, And o'er her sweet face marvellously fair Oft would the colour spread full suddenly; Clad in a dainty gown and thin was she, For some green summer of the fay-land dight, Tripping she went, and laid her fingers light Upon the child, and said, "O little one, As long as thou shalt look upon the sun Shall women long for thee; take heed to this And give them what thou canst of love and bliss." Then, blushing for her words, therefrom she past, And by the cradle stood the sixth and last, The fairest of them all; awhile she gazed Down on the child, and then her hand she raised, And made the one side of her bosom bare; "Ogier," she said, "if this be foul or fair Thou know'st not now, but when thine earthly life Is drunk out to the dregs, and war and strife Have yielded thee whatever joy they may, Thine head upon this bosom shalt thou lay; And then, despite of knowledge or of God, Will we be glad upon the flowery sod Within the happy country where I dwell: Ogier, my love that is to be, farewell!" She turned, and even as they came they passed From out the place, and reached the gate at last That oped before their feet, and speedily They gained the edges of the murmuring sea, And as they stood in silence, gazing there Out to the west, they vanished into air, I know not how, nor whereto they returned. But mixed with twilight in the chamber burned The flickering candles, and those dreary folk, Unlike to sleepers, from their trance awoke, But nought of what had happed meanwhile they knew. Through the half-opened casements now there blew A sweet fresh air, that of the flowers and sea Mingled together, smelt deliciously, And from the unseen sun the spreading light Began to make the fair June blossoms bright, And midst their weary woe uprose the sun, And thus has Ogier's noble life begun.
Hope is our life, when first our life grows clear; Hope and delight, scarce crossed by lines of fear, Yet the day comes when fain we would not hope, But forasmuch as we with life must cope, Struggling with this and that, and who knows why? Hope will not give us up to certainty, But still must bide with us: and with this man, Whose life amid such promises began Great things she wrought; but now the time has come When he no more on earth may have his home. Great things he suffered, great delights he had, Unto great kings he gave good deeds for bad; He ruled o'er kingdoms where his name no more Is had in memory, and on many a shore He left his sweat and blood to win a name Passing the bounds of earthly creatures' fame. A love he won and lost, a well-loved son Whose little day of promise soon was done: A tender wife he had, that he must leave Before his heart her love could well receive; Those promised gifts, that on his careless head In those first hours of his fair life were shed He took unwitting, and unwitting spent, Nor gave himself to grief and discontent Because he saw the end a-drawing nigh. Where is he now? in what land must he die, To leave an empty name to us on earth? A tale half true, to cast across our mirth Some pensive thoughts of life that might have been; Where is he now, that all this life has seen? Behold, another eve I bid you see Than that calm eve of his nativity; The sun is setting in the west, the sky Is clear and hard, and no clouds come anigh The golden orb, but further off they lie, Steel-grey and black with edges red as blood, And underneath them is the weltering flood Of some huge sea, whose tumbling hills, as they Turn restless sides about, are black or grey, Or green, or glittering with the golden flame; The wind has fallen now, but still the same The mighty army moves, as if to drown This lone, bare rock, whose shear scarped sides of brown Cast off the weight of waves in clouds of spray. Alas! what ships upon an evil day Bent over to the wind in this ill sea? What navy, whose rent bones lie wretchedly Beneath these cliffs? a mighty one it was, A fearful storm to bring such things to pass. This is the loadstone rock; no armament Of warring nations, in their madness bent Their course this way; no merchant wittingly Has steered his keel unto this luckless sea; Upon no shipman's card its name is writ, Though worn-out mariners will speak of it Within the ingle on the winter's night, When all within is warm and safe and bright, And the wind howls without: but 'gainst their will Are some folk driven here, and then all skill Against this evil rock is vain and nought, And unto death the shipmen soon are brought; For then the keel, as by a giant's hand, Is drawn unto that mockery of a land, And presently unto its sides doth cleave; When if they 'scape swift death, yet none may leave The narrow limits of that barren isle, And thus are slain by famine in a while Mocked, as they say, by night with images Of noble castles among groves of trees, By day with sounds of merry minstrelsy. The sun sinks now below this hopeless sea, The clouds are gone, and all the sky is bright; The moon is rising o'er the growing night, And by its light may ye behold the bones Of generations of these luckless ones Scattered about the rock; but nigh the sea Sits one alive, who uncomplainingly Awaits his death. White-haired is he and old, Arrayed in royal raiment, bright with gold, But tarnished with the waves and rough salt air; Huge is he, of a noble face and fair, As for an ancient man, though toil and eld Furrow the cheeks that ladies once beheld With melting hearts—Nay, listen, for he speaks! "God, thou hast made me strong! nigh seven weeks Have passed since from the wreck we haled our store, And five long days well told, have now passed o'er Since my last fellow died, with my last bread Between his teeth, and yet I am not dead. Yea, but for this I had been strong enow In some last bloody field my sword to show. What matter? soon will all be past and done, Where'er I died I must have died alone: Yet, Caraheu, a good death had it been Dying, thy face above me to have seen, And heard my banner flapping in the wind, Then, though my memory had not left thy mind, Yet hope and fear would not have vexed thee more When thou hadst known that everything was o'er; But now thou waitest, still expecting me, Whose sail shall never speck thy bright blue sea. "And thou, Clarice, the merchants thou mayst call, To tell thee tales within thy pictured hall, But never shall they tell true tales of me: Whatever sails the Kentish hills may see Swept by the flood-tide toward thy well-walled town, No more on my sails shall they look adown. "Get thee another leader, Charlemaine, For thou shalt look to see my shield in vain, When in the fair fields of the Frankish land, Thick as the corn they tread, the heathen stand. "What matter? ye shall learn to live your lives; Husbands and children, other friends and wives, Shall wipe the tablets of your memory clean, And all shall be as I had never been. "And now, O God, am I alone with Thee; A little thing indeed it seems to be To give this life up, since it needs must go Some time or other; now at last I know How foolishly men play upon the earth, When unto them a year of life seems worth Honour and friends, and these vague hopes and sweet That like real things my dying heart do greet, Unreal while living on the earth I trod, And but myself I knew no other god. Behold, I thank Thee that Thou sweet'nest thus This end, that I had thought most piteous, If of another I had heard it told." What man is this, who weak and worn and old, Gives up his life within that dreadful isle, And on the fearful coming death can smile? Alas! this man, so battered and outworn, Is none but he, who, on that summer morn, Received such promises of glorious life: Ogier the Dane this is, to whom all strife Was but as wine to stir awhile the blood, To whom all life, however hard, was good: This is the man, unmatched of heart and limb, Ogier the Dane, whose sight has waxed not dim For all the years that he on earth has dwelt; Ogier the Dane, that never fear has felt, Since he knew good from ill; Ogier the Dane, The heathen's dread, the evil-doer's bane.
Bright had the moon grown as his words were done, And no more was there memory of the sun Within the west, and he grew drowsy now, And somewhat smoother was his wrinkled brow As thought died out beneath the hand of sleep, And o'er his soul forgetfulness did creep, Hiding the image of swift-coming death; Until as peacefully he drew his breath As on that day, past for a hundred years, When, midst the nurse's quickly-falling tears, He fell asleep to his first lullaby. The night changed as he slept, white clouds and high Began about the lonely moon to close; And from the dark west a new wind arose, And with the sound of heavy-falling waves Mingled its pipe about the loadstone caves; But when the twinkling stars were hid away, And a faint light and broad, like dawn of day, The moon upon that dreary country shed, Ogier awoke, and lifting up his head And smiling, muttered, "Nay, no more again; Rather some pleasure new, some other pain, Unthought of both, some other form of strife;" For he had waked from dreams of his old life, And through St. Omer's archer-guarded gate Once more had seemed to pass, and saw the state Of that triumphant king; and still, though all Seemed changed, and folk by other names did call Faces he knew of old, yet none the less He seemed the same, and, midst that mightiness, Felt his own power, and grew the more athirst For coming glory, as of old, when first He stood before the face of Charlemaine, A helpless hostage with all life to gain. But now, awake, his worn face once more sank Between his hands, and, murmuring not, he drank The draught of death that must that thirst allay. But while he sat and waited for the day A sudden light across the bare rock streamed, Which at the first he noted not, but deemed The moon her fleecy veil had broken through; But ruddier indeed this new light grew Than were the moon's grey beams, and, therewithal, Soft far-off music on his ears did fall; Yet moved he not, but murmured, "This is death, An easy thing like this to yield my breath, Awake, yet dreaming, with no sounds of fear, No dreadful sights to tell me it is near; Yea, God, I thank Thee!" but with that last word It seemed to him that he his own name heard Whispered, as though the wind had borne it past; With that he gat unto his feet at last, But still awhile he stood, with sunken head, And in a low and trembling voice he said, "Lord, I am ready, whither shall I go? I pray Thee unto me some token show." And, as he said this, round about he turned, And in the east beheld a light that burned As bright as day; then, though his flesh might fear The coming change that he believed so near, Yet did his soul rejoice, for now he thought Unto the very heaven to be brought: And though he felt alive, deemed it might be That he in sleep had died full easily. Then toward that light did he begin to go, And still those strains he heard, far off and low, That grew no louder; still that bright light streamed Over the rocks, yet nothing brighter seemed, But like the light of some unseen bright flame Shone round about, until at last he came Unto the dreary islet's other shore, And then the minstrelsy he heard no more, And softer seemed the strange light unto him; But yet or ever it had grown quite dim, Beneath its waning light could he behold A mighty palace set about with gold, Above green meads and groves of summer trees Far-off across the welter of the seas; But, as he gazed, it faded from his sight, And the grey hidden moon's diffused soft light, Which soothly was but darkness to him now, His sea-girt island prison did but show. But o'er the sea he still gazed wistfully, And said, "Alas! and when will this go by And leave my soul in peace? must I still dream Of life that once so dear a thing did seem, That, when I wake, death may the bitterer be? Here will I sit until he come to me, And hide mine eyes and think upon my sin, That so a little calm I yet may win Before I stand within the awful place." Then down he sat and covered up his face, Yet therewithal his trouble could not hide, Nor waiting thus for death could he abide, For, though he knew it not, the yearning pain Of hope of life had touched his soul again— If he could live awhile, if he could live! The mighty being, who once was wont to give The gift of life to many a trembling man; Who did his own will since his life began; Who feared not aught, but strong and great and free Still cast aside the thought of what might be; Must all this then be lost, and with no will, Powerless and blind, must he some fate fulfil, Nor know what he is doing any more? Soon he arose and paced along the shore, And gazed out seaward for the blessed light; But nought he saw except the old sad sight, The ceaseless tumbling of the billows grey, The white upspringing of the spurts of spray Amidst that mass of timbers, the rent bones Of the sea-houses of the hapless ones Once cast like him upon this deadly isle. He stopped his pacing in a little while, And clenched his mighty hands, and set his teeth, And gazing at the ruin underneath, He swung from off the bare cliff's jagged brow, And on some slippery ledge he wavered now, Without a hand-hold, and now stoutly clung With hands alone, and o'er the welter hung, Not caring aught if thus his life should end; But safely midst all this did he descend The dreadful cliff, and since no beach was there, But from the depths the rock rose stark and bare, Nor crumbled aught beneath the hammering sea, Upon the wrecks he stood unsteadily. But now, amid the clamour of the waves, And washing to-and-fro of beams and staves, Dizzy with hunger, dreamy with distress, And all those days of fear and loneliness, The ocean's tumult seemed the battle's roar, His heart grew hot, as when in days of yore He heard the cymbals clash amid the crowd Of dusky faces; now he shouted loud, And from crushed beam to beam began to leap, And yet his footing somehow did he keep Amidst their tossing, and indeed the sea Was somewhat sunk upon the island's lee. So quickly on from wreck to wreck he passed, And reached the outer line of wrecks at last, And there a moment stood unsteadily, Amid the drift of spray that hurried by, And drew Courtain his sword from out its sheath, And poised himself to meet the coming death, Still looking out to sea; but as he gazed, And once or twice his doubtful feet he raised To take the final plunge, that heavenly strain Over the washing waves he heard again, And from the dimness something bright he saw Across the waste of waters towards him draw; And hidden now, now raised aloft, at last Unto his very feet a boat was cast, Gilded inside and out, and well arrayed With cushions soft; far fitter to have weighed From some sweet garden on the shallow Seine, Or in a reach of green Thames to have lain, Than struggle with that huge confusèd sea; But Ogier gazed upon it doubtfully One moment, and then, sheathing Courtain, said, "What tales are these about the newly dead The heathen told? what matter, let all pass; This moment as one dead indeed I was, And this must be what I have got to do, I yet perchance may light on something new Before I die; though yet perchance this keel Unto the wondrous mass of charmed steel Is drawn as others." With that word he leapt Into the boat, and o'er the cushions crept From stem to stern, but found no rudder there, Nor any oars, nor were the cushions fair Made wet by any dashing of the sea. Now while he pondered how these things could be, The boat began to move therefrom at last, But over him a drowsiness was cast, And as o'er tumbling hills the skiff did pass, He clean forgot his death and where he was. At last he woke up to a sunny day, And, looking round, saw that his shallop lay Moored at the edge of some fair tideless sea Unto an overhanging thick-leaved tree, Where in the green waves did the low bank dip Its fresh and green grass-covered daisied lip; But Ogier looking thence no more could see That sad abode of death and misery, Nor aught but wide and empty ocean, grey With gathering haze, for now it neared midday; Then from the golden cushions did he rise, And wondering still if this were Paradise He stepped ashore, but drew Courtain his sword And muttered therewithal a holy word. Fair was the place, as though amidst of May, Nor did the brown birds fear the sunny day, For with their quivering song the air was sweet; Thick grew the field-flowers underneath his feet, And on his head the blossoms down did rain, Yet mid these fair things slowly and with pain He 'gan to go, yea, even when his foot First touched the flowery sod, to his heart's root A coldness seemed to strike, and now each limb Was growing stiff, his eyes waxed bleared and dim, And all his stored-up memory 'gan to fail, Nor yet would his once mighty heart avail For lamentations o'er his changed lot; Yet urged by some desire, he knew not what, Along a little path 'twixt hedges sweet, Drawn sword in hand, he dragged his faltering feet, For what then seemed to him a weary way, Whereon his steps he needs must often stay And lean upon the mighty well-worn sword That in those hands, grown old, for king or lord Had small respect in glorious days long past. But still he crept along, and at the last Came to a gilded wicket, and through this Entered a garden fit for utmost bliss, If that might last which needs must soon go by: There 'gainst a tree he leaned, and with a sigh He said, "O God, a sinner I have been, And good it is that I these things have seen Before I meet what Thou hast set apart To cleanse the earthly folly from my heart; But who within this garden now can dwell Wherein guilt first upon the world befell?" A little further yet he staggered on, Till to a fountain-side at last he won, O'er which two white-thorns their sweet blossoms shed, There he sank down, and laid his weary head Beside the mossy roots, and in a while He slept, and dreamed himself within the isle; That splashing fount the weary sea did seem, And in his dream the fair place but a dream; But when again to feebleness he woke Upon his ears that heavenly music broke, Not faint or far as in the isle it was, But e'en as though the minstrels now did pass Anigh his resting-place; then fallen in doubt, E'en as he might, he rose and gazed about, Leaning against the hawthorn stem with pain; And yet his straining gaze was but in vain, Death stole so fast upon him, and no more Could he behold the blossoms as before, No more the trees seemed rooted to the ground, A heavy mist seemed gathering all around, And in its heart some bright thing seemed to be, And round his head there breathed deliciously Sweet odours, and that music never ceased. But as the weight of Death's strong hand increased Again he sank adown, and Courtain's noise Within the scabbard seemed a farewell voice Sent from the world he loved so well of old, And all his life was as a story told, And as he thought thereof he 'gan to smile E'en as a child asleep, but in a while It was as though he slept, and sleeping dreamed, For in his half-closed eyes a glory gleamed, As though from some sweet face and golden hair, And on his breast were laid soft hands and fair, And a sweet voice was ringing in his ears, Broken as if with flow of joyous tears; "Ogier, sweet friend, hast thou not tarried long? Alas! thine hundred years of strife and wrong!" Then he found voice to say, "Alas! dear Lord, Too long, too long; and yet one little word Right many a year agone had brought me here." Then to his face that face was drawn anear, He felt his head raised up and gently laid On some kind knee, again the sweet voice said, "Nay, Ogier, nay, not yet, not yet, dear friend! Who knoweth when our linked life shall end, Since thou art come unto mine arms at last, And all the turmoil of the world is past? Why do I linger ere I see thy face As I desired it in that mourning place So many years ago—so many years, Thou knewest not thy love and all her fears?" "Alas!" he said, "what mockery is this That thou wilt speak to me of earthly bliss? No longer can I think upon the earth, Have I not done with all its grief and mirth? Yes, I was Ogier once, but if my love Should come once more my dying heart to move, Then must she come from 'neath the milk-white walls Whereon to-day the hawthorn blossom falls Outside St. Omer's—art thou she? her name I could remember once mid death and fame Is clean forgotten now; but yesterday, Meseems, our son, upon her bosom lay: Baldwin the fair—what hast thou done with him Since Charlot slew him? Ah, mine eyes wax dim; Woman, forbear! wilt thou not let me die? Did I forget thee in the days gone by? Then let me die, that we may meet again!" He tried to move from her, but all in vain, For life had well-nigh left him, but withal He felt a kiss upon his forehead fall, And could not speak; he felt slim fingers fair Move to his mighty sword-worn hand, and there Set on some ring, and still he could not speak, And once more sleep weighed down his eyelids weak.