x.x.xVI.

Then in the night a trumpet; and the dull Close thud of horse and clash of Puritan arms; And glimmering helms swept by me. Sorrowful I stood and waited till upon the storm's Black breast, the Manse, a burning carbuncle, Blazed like a battle-beacon, and alarms Of onslaught clanged around it; then, like one Who bears with him G.o.d's curse, I galloped on.

The Forester

I met him here at Ammendorf one Spring.

It was the end of April and the Harz, Veined to their ruin-crested summits, seemed One pulse of tender green and delicate gold, Beneath a heaven that was like the face Of girlhood waking into motherhood.

Along the furrowed meadow, freshly ploughed, The patient oxen, loamy to the knees, Plodded or lowed or snuffed the fragrant soil; And in each thorntree hedge the wild bird sang A song to Spring, made of its own wild heart And soul, that heard the dairy-maiden May's Heart beating like a star at break of day, As, kissing ripe the blossoms, she drew near, Her mouth's sweet rose all dew-drops and perfume.

Here at this inn and underneath this tree We took our wine, the morning prismed in its Flame-angled gold.--A goodly vintage that!

Tang with the ripeness of full twenty years.

Rare! I remember!--wine that spurred the blood, That brought the heart glad to the limbered lip, And made the eyes unlatticed cas.e.m.e.nts where A man's true soul you could not help but see.

As royal a Rhenish, I will vouch to say, As that, old legends tell, which Necromance And Magic keep, gnome-guarded, in huge casks Of antique make deep in the Kyffhauser, The Cellar of the Knights near Sittendorf.-- So solaced of that wine we sat an hour.

He told me his intent in coming here.

His name was Rudolf; and his native home, Franconia; but no word of parentage: Only his mind to don the buff and green And live a forester with us and be Enfellowed in the Duke of Brunswick's train, And for the Duke's estate even now was bound.

Tall was he for his age and strong and brown, And lithe of limb; and with a face that seemed Hope's counterpart--but with the eyes of doubt; Deep restless disks, instinct with gleaming night, That seemed to say, "We're sure of earth, at least For some short s.p.a.ce, my friend; but afterward-- Nay! ransack not to-morrow till to-day, Lest it engulf thy joy before it is!"-- And when he spoke, the fire in his eyes Worked stealthy as a hunted animal's; Or like the Count von Hackelnburg's that turn, Feeling the unseen presence of a fiend.

Then, as it chanced, old Kurt had come that morn With some six of his jerkined foresters From the Thuringian forest; wet with dew, And fresh as morn with early travel; bound For Brunswick, Dummburg and the Hakel pa.s.sed.

Chief huntsman he then to our lord the Duke, And father of the loveliest maiden here In Ammendorf, the sunny Ilsabe: Her mother dead, the gray-haired father prized His daughter more than all that men hold dear; His only happiness, who was beloved Of all as Lora of Thuringia was, For gentle ways that spoke a n.o.ble soul, Winning all hearts to love her and to praise, As might a great and beautiful thought that holds Us by the simplest words.--Her eyes were blue As the high influence of a summer day.

Her hair,--serene and braided over brows White as a Harz dove's wing,--was auburn brown, And deep as mists the sun has drenched with gold.

And her young presence--well, 't was like a song, A far Tyrolean melody of love, Heard on an Alpine path at close of day When shepherds homeward lead their tinkling flocks.

And when she left, being with you awhile,-- How shall I say it?--'t was as when one hath Beheld an Undine by the moonlit Rhine, Who, ere the mind adjusts a thought, is gone, And in your soul you wonder if a dream.

Some thirty years ago it was;--and I, Commissioner of the Duke--(no sinecure I can a.s.sure you)--had scarce reached the age Of thirty,--that we sat here at our wine; And 't was through me that Rudolf,--whom at first, From some rash words dropped then in argument, The foresterhood was like to be denied,-- Was then enfellowed. "Yes," said I, "he's young.

Kurt, he is young; but see, a wiry frame; A chamois footing and a face for deeds; An eye that likes me not; too quick to turn; But that may be the restless soul within; A soul perhaps with virtues that have been Severely tried and could not stand the test; These be thy care, Kurt; and if not too deep In vices of the flesh, discover them, As divers bring lost riches up from ooze.

Thou hast a daughter; let him be thy son."

A year thereafter was it that I heard Of Rudolf's pa.s.sion for Kurt's Ilsabe; Then their betrothal. And it was from this,-- Good Mother Mary! how she haunts me still!

Sweet Ilsabe! whose higher womanhood, True as the touchstone which philosophers feign Trans.m.u.tes to gold base metals it may touch, Had turned to good all evil in this man,-- Surmised I of the excellency which Refinement of her purer company, And contact with her innocence, had resolved His fiery nature to, conditioning slave.

And so I came from Brunswick--as, you know, Is custom of the Duke or, by his seal Commissioned proxy, his commissioner-- To test the marksmanship of Rudolf, who Succeeded Kurt with marriage of his child, An heir of Kuno.--He?--Greatgrandfather Of Kurt; and of this forestkeepership The first possessor; thus established here-- Or this the tale they tell on winter nights: Kuno, once in the Knight of Wippach's train, Rode on a grand hunt with the Duke, who came,-- Grandfather of the father of our Duke,-- With much magnificence of knights and squires, Great velvet-vestured n.o.bles, cloaked and plumed, To hunt Thuringian deer. Then morn,--too quick To bid good-morrow,--was too slow for these, And on the wind-trod hills rec.u.mbent yawned Disturbed an hour too soon; all sleepy-eyed, Like some young milkmaid whom the c.o.c.k hath roused, Who sits and rubs stiff eyes that still will close.

Horns sang and deer-hounds tugged a whimpering leash, Or, loosened, bounded through the baying glens: And ere the mountain mists, compact of white, Broke wild before the azure spears of day, The far-off hunt, that woke the woods to life, Seemed but the heart-beat of the ancient hills.

And then, near noon, within a forest brake, The ban-dogs roused a red gigantic stag, Lashed to whose back with gnarly-knotted cords, And borne along like some pale parasite, A man shrieked: tangle-bearded, and wild hair A mane of forest-burs. The man himself, Emaciated and half-naked from The stag's mad flight through headlong rocks and trees, One bleeding bruise, with eyes like holes of fire.

For such the law then: when the peasant chased Or slew the dun deer of his tyrant lords, If seized, as punishment the withes and spine Of some strong stag, a gift to him of game, Enough till death--death in the antlered herd, Or slow starvation in the haggard hills.

Then was the great Duke glad, and forthwith cried To all his hunting train a rich reward For him who slew the stag and saved the man, But death for him who slew both man and stag.

So plunged the hunt after the hurrying slot, A shout and glimmer through the sounding woods,-- Like some mad torrent that the hills have loosed With death for goal.--'T was late; and none had risked That shot as yet,--too desperate the risk Beside the poor life and a little gold,-- When this young Kuno, with fierce eyes, wherein Hunt and impatience kindled reckless flame, Cried, "Has the dew then made our powder wet?

Or have we left our marksmanship at home?

Here's for its heart! the Fiend direct my ball!"-- And fired into a covert deeply packed, An intertangled wall of matted night, Wherein the eye might vainly strive and strive To pierce one fathom, earn one foot beyond.

But, ha! the huge stag staggered from the brake Hit full i' the heart. And that wan wretch, unbound, Was ta'en and cared for. Then his grace, the Duke, Charmed with the eagle aim, called Kuno up, And there to him and his forever gave The forestkeepership.

But envious tongues Were soon at wag; and whispered went the tale Of how the shot was free, and how the b.a.l.l.s Used by young Kuno were free bullets--which To say is: Lead by magic moulded, in The influence and directed, of the Fiend.

Of some effect these tales, and had some force Even with the Duke, who lent an ear so far As to ordain Kuno's descendants all To proof of skill ere their succession to The father's office. Kurt himself hath shot The silver ring out o' the popinjay's beak-- A good shot he, you see, who would succeed.

Of these enchanted bullets let me speak: There may be such; our Earth has things as strange, Perhaps, and stranger, that we doubt not of, While we behold, not only 'neath the thatch Of Ignorance's hovel, but within The pictured halls of Wisdom's palaces, How Superst.i.tion sits an honored guest.

A cross-way let it be among the hills; A cross-way in a solitude of pines; And on the lonely cross-way you must draw A blood-red circle with a b.l.o.o.d.y sword; And round the circle, runic characters, Gaunt and satanic; here a skull, and there A scythe and cross-bones, and an hour-gla.s.s here; And in the centre, fed with coffin-wood, Stol'n from the grave of one, a murderer, A smouldering fire. Eleven of the clock The first ball leaves the mold--the sullen lead Mixed with three bullets that have hit their mark, And blood, the wounded Sacramental Host Stolen, and hence unhallowed, oozed, when shot Fixed to a riven pine. Ere twelve o'clock With never a word until that hour sound, Must all the b.a.l.l.s be cast; and these must be In number three and sixty; three of which The Fiend's dark agent, demon Sammael, Claims for his master and stamps for his own To hit aside their mark, askew for harm.

The other sixty shall not miss their mark.

No cry, no word, no whisper, even though Vague, gesturing shapes, that loom like moonlit mists, Their faces human but with animal forms, Rise thick around and threaten to destroy.

No cry, no word, no whisper should there come, Weeping, a wandering shadow like the girl You love, or loved, now lost to you, her eyes Hollow with tears; all palely beckoning With beautiful arms, or censuring; her face Sad with a desolate love; who, if you speak Or waver from that circle--hideous change!-- Shrinks to a wrinkled hag, whose harpy hands Shall tear you limb from limb with horrible mirth.

Nor be deceived if some far midnight bell Strike that antic.i.p.ated hour; nor leave By one short inch the circle, for, unseen Though now they be, h.e.l.l's minions still are there, Watching with flaming eyes to seize your soul.

But when the hour of midnight sounds, be sure You have your bullets, neither more nor less; For if through fear one more or less you have, Your soul is forfeit to h.e.l.l's majesty.-- Then while the hour of midnight strikes, will come A noise of galloping hoofs and outriders, Shouting; six midnight steeds,--their nostrils, pits Of burning blood,--postilioned, roll a stage, Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire: "Room there!--ho! ho!--who bars the mountain-way?

On over him!"--But fear not, nor fare forth; 'T is but the last trick of your bounden slave.

And ere the red moon rushes through the clouds And dives again, high the huge leaders leap, Their fore-hoofs fire, and their eye-b.a.l.l.s flame, And, spun a spiral spark into the night, Whistling the phantom flies and fades away.

Some say there comes no stage; that Hackelnburg, Wild-huntsman of the Harz, comes dark as storm, With rain and wind and demon dogs of h.e.l.l, The terror of his hunting-horn, an owl, And the dim deer he hunts, rush on before; The forests crash, and whirlwinds are the leaves, And all the skies a-thunder, as he hurls Straight on the circle, horse and hounds and stag.

And at the last, plutonian-cloaked, there comes, Upon a stallion gaunt and lurid black, The minister of Satan, Sammael, Who greets you, and informs you, and a.s.sures.

Enough! these wives'-tales told, to what I've seen: To Ammendorf I came; and Rudolf here With Kurt and his a.s.sembled men, I met.

The abundant year,--like some sweet wife,--a-smile At her brown baby, Autumn, in her arms, Stood 'mid the garnered harvests of her fields Dreaming of days that pa.s.s like almoners Scattering their alms in minted gold of flowers; Of nights, that forest all the skies with stars, Wherethrough the moon--bare-bosomed huntress--rides, One cloud before her like a flying fawn.

Then I proposed the season's hunt; till eve The test of Rudolf's skill postponed, at which He seemed impatient. And 't was then I heard How he an execrable marksman was; And tales that told of near, incredible shots, That missed their mark; or how his flint-lock oft Flashed harmless powder, while the curious deer Stood staring; as in pity of such aim Bidding him try his marksmanship again.

Howbeit, he that day acquitted him Of all this gossip; in that day's long hunt Missing no shot, however rashly made Or distant through the intercepting trees.

And the piled, various game brought down of all Good marksmen of Kurt's train had not sufficed, Doubled, nay, trebled, there to match his heap.

And marvelling the hunters saw, nor knew How to excuse them. My indulgence giv'n, Some told me that but yesterday old Kurt Had made his daughter weep and Rudolf frown, By vowing end to their betrothed love, Unless that love developed better aim Against the morrow's test; his ancestors'

High fame should not be tarnished. So he railed; And bowed his gray head and sat moodily; But looking up, forgave all when he saw Tears in his daughter's eyes and Rudolf gone Out in the night black with approaching storm.

Before this inn, yonder and here, they stood, The holiday village come to view the trial: Fair maidens and their comely mothers with Their sweethearts and their husbands. And I marked Kurt and his daughter here; his florid face All jubilant at Rudolf's great success; Hers, radiant with happiness; for this Her marriage eve--so had her father said-- Should Rudolf come successful from the hunt.

So pleased was I with what I'd seen him do, The trial of skill superfluous seemed, and so Was on the bare brink of announcing, when Out of the western heaven's deepening red,-- Like a white message dropped by rosy lips,-- A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there, Upon that limb, a peaceful moment sat.

Then I, "Thy rifle, Rudolf! pierce its head!"

Cried pointing, "and chief-forester art thou!"-- Why did he falter with a face as strange As a dark omen? did his soul foresee What was to be with tragic prescience?-- What a bad dream it all seems now!--Again I see him aim. Again I hear the cry, "My dove! O Rudolf, do not kill my dove!"

And from the crowd, like some sweet dove herself, A fluttering whiteness, came our Ilsabe-- Too late! the rifle cracked ... The unhurt dove Rose, beating frightened wings--but Ilsabe!...

The sight! the sight!... lay smitten; a red stain, Sullying the pureness of her bridal bodice, Showed where the ball had pierced her through the heart.

And Rudolf?--Ah, of him you still would know?-- When he beheld this thing that he had done, Why he went mad--I say--but others not.

An hour he raved of how her life had paid For the unholy bullets he had used, And how his soul was three times lost and d.a.m.ned.

I say that he went mad and fled forthwith Into the haunted Harz.--Some say, to die The prey of demons of the Dummburg ruin.

I, one of those less superst.i.tious, say, He in the Bode--from that blackened rock,-- Whereon were found his hunting-cap and gun,-- The Devil's Dancing Place, did leap and die.

My Lady of Verne

It all comes back as the end draws near; All comes back like a tale of old!

Shall I tell you all? Will you lend an ear?

You, with your face so stern and cold; You, who have found me dying here ...

Lady Leona's villa at Verne-- You have walked its terraces, where the fount And statue gleam and the fluted urn; Its world-old elms, that are avenues gaunt Of shadow and flame when the West is a-burn.

'T is a lonely region of tarns and trees, And hollow hills that circle the West; Haunted of rooks and the far-off sea's Immemorial vague unrest; A land of sorrowful memories.

A gray sad land, where the wind has its will, And the sun its way with the fruits and flowers; Where ever the one all night is shrill, And ever the other all day brings hours Of glimmering silence that dead days fill.

A gray sad land, where her girlhood grew To womanhood proud, that the hill-winds seemed To give their heart, like melody, to; And the stars, their soul, like a dream undreamed-- The only glad thing that the sad land knew.

My Lady, you know, how n.o.bly born!

Haughty of form, with a head that rose Like a dream of empire; love and scorn Made haunts of her eyes; and her lips were bows Whence pride imperious flashed flower and thorn.

And I--oh, I was n.o.body: one Her worshiper only; who chose to be Silent, seeing that love alone Was his only badge of n.o.bility, Set in his heart's escutcheon.

How long ago does the springtime look, When we wandered away to the hills! the hills,-- Like the land in the tale in the fairy-book,-- Covered with gold of the daffodils, And gemmed with the crocus by brae and brook!

When I gathered a branch from a hawthorn tree, For her hair or bosom, from boughs that hung Odorous of heaven and purity; And she thanked me smiling; then merrily sung, Laughingly sung, while she looked at me:--

"There dwelt a princess over the sea-- Right fair was she, right fair was she-- Who loved a squire of low degree, But married a king of Brittany-- Ah, woe is me!