6

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the cas.e.m.e.nt! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight,) Then he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

1

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching-- Marching--marching-- King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

2

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her cas.e.m.e.nt, with muskets at their side!

There was death at every window; And h.e.l.l at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her cas.e.m.e.nt, the road that _he_ would ride.

3

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sn.i.g.g.e.ring jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!

"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.

She heard the dead man say-- _Look for me by moonlight;_ _Watch for me by moonlight;_ _I'll come to thee by moonlight, though h.e.l.l should bar the way!_

4

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

5

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!

Up, she stood to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

6

_Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!_ Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear-- _Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot_ in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding!

The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still!

7

_Tlot-tlot_, in the frosty silence! _Tlot-tlot_ in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

8

He turned; he spurred him Westward; he did not know who stood Bowed with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!

Not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

9

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden moon; wine-red was his velvet coat; When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

_And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,_ _When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,_ _When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_ _A highwayman comes riding--_ _Riding--riding--_ _A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door._

10

_Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;_ _And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;_ _He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there_ _But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,_ _Bess, the landlord's daughter,_ _Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._

THE BLUE CLOSET: WILLIAM MORRIS

THE DAMOZELS

Lady Alice, Lady Louise, Between the wash of the tumbling seas We are ready to sing, if so you please; So lay your long hands on the keys; Sing "_Laudate pueri._"

_And ever the great bell overhead_ _Boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead,_ _Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead._

LADY LOUISE

Sister, let the measure swell Not too loud; for you sing not well If you drown the faint boom of the bell; He is weary, so am I.

_And ever the chevron overhead_ _Flapp'd on the banner of the dead;_ (_Was he asleep, or was he dead?_)

LADY ALICE

Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen, Two damozels wearing purple and green, Four lone ladies dwelling here From day to day and year to year; And there is none to let us go; To break the locks of the doors below, Or shovel away the heap'd-up snow; And when we die no man will know That we are dead; but they give us leave, Once every year on Christmas-eve, To sing in the Closet Blue one song: And we should be so long, so long, If we dared, in singing; for, dream on dream, They float on in a happy stream; They float from the gold strings, float, from the keys, Float from the open'd lips of Louise: But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through The c.h.i.n.ks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;

_And ever the great bell overhead_ _Booms in the wind a knell for the dead,_ _The wind plays on it a knell for the dead._

(THEY SING ALL TOGETHER)

How long ago was it, how long ago, He came to this tower with hands full of snow?

"Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down," he said, And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.

He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair, Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.

"I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise, For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;

"In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears, But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;

"Yea, they grow gray with time, grow small and dry, I am so feeble now, would I might die."

_And in truth the great bell overhead_ _Left off pealing for the dead,_ _Perchance because the wind was--dead._