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DEAD AND GONE
II wot well o' his goingTo think in flowers fair; —His a right kind heart, my dear,To give the grass such hair.III wot well o' his lyingSuch nights out in the cold, —To list the cricket's crick, my sweet,To see the glow-worm's gold.IIIAn mine eyes be laughterful,Well may they laugh, I trow, —Since two dead eyes a yesternightGazed in them sad enow.IVAn my heart make moan and ache,Well may it dree, I'm sure; —He is dead and gone, my love,And it is beggar poor.A MABINOGI
IN samite sark yclad was she;And that fair glimmerish band of goldWhich crowned long, savage locks of hairIn the moon brent cold.She with big eyeballs gloomed and glowered,And lightly hummed some Elfin's song,And one could naught save on her stareAnd fare along.Yea; sad and lute-like was that songAnd softly said its mystery;Which quaintly sang in elden verse"Thy love I'll be."And oft it said: "I love thee true,Sir Ewain, champion of the fair."And never wist he what a witchWas that one there.And never wist he that a witchHad bound him with her wily hair,Eke with dark art had ta'en his heartTo slay him there.And all his soul did wax amortTo stars, to hills, to slades, to streams,And it but held that sorceress fairAs one of dreams.And now he kens some castle grayWild turrets ivied, in the moon,Old, where through woodlands foaming onA torrent shone…In its high hall full twenty knightsWith visors barred all sternly stand;The following of some gracious brave,Lord of the land.And lo! when that dim damoselMoved down the hall, they louted low;And she was queen of all that band,That dame of snow.Now on that knight she stared eftsoons,And cried on high unto her crew,"Behold! Sir Knights, the dastard braveYour king that slew."And all those heathen knights wox wildAttonce; and all against him drave;Long battle blades and daggers brightAloft did wave.The press on him puissant bareAnd smote him to the rush-strown earth; —Tall, tall o'er all that Fairy roseAloud with mirth.GENIUS LOCI
IWHAT deity for dozing lazinessDevised the lounging coziness of thisEnchanted nook? – and how! – did I distressHis musing ease that fled but now, or hisLaughed frolic with some forest-sister, fairAs those wild hill-carnations are and rare?Too true, alas! – Feel! the wild moss is warmAnd moist with late reclining, as the palmOf what hot Hamadryad, who, a-nap,Props her hale cheek upon it, while her armWeak wind-flowers bury; in her hair the balmOf a whole Spring of blossoms and of sap?IISee, how the dented moss, that pads the humpOf these distorted roots, elastic springsFrom that god's late departure; lump by lump,Pale tufts impressed twitch loose in nervous rings,As crowding stars qualm thro' gray evening skies.Indulgence grant thou my profane surprise,Pray! – then to dream where thou didst dream before,Benevolent! … here where the veiny leavesBask broad the fuzzy bosoms of their handsO'er wistful waters: 'neath this sycamore,Smooth, giraffe-brindled, where each ripple weavesA twinkling quiver as of marching bandsIIIOf Elfin chivalry, that, helmed with gold,Split spilled the scaley sunbeams wrinkled off.What brought thee here? – This wind that steals the oldWeird legends from the forests, with a scoffTo laugh them thro' their beards? Or, in those weeds,The hermit brook so busy with his beads? —How many Aves, Paters doth he sayIn one droned minute on his rosaryOf bubbles – wot'st thou? – Pucker-eyed didst markYon lank hag-tapers, yellow by yon way,A haggard company of seven? – SeeHow dry swim by such curled brown bits of bark?IVDidst mark the ghostly gold of this grave, still,Conceited minnow thro' these twisted roots,Thrust o'er the smoky topaz of this rill,Dull-slumbering here? Or did those insect flutes —Sleepy with sunshine – buzz thee that forlornTale of Tithonus and the bashful Morn?Until two tears gleamed in the stealing streamTrembling its polish o'er the winking grail? —Nay! didst perplex thee with some poet planTo drug this air with beauty to make dream, —Ah, discreet Cunning, watching in yon vale! —Me, wildwood-wandered from the marts of Man!