and therewithin a philter6 lay
as pale as water thin and grey
that spills from stony fountains frore7
75
in hollow pools in caverns hoar.8
He thanked her, trembling, offering gold
to withered fingers shrunk and old.
The thanks she took not, nor the fee,
but laughing croaked: ‘Nay, we shall see!
80
Let thanks abide till thanks be earned!
Such potions oft, men say, have burned
the heart and brain, or else are nought,
only cold water dearly bought.
Such lies you shall not tell of me;
85
Till it is earned I’ll have no fee.
But we shall meet again one day,
and rich reward then you shall pay,
what e’er I ask: it may be gold,
it may be other wealth you hold.’
90
In Britain ways are wild and long,
and woods are dark with danger strong;
and sound of seas is in the leaves,
and wonder walks the forest-eaves.
The way was long, the woods were dark;
95
at last the lord beheld the spark
of living light from window high,
and knew his halls and towers were nigh.
At last he slept in weary sleep
beside his wife, and dreaming deep,
100
he walked with children yet unborn
in gardens fair, until the morn
came slowly through the windows tall,
and shadows moved across the wall.
Then sprang the day with weather fair,
105
for windy rain had washed the air,
and blue and cloudless, clean and high,
above the hills was arched the sky,
and foaming in the northern breeze
beneath the sky there shone the seas.
110
Arising then to greet the sun,
and day with a new thought begun,
that lord in guise of joy him clad,
and masked his mind in manner glad;
his mouth unwonted laughter used
115
and words of mirth. He oft had mused,
walking alone with furrowed brow;
a feast he bade prepare him now.
And ‘Itroun mine,’ he said, ‘my life,
’tis long that thou hast been my wife.
120
Too swiftly by in love do slip
our gentle years, and as a ship
returns to port, we soon shall find
once more that day of spring we mind,
when we were wed, and bells were rung.
125
But still we love, and still are young:
A merry feast we’ll make this year,
and there shall come no sigh nor tear;
and we will feign our love begun
in joy anew, anew to run
130
down happy paths – and yet, maybe,
we’ll pray that this year we may see
our heart’s desire more quick draw nigh
than yet we have seen it, thou and I;
for virtue is in hope and prayer.’
135
So spake he gravely, seeming-fair.
In Britain’s land across the seas
the spring is merry in the trees;
the birds in Britain’s woodlands pair
when leaves are long and flowers are fair.
140
A merry feast that year they made,
when blossom white on bush was laid;
there minstrels sang and wine was poured,
as it were the marriage of a lord.
A cup of silver wrought he raised
145
and smiling on the lady gazed:
‘I drink to thee for health and bliss,
fair love,’ he said, ‘and with this kiss
the pledge I pass. Come, drink it deep!
The wine is sweet, the cup is steep!’
150
The wine was red, the cup was grey;
but blended there a potion lay
as pale as water thin and frore
in hollow pools of caverns hoar.
She drank it, laughing with her eyes.
155
‘Aotrou, lord and love,’ she cries,
‘all hail and life both long and sweet,
wherein desire at last to meet!’
Now days ran on in great delight
with hope at morn and mirth at night;
160
and in the garden of his dream
the lord would walk, and there would deem
he saw two children, boy and maid,
that fair as flowers danced and played
on lawns of sunlight without hedge
165
save a dark shadow at their edge.
Though spring and summer wear and fade,
though flowers fall and leaves are laid,
and winter winds his trumpet loud,
and snows both fell and forest shroud,
170
though roaring seas upon the shore
go long and white, and neath the door
the wind cries with houseless voice,
in fire and song yet men rejoice,
till as a ship returns to port
175
the spring comes back to field and court.
A song now falls from windows high,
like silver dropping from the sky,
soft in the early eve of spring.
‘Why do they play? Why do they sing?’
180
‘Light may she lie, our lady fair!
Too long hath been her cradle bare.
Yestreve there came as I passed by
the cry of babes from windows high.
Twin children, I am told there be.
185
Light may they lie and sleep, all three!’
‘Would every prayer were answered twice!
The half or nought must oft suffice
for humbler men, who wear their knees
more bare than lords, as oft one sees.’
190
‘Not every lord wins such fair grace.
Come wish them speed with kinder face!
Light may she lie, my lady fair;
long live her lord her joy to share!’
A manchild and an infant maid
195
as fair as flowers in bed were laid.
Her joy was come, her pain was passed;
in mirth and ease Itroun at last
in her fair chamber softly lay
singing to her babes lullay.
200
Glad was her lord, as grave he stood
beside her bed of carven wood.
‘Now full,’ he said, ‘is granted me
both hope and prayer, and what of thee?
Is ’t not, fair love, most passing sweet
205
the heart’s desire at last to meet?
Yet if thy heart still longing hold,
or lightest wish remain untold,
that will I find and bring to thee,
though I should ride both land and sea!’
210
‘Aotrou mine,’ she said, ‘’tis sweet
at last the heart’s desire to meet,
thus after waiting, after prayer,
thus after hope and nigh despair.
I would not have thee run nor ride
215
to-day nor ever from my side;
yet after sickness, after pain,
oft cometh hunger sharp again.’
‘Nay, love, if thirst or hunger strange
for bird or beast on earth that range,
220
for wine, or water from what well
in any secret fount or dell
,
vex thee,’ he smiled, ‘now swift declare!
If more than gold or jewel rare,
from greenwood, haply, fallow deer,
225
or fowl that swims the shallow mere
thou cravest, I will bring it thee,
though I should hunt o’er land and lea.
No gold nor silk nor jewel bright
can match my gladness and delight,
230
the boy and maiden lily-fair
that here do lie and thou did’st bear.’
‘Aotrou, lord,’ she said, ‘’tis true,
a longing strong and sharp I knew
in dream for water cool and clear,
235
and venison of the greenwood deer,
for waters crystal-clear and cold
and deer no earthly forests hold;
and still in waking comes unsought
the foolish wish to vex my thought.
240
But I would not have thee run nor ride
to-day nor ever from my side.’
In Brittany beyond the seas
the wind blows ever through the trees;
in Brittany the forest pale
245
marches slow over hill and dale.
There seldom far the horns were wound,
and seldom hunted horse and hound.
The lord his lance of ashwood caught,
the wine was to his stirrup brought;
250
with bow and horn he rode alone,
and iron smote the fire from stone,
as his horse bore him o’er the land
to the green boughs of Broceliande,
to the green dales where listening deer
255
there startling now they stare and stand,
as his horn winds in Broceliande.
Beneath the woodland’s hanging eaves
a white doe startled under leaves;
260
strangely she glistered in the sun
as she leaped forth and turned to run.
Then reckless after her he spurred;
dim laughter in the woods he heard,
but heeded not, a longing strange
265
for deer that fair and fearless range
vexed him, for venison of the beast
whereon no mortal hunt shall feast,
for waters crystal-clear and cold
that never in holy fountain rolled.
270
He hunted her from the forest eaves
into the twilight under leaves;
the earth was shaken under hoof,
till the boughs were bent into a roof,
and the sun was woven in a snare;
275
and laughter still was on the air.
The sun was falling. In the dell
deep in the forest silence fell.
No sight nor slot9 of doe he found
but roots of trees upon the ground,
280
and trees like shadows waiting stood
for night to come upon the wood.
The sun was lost, all green was grey.
There twinkled the fountain of the fay,
before a cave on silver sand,
285
under dark boughs in Broceliande.
Soft was the grass and clear the pool;
he laved his face in water cool.
He saw her then, on silver chair
before her cavern, pale her hair,
290
slow was her smile, and white her hand
beckoning in Broceliande.
The moonlight falling clear and cold
her long hair lit; through comb of gold
she drew each lock, and down it fell
295
like the fountain falling in the dell.
He heard her voice, and it was cold
as echo from the world of old,
ere fire was found or iron hewn,
when young was mountain under moon.
300
He heard her voice like water falling
or wind upon a long shore calling,
yet sweet the words: ‘We meet again
here after waiting, after pain!
Aotrou! Lo! thou hast returned –
305
perchance some kindness I have earned?
What hast thou, lord, to give to me
whom thou hast come thus far to see?’
‘I know thee not, I know thee not,
nor ever saw thy darkling grot.
310
O Corrigan! ’twas not for thee
I hither came a-hunting free!’
‘How darest then, my water wan
to trouble thus, or look me on?
For this at least I claim my fee,
315
if ever thou wouldst wander free.
With love thou shalt me here requite,
for here is long and sweet the night;
in druery10 dear thou here shalt deal,
in bliss more deep than mortals feel.’
320
‘I gave no love. My love is wed;
my wife now lieth in child-bed,
and I curse the beast that cheated me
and drew me to this dell to thee.’
Her smiling ceased, and slow she said:
325
‘Forget thy wife; for thou shalt wed
anew with me, or stand as stone
and wither lifeless and alone,
as stone beside the fountain stand
forgotten in Broceliande.’
330
‘I will not stand here turned to stone;
but I will leave thee cold, alone,
and I will ride to mine own home
and the waters blest of Christendome.’
‘But three days then and thou shalt die;
335
in three days on thy bier lie!’
‘In three days I shall live at ease,
and die but when it God doth please
in eld,11 or in some time to come
in the brave wars of Christendom.’
340
In Britain’s land beyond the waves
are forests dim and secret caves;
in Britain’s land the breezes bear
the sound of bells along the air
to mingle with the sound of seas
345
for ever moving in the trees.
The wandering way was long and wild;
at last the hunter heard the knell
at morning of the sacring-bell;
350
escaped from thicket and from fen
at last he saw the tilth12 of men;
the hoar and houseless hills he passed,
and weary at his gates him cast.
‘Good steward, if thou love me well,
355
bid make my bed! My heart doth swell;
my limbs are numb with heavy sleep,
and drowsy poisons in them creep.
All night, as in a fevered maze,
I have ridden dark and winding ways.’
360
To bed they brought him and to sleep:
in sunless thickets tangled deep
he dreamed, and wandering found no more
the garden green, but on the shore
the seas were moaning in the wind;
365
a face before him leered and grinned:
‘Now it is earned, come bring to me
my fee,’ a voice said, ‘bring my fee!’
Beside a fountain falling cold
the Corrigan now shrunk and old
370
was sitting singing; in her claw
a comb of bony teeth he saw,
with which she raked her tresses grey,
but in her other hand there
lay
a phial of glass with water filled
375
that from the bitter fountain spilled.
At eve he waked and murmured: ‘Ringing
of bells within my ears, and singing,
a singing is beneath the moon.
Grieve not my wife! Grieve not Itroun!
380
My death is near – but do not tell,
though I am wounded with a spell!
But two days more, and then I die –
and I would have had her sweetly lie
and sweet arise; and live yet long,
385
and see our children hale and strong.’
His words they little understood,
but cursed the fevers of the wood,
and to their lady no word spoke.
Ere second morn was old she woke,
390
and to her women standing near
gave greeting with a merry cheer:
‘Good people, lo! the morn is bright!
Say, did my lord return ere night,
and tarries now with hunting worn?’
395
‘Nay, lady, he came not with the morn;
but ere men candles set on board,
thou wilt have tidings of thy lord;
or hear his feet to thee returning,
ere candles in the eve are burning.’
400
Ere the third morn was wide she woke,
and eager greeted them, and spoke:
‘Behold the morn is cold and grey,
and why is my lord so long away?
I do not hear his feet returning
405
neither at evening nor at morning.’
‘We do not know, we cannot say,’
they answered and they turned away.
Her gentle babes in swaddling white,
now seven days had seen the light,
410
and she arose and left her bed,
and called her maidens and she said:
‘My lord must soon return. Come, bring
my fairest raiment, stone on ring,
and pearl on thread; for him ’twill please
415
to see his wife abroad at ease.’
She looked from window tall and high,
and felt a breeze go coldly by;
she saw it pass from tree to tree;
the clouds were laid from hill to sea.
420
She heard no horn and heard no hoof,
but rain came pattering on the roof;
in Brittany she heard the waves
on sounding shore in hollow caves.
The day wore on till it was old;
425
she heard the bells that slowly tolled.
‘Good folk, why do they mourning make?
In tower I hear the slow bells shake,
and Dirige13 the white priests sing.
Whom to the churchyard do they bring?’
430
‘A man unhappy here there came
a while agone. His horse was lame;
sickness was on him, and he fell
before our gates, or so they tell.
Here he was harboured, but to-day
435
he died, and passeth now the way