Collected Works (Vol. I)

192 THE TEMPLE OF THE HOLY GHOST One moment, and I should have passed be- yond Linked unto Spirit by the fourfold bond. Not dead to earth, but living as divine, A priest, a king, an oracle, a shrine, A saviour! Yet my misty spirit conned The secret murmur: ‘‘ Gereth, Iam thine !” [ must have listened to the voice of hell. The earthly horror wove its serpent spell Against the Beauty of the World: I heard Desolate voices cry the doleful word “*Unready !”’ All the soul invisible Of that vast desert echoed, and concurred. The voices died in mystery away. I passed, confounded, lifeless as the clay, Somewhere I knew not. Many a dismal league Of various terror wove me its intrigue, And many a demon daunted: day by day Death dogged despair, and misery fatigue. Behold ! T came with haggard mien again Into the halJ, and mingled with the train, A corpse amid the dancers. Then the king Saw me, and knew me—and he knew the ring! He did not ask me how I sped: disdain Curled his old lips: he said one bitter thing. ‘Vou crossed the bridge—no man’s heart trod you there?” Then crossed his breast in uttering some prayer: “T pray you follow of your courtesy, My lord!” I followed very bitterly. ‘© Likes you the sword I gave?” I did not dare Answer one word. My soul was hating me. He bade me draw. I silently obeyed. My eye shirked his as blade encountered blade. I was determined he should take my life. ‘Went your glance back—-encountering my wife ?” ‘““Taunt me afraid !” My whole soul weary of the coward strife. _ 17? I cried; ‘‘I will not be He seemed to see no opening I gave, But hated me the more. Serene and suave, He fenced with deep contempt. I stumble, slip, Guard wide—and only move his upper lip. ‘* You know I will not strike, Sir pure and brave ! Fight me your best—or I shall finda whip !” That stung me, even me. SO: Therefore some shame and hate informed the blow ; Some coward’s courage pointed me the steel ; Some strength of Hell: we lunge, and leap, and wheel ; Hard breath and laboured hands—the flashes grow Swifter and cruel—this court hath no appeal ! He wronged me, He gladdened then. I would not slip again, And baulk the death of half its shame and pain. I, his best sword, must fall, in earnest fight. The old despair was coward—he was right. Now, king, I pay your debt. A purple stain Hides his laced throat—I sober at the sight. ‘‘King, you are touched!” “Fight on, Earl Lecherer !”’ I cursed him to his face—the added spur Sticks venom in my lunge—a sudden thrust ! No cry, no gasp; but he is in the dust, Stark dead. The queen—I hate the name of her! So grew the mustard-seed, one moment’s lust. I too was wounded: shameful runs the song. She nursed me through that melancholy long Month of despair: she won my life from death. Ah God ! she won that most reluctant breath Out of corruption: love! ah ! love is strong ! What waters quench it? King Shalomeh saith. 1 Hebrew form of Solomon. See Canticles viii. 6, 7.