In northern lands, where over valleys bare,
Wan clouds lie heavy on the sullen air,
And silent plains, barren of shrub and tree,
Merge their drear grayness in a sombre sea,
There stands, amid the waste, a ruined tower,
Wherein a fair Queen made her winsome bower,
When knighthood's glory was no empty name,
And life was held as nothingness to fame.
There, like a bloom from some far tropic land,
Thrown desolate upon the moaning sand,
She saw the red sun rise, and set, and rise,
And wander like a flame across the skies,
His lurid light, the one bright thing that lay
Within the narrow boundary of her day,
Save when the winds from the far North would roam,
And fill the waves with flecks of phosphor foam.
Then, though the land was stern and bitter cold,
The bay full many a busy ship would hold;
And the wide streets were loud with passing feet,
And in the market-place for trade would meet
Merchants from lands that lie far leagues away,
And even swarthy Mongols from Cathay
Came, with their fragrant teas and dreamy eyes,
To shrewdly barter with the over-wise.
The ruler of this land, her sovereign lord,
Was hard of heart, and ready with the sword;
And when she came, red-lipped and fair of face,
Making a radiance in the dreary place,
He had no kind word for her youthful bloom,
But led her onward through the wintry gloom,
And bidding that a page await her call,
Left her, a stranger, in his castle's hall.
Slowly she wandered through the dark abode,
Where each chill room seemed freighted with a load
Of sin or grief, and at the last she came
To this small tower, and saw the sun's red flame
Smite through the shadows like a sword, and here,
Because the sea beyond lay wide and clear,
She made her home, and bade them hither bring
Soft silks, and lace, and every beauteous thing.
And so they gathered tapestries and gold,
And paintings that of love and prowess told,
And ivory carvings, made by patient hands
In unknown corners of far Orient lands,
Flowers of rare hue and fragrance subtly sweet,
And soft bright rugs to guard her dainty feet,
And while the great winds shook their cloudy plumes,
Warm light and perfume filled her lofty rooms.
And here for months she waited all forlorn,
While in the hills, following the huntsman's horn,
Or on the sea, sweeping with fierce array
Along some sterile waste or sunlit bay,
The king went with his men, and left behind
Sad wreck and ruin, and hot tears that blind,
Where signs of war marked the ensanguined plain,
And ravished women wept their husbands slain.
The months grew into years, whose slow steps fell
Like the sad, monotonous tolling of a bell
Telling of death, amid her wasted life:
What good to her was the high name of wife?
What good to her the pageantry and state,
Of victories that made her husband great?
Her weary heart could find no joy in this,
While her red lips were barren of a kiss.
There came a time, when, having fought and won
In stubborn fight, with foes whose arms had run
Full many a foray through his wide domains,
The king came marching back along the plains,
And saw, just at the borders of the night,
A high tower flame with sudden stars of light,
And then he thought, " Surely my Queen lives there,
And all the world says she is very fair —
And tired am I of this mad toil and heat;
Lo, I will rest, and taste of love, for sweet
The banquet is " — and thus was led once more
Unto his castle on the surf-beat shore,
And sought his Queen, and when he came where she
Had waited, longing, for this time to be,
They pulled the curtains backward from the bed,
And there the Queen lay, sweet, and fair, and dead.
Then like a flash that parts the gloom, and falls,
A breath of desolation on the walls
Once strong and stately, through his spirit drove
The longing and intensity of love;
And with a cry that smote death's hungry ears,
Like music flung from off resounding spheres,
He cast himself beside the silent form,
And sorrow filled him with its restless storm.
They made her grave high on a windy hill,
And though the king strove with a mighty will
To lose his sorrow, still to him it clung.
No more his banners to the breeze were flung,
But with slow steps, and wan and moody face
He came and went about the dreary place,
Yet never passed the portal of her room,
Where spiders wove amid the haunted gloom.
His sword and mail grew red with idle rust,
His standards heavy with their hoarded dust,
And he alone, of all his brilliant host
Roamed through the place like some forgotten ghost;
And in the streets were signs of swift decay,
No more the ships came sailing up the bay,
The markets echoed to no busy stride,
And lifeless docks moaned to the ebbing tide.
At last they found him one chill winter morn,
His long white hair upon the wind outborne,
Clinging, with stiff hands, to the gate that led
Where lay the Queen that he had loved when dead;
And without state or ceremony bore
His weary form within the narrow door,
Then passed away, and ruin stalked alone,
Through wide, deserted wastes of crumbling stone.
Wan clouds lie heavy on the sullen air,
And silent plains, barren of shrub and tree,
Merge their drear grayness in a sombre sea,
There stands, amid the waste, a ruined tower,
Wherein a fair Queen made her winsome bower,
When knighthood's glory was no empty name,
And life was held as nothingness to fame.
There, like a bloom from some far tropic land,
Thrown desolate upon the moaning sand,
She saw the red sun rise, and set, and rise,
And wander like a flame across the skies,
His lurid light, the one bright thing that lay
Within the narrow boundary of her day,
Save when the winds from the far North would roam,
And fill the waves with flecks of phosphor foam.
Then, though the land was stern and bitter cold,
The bay full many a busy ship would hold;
And the wide streets were loud with passing feet,
And in the market-place for trade would meet
Merchants from lands that lie far leagues away,
And even swarthy Mongols from Cathay
Came, with their fragrant teas and dreamy eyes,
To shrewdly barter with the over-wise.
The ruler of this land, her sovereign lord,
Was hard of heart, and ready with the sword;
And when she came, red-lipped and fair of face,
Making a radiance in the dreary place,
He had no kind word for her youthful bloom,
But led her onward through the wintry gloom,
And bidding that a page await her call,
Left her, a stranger, in his castle's hall.
Slowly she wandered through the dark abode,
Where each chill room seemed freighted with a load
Of sin or grief, and at the last she came
To this small tower, and saw the sun's red flame
Smite through the shadows like a sword, and here,
Because the sea beyond lay wide and clear,
She made her home, and bade them hither bring
Soft silks, and lace, and every beauteous thing.
And so they gathered tapestries and gold,
And paintings that of love and prowess told,
And ivory carvings, made by patient hands
In unknown corners of far Orient lands,
Flowers of rare hue and fragrance subtly sweet,
And soft bright rugs to guard her dainty feet,
And while the great winds shook their cloudy plumes,
Warm light and perfume filled her lofty rooms.
And here for months she waited all forlorn,
While in the hills, following the huntsman's horn,
Or on the sea, sweeping with fierce array
Along some sterile waste or sunlit bay,
The king went with his men, and left behind
Sad wreck and ruin, and hot tears that blind,
Where signs of war marked the ensanguined plain,
And ravished women wept their husbands slain.
The months grew into years, whose slow steps fell
Like the sad, monotonous tolling of a bell
Telling of death, amid her wasted life:
What good to her was the high name of wife?
What good to her the pageantry and state,
Of victories that made her husband great?
Her weary heart could find no joy in this,
While her red lips were barren of a kiss.
There came a time, when, having fought and won
In stubborn fight, with foes whose arms had run
Full many a foray through his wide domains,
The king came marching back along the plains,
And saw, just at the borders of the night,
A high tower flame with sudden stars of light,
And then he thought, " Surely my Queen lives there,
And all the world says she is very fair —
And tired am I of this mad toil and heat;
Lo, I will rest, and taste of love, for sweet
The banquet is " — and thus was led once more
Unto his castle on the surf-beat shore,
And sought his Queen, and when he came where she
Had waited, longing, for this time to be,
They pulled the curtains backward from the bed,
And there the Queen lay, sweet, and fair, and dead.
Then like a flash that parts the gloom, and falls,
A breath of desolation on the walls
Once strong and stately, through his spirit drove
The longing and intensity of love;
And with a cry that smote death's hungry ears,
Like music flung from off resounding spheres,
He cast himself beside the silent form,
And sorrow filled him with its restless storm.
They made her grave high on a windy hill,
And though the king strove with a mighty will
To lose his sorrow, still to him it clung.
No more his banners to the breeze were flung,
But with slow steps, and wan and moody face
He came and went about the dreary place,
Yet never passed the portal of her room,
Where spiders wove amid the haunted gloom.
His sword and mail grew red with idle rust,
His standards heavy with their hoarded dust,
And he alone, of all his brilliant host
Roamed through the place like some forgotten ghost;
And in the streets were signs of swift decay,
No more the ships came sailing up the bay,
The markets echoed to no busy stride,
And lifeless docks moaned to the ebbing tide.
At last they found him one chill winter morn,
His long white hair upon the wind outborne,
Clinging, with stiff hands, to the gate that led
Where lay the Queen that he had loved when dead;
And without state or ceremony bore
His weary form within the narrow door,
Then passed away, and ruin stalked alone,
Through wide, deserted wastes of crumbling stone.