In the dark, green, lonely avenue The Ladye her love-watch keepeth, Listening so close that she can hear The very dripping of the dew Stirred by the worm as it creepeth; Straining her ear For her lover's coming Till his steed seems near In the bee's far humming. She stands in the silent avenue, Her back to a cypress tree; O Savoyard once bold and true, Late bridegroom, where canst thou be? Hark! o'er the bridge that spans the river There cometh a clattering tread, Never was shaft from mortal quiver Ever so swiftly sped. Onward the sound, Bound after, bound, Leapeth along the tremulous ground. {177} From the nodding forest darting. Leaves, like water, round them parting. Up the long green avenue, Horse and horseman buret in view. Marry, what ails the bridegroom gay That he strideth a coal black steed, Why cometh he not on the gallant Grey That never yet failed him at need? Gone is the white plume, that clouded his crest, And the love-scarf that lightly lay over his breast; Dark is his shield as the raven's wing To the funeral banquet hurrying. Came ever knight in such sad array On the merry morn of his bridal day? The Ladye trembles, and well she may; Saints, you would think him a fiend astray. A plunge, a pause, and, fast beside her. Stand the sable horse and rider. Alas, Christine, this shape of wrath In Palestine once crossed thy path; His arm around thy waist, I trow, To bear thee to his saddle-bow. But thy Savoyard was there. In time to save, tho' not to smite, For the demon fled into the night From Miolan's matchless heir. Alas, Christine, that lance lies low-- Lies low on oaken bier! Low bent the Wizard, till his plume O'ershadowed her like falling doom: She feels the cold casque touch her ear, She hears the whisper, hollow, clear,-- "From Acre's strand, from Holy Land, O'er mountain crag, through desert sand, By land, by sea, I come for thee. And mine ere sunset shalt thou be! Dost know me, girl?" The visor raises-- God, 'tis the Knight of Pilate's Peak! As if in wildered dream she gazes, Gazing as one who strives to shriek. She cannot fly, or speak, or stir, For that face of horror glares, at her Like a phantom fresh from hell. She gave no answer, she made no moan; Mute as a statue overthrown. Her fair face cold as carved stone, Swooning the maiden fell. {178}