"Unbusk, unbusk me, tire-maids, Now it hath come to lie. Comb down my locks in simple braids, A simple maid am I. "Unbusk, unbusk me, handmaidens; Long will I lie a-bed: And when Childe Ronald lies by me, 'Twill be when I am dead. "When I am cold and dead, sweethearts, And song be turned to sigh-- No love of mine hath he, sweethearts, And a wretched bride am I. "A harper harped in the banquet hall; An ancient man was he; The song he sang was sweet to all, But it was sad to me. "He sang and harped of a maiden fair, Whose face was like the morn, Who gave her lover a token there Beneath the trysting thorn. "He harped and sang of a damosel Who swore she would be true: And then of a heart as false as Hell, He cursed with curses two. "And at the first curse, note for note, My roses turned to rue: Or ever the second curse he smote No more of earth I knew. "And, 'See!' they cried, 'her eyes, how wide! And, lo, her face--how wan!'-- And they shall see me paler-eyed Or ever the night be gone! "Unbusk, unbusk me, tire-maids, For now 'tis time to lie. Let down my locks in simple braids, A simple maid am I."... And there is wonder and there is wail, And pale is every guest; Childe Ronald, too, is pale, is pale, Far paler than the rest. The guests are gone: all wild and wan He saw the guests depart: But she is wanest of the wan, A dagger in her heart. Within the room Childe Ronald stands, Then sinks upon his knees-- He stares with horror on his hands, Then rises up and flees. He rises from his knees with dread, He flies that room unblest-- Oh, can it be he sees the dead, The blood upon her breast? "Now saddle me my horse, my horse! For I must ride, must ride!"-- But by his side--is it Remorse That follows, stride for stride? Within the wood, the dark pine-wood, He rides with closéd ears-- But evermore the ceaseless thud Of following hoofs he hears. With close-shut eyes and down-bowed head He rides among the trees-- But evermore the restless dead There at his side he sees. And evermore the autumn blast Above him sobs and sighs, "Who rides so far, who rides so fast, With closéd ears and eyes?" He hears it not: he gallops on: The rain cries in the trees-- "Who is this rides so wild and wan? And what is that he flees? "Oh, who are they? and whither away? Oh, whither do they ride?"-- "Across the world till Judgment Day, Childe Ronald and his bride!" MORGAN LE FAY In dim samite was she bedight, And on her hair a hoop of gold, Like foxfire, in the tawn moonlight, Was glimmering cold.