With soft gray eyes she gloomed and glowered; With soft red lips she sang a song: What knight might gaze upon her face, Nor fare along? For all her looks were full of spells, And all her words, of sorcery; And in some way they seemed to say, "Oh, come with me! "Oh, come with me! oh, come with me! Oh, come with me, my love, Sir Kay!"-- How should he know the witch, I trow, Morgan le Fay? How should he know the wily witch, With sweet white face and raven hair? Who, through her art, bewitched his heart And held him there. Eftsoons his soul had waxed amort To wold and weald, to slade and stream; And all he heard was her soft word As one adream. And all he saw was her bright eyes, And her fair face that held him still: And wild and wan she led him on O'er vale and hill. Until at last a castle lay Beneath the moon, among the trees: Its gothic towers old and gray With mysteries. Tall in its hall an hundred knights In armor stood with glaive in hand: The following of some great king, Lord of that land. Sir Bors, Sir Balin, and Gawain, All Arthur's knights, and many mo; But these in battle had been slain Long years ago. But when Morgan with lifted hand Moved down the hall, they louted low: For she was Queen of Shadowland, That woman of snow. Then from Sir Kay she drew away, And cried on high all mockingly:-- "Behold, sir knights, the knave I bring, Who lay with me. "Behold! I met him 'mid the furze: Beside him there he made me lie: Upon him, yea, there rests my curse: Now let him die!" Then as one man those shadows raised Their brands, whereon the moon glanced gray: And clashing all strode from the wall Against Sir Kay. And on his body, bent and bowed, The hundred blades as one blade fell: While over all rang long and loud The mirth of Hell. THE LADY OF THE HILLS Though red my blood hath left its trail For five far miles, I will not fail, As God in Heaven wills! The way was long through that black land.-- With sword on hip and horn in hand, At last before thy walls I stand, O Lady of the Hills! No seneschal shall put to scorn The summons of my bugle-horn! No warder stern shall stay! Yea! God hath helped my strength too far, By bandit-caverned wood and scar, To give it pause now, or to bar My all-avenging way! This hope still gives my body strength-- To kiss thy mouth and eyes at length Where all thy kin can see: Then, 'mid thy towers of crime and gloom, Sin-haunted as the Halls of Doom, To strike thee dead in that wild room Red-lit with revelry.