At night, in mist and moonlight, Where hung the horns and whips, In courts to the kennels leading, Or where the hounds were feeding, He kissed her eyes and lips. They whispered in the moonlight, And kissed in moon and mist:-- "Enough! we're done with hiding!"-- There came the old king riding, The hawk upon his wrist. Oh, fain was she and eager, And he was over fain;-- "His cup and couch are ready."-- "Then let thy hand be steady-- And he'll not wake again." Is it the mist or moonlight? Or a dead face staring up?-- The old king's couch was ready, And his daughter's hand was steady Giving the poisoned cup. THE DAUGHTER OF MERLIN For the mountains' hoarse greetings came hollow From stormy wind-chasms and caves; And I heard their wild cataracts wallow; Like monsters, the white of their waves: And that shadow said, "Lo! you must follow! And our path is o'er myriads of graves." Then I felt that the black earth was porous And rotten with dust and with bones; And I knew that the ground that now bore us Was cadaverous with death as with stones; And I saw burning eyes, heard sonorous And dolorous sighings and groans. But the night of the tempest and thunder, The might of the terrible skies, And the fire of Hell, that,--coiled under The hollow Earth,--smoulders and sighs, And the laughter of stars and their wonder, Mingled and mixed in her eyes. And we clomb--and the moon, old and sterile, Clomb with us o'er torrent and scar: And I yearned for her oceans of beryl, Wan mountains and cities of spar: "'Tis not well," then she said; "you're in peril Of falling and failing your star." And we clomb--through a murmur of pinions, And rattle of talons and plumes; And a sense as of darkest dominions, Deep, lost, of the dead and their tombs, Swam round us, with all of their minions Of dreads and of dreams and of dooms. And we clomb--till we stood at the portal Of the uttermost point of the peak; And she led, with a step more than mortal, On, upward, where glimmered a streak, A star, a presence immortal, A planet, whose light was still weak. And we clomb--till the limbo of spirits Of lusts and of sorrows below Swung nebular; and we were near its Starred summit, its glory of glow. And we entered its light and could hear its White music of silence and snow. TRISTRAM TO ISOLT Yea, there are some who always seek The love that lasts an hour; And some who in love's language speak, Yet never know his power. Of such was I, who knew not what Sweet mysteries can rise Within the heart when 'tis its lot To love and realize.