Ride to the Lady.

by Helen Gray Cone.

THE RIDE TO THE LADY

"Now since mine even is come at last,-- For I have been the sport of steel, And hot life ebbeth from me fast, And I in saddle roll and reel,-- Come bind me, bind me on my steed!

Of fingering leech I have no need!"

The chaplain clasped his mailed knee.

"Nor need I more thy whine and thee!

No time is left my sins to tell; But look ye bind me, bind me well!"

They bound him strong with leathern thong, For the ride to the lady should be long.

Day was dying; the poplars fled, Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red; Out of the sky the fierce hue fell, And made the streams as the streams of h.e.l.l.

All his thoughts as a river flowed, Flowed aflame as fleet he rode, Onward flowed to her abode, Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face.

(Viewless Death apace, apace, Rode behind him in that race.)

"Face, mine own, mine alone, Trembling lips my lips have known, Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne Under the kisses that make them mine!

Only of thee, of thee, my need!

Only to thee, to thee, I speed!"

The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn; In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern.

Far behind had the fight's din died; The shuddering stars in the welkin wide Crowded, crowded, to see him ride.

The beating hearts of the stars aloof kept time to the beat of the horse's hoof, "What is the throb that thrills so sweet?

Heart of my lady, I feel it beat!"

But his own strong pulse the fainter fell, Like the failing tongue of a hushing bell.

The flank of the great-limbed steed was wet Not alone with the started sweat.

Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood Arched its cowl like a black friar's hood; Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein,-- But the viewless rider rode to win, Out of the wood to the highway's light Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright; The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried, And the weight of the dead oppressed his side.

Fast, and fast, by the road he knew; And slow, and slow, the stars withdrew; And the waiting heaven turned weirdly blue, As a garment worn of a wizard grim.

He neighed at the gate in the morning dim.

She heard no sound before her gate, Though very quiet was her bower.

All was as her hand had left it late: The needle slept on the broidered vine, Where the hammer and spikes of the pa.s.sion-flower Her fashioning did wait.

On the couch lay something fair, With steadfast lips and veiled eyne;

But the lady was not there, On the wings of shrift and prayer, Pure as winds that winnow snow, Her soul had risen twelve hours ago.

The burdened steed at the barred gate stood, No whit the nearer to his goal.

Now G.o.d's great grace a.s.soil the soul That went out in the wood!

THE FIRST GUEST

When the house is finished, Death enters.

_Eastern Proverb_

Life's House being ready all, Each chamber fair and dumb, Ere life, the Lord, is come With pomp into his hall,-- Ere Toil has trod the floors, Ere Love has lit the fires, Or young great-eyed Desires Have, timid, tried the doors; Or from east-window leaned One Hope, to greet the sun, Or one gray Sorrow screened Her sight against the west,-- Then enters the first guest, The House of life being done.

He waits there in the shade.

I deem he is Life's twin, For whom the house was made.

Whatever his true name, Be sure, to enter in He has both key and claim.

The daybeams, free of fear, Creep drowsy toward his feet; His heart were heard to beat, Were any there to hear; Ah, not for ends malign, Like wild thing crouched in lair, Or watcher of a snare, But with a friend's design He lurks in shadow there!

He goes not to the gates To welcome any other, Nay, not Lord Life, his brother; But still his hour awaits Each several guest to find Alone, yea, quite alone; Pacing with pensive mind The cloister's echoing stone, Or singing, unaware, At the turning of the stair Tis truth, though we forget, In Life's House enters none Who shall that seeker shun, Who shall not so be met.

"Is this mine hour?" each saith.

"So be it, gentle Death!"

Each has his way to end, Encountering this friend.

Griefs die to memories mild; Hope turns a weaned child; Love shines a spirit white, With eyes of deepened light.

When many a guest has pa.s.sed, Some day 'tis Life's at last To front the face of Death.

Then, cas.e.m.e.nts closed, men say: "Lord Life is gone away; He went, we trust and pray, To G.o.d, who gave him breath."

Beginning, End, He is: Are not these sons both His?

Lo, these with Him are one!

To phrase it so were best: G.o.d's self is that first Guest, The House of Life being done!

SILENCE

Why should I sing of earth or heaven? not rather rest, Powerless to speak of that which hath my soul possessed,-- For full possession dumb? Yea, Silence, that were best.

And though for what it failed to sound I brake the string, And dashed the sweet lute down, a too much fingered thing, And found a wild new voice,--oh, still, why should I sing?

An earth-song could I make, strange as the breath of earth, Filled with the great calm joy of life and death and birth?

Yet, were it less than this, the song were little worth.

For this the fields caress; brown clods tell each to each; Sad-colored leaves have sense whereto I cannot reach; Spiced everlasting-flowers outstrip my range of speech.

A heaven-song could I make, all fire that yet was peace, And tenderness not lost, though glory did increase?

But were it less than this, 't were well the song should cease.

For this the still west saith, with plumy flames bestrewn; Heaven's body sapphire-clear, at stirless height of noon; The cloud where lightnings pulse, beside the untroubled moon.

I will not sing of earth or heaven, but rather rest, Rapt by the face of heaven, and hold on earth's warm breast.

Hushed lips, a beating heart, yea, Silence, that were best.

ARRAIGNMENT