The Cup of Comus: Fact and Fancy. Cawein Madison Julius

children – memories of things to be,

      And things that failed, – within my heart, ah me!

      Cry constantly.

      None can turn time back, and no man delay

      Death when he knocks, —

      What good are clocks,

      Or human hearts, to stay for us that day

      When at Life's creaking door we see his smile, —

      Death's! at the door of this old House of Trial? —

      Old Ghost, let's wait awhile.

      AT THE END OF THE ROAD

      This is the truth as I see it, my dear,

      Out in the wind and the rain:

      They who have nothing have little to fear, —

      Nothing to lose or to gain.

      Here by the road at the end o' the year,

      Let us sit down and drink o' our beer,

      Happy-Go-Lucky and her cavalier,

      Out in the wind and the rain.

      Now we are old, oh isn't it fine

      Out in the wind and the rain?

      Now we have nothing why snivel and whine? —

      What would it bring us again? —

      When I was young I took you like wine,

      Held you and kissed you and thought you divine —

      Happy-Go-Lucky, the habit's still mine,

      Out in the wind and the rain.

      Oh, my old Heart, what a life we have led,

      Out in the wind and the rain!

      How we have drunken and how we have fed!

      Nothing to lose or to gain! —

      Cover the fire now; get we to bed.

      Long was the journey and far has it led:

      Come, let us sleep, lass, sleep like the dead,

      Out in the wind and the rain.

      THE TROUBADOUR OF TREBIZEND

      Night, they say, is no man's friend:

      And at night he met his end

      In the woods of Trebizend.

      Hate crouched near him as he strode

      Through the blackness of the road,

      Where my Lord seemed some huge toad.

      Eyes of murder glared and burned

      At each bend of road he turned,

      And where wild the torrent churned.

      And with Death we stood and stared

      From the bush as by he fared, —

      But he never looked or cared.

      He went singing; and a rose

      Lay upon his heart's repose —

      With what thought of her – who knows?

      He had done no other wrong

      Save to sing a simple song,

      "I have loved you – loved you long."

      And my lady smiled and sighed;

      Gave a rose and looked moist eyed,

      And forgot she was a bride.

      My sweet lady, Jehan de Grace,

      With the pale Madonna face,

      He had brought to his embrace.

      And my Lord saw: gave commands:

      I was of his bandit bands. —

      Love should perish at our hands.

      Young the Knight was. He should sing

      Nevermore of love or spring,

      Or of any gentle thing.

      When he stole at midnight's hour,

      To my Lady's forest bower,

      We were hidden near the tower.

      In the woods of Trebizend

      There he met an evil end. —

      Night, you know, is no man's friend.

      He has fought in fort and field;

      Borne for years a stainless shield,

      And in strength to none would yield.

      But we seized him unaware,

      Bound and hung him; stripped him bare,

      Left him to the wild boars there.

      Never has my Lady known. —

      But she often sits alone,

      Weeping when my Lord is gone…

      Night, they say, is no man's friend. —

      In the woods of Trebizend

      There he met an evil end.

      Now my old Lord sleeps in peace,

      While my Lady – each one sees —

      Waits, and keeps her memories.

      GHOSTS

      Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon

      The sea-mists swoon:

      Wind-twisted pines, through which the crow

      Goes winging slow:

      Dim fields, the sower never sows,

      Or reaps or mows:

      And near the sea a ghostly house of stone

      Where all is old and lone.

      A garden, falling in decay,

      Where statues gray

      Peer, broken, out of tangled weed

      And thorny seed:

      Satyr and Nymph, that once made love

      By walk and grove:

      And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mold,

      A sundial, lichen-old.

      Like some sad life bereft,

      To musing left,

      The house stands: love and youth

      Both gone, in sooth:

      But still it sits and dreams:

      And round it seems

      Some memory of the past, still young and fair,

      Haunting each crumbling stair.

      And suddenly one dimly sees,