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Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.
Giles then, the soul of honour—there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good—but the scene shifts—faugh! what hangman
hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!
Better this present than a past like that;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.
A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof—to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.
So petty yet so spiteful! All along,
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.
Which, while I forded,—good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.
Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage !
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage
The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.
And more than that—a furlong on—why, there !
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake, not wheel—that harrow fit to reel
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.
Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with ; (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes !) within a rood
Bog, clay, and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.
Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil 's
Broke into moss or substances like boils ; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.
And just as far as ever from the end.
Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
To point my footstep further! At the thought, A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend, Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap-perchance the guide I sought.
For, looking up, aware I sonchow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me,-solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.
Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
As when a trap shuts—you ’re inside the den
Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!
What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.
Not see? because of night perhaps ?-why, day
Came back again for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft :
hand, to see the game at bay,-
Not hear? when noise was everywhere ! it tolled
Names in my ears
There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture ! in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew “ Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came."