those glimmering reaches blown
The whispering waves of darkness curled.
And there my wild steed paused at last,
And there, wrapped round in dreams, I lie,
And in the wind that whistles past
I hear a far, faint, fairy cry.

THE ADVENTURERS

We rode from the north, a valiant band,
With shining armour and swords aflame,
Till we came at length to a silent land—
To a sunless, shadowy land we came,
A desolate land, without a name.

No songs of birds in that land were known,
No voices of human joy or pain,
But mists on the silent winds were blown,
And shadows clung to our bridle rein,
Dim forms that no answer gave again.

Then some grew tired of those weary ways
And hied them back to a happier coast,
And many followed some phantom face
Down one of the winding ways that crossed
That shadowy land, and so were lost.

And the rust grew red on our harness bright,
And dull grew our swords, and a dream the Quest,
And ever wearier grew the fight
With thronging phantoms that round us pressed,
And ever our hearts grew sick for rest.

Till, few and feeble who were so strong,
Weary, who dreamed we could never tire,
We won at last through those ways so long,
And, bathed in the sunset, dome and spire,
We saw the City of Heart's Desire.

THE WATCHER OF THE THRESHOLD

Silent amid the shadows
Outside my door,
The Watcher of the Threshold
Waits evermore.

One day the door will open,
And I shall see
The Watcher of the Threshold
Beckon to me.

And I must leave the firelight,
And seek the gloom
Where stands that shadowy figure
Outside my room.

In vain it is to question
Of how, or why,
The Watcher of the Threshold
Makes no reply.

Only amid the shadows
Silent he stands,
With eyes that hold a secret,
And folded hands.

Still standing in the darkness
Outside my door,
The Watcher of the Threshold
Waits evermore.

THE GREY RIDER

Why ride so fast through the wind and rain,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
Lest a soul should call for me in vain
To-night, O Vanathee.

Now, whose is the soul shall seek thine aid,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
The soul of one that is sore afraid
To-night, O Vanathee.

O fears he the flurry of wind and rain,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
More deep is the dread that sears his brain
To-night, O Vanathee.

Does he fear the tumult of clanging blows,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
Nay, darker still is the fear he knows
To-night, O Vanathee.

Does he fear the loss of wife or child,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
Nay, a terror holds him that's still more wild
To-night, O Vanathee.

O what should make him so sore afraid,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
He fears a wraith that himself has made
To-night, O Vanathee.

Then how shall you cleanse from fear his mind,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
I will touch his eyes, and they shall be blind
To-night, O Vanathee.

Yet still may he know the voice of fear,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
I will touch his ears that he shall not hear
To-night, O Vanathee.

Yet that wraith may linger around his bed,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
No terror shall touch the quiet dead
To-night, O Vanathee.

Shee, Sidhe—Fairies.

Vanathee, Bean-an-Tighe—Woman of the house.

JOAN THE MAID

Still, they say, she moves through the old-time places,
Joan the Maid, with her great sword girt at her side;
Sheen of wings and shimmer of angel faces
Gather around her as she on doth ride.

Rheims or Orleans may see her thus in splendour,
Never the old Domremy streets she knew,
Here she walks as a maiden, shy and slender,
Brushing with bare brown feet the evening dew.

Oft do the children, playing in the meadows,
See her watching them, white and very fair,
Smiling lips and eyes that dream in the shadows,
Lilies of France she loved so in her hair.

So she comes, through those quiet roadways stealing,
Where in the grey church still her people bend,
Unto the Maiden, their own saint, appealing;
Hears them name her saviour of France and friend.

She has forgotten now the mocking faces,
Prison, and wounds, and torture of the flame;
Still, they say, she moves through the old-time places,
Joan the Maid, whence once, long since, she came.

NEWBURY TOWN

Rupert's soldiers came riding, riding,
All in the sunshine riding down,
Scented curls on the breezes flowing,
Banners dancing and bugles blowing,
Gaily the troops came riding, riding,
Through the streets of Newbury town.

Bells in the church towers all were swinging,
Flags were waving and flowers were strown;
Roses lay in the road before them,
Roses rained from the casements o'er them,
All in the streets, with shout and singing,
Prayed that the King might win his own.

Rupert's soldiers came riding, riding,
All in the darkness riding down;
Never a church-bell chimed to greet them,
Never a maid came forth to meet them;
Broken, defeated, they came riding
Through the streets of Newbury town.

Never more while the bells are calling
Rupert's soldiers come riding down;
They have ridden, with bugles blowing
Into a land beyond our knowing,
Never more shall