"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came!" So runs

The boding refrain Browning visioned out.

Childe Roland valiant was, and wondrous stout;

But that Dark Tower, which never noonday suns,

Full-garrisoned by feudal myrmidons,

Might strike to Roland's heart the chill of doubt.

Four-square to the four winds the fortress stands,

Pinnacled high upon a frowning rock.

It hath survived the many-centuried shock

Of elements, the assault of myriad hands,

And to the attack will you now lead your bands,

Whose rage crag-crowning battlements seem to mock?

True from those battlements they've hung, in scorn,

Your herald, whose torn trappings wildly wave

In the rough wind. Though 'tis too late to save

You'd fain avenge. Such flouts are hardly borne

By Leaders whilst old lips can sound a horn

And hands, though ancient, yet can lift a glaive.

Sound an alarm! Let the fierce war-cry sound!

Your followers listen for it. They will cheer

When its defiant shrill salutes their ear.

Down with the Fortress! Raze it to the ground!

End it, not mend it! So they rattle round,

The shoutings and the floutings far and near.

And you, the new Childe Roland, what think you,

At heart, behind that bold and fluent tongue?

Lead a Forlorn Hope? Yes, though Death's self flung

Its form of bony shape and grisly hue

Athwart your path! But—is here aught to do

That's worth the venture, when all's said and sung?

"If, at their counsel, I should turn aside

Into that ominous tract which all agree

Hides the Dark Tower? If acquiescingly

I do turn as they've pointed! Neither pride

Nor hope rekindling at the end descried

So much in gladness that some end should be.

"Thus, I have so long suffered in this quest

Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ

So many times among 'The Band'—to wit

The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed

Their steps—that just to fail as they, seemed best

And all the doubt is now—shall I be fit?

"What in the mist lies but the Tower itself?

The square squat turrets, blind as the fool's heart,

Built of grey stone, without a counterpart

In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf

Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf

He strikes on, only when the timbers start."

So mused Childe Roland! Chief of the white crest,

With thine adventure doth the strain not fit

Most strangely? Looms the Dark Tower turret-lit

By autumn rays low, chilly, from the west,

So waterishly wan. Oh! crowning test

Of mortal valour and of human wit!

Lead the Forlorn Hope on! E'en Hopes Forlorn

Do not fail always. Scale the craggy height!

Cheer on your clamorous followers to the fight.

Citadels deemed impregnable, in scorn

Have mocked their rash beleaguerers at morn

To see them swarm their battlements ere night.

And you, your courage seems to master Fate

And mock at Time. Yet Time and Fate, at last,

In the greatest life-game have the latest cast.

Heroic 'tis to see you, strong, elate,

Heading the onset, and in Punch's pate

Rings the old rhyme of the romantic past.

"There they stood, ranged along the hillsides—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.'"