The Vigil of Thaliard

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Where Time a sleeping dervish is

Or printed legend of Romance

Mid lilies and mid gold-roses

                  Of mediaeval France,

Where Life, a princely servitor

                  Mid alien faces cast,

Still wears in memory of her

                  The trappings of the Past,

Sweet Lily’s child, that golden grape

                  Girl prince of Avelion,

Thaliard by early plucking hap

                  Star-reaching Prince’s son,

Kept vigil by the impious pool

Beyond the misty moaning sea

To win from warlock’s weird misrule

                  His soul’s sweet liberty.

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For if throughout the monstrous night

Unblest by ave or by creed

By witched water Christian wight

                  Do finger bead by bead

His scarlet rosary of sins

                  And leave his soul ajar,

What hour the sleepy Evening pins

                  Her bodice with a star,

Until, the pitchy veil withdrawn

                  That swathes the looming¹ dune,

The crowing trumpeter of dawn

                  Blows addio to the moon,

The awful record of his soul

Shall by God’s finger blotted be,

And o’er his drowned past shall roll

                  Forgiveness like a sea.   

1  yellow

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The warden of the starry waste

Who walks with orange-coloured lamp

And weird eyes nursing fire, paced

                  Night’s silver-tented camp.
The rose-lipped golden-footed day,

                  A flower by maiden culled,
Beneath star-blossomed arras lay

                  In Evening’s ¹bosom lulled.

The water seemed a damson crust

                  With golden sugar poured,

Or mirror caked with purple dust

                  In lady’s closet stored.

The hour like a weary snake

Coiled slowly gliding serpentine

Or drowsy nun perforce awake

                  To pace a pillared shrine.

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The roses shuddered in their sleep,

The lilies drooped their silver fires,

The reeds upon the humming steep

                  Bowed low their tapering spires;

For tho’ no sob pulsed in the air,

                  No agony of wind,

Down Heaven's moonlight-painted stair

                  Trod angels who had sinned.

Fireflies drizzled in the dark

                  Like drops of burning rain,

The glow-worm was a crawling spark,

                  The pool a purple stain;

The stars were grains of blazing sand,

A haunted soul the shadowy lea,

In forest-featured Broceliande

                  Beyond the echoing sea.  

¹ twilit

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Sir Thaliard by the phantom edge

Heard rustling feet behind the trees

And the weird water lapped the sedge

                  With wistful symphonies:

Sometimes a thrill of voices broke

                  In runic tongues of old,

Sometimes pale fingers seemed to stroke

                  His curls of crisping gold:

Thin laughter sobbed he knew not where

                  Till God’s own candles paled,

Or else out in the moonless air

                  A golden infant wailed.

Now in the moon’s enchanted wake

Wild shadows ran a giant race,

And now the golden glassing lake

                  Was blotted with a face.

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But when the naked moon rose clear

Above the ruins of the day,

Childe Thaliard saw a glinting spear

                  Across the milky way.

And when the white moon’s sliding feet

                  One rank of stars had passed,

Upon him smote the windy beat

                  And terror of a blast.

The tempest rippled thro’ the leaves,

                  New wine of evening sucked,

And at the water-lily sheaves

                  With nervous fingers plucked.

And in its wind-white arms it bore

A helmeted¹ and sceptred thing,

The semblance of a man, that wore

                  The glory of a king.

¹ diademed

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An argent cincture studded thick

With opal and the blushing stone

Fine wrought of texture Arabic