"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME"


    I


    My first thought was, he lied in every word,


    That hoary cripple, with malicious eye


    Askance to watch the workings of his lie


    On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford


    Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored


    Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.


    II


    What else should he be set for, with his staff?


    What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare


    All travellers who might find him posted there,


    And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh


    Would break, what crutch ''gin write my epitaph


    For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare.


    III


    If at his counsel I should turn aside


    Into that ominous tract which, all agree,


    Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly


    I did turn as he pointed, neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,


    So much as gladness that some end might be.


    IV


    For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,


    What with my search drawn out through years, my hope


    Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope


    With that obstreperous joy success would bring,


    I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring


    My heart made, finding failure in its scope.


    V


    As when a sick man very near to death


    Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end


    The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,


    And hears one bid the other go, draw breath


    Freelier outside, (''since all is o''er,'' he saith


    "And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;'')


    VI


    When some discuss if near the other graves


    Be room enough for this, and when a day


    Suits best for carrying the corpse away,


    With care about the banners, scarves and staves


    And still the man hears all, and only craves


    He may not shame such tender love and stay.


    VII


    Thus, I had 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 was now-should I befit?


    VIII


    So, quiet as despair I turned from him,


    That hateful cripple, out of his highway


    Into the path he pointed. All the day


    Had been a dreary one at best, and dim


    Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim


    Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.


    IX


    For mark! No sooner was I fairly found


    Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,


    Than, pausing to throw backwards a last view


    O''er the safe road, ''twas gone; grey plain all round:


    Nothing but plain to the horizon''s bound.


    I might go on, naught else remained to do.


    X


    So on I went. I think I never saw


    Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:


    For flowers-as well expect a cedar grove!


    But cockle, spurge, according to their law


    Might propagate their kind with none to awe,


    You ''d think; a burr had been a treasure trove.


    XI


    No! penury, inertness and grimace,


    In some strange sort, were the land''s portion. ''see


    Or shut your eyes,'' said Nature peevishly,


    "It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:


    "Tis the Last Judgement''s fire must cure this place


    Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."


    XII


    If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk


    Above its mates, the head was chopped, the bents


    Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents


    In the dock''s harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk


    All hope of greenness? ''tis a brute must walk


    Pashing their life out, with a brute''s intents.


    XIII


    As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair


    In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud


    Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.


    One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,


    Stood stupefied, however he came there:


    Thrust out past service from the devil''s stud!


    XIV


    Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,


    With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain.


    And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;


    Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;


    I never saw a brute I hated so;


    He must be wicked to deserve such pain.


    XV


    I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart,


    As a man calls for wine before he fights,


    I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,


    Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.


    Think first, fight afterwards, the soldier''s art:


    One taste of the old time sets all to rights.


    XVI


    Not it! I fancied Cuthbert''s reddening face


    Beneath its garniture of curly gold,


    Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold


    An arm to mine to fix me to the place,


    The way he used. Alas, one night''s disgrace!


    Out went my heart''s new fire and left it cold.


    XVII


    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!


    XVIII


    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.


    Will the night send a howlet or a bat?


    I asked: when something on the dismal flat


    Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.


    XIX


    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.


    XX


    So petty yet so spiteful! All along,


    Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;


    Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit


    Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:


    The river which had done them all the wrong,


    Whate''er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.


    XXI


    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


    For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!


    ?CIt may have been a water-rat I speared,


    But, ugh! it sounded like a baby''s shriek.


    XXII


    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-


    XXIII


    The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque,


    What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?


    No footprint leading to that horrid mews,


    None out of it. Mad brewage set to work


    Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk


    Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.


    XXIV


    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


    Men''s bodies out like silk? With all the air


    Of Tophet''s tool, on earth left unaware


    Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.


    XXV


    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 mod-


    Bog, clay and rubble, sand, and stark black dearth.


    XXVI


    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.


    XXVII


    And just as far as ever from the end!


    Naught in the distance but the evening, naught


    To point my footstep further! At the thought,


    A great black bird, Apollyon''s bosom friend,


    Sailed past, not best his wide wing dragon-penned


    That brushed my cap-perchance the guide I sought.


    XXVIII


    For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,


    "Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place


    All round to mountains-with such name to grace


    Mere ugly heights and heaps noiu stolen in view.


    How thus they had surprised me-solve it, you!


    How to get from them was no clearer case.


    XXIX


    Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick


    Of mischief happened to me, God knows when-


    In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then


    Progress this way. When, in the very nick


    Of giving up, one time more, came a click


    As when a trap shuts-you''re inside the den.


    XXX


    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!


    XXXI


    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


    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.


    XXXII


    Not see? because of night perhaps? why day


    Came back again for that! before it left


    The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:


    The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,


    Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,-


    Now stab and end the creature-to the heft!"


    XXXIII


    Not hear? When noise was everywhere! it tolled


    Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears


    Of all the lost adventurers, my peers-


    How such a one was strong, and such was bold,


    And such was fortunate, yet each of old


    Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.


    XXXIV


    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."