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Title: The Gage
Author: Walter De la Mare [
More Titles by De la Mare]
"Lady Jane, O Lady Jane!
Your hound hath broken bounds again,
And chased my timorous deer, O;
If him I see,
That hour he'll dee;
My brakes shall be his bier, O."
"Hoots! lord, speak not so proud to me!
My hound, I trow, is fleet and free,
He's welcome to your deer, O;
Shoot, shoot you may,
He'll gang his way,
Your threats we nothing fear, O."
He's fetched him in, he's laid him low,
Drips his lifeblood red and slow,
Darkens his dreary eye, O;
"Here is your beast,
And now at least
My herds in peace shall lie, O."
"'In peace!' my lord, O mark me well!
For what my jolly hound befell
You shall sup twenty-fold, O!
For every tooth
Of his, in sooth,
A stag in pawn, I hold, O.
"Huntsman and horn, huntsman and horn,
Shall scour your heaths and coverts lorn,
Braying 'em shrill and clear, O;
But lone and still
Shall lift each hill,
Each valley wan and sere, O.
"Ride up you may, ride down you may,
Lonely or trooped, by night or day,
My hound shall haunt you ever:
Bird, beast, and game
Shall dread the same,
The wild fish of your river."
Her cheek burns angry as the rose,
Her eye with wrath and pity flows:
He gazes fierce and round, O--
"Dear Lord!" he says,
"What loveliness
To waste upon a hound, O.
"I'd give my stags, my hills and dales,
My stormcocks and my nightingales
To have undone this deed, O;
For deep beneath
My heart is death
Which for her love doth bleed, O."
He wanders up, he wanders down,
On foot, a-horse, by night and noon:
His lands are bleak and drear, O;
Forsook his dales
Of nightingales,
Forsook his moors of deer, O,
Forsook his heart, ah me! of mirth;
There's nothing gladsome left on earth;
All thoughts and dreams seem vain, O,
Save where remote
The moonbeams gloat,
And sleeps the lovely Jane, O.
Until an even when lone he went,
Gnawing his beard in dreariment--
Lo! from a thicket hidden,
Lovely as flower
In April hour,
Steps forth a form unbidden.
"Get ye now down, my lord, to me!
I'm troubled so I'm like to dee,"
She cries, 'twixt joy and grief, O;
"The hound is dead,
When all is said,
But love is past belief, O.
"Nights, nights I've lain your lands to see,
Forlorn and still--and all for me,
All for a foolish curse, O;
Now here am I
Come out to die--
To live unloved is worse, O!"
In faith, this lord, in that lone dale,
Hears now a sweeter nightingale,
And lairs a tenderer deer, O;
His sorrow goes
Like mountain snows
In waters sweet and clear, O!
What ghostly hound is this that fleet
Comes fawning to his mistress' feet,
And courses round his master?
How swiftly love
May grief remove,
How happy make disaster!
Now here he smells, now there he smells,
Winding his voice along the dells,
Till grey flows up the morn, O
Then hies again
To Lady Jane
No longer now forlorn, O.
Ay, as it were a bud, did break
To loveliness for her love's sake,
So she in beauty moving
Rides at his hand
Across his land,
Beloved as well as loving.
[The end]
Walter De la Mare's poem: Gage
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