Iv

I.

The soft night-wind went laden to death With smell of the orange in flower; The light leaves prattled to neighbour ears; The bird of the passion sang over his tears; The night named hour by hour.

II.

Sang loud, sang low the rapturous bird Till the yellow hour was nigh, Behind the folds of a darker cloud: He chuckled, he sobbed, alow, aloud; The voice between earth and sky.

III.

O will you, will you, women are weak; The proudest are yielding mates For a forward foot and a tongue of fire: So thought Lord Dusiote's trusty squire, At watch by the palace-gates.

IV.

The song of the bird was wine in his blood, And woman the odorous bloom: His master's great adventure stirred Within him to mingle the bloom and bird, And morn ere its coming illume.

V.

Beside him strangely a piece of the dark Had moved, and the undertones Of a priest in prayer, like a cavernous wave, He heard, as were there a soul to save For urgency now in the groans.

VI.

No priest was hired for the play this night: And the squire tossed head like a deer At sniff of the tainted wind; he gazed Where cresset-lamps in a door were raised, Belike on a passing bier.

VII.

All cloaked and masked, with naked blades, That flashed of a judgement done, The lords of the Court, from the palace-door, Came issuing silently, bearers four, And flat on their shoulders one.

VIII.

They marched the body to squire and priest, They lowered it sad to earth: The priest they gave the burial dole, Bade wrestle hourly for his soul, Who was a lord of worth.

IX.

One said, farewell to a gallant knight! And one, but a restless ghost! 'Tis a year and a day since in this place He died, sped high by a lady of grace To join the blissful host.

X.

Not vainly on us she charged her cause, The lady whom we revere For faith in the mask of a love untrue To the Love we honour, the Love her due, The Love we have vowed to rear.

XI.

A trap for the sweet tooth, lures for the light, For the fortress defiant a mine: Right well! But not in the South, princess, Shall the lady snared of her nobleness Ever shamed or a captive pine.

XII.

When the South had voice of a nightingale Above a Maying bower, On the heights of Love walked radiant peers; The bird of the passion sang over his tears To the breeze and the orange-flower.