The Water Witch

See! the milk-white doe is wounded. He will follow as it bounds Through the woods. His horn has sounded, Echoing, for his men and hounds. But no answering bugle blew. He has lost his retinue For the shapely deer that bounded Past him when his bow he drew.

Not one hound or huntsman follows. Through the underbrush and moss Goes the slot; and in the hollows Of the hills, that he must cross, He has lost it. He must fare Over rocks where she-wolves lair; Wood-pools where the wild-boar wallows: So he leaves his hunter there.

Through his mind then flashed an olden Legend told him by the monks:-- Of a girl, whose hair is golden, Haunting fountains and the trunks Of the woodlands; who, they say, Is a white doe all the day, But when woods are night-enfolden Turns into an evil fay.

Then the story once his teacher Told him: of a mountain lake Demons dwell in; vague of feature, Human-like; but each a snake, She is queen of.--Did he hear Laughter at his startled ear? Or a bird?--And now, what creature Is it,--or the wind,--stirs near?

Fever of the hunt! This water, Falling here, will cool his head. Through the forest, dyed in slaughter, Slants the sunset; ruby-red Are the drops that slip between Hollowed hands, while on the green,-- Like the couch of some wild daughter Of the forest,--he doth lean.

But the runnel, bubbling, dripping, Seems to bid him to be gone; As with crystal words and tripping Steps of sparkle luring on. Now a spirit in the rocks Calls him; now a face that mocks, From behind some boulder slipping, Laughs at him through lilied locks.

And he follows through the flowers, Blue and gold, that blossom there; Thridding twilight-haunted bowers Where each ripple seems the bare Beauty of white limbs that gleam Rosy through the running stream; Or bright-shaken hair, that showers Starlight in the sunset’s beam.

Till, far in the forest, sleeping Like a luminous darkness, lay A deep water, wherein, leaping, Fell the Fountain of the Fay, With a singing, sighing sound, As of spirit things around, Musically laughing, weeping In the air and underground.

Not a ripple o’er it merried: Like the round moon in a cloud, In its rocks the lake lay buried: And strange creatures seemed to crowd Its dark depths: dim limbs and eyes To the surface seemed to rise Spawn-like; or, all formless, ferried Through the water shadow-wise.

Foliage things with woman faces, Demon-dreadful, pale and wild As the forms the lightning traces On the clouds the storm has piled In the darkness.--On the strand-- What is that which now doth stand?-- ’Tis a woman: and she places On his arm a spray-white hand.

Ah! two mystic worlds of sorrow Were her eyes; her hair, a place Whence the moon its gold might borrow; And a dream of ice her face: Round her hair and throat in rims Pearls of foam hung; and through whims Of her robe, as breaks the morrow, Gleamed the rose-light of her limbs.

Who could help but gaze with gladness On such beauty? though within, Deep within the beryl sadness Of those eyes, the serpent sin Seemed to coil.--She placed her cheek Chilly upon his, and weak With love-longing and its madness Grew he. Then he heard her speak:--

“Dost thou love me?”--“If surrender Of the soul means love, I love.” “Dost not fear me?”--“Fear?--more slender Art thou than a wildwood dove. Yet I fear--I fear to lose Thee, thy love.”--“And thou dost choose Aye to be my heart’s defender?”-- “Take me. I am thine to use.”

“Follow then.--Ah, love, no lowly Home I give thee.”--With fixed eyes To the water’s edge she slowly Drew him.... Nor did he surmise Who this creature was, until O’er his face the foam closed chill, Whispering, and the lake unholy Rippled, rippled and was still.