The Supplanter
He bends his travel-tarnished feetTo where she wastes in clay:From day-dawn until eve he faresAlong the wintry way;From day-dawn until eve repairsUnto her mound to pray.
“Are these the gravestone shapes that meetMy forward-straining view?Or forms that cross a window-blindIn circle, knot, and queue:Gay forms, that cross and whirl and windTo music throbbing through?”—
“The Keeper of the Field of TombsDwells by its gateway-pier;He celebrates with feast and danceHis daughter’s twentieth year:He celebrates with wine of FranceThe birthday of his dear.”—
“The gates are shut when evening glooms:Lay down your wreath, sad wight;To-morrow is a time more fitFor placing flowers aright:The morning is the time for it;Come, wake with us to-night!”—
He grounds his wreath, and enters in,And sits, and shares their cheer.—“I fain would foot with you, young man,Before all others here;I fain would foot it for a spanWith such a cavalier!”
She coaxes, clasps, nor fails to winHis first-unwilling hand:The merry music strikes its staves,The dancers quickly band;And with the damsel of the gravesHe duly takes his stand.
“You dance divinely, stranger swain,Such grace I’ve never known.O longer stay! Breathe not adieuAnd leave me here alone!O longer stay: to her be trueWhose heart is all your own!”—
“I mark a phantom through the pane,That beckons in despair,Its mouth all drawn with heavy moan—Her to whom once I sware!”—“Nay; ’tis the lately carven stoneOf some strange girl laid there!”—
“I see white flowers upon the floorBetrodden to a clot;My wreath were they?”—“Nay; love me much,Swear you’ll forget me not!’Twas but a wreath! Full many suchAre brought here and forgot.”
The watches of the night grow hoar,He rises ere the sun;“Now could I kill thee here!” he says,“For winning me from oneWho ever in her living daysWas pure as cloistered nun!”
She cowers, and he takes his trackAfar for many a mile,For evermore to be apartFrom her who could beguileHis senses by her burning heart,And win his love awhile.
A year: and he is travelling backTo her who wastes in clay;From day-dawn until eve he faresAlong the wintry way,From day-dawn until eve repairsUnto her mound to pray.
And there he sets him to fulfilHis frustrate first intent:And lay upon her bed, at last,The offering earlier meant:When, on his stooping figure, ghastAnd haggard eyes are bent.
“O surely for a little whileYou can be kind to me!For do you love her, do you hate,She knows not—cares not she:Only the living feel the weightOf loveless misery!
“I own my sin; I’ve paid its cost,Being outcast, shamed, and bare:I give you daily my whole heart,Your babe my tender care,I pour you prayers; and aye to partIs more than I can bear!”
He turns—unpitying, passion-tossed;“I know you not!” he cries,“Nor know your child. I knew this maid,But she’s in Paradise!”And swiftly in the winter shadeHe breaks from her and flies.
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