The Sacrilege
“I have a Love I love too wellWhere Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor;I have a Love I love too well,To whom, ere she was mine,‘Such is my love for you,’ I said,‘That you shall have to hood your headA silken kerchief crimson-red,Wove finest of the fine.’
“And since this Love, for one mad moon,On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor,Since this my Love for one mad moonDid clasp me as her king,I snatched a silk-piece red and rareFrom off a stall at Priddy Fair,For handkerchief to hood her hairWhen we went gallanting.
“Full soon the four weeks neared their endWhere Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor;And when the four weeks neared their end,And their swift sweets outwore,I said, ‘What shall I do to ownThose beauties bright as tulips blown,And keep you here with me aloneAs mine for evermore?’
“And as she drowsed within my vanOn Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor—And as she drowsed within my van,And dawning turned to day,She heavily raised her sloe-black eyesAnd murmured back in softest wise,‘One more thing, and the charms you prizeAre yours henceforth for aye.
“‘And swear I will I’ll never goWhile Dunkery frowns on Exon MoorTo meet the Cornish Wrestler JoeFor dance and dallyings.If you’ll to yon cathedral shrine,And finger from the chest divineTreasure to buy me ear-drops fine,And richly jewelled rings.’
“I said: ‘I am one who has gathered gearFrom Marlbury Downs to Dunkery Tor,Who has gathered gear for many a yearFrom mansion, mart and fair;But at God’s house I’ve stayed my hand,Hearing within me some command—Curbed by a law not of the landFrom doing damage there.’
“Whereat she pouts, this Love of mine,As Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor,And still she pouts, this Love of mine,So cityward I go.But ere I start to do the thing,And speed my soul’s imperillingFor one who is my ravishingAnd all the joy I know,
“I come to lay this charge on thee—On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor—I come to lay this charge on theeWith solemn speech and sign:Should things go ill, and my life payFor botchery in this rash assay,You are to take hers likewise—yea,The month the law takes mine.
“For should my rival, Wrestler Joe,Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor—My reckless rival, Wrestler Joe,My Love’s possessor be,My tortured spirit would not rest,But wander weary and distrestThroughout the world in wild protest:The thought nigh maddens me!”
Thus did he speak—this brother of mine—On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor,Born at my birth of mother of mine,And forthwith went his wayTo dare the deed some coming night . . .I kept the watch with shaking sight,The moon at moments breaking bright,At others glooming gray.
For three full days I heard no soundWhere Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor,I heard no sound at all aroundWhether his fay prevailed,Or one malign the master were,Till some afoot did tidings bearHow that, for all his practised care,He had been caught and jailed.
They had heard a crash when twelve had chimedBy Mendip east of Dunkery Tor,When twelve had chimed and moonlight climbed;They watched, and he was trackedBy arch and aisle and saint and knightOf sculptured stonework sheeted whiteIn the cathedral’s ghostly light,And captured in the act.
Yes; for this Love he loved too wellWhere Dunkery sights the Severn shore,All for this Love he loved too wellHe burst the holy bars,Seized golden vessels from the chestTo buy her ornaments of the best,At her ill-witchery’s requestAnd lure of eyes like stars . . .
When blustering March confused the skyIn Toneborough Town by Exon Moor,When blustering March confused the skyThey stretched him; and he died.Down in the crowd where I, to seeThe end of him, stood silently,With a set face he lipped to me—“Remember.” “Ay!” I cried.
By night and day I shadowed herFrom Toneborough Deane to Dunkery Tor,I shadowed her asleep, astir,And yet I could not bear—Till Wrestler Joe anon beganTo figure as her chosen man,And took her to his shining van—To doom a form so fair!
He made it handsome for her sake—And Dunkery smiled to Exon Moor—He made it handsome for her sake,Painting it out and in;And on the door of apple-greenA bright brass knocker soon was seen,And window-curtains white and cleanFor her to sit within.
And all could see she clave to himAs cleaves a cloud to Dunkery Tor,Yea, all could see she clave to him,And every day I said,“A pity it seems to part those twoThat hourly grow to love more true:Yet she’s the wanton woman whoSent one to swing till dead!”
That blew to blazing all my hate,While Dunkery frowned on Exon Moor,And when the river swelled, her fateCame to her pitilessly . . .I dogged her, crying: “Across that plankThey use as bridge to reach yon bankA coat and hat lie limp and dank;Your goodman’s, can they be?”
She paled, and went, I close behind—And Exon frowned to Dunkery Tor,She went, and I came up behindAnd tipped the plank that boreHer, fleetly flitting across to eyeWhat such might bode. She slid awry;And from the current came a cry,A gurgle; and no more.
How that befell no mortal knewFrom Marlbury Downs to Exon Moor;No mortal knew that deed undueBut he who schemed the crime,Which night still covers . . . But in dreamThose ropes of hair upon the streamHe sees, and he will hear that screamUntil his judgment-time.
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