Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came

I.

My first thought was, he lied in every word,

 That hoary cripple, with malicious eye

 Askance to watch the working of his lie

On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford

Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored

 Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

II.

What else should he be set for, with his staff?

 What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare

 All travellers who might find him posted there,

And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh

Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph

 For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

III.

If at his counsel I should turn aside

 Into that ominous tract which, all agree,

 Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly

I did turn as he pointed: neither pride

Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,

 So much as gladness that some end might be.

IV.

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,

 What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope

 Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope

With that obstreperous joy success would bring,

I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring

 My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

V.

As when a sick man very near to death

 Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end

 The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,

And hears one bid the other go, draw breath

Freelier outside, (``since all is o'er,'' he saith,

 ``And the blow falIen no grieving can amend;'')

VI.

While some discuss if near the other graves

 Be room enough for this, and when a day

 Suits best for carrying the corpse away,

With care about the banners, scarves and staves:

And still the man hears all, and only craves

 He may not shame such tender love and stay.

VII.

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,

 Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ

 So many times among ``The Band''—-to wit,

The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed

Their steps—-that just to fail as they, seemed best,

 And all the doubt was now—-should I be fit?

VIII.

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,

 That hateful cripple, out of his highway

 Into the path he pointed. All the day

Had been a dreary one at best, and dim

Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim

 Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

IX.

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found

 Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,

 Than, pausing to throw backward a last view

O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:

Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.

 I might go on; nought else remained to do.

X.

So, on I went. I think I never saw

 Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:

 For flowers—-as well expect a cedar grove!

But cockle, spurge, according to their law

Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,

 You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove.

XI.

No! penury, inertness and grimace,

 In some strange sort, were the land's portion. ``See

 ``Or shut your eyes,'' said nature peevishly,

``It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:

``'Tis the Last judgment's fire must cure this place,

 ``Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.''

XII.

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk

 Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents

 Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents

In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk

All hope of greenness?'tis a brute must walk

 Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

XIII.

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair

 In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud

 Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.

One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,

Stood stupefied, however he came there:

 Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!

XIV.

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,

 With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,

 And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;

Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;

I never saw a brute I hated so;

 He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

XV.

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.

 As a man calls for wine before he fights,

 I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,

Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.

Think first, fight afterwards—-the

soldier's art:

 One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

XVI.

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face

 Beneath its garniture of curly gold,

 Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold

An arm in mine to fix me to the place,

That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!

 Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.

XVII.

Giles then, the soul of honour—-there he stands

 Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.

 What honest man should dare (he said) he durst.

Good—-but the scene shifts—-faugh! what hangman hands

Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands

 Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

XVIII.

Better this present than a past like that;

 Back therefore to my darkening path again!

 No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.

Will the night send a howlet or a bat?

I asked: when something on the dismal flat

 Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.

XIX.

A sudden little river crossed my path

 As unexpected as a serpent comes.

 No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;

This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath

For the fiend's glowing hoof—-to see the wrath

 Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

XX.

So petty yet so spiteful! All along,

 Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;

 Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit

Of route despair, a suicidal throng:

The river which had done them all the wrong,

 Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.

XXI.

Which, while I forded,—-good saints, how I feared

 To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,

 Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek

For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!

—-It may have been a water-rat I speared,

 But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.

XXII.

Glad was I when I reached the other bank.

 Now for a better country. Vain presage!

 Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,

Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank

Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,

 Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage—-

XXIII.

The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.

 What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?

 No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,

None out of it. Mad brewage set to work

Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk

 Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

XXIV.

And more than that—-a furlong on—-why, there!

 What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,

 Or brake, not wheel—-that harrow fit to reel

Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air

Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,

 Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.

XXV.

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,

 Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth

 Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,

Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood

Changes and off he goes!) within a rood—-

 Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.

XXVI.

Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,

 Now patches where some leanness of the soil's

 Broke into moss or substances like boils;

Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him

Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim

 Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

XXVII.

And just as far as ever from the end!

 Nought in the distance but the evening, nought

 To point my footstep further! At the thought,

great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,

Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned

 That brushed my cap—-perchance the guide I sought.

XXVIII.

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,

 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place

 All round to mountains—-with such name to grace

Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.

How thus they had surprised me,—-solve it, you!

 How to get from them was no clearer case.

XXIX.

Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick

 Of mischief happened to me, God knows when—-

 In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,

Progress this way. When, in the very nick

Of giving up, one time more, came a click

 As when a trap shuts—-you're inside the den!

XXX.

Burningly it came on me all at once,

 This was the place! those two hills on the right,

 Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;

While to the left, a tall scalped mountain… Dunce,

Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,

 After a life spent training for the sight!

XXXI.

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?

 The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,

 Built of brown stone, without a counter-part

In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf

Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf

 He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

XXXII.

Not see? because of night perhaps?—-why, day

 Came back again for that! before it left,

 The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:

The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,

Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,—-

 ``Now stab and end the creature—-to the heft!''

XXXIII.

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled

 Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears

 Of all the lost adventurers my peers,—-

How such a one was strong, and such was bold,

And such was fortunate, yet, each of old

 Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

XXXIV.

There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met

 To view the last of me, a living frame

 For one more picture! in a sheet of flame

I saw them and I knew them all. And yet

Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,

 And blew. ``Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.''