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 good steed 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 woodland; who, they say,

Is a white doe all the day;

But when woods are night-enfolden

Turns into an evil fay.

Then the story oft 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,

Murmuring here, will cool his head.

Through the forest, fierce as slaughter,

Slants the sunset; ruby red

Are the drops that slip between

His cupped 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 bowlder slipping,

Laughs at him with lilied locks.

So 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‘ neath a cloud,

In its rocks the lake lay buried:

And strange creatures seemed to crowd

Its dark depths; vague limbs and eyes

To the surface seemed to rise

Spawn-like and, as formless, ferried

Through the water, shadow-wise.

Foliage things with human faces,

Demon-dreadful, pale and wild

As the forms the lightning traces

On the clouds the storm has piled,

Seeming now to draw to land,

Now away — Then up the strand

Comes a woman; and she places

On his arm a spray-white hand.

Ah! an untold world 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,

Shone the rose-light of her limbs.

Who could help but look with gladness

On such beauty? though within,

Deep within the beryl sadness

Of those eyes, the serpent sin

Coil?— When she hath placed her cheek

Chilly upon his, and weak,

With love longing and its madness,

Is his will grown, then she'll speak:

“Dost thou love me?” — “If surrender

Is to love thee, then I love.” —

“Hast no fear then?” — “In the splendor

Of thy gaze who knows thereof?

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.... And he did surmise

‘ Twas her lips on his, until

O'er his face the foam closed chill,

Whisp'ring, and the lake unholy

Rippled, rippled and was still.