Ballad of the Eve of Yule

It was hard on the tide of Yule,
And the wind bit shrewd and sharp,
Churning the river pool,
And turning the deep-wood boughs,
That were wont to droop and drowse,
To the moaning strings of a harp.

A snow-threat gloomed the sky,
And with iterant, raucous caw
A bevy of rooks went by,
Each a seeming thing
Of evil, ominous wing
Flapping adown the flaw.

Then night fell over the fen,
And he mused, still stumbling on,
"Out of the world of men
Into the shades I go!"
And he grimly laughed, when lo,
A light on his pathway shone!

"Mine enemy's tower!" he said,
As the beacon beckoned him. "Well,
Succor were likely as bread
To be had from a shard or stone,
Or meat from a wolf-gnawed bone,
Or hope in the heart of hell!"

Yet he steered him sheer on the flare,
With a "Here or there, 'tis one!
A corpse in the morning air,
Frozen as rigid as steel,
Or a form on gibbet or wheel, —
What matters it how 'tis done!"

He clanged a summons clear,
Keeping his grip on hate;
And he wavered not to hear
A word from a tongue abhorred, —
Then back swung the outer ward,
And his enemy stood in the gate.

Eyes upon burning eyes
Hung, as when war-fires rule
Under the angry skies;
Then, ere the wrath-flame died,
"Welcome," his enemy cried,
"For this is the eve of Yule!"

Into the banquet-hall
He was bid as a chosen guest;
And there before them all
Did his enemy give him meat,
And bread of the finest wheat,
And golden wine of the best.

Then he was brought to a room
Where rugs were soft on the floor,
And a fire made fair the gloom;
And, warned with a stern behest
Of the sacred rights of a guest,
A guard was set at the door.

Through the black night-watches long
Did he wait on sleep, but when
Came the peal of the matin-song
No slumber had kissed his brow;
So he girded himself, for now
The sunlight lay on the fen.

Then once more did his foe
Proffer him drink and food;
Forth to the court below
Did his enemy lead the way,
Where, as one for a fray,
Chafing, a charger stood.

"Hate! —it is burned into shame;
Scorn! — of myself is the scorn;
Blame! — I confess to the blame;
Vengeance is thine!" he said,
And, with averted head,
He rode out into the morn.