The witch-elm shivers in the gale;
The thorn-tree's top is bowed:
The night is black with rain and hail,
And mist and cloud.
The winds, upon the woods and fields,
Are swords two fiends unsheathe,
Two fiends, that snarl behind their shields
And grind their teeth.
The foxfire, in the marshy place,
As he rides on and on,
Gleams, ghastly as a deadman's face,
And then is gone.
The owl shrieks from the splintered pine
Demonic ridicule:
He hears the werewolf howl and whine
And lap the pool.
Black bats beat blindly by his eyes,
Like Death's own horrible hands:
His quest leads under haunted skies
To haunted lands.
He rides with fire upon his casque,
And fire upon his spear,
The roadway of his soul's set task,
Without a fear.
Right steels the sinews of his steed,
And tempers his straight sword:
He rides the causeway of his creed
Without a word.
No man shall make the iron pause
In gauntlet and in thew:
He rides the highway of his cause
To die or do.
His purpose leads him, like a flame,
Through forest and through fen,
To castle walls of wrong and shame
And blood-stained men.
Hope's are the lips that wind the horn
Before the gates of lust:
Though fifty dragons hiss him scorn,
Still will he trust.
Strength's is the hand that thunders at
The entrances of night:
Though ten-score demons crush him flat
Still will he fight.
Love's is the heart that finds a way
To dungeons vast of sin:
A thousand deaths may rise to slay,
Still will he win.