The King Of Ys

Wild across the Breton country,     Fabled centuries ago,     Riding from the black sea border,     Came the squadrons of the snow.     Piping dread at every latch-hole,     Moaning death at every sill,     The white Yule came down in vengeance     Upon Ys, and had its will.     Walled and dreamy stood the city,     Wide and dazzling shone the sea,     When the gods set hand to smother     Ys, the pride of Brittany.     Morning drenched her towers in purple;     Light of heart were king and fool;     Fair forebode the merrymaking     Of the seven days of Yule.     Laughed the king, "Once more, my mistress,     Time and place and joy are one!"     Bade the balconies with banners     Match the splendor of the sun;     Eyes of urchins shine with silver,     And with gold the pavement ring;     Bade the war-horns sound their bravest     In The Mistress of the King.     Mountebanks and ballad-mongers     And all strolling traffickers     Should block up the market corners     With none other name than hers.     Laughed the fool, "To-day, my Folly,     Thou shalt be the king of Ys!"     O wise fool! How long must wisdom     Under motley hold her peace?     Then the storm came down. The valleys     Wailed and ciphered to the dune     Like huge organ pipes; a midnight     Stalked those gala streets at noon;     And the sea rose, rocked and tilted     Like a beaker in the hand,     Till the moon-hung tide broke tether     And stampeded in for land.     All day long with doom portentous,     Shreds of pennons shrieked and flew     Over Ys; and black fear shuddered     On the hearthstone all night through.     Fear, which freezes up the marrow     Of the heart, from door to door     Like a plague went through the city,     And filled up the devil's score;     Filled her tally of the craven,     To the sea-wind's dismal note;     While a panic superstition     Took the people by the throat.     As with morning still the sea rose     With vast wreckage on the tide,     And their pasture rills, grown rivers,     Thundered in the mountain side,     "Vengeance, vengeance, gods to vengeance!"     Rose a storm of muttering;     And the human flood came pouring     To the palace of the king.     "Save, O king, before we perish     In the whirlpools of the sea,     Ys thy city, us thy people!"     Growled the king then, "What would ye?"     But his wolf's eyes talked defiance,     And his bearded mouth meant scorn.     "O our king, the gods are angry;     And no longer to be borne     "Is the shameless face that greets us     From thy windows, at thy side,     Smiling infamy. And therefore     Thou shall take her up, and ride     "Down with her into the sea's mouth,     And there leave her; else we die,     And thy name goes down to story     A new word for cruelty."     Ah, but she was fair, this woman!     Warm and flaxen waved her hair;     Her blue Breton eyes made summer     In that bleak December air.     There she stood whose burning beauty     Made the world's high roof tree ring,     A white poppy tall and wind-blown     In the garden of the king.     Her throat shook, but not with terror;     Her eyes swam, but not with fear;     While her two hands caught and clung to     The one man they had found dear.     "Lord and lover,"--thus she smiled him     Her last word,--"it shall be so,     Only the sea's arms shall hold me,     When from out thine arms I go."     Swore he, "By the gods, my mistress,     Thou shall have queen's burial.     Pearls and amber shall thy tomb be;     Shot with gold and green thy pall.     "And a million-throated chorus     Shall take up thy dirge to-night;     Where thy slumber's starry watch-fires     Shall a thousand years be bright."     Then they brought the coal-black stallion,     Chafing on the bit. Astride     Sprang the young king; shouted, "Way there!"     Caught the girl up to his side;     And a path through that scared rabble     Rode in pageant to the sea.     And the coal-black mane was mingled     With gold hair against his knee.     Sure as the wild gulls make seaward,     From the west gate to the beach     Rode these two for whom now freedom     Landward lay beyond their reach.     And the great horse, scenting peril,     Snorted at the flying spume,     Flicked with courage, as how often,     When the tides were racing doom,     Ridden, he had plunged to rescue     From that seething icy hell     Some poor sailor wrecked a-fishing     On the coast. What fears should quell     That high spirit? Knee to shoulder,     King and stallion reared and sprang     Clear above the long white combers     And that turmoil's iron clang.     What a launching! For a moment,     While the tempest held its breath     And a thousand eyes looked wonder,     Swimming in that trough of death,     Steering seaward through the welter,     Ere they settled out of sight,     Waved above them one gold streamer.     Valor, bid the world good-night!...     Not a trace, while the long summers     Warm the heart of Brittany,     Save one stone of Ys, as remnant,     For a white mark in the sea.