The Three Horses

What shall I be?--I will be a knight         Walled up in armour black,     With a sword of sharpness, a hammer of might.         And a spear that will not crack--     So black, so blank, no glimmer of light         Will betray my darkling track.     Saddle my coal-black steed, my men,         Fittest for sunless work;     Old Night is steaming from her den,         And her children gather and lurk;     Bad things are creeping from the fen,         And sliding down the murk.     Let him go!--let him go! Let him plunge!--Keep away!         He's a foal of the third seal's brood!     Gaunt with armour, in grim array         Of poitrel and frontlet-hood,     Let him go, a living castle, away--         Right for the evil wood.     I and Ravenwing on the course,         Heavy in fighting gear--     Woe to the thing that checks our force,         That meets us in career!     Giant, enchanter, devil, or worse--         What cares the couched spear!     Slow through the trees zigzag I ride.         See! the goblins!--to and fro!     From the skull of the dark, on either side,         See the eyes of a dragon glow!     From the thickets the silent serpents glide--         I pass them, I let them go;     For somewhere in the evil night         A little one cries alone;     An aged knight, outnumbered in fight,         But for me will be stricken prone;     A lady with terror is staring white,         For her champion is overthrown.     The child in my arms, to my hauberk prest,         Like a trembling bird will cling;     I will cover him over, in iron nest,         With my shield, my one steel wing,     And bear him home to his mother's breast,         A radiant, rescued thing.     Spur in flank, and lance in rest,         On the old knight's foes I flash;     The caitiffs I scatter to east and west         With clang and hurtle and crash;     Leave them the law, as knaves learn it best,         In bruise, and breach, and gash.     The lady I lift on my panting steed;         On the pommel she holds my mace;     Hand on bridle I gently lead         The horse at a gentle pace;     The thickets with martel-axe I heed,         For the wood is an evil place.     What treasure is there in manly might         That hid in the bosom lies!     Who for the crying will not fight         Had better be he that cries!     A man is a knight that loves the right         And mounts for it till he dies.     Alas, 'tis a dream of ages hoar!         In the fens no dragons won;     No giants from moated castles roar;         Through the forest wide roadways run;     Of all the deeds they did of yore         Not one is left to be done!     If I should saddle old Ravenwing         And hie me out at night,     Scared little birds away would spring         An ill-shot arrow's flight:     The idle fancy away I fling,         Now I will dream aright!     Let a youth bridle Twilight, my dapple-gray,         With broad rein and snaffle bit;     He must bring him round at break of day         When the shadows begin to flit,     When the darkness begins to dream away,         And the owls begin to sit.     Ungraithed in plate or mail I go,         With only my sword--gray-blue     Like the scythe of the dawning come to mow         The night-sprung shadows anew     From the gates of the east, that, fair and slow,         Maid Morning may walk through.     I seek no forest with darkness grim,         To the open land I ride;     Low light, from the broad horizon's brim,         Lies wet on the flowing tide,     And mottles with shadows dun and dim         The mountain's rugged side.     Steadily, hasteless, o'er valley and hill.         O'er the moor, along the beach,     We ride, nor slacken our pace until         Some city of men we reach;     There, in the market, my horse stands still,         And I lift my voice and preach.     Wealth and poverty, age and youth         Around me gather and throng;     I tell them of justice, of wisdom, of truth,         Of mercy, and law, and wrong;     My words are moulded by right and ruth         To a solemn-chanted song.     They bring me questions which would be scanned,         That strife may be forgot;     Swerves my balance to neither hand,         The poor I favour no jot;     If a man withstand, out sweeps my brand.         I slay him upon the spot.     But what if my eye have in it a beam         And therefore spy his mote?     Righteousness only, wisdom supreme         Can tell the sheep from the goat!     Not thus I dream a wise man's dream,         Not thus take Wrong by the throat!     Lead Twilight home. I dare not kill;         The sword myself would scare.--     When the sun looks over the eastern hill,         Bring out my snow-white mare:     One labour is left which no one will         Deny me the right to share!     Take heed, my men, from crest to heel         Snow-white have no speck;     No curb, no bit her mouth must feel,         No tightening rein her neck;     No saddle-girth drawn with buckle of steel         Shall her mighty breathing check!     Lay on her a cloth of silver sheen,         Bring me a robe of white;     Wherever we go we must be seen         By the shining of our light--     A glistening splendour in forest green,         A star on the mountain-height.     With jar and shudder the gates unclose;         Out in the sun she leaps!     A unit of light and power she goes         Levelling vales and steeps:     The wind around her eddies and blows,         Before and behind her sleeps.     Oh joy, oh joy to ride the world         And glad, good tidings bear!     A flag of peace on the winds unfurled         Is the mane of my shining mare:     To the sound of her hoofs, lo, the dead stars hurled         Quivering adown the air!     Oh, the sun and the wind! Oh, the life and the love!         Where the serpent swung all day     The loud dove coos to the silent dove;         Where the web-winged dragon lay     In its hole beneath, on the rock above         Merry-tongued children play.     With eyes of light the maidens look up         As they sit in the summer heat     Twining green blade with golden cup--         They see, and they rise to their feet;     I call aloud, for I must not stop,         "Good tidings, my sisters sweet!"     For mine is a message of holy mirth         To city and land of corn;     Of praise for heaviness, plenty for dearth,         For darkness a shining morn:     Clap hands, ye billows; be glad, O earth,         For a child, a child is born!     Lo, even the just shall live by faith!         None argue of mine and thine!     Old Self shall die an ecstatic death         And be born a thing divine,     For God's own being and God's own breath         Shall be its bread and wine.     Ambition shall vanish, and Love be king,         And Pride to his darkness hie;     Yea, for very love of a living thing         A man would forget and die,     If very love were not the spring         Whence life springs endlessly!     The myrtle shall grow where grew the thorn;         Earth shall be young as heaven;     The heart with remorse or anger torn         Shall weep like a summer even;     For to us a child, a child is born,         Unto us a son is given!     Lord, with thy message I dare not ride!         I am a fool, a beast!     The little ones only from thy side         Go forth to publish thy feast!     And I, where but sons and daughters abide,         Would have walked about, a priest!     Take Snow-white back to her glimmering stall;         There let her stand and feed!--     I am overweening, ambitious, small,         A creature of pride and greed!     Let me wash the hoofs, let me be the thrall,         Jesus, of thy white steed!