The Rose…

(The Rose from Armidas Garden – by Marie Spartali Stillman)

On The Menu

The Human Game

The Quotes

Witches and Wizards and Irish Folk-Lore (W.B. Yeats)

Poetry: William Morris…

Artist: Marie Spartali Stillman

We will be featuring her work for a couple of days…

We will not be making a general announcement of Turfing for the next couple of days, time to give that process a bit of a rest at this point. – Turfing will be there though every morning around the time you have your first cuppa and what ever you start your day with.

We are doing a run through of some of my favourite bits for the next couple of days, plus some nice talent that you may have not seen before.

Monsoon Season here in the North West, water, water everywhere!

Bright Blessings,



The Human Game – Lisa Gerrard and Pieter Bourke


The Quotes:

“Nothing is impossible. Some things are just less likely than others.”

“There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating: people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing.”

“Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.” “We think in generalities, but we live in detail.”

“In our civilization, and under our republican form of government, intelligence is so highly honored that it is rewarded by exemption from the cares of office.”


Witches and Wizards and Irish Folk-Lore (W.B. Yeats)

Ireland was not separated from general European speculation when much of that was concerned with the supernatural. Dr. Adam Clarke tells in his unfinished autobiography how) when he was at school in Antrim towards the end of the eighteenth century, a schoolfellow told him of Cornelius Agrippa’s book on Magic and that it had to be chained or it would fly away of itself. Presently he heard of a farmer who had a copy and after that made friends with a wandering tinker who had another. Lady Gregory and I spoke of a friend’s visions to an old countryman. He said “he must belong to a society”; and the people often attribute magical powers to Orangemen and to Freemasons, and I have heard a shepherd at Doneraile speak of a magic wand with Tetragramaton Agla written upon it. The visions and speculations of Ireland differ much from those of England and France, for in Ireland, as in Highland Scotland, we are never far from the old Celtic mythology; but there is more likeness than difference. Lady Gregory’s story of the witch who in semblance of a hare, leads the hounds such a dance, is the best remembered of all witch stories. It is told, I should imagine, in every countryside where there is even a fading memory of witchcraft. One finds it in a sworn testimony given at the trial of Julian Cox, an old woman indicted for witchcraft at Taunton in Somersetshire in 1663 and quoted by Joseph Glanvill. “The first witness was a huntsman, who swore that he went out with a pack of hounds to hunt a hare, and not far from Julian Cox her house he at last started a hare: the dogs hunted her very close, and the third ring hunted her in view, till at last the huntsman perceiving the hare almost spent and making towards a great bush, he ran on the other side of the bush to take her up and preserve her from the dogs; but as soon as he laid hands on her, it proved to be Julian Cox, who had her head grovelling on the ground, and her globes (as he expressed it) upward. He knowing her, was so affrighted that his hair on his head stood on end; and yet spake to her, and ask’d her what brought her there; but she was so far out of breath that she could not make him any answer; his dogs also came up full cry to recover the game, and smelled at her and so left off hunting any further. And the huntsman with his dogs went home presently sadly affrighted.” Dr. Henry More, the Platonist, who considers the story in a letter to Glanvill, explains that Julian Cox was not turned into a hare, but that “Ludicrous Daemons exhibited to the sight of this huntsman and his dogs, the shape of a hare, one of them turning himself into such a form, another hurrying on the body of Julian near the same place,” making her invisible till the right moment had come. “As I have heard of some painters that have drawn the sky in a huge landscape, so lively, that the birds have flown against it, thinking it free air, and so have fallen down. And if painters and jugglers, by the tricks of legerdemain can do such strange feats to the deceiving of the sight, it is no wonder that these aerie invisible spirits have far surpassed them in all such prestigious doings, as the air surpasses the earth for subtlety.” Glanvill has given his own explanation of such cases elsewhere. He thinks that the sidereal or airy body is the foundation of the marvel, and Albert de Rochas has found a like foundation for the marvels of spiritism. “The transformation of witches,” writes Glanvill, “into the shapes of other animals … is very conceivable; since then, ’tis easy enough to imagine that the power of imagination may form those passive and pliable vehicles into those shapes,” and then goes on to account for the stories where an injury, say to the witch hare. is found afterwards upon the witch’s body precisely as a French hypnotist would account for the stigmata of a saint. “When they feel the hurts in their gross bodies, that they receive in their airy vehicles, they must be supposed to have been really present, at least in these latter, and ’tis no more difficult to apprehend, how the hurts of those should be translated upon their other bodies, than how diseases should be inflicted by the imagination, or how the fancy of the mother should wound the foettis, as several credible relations do attest.”

All magical or Platonic writers of the times speak much of the transformation or projection of the sidereal body of witch or wizard. Once the soul escapes from the natural body, though but for a moment, it passes into the body of air and can transform itself as it please or even dream itself into some shape it has not willed.

“Chameleon-like thus they their colour change,

And size contract and then dilate again.”

One of their favourite stories is of some famous man, John Haydon says Socrates, falling asleep among his friends, who presently see a mouse running from his mouth and towards a little stream. Somebody lays a sword across the stream that it may pass, and after a little while it returns across the sword and to the sleeper’s mouth again. When he awakes he tells them that he has dreamed of himself crossing a wide river by a great iron bridge.

But the witch’s wandering and disguised double was not the worst shape one might meet in the fields or roads about a witch’s house. She was not a true witch unless there was a compact (or so it seems) between her and an evil spirit who called himself the devil, though Bodin believes that he was often, and Glanvill always, “some human soul forsaken of God,” for “the devil is a body politic.” The ghost or devil promised revenge on her enemies and that she would never want, and she upon her side let the devil suck her blood nightly or at need.

When Elizabeth Style made a confession of witchcraft before the Justice of Somerset in 1664, the Justice appointed three men, William Thick and William Read and Nicholas Lambert, to watch her, and Glanvill publishes an affidavit of the evidence of Nicholas Lambert. “About three of the clock in the morning there came from her head a glistering bright fly, about an inch in length which pitched at first in the chimney and then vanished.” Then two smaller flies came and vanished. “H; looking steadfastly then on Style, perceived her countenance to change, and to become very black and ghastly and the fire also at the same time changing its colour; whereupon the Examinant, Thick and Read, conceiving that her familiar was then about her, looked to her poll, and seeing her hair shake very strangely, took it up and then a fly like a great miller flew out from the place and pitched on the table board and then vanished away. Upon this the Examinant and the other two persons, looking again in Style’s poll found it very red and like raw beef. The Examinant ask’d her what it was that went out of her poll, she said it was a butterfly, and asked them why they had not caught it. Lambert said, they could not. I think so too, answered she. A little while after the informant and the others, looking again into her poll found the place to be of its former colour. The Examinant asked again what the fly was, she confessed it was her familiar and that she felt it tickle in her poll, and that was the usual time for her familiar to come to her.” These sucking devils alike when at their meal, or when they went here and there to do her will or about their own business, had the shapes of pole-cat or cat or greyhound or of some moth or bird. At the trials of certain witches in Essex in 1645 reported in the English state trials a principal witness was one “Matthew Hopkins, gent.” Bishop Hutchinson, writing in 1730, describes him as he appeared to those who laughed at witchcraft and had brought the witch trials to an end. “Hopkins went on searching and swimming poor creatures till some gentlemen, out of indignation of the barbarity, took him, and tied his own thumbs and toes as he used to tie others, and when he was put into the water he himself swam as they did. That cleared the country of him and it was a great pity that they did not think of the experiment sooner.” Floating when thrown into the water was taken for a sign of witchcraft. Matthew Hopkins’s testimony, however, is uncommonly like that of the countryman who told Lady Gregory that he had seen his dog and some shadow fighting. A certain Mrs. Edwards of Manintree in Essex had her hogs killed by witchcraft, and “going from the house of the said Mrs. Edwards to his own house, about nine or ten of the clock that night, with his greyhound with him, he saw the greyhound suddenly give a jump, and run as she had been in full course after a hare; and that when this informant made haste to see what his greyhound so eagerly pursued, he espied a white thing, about the bigness of a kitlyn, and the greyhound standing aloof from it; and that by and by the said white imp or kitlyn danced about the grey-hound, and by all likelihood bit off a piece of the flesh of the shoulder of the said greyhound; for the greyhound came shrieking and crying to the informant, with a piece of flesh torn from her shoulder. And the informant further saith, that coming into his own yard that night, he espied a black thing proportioned like a cat, only it was thrice as big, sitting on a strawberry bed, and fixing the eyes on this informant, and when he went to-wards it, it leaped over the pale towards this informant, as he thought, but ran through the yard, with his greyhound after it, to a great gate, which was underset with a pair of tumble strings, and did throw the said gate wide open, and then vanished; and ‘he said greyhound returned again to this informant, shaking and trembling exceedingly.” At the same trial Sir Thomas Bowes, Knight, affirmed “that a very honest man of Manintree, whom he knew would not speak an untruth affirmed unto him, ‘hat very early one morning, as he passed by the said Anne West’s door” (this is the witch on trial) “about four o’clock, it being a moonlight night, and perceiving her door to be open so early in the morning, looked into the house and presently there came three or four little things, in the shape of black rabbits, leaping and skipping about him, who, having a good stick in his hand, struck at them, thinking to kill them, but could not; but at last caught one of them in his hand, and holding it by the body of it, he beat the head of it against his stick, intending to beat out the brains of it; but when he could not kill it that way, he took the body of it in one hand and the head of it in another, and endeavoured to wring off the head; and as he wrung and stretched the neck of it, it came out between his hands like a lock of wool; yet he would not give over his intended purpose, but knowing of a spring not far off, he went to drown it; but still as he went he fell down and could not go, but down he fell again, so that he at last crept upon his hands and knees till he came at the water, and holding it fast in his hand, he put his hand down into the water up to the elbow, and held it under water a good space till he conceived it was drowned, and then letting go his hand, it sprung out of the water up into the air, and so vanished away.” However, the sucking imps were not always invulnerable for Glanvill tells how one John Monpesson, whose house was haunted by such a familiar, “seeing some wood move that was in the chimney of a room, where he was, as if of itself, discharged a pistol into it after which they found several drops of blood on the hearth and in divers places of the stairs.” I remember the old Aran man who heard fighting in the air and found blood in a fish-box and scattered through the room, and I remember the measure of blood Odysseus poured out for the shades.

The English witch trials are like the popular poetry of England, matter-of-fact and unimaginative. The witch desires to kill some one and when she takes the devil for her husband he as likely as not will seem dull and domestic. Rebecca West told Matthew Hopkins that the devil appeared to her as she was going to bed and told her he would marry her. He kissed her but was as cold as clay, and he promised to be “her loving husband till death,” although she had, as it seems, but one leg. But the Scotch trials are as wild and passionate as is the Scottish poetry, and we find ourselves in the presence of a mythology that differs little, if at all, from that of Ireland. There are orgies of lust and of hatred and there is a wild shamelessness that would be fine material for poets and romance writers if the world should come once more to half-believe the tale. They are divided into troops of thirteen, with the youngest witch for leader in every troop, and though they complain that the embraces of the devil are as cold as ice, the young witches prefer him to their husbands. He gives them money, but they must spend it quickly, for it will be but dry cow dung in two circles of the clock. They go often to Elfhame or Faeryland and the mountains open before them and as they go out and in they are terrified by the “rowtling and skoylling” of the great “elf bulls.” They sometimes confess to trooping in the shape of cats and to finding upon their terrestrial bodies when they awake in the morning the scratches they had made upon one another in the night’s wandering, or should they have wandered in the images of hares the bites of dogs. Isobell Godie who was tried at Loclilay in 1662 confessed that “We put besoms in our beds with our husbands till we return again to them… and then we would fly away where we would be, even as straws would fly upon a highway. We will fly like straws when we please; wild straws and corn straws will be horses to us, and we put them betwixt our feet and say horse and hillock in the devil’s name. And when any see these straws in a whirlwind and do not sanctify themselves, we may shoot them dead at our pleasure.” When they kill people, she goes on to say, the souls escape them “but their bodies remain with us and will fly as horses to us all as small as straws.” It is plain that it is the “airy body” they take possession of; those “animal spirits” perhaps which Henry More thought to be the link between soul and body and the seat of all vital function. The trials were more unjust than those of England, where there was a continual criticism from sceptics; torture was used again and again to distort confessions, and innocent people certainly suffered; some who had but believed too much in their own dreams and some who had but cured the sick at some vision’s prompting. Alison Pearson who was burnt in 1588 might have been Biddy Early or any other knowledge-able woman in Ireland today. She was convicted “for haunting and repairing with the Good Neighbours and queen of Elfhame, these divers years and bypast, as she had confessed in her depositions, declaring that she could not say readily how long She was with them; and that she had friends in that court who were of her own blood and who had great acquaintance of the queen of Elfhame. That when she went to bed she never knew where she would be carried before dawn.” When they worked cures they had the same doctrine of the penalty that one finds in Lady Gregory’s stories. One who made her confession before James I. was convicted for “taking the sick party’s pains and sicknesses upon herself for a time and then translating them to a third person.”


There are more women than men mediums today; and there have been or seem to have been more witches than wizards. The wizards of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries relied more upon their conjuring book than the witches whose visions and experiences seem but half voluntary, and when voluntary called up by some childish rhyme:

Hare, hare, God send thee care;

I am in a hare’s likeness now,

But I shall be a woman even now;

Hare, hare, God send thee care.

More often than not the wizards were learned men, alchemists or mystics, and if they dealt with the devil at times, or some spirit they called by that name, they had amongst them ascetics and heretical saints. Our chemistry, our metallurgy, and our medicine are often but accidents that befell in their pursuit or the philosopher’s stone, the elixir of life. They were bound together in secret societies and had, it may be, some forgotten practice for liberating the soul from the body and sending it to fetch and carry them divine knowledge. Cornelius Agrippa in a letter quoted by Beaumont, has hints of such a practice. Yet like the witches, they worked many wonders by the power of the imagination, perhaps one should say by their power of up vivid pictures in the mind’s eye. The Arabian philosophers have taught, writes Beaumont, “that the soul by the power the imagination can perform what it pleases; as penetrate heavens, force the elements, demolish mountains, raise valleys to mountains, and do with all material forms as it pleases.”

He shewed hym, er he wente to sopeer,

Pores tes, parkes ful of wilde deer;

Ther saugh he hertes with hir hornes hye,

The gretteste that evere were seyn with ye.


Tho saugh he knyghtes justing in a playn;

And after this, he dide hym swich plaisaunce,

That he hym shewed his lady on a daunce

On which hymself he daunced, as hym thoughte.

And whan this maister, that this magyk wroughte,

Saugh it was tyme, he clapte his handes two,

And, farewel! al our revel was ago.

One has not as careful a record as one has of the works of witches, for but few English wizards came before the court, the only society for psychical research in those days. The translation, however, of Cornelius Agrippa’s De Occulta Philosophia in the seventeenth century, with the addition of a spurious fourth book full of conjurations, seems to have filled England and Ireland with whole or half wizards. In 1703, the Reverend Arthur Bedford of Bristol, who is quoted by Sibley in his big book on astrology, wrote to the Bishop of Gloucester telling how a certain Thomas Perks had been to consult him. Thomas Perks lived with his father, a gunsmith, and devoted his leisure to mathematics, astronomy, and the discovery of perpetual motion. One day he asked the clergyman if it was wrong to commune with spirits, and said that he himself held that “there was an innocent society with them which a man might use, if he made no compacts with them, did no harm by their means, and were not curious in prying into hidden things, and he himself had discoursed with them and heard them sing to his great satisfaction.” He then told how it was his custom to go to a crossway with lantern and candle consecrated for the purpose, according to the directions in a book he had, and having also consecrated chalk for making a circle. The spirits appeared to him “in the likeness of little maidens about a foot and a half high … they spoke with a very shrill voice like an ancient woman” and when he begged them to sing, “they went to some distance behind a bush from whence he could hear a perfect concert of such exquisite music as he never before heard; and in the upper part he heard something very harsh and shrill like a reed but as it was managed did give a particular grace to the rest.” The Reverend Arthur Bedford refused an introduction to the spirits for himself and a friend and warned him very solemnly. Having some doubt of his sanity, he set him a difficult mathematical problem, but finding that he worked it easily, concluded him sane. A quarter of a year later the young man came again, but showed by his face and his eyes that he was very ill and lamented that he had not followed the clergyman’s advice for his conjurations would bring him to his death. He had decided to get a familiar and had read in his magical book what he should do. He was to make a book of virgin parchment, consecrate it, and bring it to the cross-road, and having called up his spirits, ask the first of them for its name and write that name on the first page of the book and then question another and write that name on the second page and so on till he had enough familiars. He had got the first name easily enough and it was in Hebrew, but after that they came in fearful shapes, lions and bears and the like, or hurled at him halls of fire. He had to stay there among those terrifying visions till the dawn broke and would not be the better of it till he died. I have read in some eighteenth century book whose name I cannot recall of two men who made a magic circle and who invoked the spirits of the moon and saw them trampling about the circle as great bulls, or rolling about it as flocks of wool. One of Lady Gregory’s story-tellers considered a flock of wool one of the worst shapes that a spirit could take.

There must have been many like experimenters in Ireland. An Irish alchemist called Butler was supposed to have made successful transmutations in London early in the eighteenth century, and in the Life of Dr. Adam Clarke, published in 1833, are several letters from a Dublin maker of stained glass describing a transmutation and a conjuration into a tumbler of water of large lizards. The alchemist was an unknown man who had called to see him and claimed to do all by the help of the devil “who was the friend of all ingenious gentlemen.”


Poetry: William Morris – Part 1


Shall we wake one morn of spring,

Glad at heart of everything,

Yet pensive with the thought of eve?

Then the white house shall we leave,

Pass the wind-flowers and the bays,

Through the garth, and go our ways,

Wandering down among the meads

Till our very joyance needs

Rest at last; till we shall come

To that Sun-god’s lonely home,

Lonely on the hill-side grey,

Whence the sheep have gone away;

Lonely till the feast-time is,

When with prayer and praise of bliss,

Thither comes the country side.

There awhile shall we abide,

Sitting low down in the porch

By that image with the torch:

Thy one white hand laid upon

The black pillar that was won

From the far-off Indian mine;

And my hand nigh touching thine,

But not touching; and thy gown

Fair with spring-flowers cast adown

From thy bosom and thy brow.

There the south-west wind shall blow

Through thine hair to reach my cheek,

As thou sittest, nor mayst speak,

Nor mayst move the hand I kiss

For the very depth of bliss;

Nay, nor turn thine eyes to me.

Then desire of the great sea

Nigh enow, but all unheard,

In the hearts of us is stirred,

And we rise, we twain at last,

And the daffodils downcast,

Feel thy feet and we are gone

From the lonely Sun-Crowned one.

Then the meads fade at our back,

And the spring day ‘gins to lack

That fresh hope that once it had;

But we twain grow yet more glad,

And apart no more may go

When the grassy slope and low

Dieth in the shingly sand:

Then we wander hand in hand

By the edges of the sea,

And I weary more for thee

Than if far apart we were,

With a space of desert drear

‘Twixt thy lips and mine, O love!

Ah, my joy, my joy thereof!




At Deildar-Tongue in the autumn-tide,

So many times over comes summer again,

Stood Odd of Tongue his door beside.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Dim and dusk the day was grown,

As he heard his folded wethers moan.

Then through the garth a man drew near,

With painted shield and gold-wrought spear.

Good was his horse and grand his gear,

And his girths were wet with Whitewater.

“Hail, Master Odd, live blithe and long!

How fare the folk at Deildar-Tongue?”

“All hail, thou Hallbiorn the Strong!

How fare the folk by the Brothers’-Tongue?”

“Meat have we there, and drink and fire,

Nor lack all things that we desire.

But by the other Whitewater

Of Hallgerd many a tale we hear.”

“Tales enow may my daughter make

If too many words be said for her sake.”

“What saith thine heart to a word of mine,

That I deem thy daughter fair and fine?

Fair and fine for a bride is she,

And I fain would have her home with me.”

“Full many a word that at noon goes forth

Comes home at even little worth.

Now winter treadeth on autumn-tide,

So here till the spring shalt thou abide.

Then if thy mind be changed no whit,

And ye still will wed, see ye to it!

And on the first of summer days,

A wedded man, ye may go your ways.

Yet look, howso the thing will fall,

My hand shall meddle nought at all.

Lo, now the night and rain draweth up,

And within doors glimmer stoop and cup.

And hark, a little sound I know,

The laugh of Snaebiorn’s fiddle-bow,

My sister’s son, and a craftsman good,

When the red rain drives through the iron wood.”

Hallbiorn laughed, and followed in,

And a merry feast there did begin.

Hallgerd’s hands undid his weed,

Hallgerd’s hands poured out the mead.

Her fingers at his breast he felt,

As her hair fell down about his belt.

Her fingers with the cup he took,

And o’er its rim at her did look.

Cold cup, warm hand, and fingers slim,

Before his eyes were waxen dim.

And if the feast were foul or fair,

He knew not, save that she was there.

He knew not if men laughed or wept,

While still ‘twixt wall and dais she stept.

Whether she went or stood that eve,

Not once his eyes her face did leave.

But Snaebiorn laughed and Snaebiorn sang,

And sweet his smitten fiddle rang.

And Hallgerd stood beside him there,

So many times over comes summer again,

Nor ever once he turned to her,

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Master Odd on the morrow spake,

So many times over comes summer again.

Hearken, O guest, if ye be awake,”

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

“Sure ye champions of the south

Speak many things from a silent mouth.

And thine, meseems, last night did pray

That ye might well be wed to-day.

The year’s ingathering feast it is,

A goodly day to give thee bliss.

Come hither, daughter, fine and fair,

Here is a Wooer from Whitewater.

East away hath he gotten fame,

And his father’s name is e’en my names.

Will ye lay hand within his hand,

That blossoming fair our house may stand?”

She laid her hand within his hand;

White she was as the lily wand.

Low sang Snaebiorn’s brand in its sheath,

And his lips were waxen grey as death.

“Snaebiorn, sing us a song of worth,

If your song must be silent from now henceforth.”

Clear and loud his voice outrang,

And a song of worth at the wedding he sang.

“Sharp sword,” he sang, “and death is sure.”

So many times over comes summer again,

“But love doth over all endure.”

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Now winter cometh and weareth away,

So many times over comes summer again,

And glad is Hallbiorn many a day.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Full soft he lay his love beside;

But dark are the days of wintertide.

Dark are the days, and the nights are long,

And sweet and fair was Snaebiorn’s song.

Many a time he talked with her,

Till they deemed the summer-tide was there.

And they forgat the wind-swept ways

And angry fords of the flitting-days.

While the north wind swept the hillside there

They forgat the other Whitewater.

While nights at Deildar-Tongue were long,

They clean forgat the Brothers’-Tongue.

But whatso falleth ‘twixt Hell and Home,

So many times over comes summer again,

Full surely again shall summer come.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

To Odd spake Hallbiorn on a day

So many times over comes summer again,

“Gone is the snow from everyway.”

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Now green is grown Whitewater-side,

And I to Whitewater will ride.”

Quoth Odd, “Well fare thou winter-guest,

May thine own Whitewater be best.

Well is a man’s purse better at home

Than open where folk go and come.”

“Come ye carles of the south country,

Now shall we go our kin to see!

For the lambs are bleating in the south,

And the salmon swims towards Olfus mouth.

Girth and graithe and gather your gear!

And ho for the other Whitewater!”

Bright was the moon as bright might be,

And Snaebiorn rode to the north country.

And Odd to Reykholt is gone forth,

To see if his mares be ought of worth.

But Hallbiorn into the bower is gone

And there sat Hallgerd all alone.

She was not dight to go nor ride

She had no joy of the summer-tide.

Silent she sat and combed her hair,

That fell all round about her there.

The slant beam lay upon her head,

And gilt her golden locks to red.

He gazed at her with hungry eyes

And fluttering did his heart arise.

“Full hot,” he said, “is the sun to-day,

And the snow is gone from the mountain-way.

The king-cup grows above the grass,

And through the wood do the thrushes pass.”

Of all his words she hearkened none,

But combed her hair amidst the sun.

“The laden beasts stand in the garth

And their heads are turned to Helliskarth.”

The sun was falling on her knee,

And she combed her gold hair silently.

“To-morrow great will be the cheer

At the Brothers’-Tongue by Whitewater.”

From her folded lap the sunbeam slid;

She combed her hair, and the word she hid.

“Come, love; is the way so long and drear

From Whitewater to Whitewater?”

The sunbeam lay upon the floor;

She combed her hair and spake no more.

He drew her by the lily hand:

“I love thee better than all the land.”

He drew her by the shoulders sweet:

“My threshold is but for thy feet.”

He drew her by the yellow hair:

“O why wert thou so deadly fair?

“O am I wedded to death?” he cried

“Is the Dead-strand come to Whitewater side?”

And the sun was fading from the room,

But her eyes were bright in the change and the gloom.

“Sharp sword,” she sang, “and death is sure,

But over all doth love endure.”

She stood up shining in her place

And laughed beneath his deadly face.

Instead of the sunbeam gleamed a brand,

The hilts were hard in Hallbiorn’s hand:

The bitter point was in Hallgerd’s breast

That Snaebiorn’s lips of love had pressed.

Morn and noon, and nones passed o’er,

And the sun is far from the bower door.

To-morrow morn shall the sun come back,

So many times over comes summer again,

But Hallgerd’s feet the floor shall lack.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Now Hallbiorn’s house-carles ride full fast,

So many times over comes summer again,

Till many a mile of way is past.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

But when they came over Oxridges,

‘Twas, “Where shall we give our horses ease?”

When Shieldbroad-side was well in sight,

‘Twas, “Where shall we lay our heads to-night?”

Hallbiorn turned and raised his head;

“Under the stones of the waste,” he said.

Quoth one, “The clatter of hoofs anigh.”

Quoth the other, “Spears against the sky!”

“Hither ride men from the Wells apace;

Spur we fast to a kindlier place.”

Down from his horse leapt Hallbiorn straight:

“Why should the supper of Odin wait?

Weary and chased I will not come

To the table of my fathers’ home.”

With that came Snaebiorn, who but he,

And twelve in all was his company.

Snaebiorn’s folk were on their feet;

He spake no word as they did meet.

They fought upon the northern hill:

Five are the howes men see there still.

Three men of Snaebiorn’s fell to earth

And Hallbiorn’s twain that were of worth.

And never a word did Snaebiorn say,

Till Hallbiorn’s foot he smote away.

Then Hallbiorn cried: “Come, fellow of mine,

To the southern bent where the sun doth shine.”

Tottering into the sun he went,

And slew two more upon the bent.

And on the bent where dead he lay

Three howes do men behold to-day.

And never a word spake Snaebiorn yet,

Till in his saddle he was set.

Nor was there any heard his voice,

So many times over comes summer again,

Till he came to his ship in Grimsar-oyce.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

On so fair a day they hoisted sail,

So many times over comes summer again,

And for Norway well did the wind avail.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

But Snaebiorn looked aloft and said:

“I see in the sail a stripe of red:

Murder, meseems, is the name of it

And ugly things about it flit.

A stripe of blue in the sail I see:

Cold death of men it seems to me.

And next I see a stripe of black,

For a life fulfilled of bitter lack.”

Quoth one, “So fair a wind doth blow

That we shall see Norway soon enow.”

“Be blithe, O shipmate,” Snaebiorn said,

“Tell Hacon the Earl that I be dead.”

About the midst of the Iceland main

Round veered the wind to the east again.

And west they drave, and long they ran

Till they saw a land was white and wan.

“Yea,” Snaebiorn said, “my home it is,

Ye bear a man shall have no bliss.

Far off beside the Greekish sea

The maidens pluck the grapes in glee.

Green groweth the wheat in the English land

And the honey-bee flieth on every hand.

In Norway by the cheaping town

The laden beasts go up and down.

In Iceland many a mead they mow

And Hallgerd’s grave grows green enow.

But these are Gunnbiorn’s skerries wan

Meet harbour for a hapless man.

In all lands else is love alive,

But here is nought with grief to strive.

Fail not for a while, O eastern wind,

For nought but grief is left behind.

And before me here a rest I know,”

So many times over comes summer again,

“A grave beneath the Greenland snow,”

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

(The Enchanted Garden of Messer Ansaldo by Marie Spartali Stillman)

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