To show the Pass is clear, Bisesa stepped
Upon the great gray slope of mortised stone,
The Causeway of Taman. The Red Horse neighed
Behind her to the Unlighted Shrine-then fled
North to the Mountain where his stable lies.

They know who dared the anger of Taman,
And watched that night above the clinging mists,
Far up the hill, Bisesa's passing in.

She set her hand upon the carven door,
Fouled by a myriad bats, and black with time,
Whereon is graved the Glory of Taman
In letters older than the Ao-Safai;

And twice she turned aside and twice she wept,
Cast down upon the threshold, clamouring
For him she loved-the Man of Sixty Spears,
And for her father,

Hers and her pride.

and the black bull Tor,

Yea, twice she turned away

Before the awful darkness of the door,
And the great horror of the Wall of Man
Where Man is made the plaything of Taman,
An Eyeless Face that waits above and laughs.

But the third time she cried and put her palms Against the hewn stone leaves, and prayed Taman To spare Er-Heb and take her life for price.

They know who watched, the doors were rent apart And closed upon Bisesa, and the rain

Broke like a flood across the Valley, washed

The mist away; but louder than the rain
The thunder of Taman filled men with fear.

Some say that from the Unlighted Shrine she cried
For succour, very pitifully, thrice,

And others that she sang and had no fear.
And some that there was neither song nor cry,
But only thunder and the lashing rain.

Howbeit, in the morning men rose up,
Perplexed with horror, crowding to the Shrine.
And when Er-Heb was gathered at the doors
The Priests made lamentation and passed in
To a strange Temple and a God they feared
But knew not.

From the crevices the grass

Had thrust the altar-slabs apart, the walls

Were gray with stains unclean, the roof-beams swelled
With many-coloured growth of rottenness,

And lichen veiled the Image of Taman
In leprosy. The Basin of the Blood
Above the altar held the morning sun:
A winking ruby on its heart: below,
Face hid in hands, the maid Bisesa lay.

Er-Heb beyond the Hills of Ao-Safai
Bears witness to the truth, and Ao-Safai
Hath told the men of Gorukh. Thence the tale
Comes westward o'er the peaks to India.

THE EXPLANATION

LOVE and Death once ceased their strife At the Tavern of Man's Life.

Called for wine, and threw-alas!

Each his quiver on the grass.

When the bout was o'er they found
Mingled arrows strewed the ground.
Hastily they gathered then
Each the loves and lives of men.
Ah, the fateful dawn deceived!
Mingled arrows each one sheaved;
Death's dread armoury was stored
With the shafts he most abhorred;
Love's light quiver groaned beneath
Venom-headed darts of Death.

Thus it was they wrought our woe
At the Tavern long ago.

Tell me, do our masters know,
Loosing blindly as they fly,

Old men love while young men die?

THE GIFT OF THE SEA

THE dead child lay in the shroud,

And the widow watched beside;

And her mother slept, and the Channel swept The gale in the teeth of the tide.

But the mother laughed at all.

"I have lost my man in the sea, And the child is dead. Be still," she said, "What more can ye do to me?"

The widow watched the dead,

And the candle guttered low,

And she tried to sing the Passing Song
That bids the poor soul go.

And "Mary take you now," she sang,
"That lay against my heart."

And "Mary smooth your crib to-night,"
But she could not say "Depart."

Then came a cry from the sea,

But the sea-rime blinded the glass,

And "Heard ye nothing, mother?" she said, "'Tis the child that waits to pass."

And the nodding mother sighed.

"'Tis a lambing ewe in the whin,

For why should the christened soul cry out That never knew of sin?"

"O feet I have held in my hand,

O hands at my heart to catch,

How should they know the road to go,
And how should they lift the latch?"

They laid a sheet to the door,

With the little quilt atop,

That it might not hurt from the cold or the dirt,

But the crying would not stop.

The widow lifted the latch

And strained her eyes to see,

And opened the door on the bitter shore
To let the soul go free.

There was neither glimmer nor ghost,
There was neither spirit nor spark,

And "Heard ye nothing, mother?" she said, "'Tis crying for me in the dark.”

And the nodding mother sighed:

"'Tis sorrow makes ye dull;

Have ye yet to learn the cry of the tern,
Or the wail of the wind-blown gull?"