The Enchantress
I FEAR Eileen, the wild Eileen--
The eyes she lifts to mine,
That laugh and laugh and never tell
The half that they divine!
She draws me to her lonely cot
Ayont the Tulloch Hill;
And, laughing, draws me to her door
And, laughing, holds me still.
I bless myself and bless myself,
But in the holy sign,
There seems to be no heart of love,
To still the pain in mine.
The morning, bright above the moor,
Is bright no more for me--
A weary bit of burning pain
Is where my heart should be!
For since the wild, sweet laugh of her
Has drawn me to her snare,
The only sunlight in the world
Is shining from her hair.
Yet well I know, ah, well I know
Why 'tis so sweet and wild--
She slept beneath a faery thorn,
She is a faery child!
And so I leave my mother lone,
No meal to fill the pot,
And follow, follow wild Eileen.
If so I will or not.
I fear to meet her in the glen,
Or seek her by the shore;
I fear to lift her cabin's latch,
But--should she come no more!--
O Eileen Og, O wild Eileen,
My heart is wracked with fear
Lest you should meet your faery kin,
And, laughing, leave me here!
The Witch
HER hair was gold and warm it lay
Upon the pallor of her brow;
Her eyes were deep, aye, deep and gray--
And in their depths he drowned his vow.
She wandered where the sands were wet,
Weaving the sea-weed for a crown,
And there at eve a monk she met--
A holy monk in cowl and gown.
She held him with her witch's stare
(A sweet, child-look--it witched him well!)
Upon his lip she froze the prayer,
And in his ear she breathed a spell.
He babbled ever of her name
And of her brow that gleamed like dawn,
And of her lips--a lovely shame
No holy man should think upon.
They hunted her along the sea,
'Witch, Witch!' they cried and hissed their hate--
Her hair unbound fell to her knee
And made a glory where she sate.
Her song she hushed and, wonder-eyed,
She gazed upon their bell and book;
The zealous priests were fain to hide
Lest they be holden by her look.
Most innocent she seemed to be
('The Devil's sly!' the fathers say)
Her eyes were dreaming eyes that see
Things strange and fair and far away.
They stood her in the judgment hall.
'Confess,' they cried, 'the blasting spell
That holds yon crazed monk in thrall?'
'Good sirs,' she said, 'he loved me well.'
They haled her to a witch's doom,
They matched her shining hair with flame--
But ever through the cloister's gloom
The mad monk babbles of her name!
And, when the red sun droppeth down
And wet sand gleameth ghostily,
Men see her weave a sea-weed crown
Between the twilight and the sea.
