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A WILD MOON riding high from cloud to cloud, That sees and sees not, glimmering far beneath, Hell’s children revel along the shuddering heath With dirge-like mirth and raiment like a shroud: A worse fair face than witchcraft’s, passion-proud, With brows blood-flecked behind their bridal wreath And lips that bade the assassin’s sword find sheath Deep in the heart whereto love’s heart was vowed: A game of close contentious crafts and creeds Played till white England bring black Spain to shame: A son’s bright sword and brighter soul, whose deeds High conscience lights for mother’s love and fame: Pure gipsy flowers, and poisonous courtly weeds: Such tokens and such trophies crown thy name. |