Tristram of Lyonesse and Other Poems


Thomas Middleton

Algernon Charles Swinburne

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.

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