Sir Cradock fared as one struck blind
With sudden night. A while he stood
Moveless; then dash'd into the wood,
And wildly gallop'd round about,
And, with continual cry and shout,
Went crashing through great leafy spaces
Or into dusky inward places,
Smiting through shatter'd boughs strange light
And tempest; till the broad, blank night
Stared from the sky—a huge Despair,
Starless, and black, and cold, and bare.

   For many months Sir Cradock sought
His lady; but he found her not:
And now, even hope itself had fled,
And the sweet world seem'd dumb and dead,
And like a body without a soul.
Yet, that his life might have some goal,
Some healthy purpose that might keep
Its spirit from a stagnant sleep,
Sir Cradock vow'd to spend his days
In seeking hard and perilous ways—
Fierce battles with enchantments grim
On misty moorlands wide and dim,
In woods or ghostly houses, near
The rotting of a grey flat mere.
And so with stedfast heart he rides
Through valleys, or on cold hill-sides,
Or far into the deep recesses
Of the waste lands and wildernesses;
But nothing he sees, of bliss or bale.

   The old year had now wax'd thin and pale;
The winter had come; the trees were bare;
The weary clouds in the dark still air
Slept ever, and threw a great shadow round
Under the heavens and over the ground.
The Christmas season drew nigh and nigher:
Merry it was by the red log-fire,
Merry for old rnan, woman, and child.
But Cradock abode in the deserts wild,
With lonely musings and thoughts devout
Warming the coldness round about.
And praying for some adventure soon.

   And so it befel in an afternoon
That through a forest he rode, and saw
The shadows closer and closer draw.
The trees were old, and jagg'd, and dark,
With dying moss and knarry bark;
Above, the branches and lighter spray
Like a low and black cloud lay.
From gloomy depths, suspicious faces
Seem'd glancing with grotesque grimaces;
And, out of the wet and miry nooks,
Peer'd the efts with ominous looks.
The leaping frog, the crawling toad
Leap'd and crawl'd from the beaten road,
And hid themselves in the languid sloth
Of the fat and noiseless undergrowth.
The very silence seem'd to sing
And mutter of some marvellous thing.
Suddenly Sir Cradock was aware
Of a she-wolf that ran by there.
Nimble of foot and eager-eyed.
Sir Cradock wounded her in the side,
And, as between the trunks she sped,
She left a track of glimmering red.
Made visible by the fading light
In the West; and, on this track, the knight
Rode forward through the old grim wood,
And past it; and the drops of blood
Over a marsh went steadily on.
The western light grew faint and wan;
And under the hugely-hanging dark
The black fen lay without a mark—
A night above, a night below.
The staggering ground slid to and fro
At touch of foot; and, round the edge
Of closely-hidden pools, the sedge
Shook always in the moaning breeze.
Lightly Sir Cradock rode by these,
And in the hazy moonrise drew
Towards a lonely house: and through
The rusty gates, decay'd and bent,
In at the door the she-wolf went.

   It was a drooping mansion, cold
And desolate as the fenny wold.
Green damp, in figures many and grim,
Writhed on the walls with outline dim,
And in the dusk look'd drearily.
With weeds, and grasses thick and high,
The garden walks were choked: the wet
Hung in their leaves as in a net.
A mournful silence shudder'd round;
But Cradock quickly leapt to ground,
And through the open portal stept:
Darkling, across the hall he kept,
And up the stairs in winding gloom.
And so into a lofty room
Lit by a torch's wavering flare,
Which show'd the bloody track was there.
And something else was there beside:—
No wolf, with red jaws staring wide,
But a fair lady, pale and faint.
With sad, calm features like a saint.
And piteous wound, from which the knight
Saw heavy blood-drops, large and bright,
Fall lingering downward to the floor.
Wondering he stood beside the door.

   "Lady," he said, "I pray you tell
What dread misfortune makes you dwell
In this deserted house alone,
Hearing the marsh-winds creep and moan."
"Ah, woeful me!" she made reply;
"Better it were that I should die,
And fade beneath a grassy mound!—
O, pleasant gloom! O, quiet ground!
My heart is weary, and I would sleep
In a grave-bed soft and deep,
With early blankets drawn about,
And the sighing air without!
I fear myself. My own heart-blood
Is dreadful, and a tainted flood.
I am the wolf you found within
That fiendish wood; not changed for sin,
But by a fierce enchanter's power.
He sought my love in evil hour,
And found it not. Then wroth he grew,
And my father and my mother slew,
And all our household smote with death,
Poisoning the land with baleful breath.
And ever since that murderous day
I have been doom'd to deserts grey,
A wild wood thing of grief and fear.
Herding with savage shapes undear
In murky heaths, in moss-cold dens,
Or dabbling in the rainy fens,
Wretched, and stiff with icy dew
And cold.—But from the first I knew
That, if my blood were made to run
By human hand, and I could shun
Men's sight, and gain my father's hall,
That ghastly shape would straightway fall
From off me like a robe; and, lo!
This evening it has happen'd so."

  Sir Cradock said, " Lady, I swear
To seek that foul enchanter's lair
By dawn of day. Be comforted;
For either I will make his head
Leap earthward, or will lose my own."—
She thank'd him with a cordial tone:
And, after many friendly words.
He lay upon the cold, hard boards,
And slept away the lingering night.

   Tardily dawned the morning light,
And cheerfully Sir Cradock rose.
The chilly breath of morning froze
Flower and grass and yellow weed.