Up clomb the good Knight on his steed;
Up went the sun, in smears of red
And coppery cloud enveloped;
Up went the smoke from distant town;
Up went the smoky marsh-mists brown;
And Cradock, turning for a space,
Beheld that lovely lady's face
Smiling a sweet yet sad Farewell!

   His heart was throbbing like a bell,
As over moss and moor he pass'd
Into a glen where high rocks cast
Strange darkness: a black, ominous land,
With dismal crags on either hand,
And down each drear, precipitous wall
Black waters fell with snake-like crawl.
Portentous shapes, with face all spasms,
Lay snarling in the rocky chasms,
Dog-like, with frequent moan and yelp,
And sometimes calling out for help:
But Cradock mark'd how human bones
Were whitening beside fallen stones;
And swerv'd not, nor to right nor left,
At length he.clear'd that perilous cleft,
And saw the enchanted palace rise.
Gorgeous and vast, before his eyes,
Far off upon a pleasant plain,
With walls that shone like glistening rain.
Tow'rds it he gallop' d, glad at heart,
And safely reach'd the outer part
Just as the night came glooming down
Over mountain, valley, and town.

   He stopp'd: and, scarcely knowing why,
Sat gazing round, when, suddenly,
He saw an old fantastic crone
Crouching beneath the wall alone,
And muttering at the gathering night.
With legs across and fingers tight.
Up leap'd the hag in ugly glee,
And cried, "Sir Knight, I joy to see
Thy noble face!—The time has come;
The heavens are dark, the world is dumb.
The grave is dug, the screech-owls shriek:
Hearken, Sir Knight, to what I speak!
The sorcerer thou hast come to slay;
But I alone can show the way
Of severing his enchanted life.
Without some charmed sword, all strife
Is vain; though nothing can withstand
The lightning of this fatal brand
Of magic steel which I will give
To thee; but thou must thenceforth live
With me for ever, and remain
My bondsman through all joy and pain."

   O, hard condition for a knight!
No more to mix in court or fight;
No more to see the glad swords leap
Like sudden brooks from winter sleep;
No more to hear the horse's neigh
And iron clangour of the fray.
With dusty tempests rolling past;
No more to feel the shivering blast
Of trumpets smite the air, and make
His beard within his visor shake!
Yet never will he break his vow
To that fair lady, whose white brow
Lights him in darkness like a moon.
He takes the sword, and swears that soon
He will return, with victory rich.
And bind him to the dreary witch,
Beneath an old and cavernous oak.

   Straightway he pass'd through fire and smoke
Into the bright enchanted hall.
And saw a sudden dimness fall
On all the lightsome splendours there;
Which sicken'd to a deadly glare,
As though a ghost had risen, and brought
The darkness of some strange new thought.
The sorcerer, feasting at the board,
Beheld Sir Cradock's dreadful sword,
And leaped up with a serpent hiss;
While, through the diamond galleries
And golden glooms, a swooning sigh
From point to point ran shudderingly.
A moment, and the swords are out:
A flashing fire flames about;
The champions clash, and clang, and trace,
And hurtle round the darkening place,
And lose, and gain, and lose their ground.
Loud thunder laughs and leaps around,
And, from their weapons, rudely kiss'd,
There rolls a grey and creeping mist,
Which hangs and droops apart. At length
A faintness drows'd the sorcerer's strength.
Sir Cradock clove his skull in twain:
His blood dash'd into the air like rain:
The hall was rent from base to height,
And through the rifts down rush'd the night.

   The great enchantment had all fled.
Sir Cradock saw the stars o'erhead,
And felt the outer air benign;
Then woke, as from some dreamy wine,
And walk'd towards the old oak tree:
A sad man at the heart was he.

  The tree was rough, and broad, and bare,
And hollow'd like some wild beast's lair
He sees that he has reach'd the spot
Assign'd; yet there the crone is not.
No human soul appears; no sound
To stir the silence aching round.

   Is he asleep, or is he mad?
He knows not whether to be glad
Or grave; when, from the other side
Of the trunk, he sees a fair face glide—
Ah, Heaven! the face which they had torn
From him, and through the wild woods borne;
Her face of sweetness, sadness, mirth,
Rising as from a second birth,
With patient cheek and tender bloom,
Making a glory in the gloom.
Like something snatch'd from wormy death—
No ghost, but living pulse and breath,
Warm lips, soft arms, and beating heart.
"Oh, Cradock, we shall no more part!
Oh, husband! me you vow'd to serve
For ever; and you will not swerve."
He holds her with a strong caress,
And almost fears his happiness;
And greatly weeping in his joy,
Cries wildly for some sharp alloy
To make it seem more natural.

   After a while she tells him all.
The sorcerer now lying dead,
Had dragg'd her from her home, and fled
Into his bright, enchanted land;
Where painfully and long he plann'd
To bring her to his sovereign will.
But she, love-strong, resisted still.
Then, mad to be thus overthrown,
He changed her to a hideous crone,
And cursed her; but she bore away
The sword which had been forced to slay
Its former master, and make clear
The light of Heaven's eternal year.
During the fray she watch' d apart;
And when, with dreadful reel and start,
She saw the enchanted towers wane,
Her natural shape appear'd again.
And instantly that phantom shade
In which her limbs had been array'd,
And clasp'd as in a hideous ring,
Fled, trembling like a frighted thing.

   'Twas sweet to hear the shout of joy
From man and woman, girl and boy,