With his harp to Ivor’s feasting Brechva came, There he sang and made this ballad, While the last torch spent its flame.
Long they told,--the men of Ivor, Of the strain At the heart of Brechva’s harping Heard that night, and not again.
_Incipit_ Brechva’s Ballad of the House of Hendra, and of his deep sleep there on Hallowmas Night, and of his strange awaking. ]
In yon town, he sang,--there Hendra Waits my feet, In renownèd Merlin’s town where Clare’s white castle keeps the street.
There, within that house of heroes, I drew breath; And ’tis there my feet must bear me, For the darker grace of death.
There that last year’s night I journeyed,-- Hallowmas! When the dead of Earth, unburied, In the darkness rise and pass.
Then in Hendra (all his harp cried At the stroke), Twelve moons gone, there came upon me Sleep like death. At length I woke:
I awoke to utter darkness, Still and deep, With the walls around me fallen Of the sombre halls of sleep:
With my hall of dreams downfallen, Dark I lay, Like one houseless, though about me Hendra stood, more fast than they:
But what broke my sleep asunder,-- Light or sound? There was shown no sound, where only Night, and shadow’s heart, were found.
Anon he hears a voice in the night, and rising from sleep, looks out upon the sleeping town. ]
So it passed, till with a troubled Lonely noise, Like a cry of men benighted, Midnight made itself a voice.
Then I rose, and from the stairloop, Looking down, Nothing saw, where far before me Lay, one darkness, all the town.
In that grave day seemed for ever To lie dead, Nevermore at wake of morning To lift up its pleasant head:
All its friendly foolish clamour, Its delight, Fast asleep, or dead, beneath me, In that black descent of night:
But anon, like fitful harping, Hark, a noise! As in dream, suppose your dreamer’s Men of shadow found a voice.
Hearing his name called, Brechva descends to the postern, and sees thence a circle of Shadows, in a solemn dance of Death. ]
Night-wind never sang more strangely Song more strange; All confused, yet with a music In confusion’s interchange.
Now it cried, like harried night-birds, Flying near, Now, more nigh, with multiplying Voice on voice, “O Brechva, hear!”
I was filled with fearful pleasure At the call, And I turned, and by the stairway Gained the postern in the wall: