The Alder-King

WHO is it rides across the dun
And desolate wolds?
It is the father — and his son

In his arms he holds:
He rides through Night, he rides through storm,

And from wild to wild,
But in his mantle, wrapped up warm,

He carries the child.

THE FATHEK.

"My son, my son, why dost thou bow
Thy head, as in fear?"

THE SON.

"O, father! father! seest not thou

The Alder-King near?
The Alder-King! — he glares on me

With his crown and trail 1"

THE FATHEK.

"Hush! hush! my child — I only see
The mist from the vale."

THE SPECTRE.

"O, come with me, dear little boy!

Come with me, O, come!
I've many a pretty play and toy

For thee at my home:

Pied flowers are springing on the strand;

My mother, she, too,
Shall weave thee dresses gay and grand

Of a goldbright hue."

THE SON.

"List! father, list!— the Alder-King's

Words creep on mine ear —
He whispers me such wileful things I

O! dost thou not hear?"

THE FATHER.

"Peace, peace, my darling child! — be still!

Thy hearing deceives.
The wind at midnight whistles shrill

Through the shrunken leaves."

THE SPEOTEE.

"My charming babe! dost hear me call?

Come hither to me!
Come, and my pretty daughters all

Shall wait upon thee;
And they and thou so merrily

Shall dance and shall leap;
They'll play with thee and sing for thee,

And rock thee asleep."

THE SON.

"O, father, look! — O, father mine!

Descriest thou not
His daughters? Look! — their garments shine

From yon gloomy spot!"

THE FATHER.

"My son! my son! thou dost but rave;

All night in that way
One sees the long-armed willows wave

So ancient and grey."

THE SPECTEE.

"Sweet child! I love thy comely shape,

So come! come away!
Nay! nay! thou shalt not thus escape;

I'll make thee obey."

THE SON.

"Ha, father! ha!— the Alder-King —

He grasps me so tight!
Father! I've suffered some bad thing

From his hand to-night."

The father, shuddering, swiftly rides

O'er the lightless wild,
And closelier in his mantle hides

The terrified child.
With toil and pain he nears the gate,

And reins in his horse —
Unhappy father! — 'tis too late!

In thine arms is a corse!