The Song of the Willi. A Ballad
Mathilde
Blind
Blind, Mathilde
Metadata research and editing
DVPP Project Team
Samantha MacFarlane
Samantha MacFarlane
Fralick
Kaitlyn
University of Victoria Digital Victorian Periodical Poetry
Victoria, BC, Canada
In the public domain
The Dark Blue
1
6
741–745
The wild wind is whistling o’er moorland and heather,
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The Song of the Willi
.
A Ballad
.
I.
The wild wind is whistling o’er moorland and heather,
Heigho, heigho !
I rise from my bed, and my bed has no feather,
Heigho, heigho !
My bed is deep down in the brown sullen mould,
My head is laid low on the clod ;
So wormy the sheets, and the pillow so cold
Of clammy and moist clinging sod.
II.
The lone livid moon rideth high up in heaven,
Heigho, heigho !
The stars’ cutting glitter their dull shrouds hath riven,
Heigho, heigho !
I rise and I glide out far into the night,
A shadow so swift and so still ;
Bleak, bleak is the moonshine all ghastly and white,
The dank morass drinketh its fill.
III.
And down in yon valley, in wan vapour shrinking,
Heigho, heigho !
The bare moated town cowers fitfully blinking,
Heigho, heigho !
There warm under shelter, the fire burning bright,
My lover sleeps sound in his bed ;
But I flit alone in the pitiless night,
Unpitied, unloved, and unwed
IV.
And couldst thou forget then the deep troth we plighted ?
No, no, no, no !
Too warm was thy love by cold death to be blighted,
Oh, oh ; oh, oh !
My sweetheart ! and mind’st thou that this is the night,
The night that we should have been wed ;
And while I flit restless, a low-wailing sprite,
Ah, say canst thou sleep in thy bed ?
V.
A week, but a week, and a wreath of gay flowers,
Heigho, heigho !
I wore as I vied with the fleet-footed hours,
Heigho, heigho !
As I vied with the hours in dancing them down,
Till the stars reeled low in the sky,
And sweet came thy whispers, as rose-leaves when blown
About on the breeze of July :
VI.
‘ Thou’rt light, oh my chosen ; a bird is not lighter,
My dove, my doe !
I’d dance into death with thee ; death would be brighter,
My own swift roe !’
And they struck up a wild and wonderful measure ;
Quick, quick beat our hearts to the tune ;
Quick, quick the feet tingled and passioned with pleasure
To the sound of the fife and bassoon.
VII.
On, on whirled the pairs on the swift music driven,
Hurrah, hurrah !
Like gleaming loose vapours blown wildly o’er heaven,
Hurrah, hurrah !
Like loose gleaming vapours in silence they fled,
But a flicker I saw through the haze ;
For fleeter than all the fleet dancers we sped
In the rush of the rapturous race.
VIII.
How often turned Wanda, the slim, lily-throated,
Hah hah, hah hah !
And gazed at us wistful as onward we floated
Hah hah, hah hah !
And Bilba, the swarthy, whose eyes are as big
As a stag’s, with a glitter of steel,
She lifts up her lashes, so long and so thick,
To stare at my true love and leal.
IX.
But he, he saw none o’ them, brown-faced or rosy,
Hah hah, huzzah !
Tho’ maidens bloomed bright like a fresh-gathered posy,
Hah hah, huzzah !
For his eyes, that shone black as the sloes of the hedges,
They shone like two stars over me ;
And his breath, thrilling o’er me as breeze over sedges,
Brushed my hair till it crinkled with glee.
X.
Now slow as two down-bosomed swans, we were sliding,
Sah, sah ; sah, sah !
O’er the low heaving swell of the silver sounds gliding,
Sah, sah ; sah, sah !
Now hollowly booming drums rumbled apace,
Flashed sharp clatt’ring cymbals around,
And swung like loose leaves in a stormy embrace,
We whirled in a tumult of sound.
XI.
But pallid the cheeks grew erst flushing with pleasure,
Alas, oh woe !
As slowly away swooned the languishing measure ;
Oh woe, oh woe !
For shrill crew the cock as the sun ’gan to rise,
And it rang from afar like a knell ;
Our kisses grew bitter and sweet grew our sighs,
As sadly we murmured ‘Farewell.’
XII.
High up in the chambers the maidens together,
Ah me, ah me !
Were piling bleached linen as pure as swan’s feather,
Ah me, ah me !
Were weaving and spinning and singing aloud,
Were broidering my bride-veil of lace,
But the lowering three sisters they wove me my shroud
As death kissed me cold on the face.
XIII.
The wild wind is whistling o’er moorland and heather,
Heigho, heigho !
I rise from my bed, and my bed has no feather—
Heigho, heigho !
The snow flocketh grisly and ghostly, and gleams
In the glare of the moon as it swirls ;
What pale flurried phantoms move drear in her beams,
And circle in shadowy whirls ?
XIV.
Mayhap ye were maidens death plucked in your flower—
Woe, woe ; woe, woe !
As clust’ring you glowed in love’s murmuring bower—
Woe, woe ; woe, woe !
Who delirious for life from the gloom of your graves
Are driven to wander with me,
And ye rise from your tombs like the white-crested waves
From the depths of the dolorous sea.
XV.
Hah, maidens, pale maidens, o’er moorland and heather,
Hail, hail, hurrah !
The bridegroom see ! comes through the wintry bleak weather !
Hurrah, hurrah !
Full shines the fair moon on his beautiful face ;
He walketh like one in a trance ;
His arms are wide open, far yearning his gaze,
With his bride, his dead bride to dance.
XVI.
At the sound of thy foot-fall my frozen heart bursting,
Hah, hah ; huzzah !
Through the bonds of its cerements now leaps like a thirsting,
Hah, hah ; huzzah !
Leaps like a stag that is borne as on wings,
To the brooks thawing thick through the noon,
Like a lark from the glebe, like a lily that springs
From its bier to the bosom of June.
XVII.
‘ I hold thee, I hold thee, I drink thy caresses,
Oh love, my love !’
Round thy face, round thy throat, I roll my dank tresses,
Oh love, my love !
‘ I hold thee, I hold thee ; eight nights wan and weeping
Have I wandered loud sobbing thy name,
Thy lips are as cold as the snow-drift a-sweeping !
My breath soon shall fan them to flame !’
XVIII.
Blow up for the dance. now chill whirlwind of winter !
Hurrah, hurrah !
Till the welkin’s floor shaken be shattered and splinter—
Hurrah, hurrah !
Till the wheeling clouds whirl in their dizzying races,
Hunted on by the moon’s lashing light,
In the silvery rear of whose fugitive traces
Reel the stars through the revelling night !
XIX.
‘ Cocks crow, and the breath on thy sweet lips is failing,
Oh love, my love !’
Stars swoon, and the flame in thy dark eye is quailing,
Oh love, my love !
‘ Oh, brighter the night than the fires of the day,’
When thine eyes shine as stars over me ;
‘ Oh, sweeter thy grave than the soft breath of May—’
Down to death then, my love, but with thee.
Mathilde Blind
.