“Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory,
    Here’s buds for your tomb,
Bramble, and lavender,
    And rosemary bloom!”
“Wh-s-st!” said Dame Hickory, “ye False Faerie,
Ye cry like a wolf, ye do, and trouble poor me.”

THE PILGRIM

“Shall we carry now your bundle,
You old grey man? 
Over hill and dale and meadow
Lighter than an owlet’s shadow
We will whirl it through the air,
Through blue regions shrill and bare,
So you may in comfort fare—­
Shall we carry now your bundle,
    You old grey man?”

The Pilgrim lifted up his eyes
And saw three fiends, in the skies,
Stooping o’er that lonely place
    Evil in form and face.

“Nay,” he answered, “leave me, leave me,
  Ye three wild fiends! 
Far it is my feet must wander,
And my city lieth yonder
I must bear my bundle alone,
    Till the day be done.” 
The fiends stared down with leaden eye,
Fanning the chill air duskily,
’Twixt their hoods they stoop and cry:—­

“Shall we smooth the path before you,
    You old grey man? 
Sprinkle it green with gilded showers,
Strew it o’er with painted flowers,
Lure bright birds to sing and flit
In the honeyed airs of it? 
Shall we smooth the path before you,
    Grey old man?”

“O, ’tis better silence, silence,
    Ye three wild fiends! 
Footsore am I, faint and weary,
Dark the way, forlorn and dreary,
Beaten of wind, torn of briar,
Smitten of rain, parched with fire: 
O, silence, silence, silence,
    Ye three wild fiends!”

It seemed a smoke obscured the air,
Bright lightning quivered in the gloom,
And a faint voice of thunder spake
Far in the lone hill-hollows—­“Come!”
Then, half in fury, half in dread,
The fiends drew closer down, and said: 

“Nay, thou stubborn fond old man,
    Hearken awhile! 
Thorn, and dust, and ice and heat,
Tarry now, sit down and eat: 
Heat, and ice, and dust and thorn;
Stricken, footsore, parched, forlorn—­
Juice of purple grape shall be
Youth and solace unto thee. 
Music of tambour, wire and wind,
Ease shall bring to heart and mind;
Wonderful sweet mouths shall sigh
Languishing and lullaby;
Turn then!  Curse the dream that lures thee;
Turn thee, ere too late it be,
Lest thy three true friends grow weary
    Of comforting thee!”

The Pilgrim crouches terrified
As stooping hood, and glassy face,
Gloating, evil, side by side,
Terror and hate brood o’er the place;
He flings his withered hands on high
With a bitter, breaking cry:—­
“Leave me, leave me, leave me, leave me,
    Ye three wild fiends! 
If I lay me down in slumber,
Then I lay me down in wrath;
If I stir not in dark dreaming,
Then I wither in my path;
If I hear sweet voices singing,
’Tis a demon’s lullaby: 
And, in ‘hideous storm and terror,’
    Wake but to die.”