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ALDER-KING, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Who is it rides across the dun
Last Line: In thine arms is a corse


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 FATHER. "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!"
THE FATHER. "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!
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 SPECTRE. "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 SPECTRE. "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!






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