“I said: ‘I am one who has gathered gear From Marlbury Downs to Dunkery Tor, Who has gathered gear for many a year From mansion, mart and fair; But at God’s house I’ve stayed my hand, Hearing within me some command— Curbed by a law not of the land From doing damage there.’
“Whereat she pouts, this Love of mine, As Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor, And still she pouts, this Love of mine, So cityward I go. But ere I start to do the thing, And speed my soul’s imperilling For one who is my ravishing And all the joy I know,
“I come to lay this charge on thee— On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor— I come to lay this charge on thee With solemn speech and sign: Should things go ill, and my life pay For botchery in this rash assay, You are to take hers likewise—yea, The month the law takes mine.
“For should my rival, Wrestler Joe, Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor— My reckless rival, Wrestler Joe, My Love’s possessor be, My tortured spirit would not rest, But wander weary and distrest Throughout the world in wild protest: The thought nigh maddens me!”
Thus did he speak—this brother of mine— On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor, Born at my birth of mother of mine, And forthwith went his way To dare the deed some coming night . . . I kept the watch with shaking sight, The moon at moments breaking bright, At others glooming gray.
For three full days I heard no sound Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor, I heard no sound at all around Whether his fay prevailed, Or one malign the master were, Till some afoot did tidings bear How that, for all his practised care, He had been caught and jailed.
They had heard a crash when twelve had chimed By Mendip east of Dunkery Tor, When twelve had chimed and moonlight climbed; They watched, and he was tracked By arch and aisle and saint and knight Of sculptured stonework sheeted white In the cathedral’s ghostly light, And captured in the act.
Yes; for this Love he loved too well Where Dunkery sights the Severn shore, All for this Love he loved too well He burst the holy bars, Seized golden vessels from the chest To buy her ornaments of the best, At her ill-witchery’s request And lure of eyes like stars . . .
When blustering March confused the sky In Toneborough Town by Exon Moor, When blustering March confused the sky They stretched him; and he died. Down in the crowd where I, to see The end of him, stood silently, With a set face he lipped to me— “Remember.” “Ay!” I cried.