My first thought was he lied in every word
That hoary cripple with malicious eye
Askance to watch the workings of his lie
On mine and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored
Its edge at one more victim gained thereby."
What else should he be set for with his staff?
What save to waylay with his lies ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there And ask the road?
I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare.
As for the grass it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse his every bone a-stare
Stood stupefied however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!
Alive? he might be dead for aught I knew
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain.
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe
I never saw a brute I hated so
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.
Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold
Dear fellow till I almost felt him fold An arm to mine to fix me to the place
The way he used.
Alas one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.
There they stood ranged along the hill-sides met
To view the last of me a living frame
For one more picture!
In a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all.
And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set
And blew 'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.'