Page:The tale of Balen (IA taleofbalen00swin).pdf/92

 Above it seemed the sun at noon Sad as a wintry withering moon That shudders while the waste wind's tune Craves ever none may guess what boon, But all may know the boon for dire. And evening on its darkness fell More dark than very death's farewell, And night about it hung like hell, Whose fume the dawn made fire.

And Balen lighted down and passed Within the gateway, whence no blast Rang as the sheer portcullis, cast Suddenly down, fell, and made fast The gate behind him, whence he spied A sudden rage of men without And ravin of a murderous rout That girt the maiden hard about With death on either side.