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diff --git a/22650.txt b/22650.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed67e4a --- /dev/null +++ b/22650.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5942 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems, by +William Morris + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems + +Author: William Morris + +Release Date: September 17, 2007 [EBook #22650] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE *** + + + + +Produced by Thierry Alberto, Stephen Blundell and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + THE + + DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE + + AND OTHER POEMS + + BY + + WILLIAM MORRIS + + REPRINTED FROM THE KELMSCOTT PRESS EDITION + AS REVISED BY THE AUTHOR + + + LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. + 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON + NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA + 1908 + + All rights reserved + + + + + _First Edition, BELL & DALDY, 1858 + Reprinted, 1875, for ELLIS & WHITE, and + Subsequently for REEVES & TURNER + Kelmscott Press Edition (revised by the Author), 1892 + Transferred to LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 1896 + New Edition corrected by Kelmscott Press Edition, May 1900 + Reprinted January 1908_ + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + _The Defence of Guenevere_ 1 + + _King Arthur's Tomb_ 19 + + _Sir Galahad, a Christmas Mystery_ 43 + + _The Chapel in Lyoness_ 57 + + _Sir Peter Harpdon's End_ 65 + + _Rapunzel_ 111 + + _Concerning Geffray Teste Noire_ 135 + + _A Good Knight in Prison_ 148 + + _Old Love_ 155 + + _The Gilliflower of Gold_ 159 + + _Shameful Death_ 163 + + _The Eve of Crecy_ 166 + + _The Judgment of God_ 169 + + _The Little Tower_ 174 + + _The Sailing of the Sword_ 178 + + _Spell-Bound_ 182 + + _The Wind_ 187 + + _The Blue Closet_ 194 + + _The Tune of Seven Towers_ 199 + + _Golden Wings_ 202 + + _The Haystack in the Floods_ 215 + + _Two Red Roses across the Moon_ 223 + + _Welland River_ 226 + + _Riding Together_ 231 + + _Father John's War-Song_ 234 + + _Sir Giles' War-Song_ 237 + + _Near Avalon_ 239 + + _Praise of My Lady_ 241 + + _Summer Dawn_ 246 + + _In Prison_ 247 + + + + +THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE + + + But, knowing now that they would have her speak, + She threw her wet hair backward from her brow, + Her hand close to her mouth touching her cheek, + + As though she had had there a shameful blow, + And feeling it shameful to feel ought but shame + All through her heart, yet felt her cheek burned so, + + She must a little touch it; like one lame + She walked away from Gauwaine, with her head + Still lifted up; and on her cheek of flame + + The tears dried quick; she stopped at last and said: + O knights and lords, it seems but little skill + To talk of well-known things past now and dead. + + God wot I ought to say, I have done ill, + And pray you all forgiveness heartily! + Because you must be right, such great lords; still + + Listen, suppose your time were come to die, + And you were quite alone and very weak; + Yea, laid a dying while very mightily + + The wind was ruffling up the narrow streak + Of river through your broad lands running well: + Suppose a hush should come, then some one speak: + + 'One of these cloths is heaven, and one is hell, + Now choose one cloth for ever; which they be, + I will not tell you, you must somehow tell + + Of your own strength and mightiness; here, see!' + Yea, yea, my lord, and you to ope your eyes, + At foot of your familiar bed to see + + A great God's angel standing, with such dyes, + Not known on earth, on his great wings, and hands, + Held out two ways, light from the inner skies + + Showing him well, and making his commands + Seem to be God's commands, moreover, too, + Holding within his hands the cloths on wands; + + And one of these strange choosing cloths was blue, + Wavy and long, and one cut short and red; + No man could tell the better of the two. + + After a shivering half-hour you said: + 'God help! heaven's colour, the blue;' and he said, 'hell.' + Perhaps you then would roll upon your bed, + + And cry to all good men that loved you well, + 'Ah Christ! if only I had known, known, known;' + Launcelot went away, then I could tell, + + Like wisest man how all things would be, moan, + And roll and hurt myself, and long to die, + And yet fear much to die for what was sown. + + Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, + Whatever may have happened through these years, + God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie. + + Her voice was low at first, being full of tears, + But as it cleared, it grew full loud and shrill, + Growing a windy shriek in all men's ears, + + A ringing in their startled brains, until + She said that Gauwaine lied, then her voice sunk, + And her great eyes began again to fill, + + Though still she stood right up, and never shrunk, + But spoke on bravely, glorious lady fair! + Whatever tears her full lips may have drunk, + + She stood, and seemed to think, and wrung her hair, + Spoke out at last with no more trace of shame, + With passionate twisting of her body there: + + It chanced upon a day that Launcelot came + To dwell at Arthur's court: at Christmas-time + This happened; when the heralds sung his name, + + Son of King Ban of Benwick, seemed to chime + Along with all the bells that rang that day, + O'er the white roofs, with little change of rhyme. + + Christmas and whitened winter passed away, + And over me the April sunshine came, + Made very awful with black hail-clouds, yea + + And in the Summer I grew white with flame, + And bowed my head down: Autumn, and the sick + Sure knowledge things would never be the same, + + However often Spring might be most thick + Of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and I grew + Careless of most things, let the clock tick, tick, + + To my unhappy pulse, that beat right through + My eager body; while I laughed out loud, + And let my lips curl up at false or true, + + Seemed cold and shallow without any cloud. + Behold my judges, then the cloths were brought; + While I was dizzied thus, old thoughts would crowd, + + Belonging to the time ere I was bought + By Arthur's great name and his little love; + Must I give up for ever then, I thought, + + That which I deemed would ever round me move + Glorifying all things; for a little word, + Scarce ever meant at all, must I now prove + + Stone-cold for ever? Pray you, does the Lord + Will that all folks should be quite happy and good? + I love God now a little, if this cord + + Were broken, once for all what striving could + Make me love anything in earth or heaven? + So day by day it grew, as if one should + + Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even, + Down to a cool sea on a summer day; + Yet still in slipping there was some small leaven + + Of stretched hands catching small stones by the way, + Until one surely reached the sea at last, + And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay + + Back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea all past + Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips, + Washed utterly out by the dear waves o'ercast, + + In the lone sea, far off from any ships! + Do I not know now of a day in Spring? + No minute of that wild day ever slips + + From out my memory; I hear thrushes sing, + And wheresoever I may be, straightway + Thoughts of it all come up with most fresh sting: + + I was half mad with beauty on that day, + And went without my ladies all alone, + In a quiet garden walled round every way; + + I was right joyful of that wall of stone, + That shut the flowers and trees up with the sky, + And trebled all the beauty: to the bone, + + Yea right through to my heart, grown very shy + With weary thoughts, it pierced, and made me glad; + Exceedingly glad, and I knew verily, + + A little thing just then had made me mad; + I dared not think, as I was wont to do, + Sometimes, upon my beauty; If I had + + Held out my long hand up against the blue, + And, looking on the tenderly darken'd fingers, + Thought that by rights one ought to see quite through, + + There, see you, where the soft still light yet lingers, + Round by the edges; what should I have done, + If this had joined with yellow spotted singers, + + And startling green drawn upward by the sun? + But shouting, loosed out, see now! all my hair, + And trancedly stood watching the west wind run + + With faintest half-heard breathing sound; why there + I lose my head e'en now in doing this; + But shortly listen: In that garden fair + + Came Launcelot walking; this is true, the kiss + Wherewith we kissed in meeting that spring day, + I scarce dare talk of the remember'd bliss, + + When both our mouths went wandering in one way, + And aching sorely, met among the leaves; + Our hands being left behind strained far away. + + Never within a yard of my bright sleeves + Had Launcelot come before: and now, so nigh! + After that day why is it Guenevere grieves? + + Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, + Whatever happened on through all those years, + God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie. + + Being such a lady could I weep these tears + If this were true? A great queen such as I + Having sinn'd this way, straight her conscience sears; + + And afterwards she liveth hatefully, + Slaying and poisoning, certes never weeps: + Gauwaine be friends now, speak me lovingly. + + Do I not see how God's dear pity creeps + All through your frame, and trembles in your mouth? + Remember in what grave your mother sleeps, + + Buried in some place far down in the south, + Men are forgetting as I speak to you; + By her head sever'd in that awful drouth + + Of pity that drew Agravaine's fell blow, + I pray your pity! let me not scream out + For ever after, when the shrill winds blow + + Through half your castle-locks! let me not shout + For ever after in the winter night + When you ride out alone! in battle-rout + + Let not my rusting tears make your sword light! + Ah! God of mercy, how he turns away! + So, ever must I dress me to the fight, + + So: let God's justice work! Gauwaine, I say, + See me hew down your proofs: yea all men know + Even as you said how Mellyagraunce one day, + + One bitter day in _la Fausse Garde_, for so + All good knights held it after, saw: + Yea, sirs, by cursed unknightly outrage; though + + You, Gauwaine, held his word without a flaw, + This Mellyagraunce saw blood upon my bed: + Whose blood then pray you? is there any law + + To make a queen say why some spots of red + Lie on her coverlet? or will you say: + Your hands are white, lady, as when you wed, + + Where did you bleed? and must I stammer out, Nay, + I blush indeed, fair lord, only to rend + My sleeve up to my shoulder, where there lay + + A knife-point last night: so must I defend + The honour of the Lady Guenevere? + Not so, fair lords, even if the world should end + + This very day, and you were judges here + Instead of God. Did you see Mellyagraunce + When Launcelot stood by him? what white fear + + Curdled his blood, and how his teeth did dance, + His side sink in? as my knight cried and said: + Slayer of unarm'd men, here is a chance! + + Setter of traps, I pray you guard your head, + By God I am so glad to fight with you, + Stripper of ladies, that my hand feels lead + + For driving weight; hurrah now! draw and do, + For all my wounds are moving in my breast, + And I am getting mad with waiting so. + + He struck his hands together o'er the beast, + Who fell down flat, and grovell'd at his feet, + And groan'd at being slain so young: At least, + + My knight said, rise you, sir, who are so fleet + At catching ladies, half-arm'd will I fight, + My left side all uncovered! then I weet, + + Up sprang Sir Mellyagraunce with great delight + Upon his knave's face; not until just then + Did I quite hate him, as I saw my knight + + Along the lists look to my stake and pen + With such a joyous smile, it made me sigh + From agony beneath my waist-chain, when + + The fight began, and to me they drew nigh; + Ever Sir Launcelot kept him on the right, + And traversed warily, and ever high + + And fast leapt caitiff's sword, until my knight + Sudden threw up his sword to his left hand, + Caught it, and swung it; that was all the fight, + + Except a spout of blood on the hot land; + For it was hottest summer; and I know + I wonder'd how the fire, while I should stand, + + And burn, against the heat, would quiver so, + Yards above my head; thus these matters went; + Which things were only warnings of the woe + + That fell on me. Yet Mellyagraunce was shent, + For Mellyagraunce had fought against the Lord; + Therefore, my lords, take heed lest you be blent + + With all this wickedness; say no rash word + Against me, being so beautiful; my eyes, + Wept all away to grey, may bring some sword + + To drown you in your blood; see my breast rise, + Like waves of purple sea, as here I stand; + And how my arms are moved in wonderful wise, + + Yea also at my full heart's strong command, + See through my long throat how the words go up + In ripples to my mouth; how in my hand + + The shadow lies like wine within a cup + Of marvellously colour'd gold; yea now + This little wind is rising, look you up, + + And wonder how the light is falling so + Within my moving tresses: will you dare, + When you have looked a little on my brow, + + To say this thing is vile? or will you care + For any plausible lies of cunning woof, + When you can see my face with no lie there + + For ever? am I not a gracious proof: + But in your chamber Launcelot was found: + Is there a good knight then would stand aloof, + + When a queen says with gentle queenly sound: + O true as steel come now and talk with me, + I love to see your step upon the ground + + Unwavering, also well I love to see + That gracious smile light up your face, and hear + Your wonderful words, that all mean verily + + The thing they seem to mean: good friend, so dear + To me in everything, come here to-night, + Or else the hours will pass most dull and drear; + + If you come not, I fear this time I might + Get thinking over much of times gone by, + When I was young, and green hope was in sight: + + For no man cares now to know why I sigh; + And no man comes to sing me pleasant songs, + Nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie + + So thick in the gardens; therefore one so longs + To see you, Launcelot; that we may be + Like children once again, free from all wrongs + + Just for one night. Did he not come to me? + What thing could keep true Launcelot away + If I said, Come? there was one less than three + + In my quiet room that night, and we were gay; + Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and sick, + Because a bawling broke our dream up, yea + + I looked at Launcelot's face and could not speak, + For he looked helpless too, for a little while; + Then I remember how I tried to shriek, + + And could not, but fell down; from tile to tile + The stones they threw up rattled o'er my head + And made me dizzier; till within a while + + My maids were all about me, and my head + On Launcelot's breast was being soothed away + From its white chattering, until Launcelot said: + + By God! I will not tell you more to-day, + Judge any way you will: what matters it? + You know quite well the story of that fray, + + How Launcelot still'd their bawling, the mad fit + That caught up Gauwaine: all, all, verily, + But just that which would save me; these things flit. + + Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, + Whatever may have happen'd these long years, + God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie! + + All I have said is truth, by Christ's dear tears. + She would not speak another word, but stood + Turn'd sideways; listening, like a man who hears + + His brother's trumpet sounding through the wood + Of his foes' lances. She lean'd eagerly, + And gave a slight spring sometimes, as she could + + At last hear something really; joyfully + Her cheek grew crimson, as the headlong speed + Of the roan charger drew all men to see, + The knight who came was Launcelot at good need. + + + + +KING ARTHUR'S TOMB + + + + +KING ARTHUR'S TOMB + + + Hot August noon: already on that day + Since sunrise through the Wiltshire downs, most sad + Of mouth and eye, he had gone leagues of way; + Ay and by night, till whether good or bad + + He was, he knew not, though he knew perchance + That he was Launcelot, the bravest knight + Of all who since the world was, have borne lance, + Or swung their swords in wrong cause or in right. + + Nay, he knew nothing now, except that where + The Glastonbury gilded towers shine, + A lady dwelt, whose name was Guenevere; + This he knew also; that some fingers twine, + + Not only in a man's hair, even his heart, + (Making him good or bad I mean,) but in his life, + Skies, earth, men's looks and deeds, all that has part, + Not being ourselves, in that half-sleep, half-strife, + + (Strange sleep, strange strife,) that men call living; so + Was Launcelot most glad when the moon rose, + Because it brought new memories of her. "Lo, + Between the trees a large moon, the wind lows + + Not loud, but as a cow begins to low, + Wishing for strength to make the herdsman hear: + The ripe corn gathereth dew; yea, long ago, + In the old garden life, my Guenevere + + Loved to sit still among the flowers, till night + Had quite come on, hair loosen'd, for she said, + Smiling like heaven, that its fairness might + Draw up the wind sooner to cool her head. + + Now while I ride how quick the moon gets small, + As it did then: I tell myself a tale + That will not last beyond the whitewashed wall, + Thoughts of some joust must help me through the vale, + + Keep this till after: How Sir Gareth ran + A good course that day under my Queen's eyes, + And how she sway'd laughing at Dinadan. + No. Back again, the other thoughts will rise, + + And yet I think so fast 'twill end right soon: + Verily then I think, that Guenevere, + Made sad by dew and wind, and tree-barred moon, + Did love me more than ever, was more dear + + To me than ever, she would let me lie + And kiss her feet, or, if I sat behind, + Would drop her hand and arm most tenderly, + And touch my mouth. And she would let me wind + + Her hair around my neck, so that it fell + Upon my red robe, strange in the twilight + With many unnamed colours, till the bell + Of her mouth on my cheek sent a delight + + Through all my ways of being; like the stroke + Wherewith God threw all men upon the face + When he took Enoch, and when Enoch woke + With a changed body in the happy place. + + Once, I remember, as I sat beside, + She turn'd a little, and laid back her head, + And slept upon my breast; I almost died + In those night-watches with my love and dread. + + There lily-like she bow'd her head and slept, + And I breathed low, and did not dare to move, + But sat and quiver'd inwardly, thoughts crept, + And frighten'd me with pulses of my Love. + + The stars shone out above the doubtful green + Of her bodice, in the green sky overhead; + Pale in the green sky were the stars I ween, + Because the moon shone like a star she shed + + When she dwelt up in heaven a while ago, + And ruled all things but God: the night went on, + The wind grew cold, and the white moon grew low, + One hand had fallen down, and now lay on + + My cold stiff palm; there were no colours then + For near an hour, and I fell asleep + In spite of all my striving, even when + I held her whose name-letters make me leap. + + I did not sleep long, feeling that in sleep + I did some loved one wrong, so that the sun + Had only just arisen from the deep + Still land of colours, when before me one + + Stood whom I knew, but scarcely dared to touch, + She seemed to have changed so in the night; + Moreover she held scarlet lilies, such + As Maiden Margaret bears upon the light + + Of the great church walls, natheless did I walk + Through the fresh wet woods, and the wheat that morn, + Touching her hair and hand and mouth, and talk + Of love we held, nigh hid among the corn. + + Back to the palace, ere the sun grew high, + We went, and in a cool green room all day + I gazed upon the arras giddily, + Where the wind set the silken kings a-sway. + + I could not hold her hand, or see her face; + For which may God forgive me! but I think, + Howsoever, that she was not in that place. + These memories Launcelot was quick to drink; + + And when these fell, some paces past the wall, + There rose yet others, but they wearied more, + And tasted not so sweet; they did not fall + So soon, but vaguely wrenched his strained heart sore + + In shadowy slipping from his grasp: these gone, + A longing followed; if he might but touch + That Guenevere at once! Still night, the lone + Grey horse's head before him vex'd him much, + + In steady nodding over the grey road: + Still night, and night, and night, and emptied heart + Of any stories; what a dismal load + Time grew at last, yea, when the night did part, + + And let the sun flame over all, still there + The horse's grey ears turn'd this way and that, + And still he watch'd them twitching in the glare + Of the morning sun, behind them still he sat, + + Quite wearied out with all the wretched night, + Until about the dustiest of the day, + On the last down's brow he drew his rein in sight + Of the Glastonbury roofs that choke the way. + + And he was now quite giddy as before, + When she slept by him, tired out, and her hair + Was mingled with the rushes on the floor, + And he, being tired too, was scarce aware + + Of her presence; yet as he sat and gazed, + A shiver ran throughout him, and his breath + Came slower, he seem'd suddenly amazed, + As though he had not heard of Arthur's death. + + This for a moment only, presently + He rode on giddy still, until he reach'd + A place of apple-trees, by the thorn-tree + Wherefrom St. Joseph in the days past preached. + + Dazed there he laid his head upon a tomb, + Not knowing it was Arthur's, at which sight + One of her maidens told her, 'He is come,' + And she went forth to meet him; yet a blight + + Had settled on her, all her robes were black, + With a long white veil only; she went slow, + As one walks to be slain, her eyes did lack + Half her old glory, yea, alas! the glow + + Had left her face and hands; this was because + As she lay last night on her purple bed, + Wishing for morning, grudging every pause + Of the palace clocks, until that Launcelot's head + + Should lie on her breast, with all her golden hair + Each side: when suddenly the thing grew drear, + In morning twilight, when the grey downs bare + Grew into lumps of sin to Guenevere. + + At first she said no word, but lay quite still, + Only her mouth was open, and her eyes + Gazed wretchedly about from hill to hill; + As though she asked, not with so much surprise + + As tired disgust, what made them stand up there + So cold and grey. After, a spasm took + Her face, and all her frame, she caught her hair, + All her hair, in both hands, terribly she shook, + + And rose till she was sitting in the bed, + Set her teeth hard, and shut her eyes and seem'd + As though she would have torn it from her head, + Natheless she dropp'd it, lay down, as she deem'd + + It matter'd not whatever she might do: + O Lord Christ! pity on her ghastly face! + Those dismal hours while the cloudless blue + Drew the sun higher: He did give her grace; + + Because at last she rose up from her bed, + And put her raiment on, and knelt before + The blessed rood, and with her dry lips said, + Muttering the words against the marble floor: + + 'Unless you pardon, what shall I do, Lord, + But go to hell? and there see day by day + Foul deed on deed, hear foulest word on word, + For ever and ever, such as on the way + + To Camelot I heard once from a churl, + That curled me up upon my jennet's neck + With bitter shame; how then, Lord, should I curl + For ages and for ages? dost thou reck + + That I am beautiful, Lord, even as you + And your dear mother? why did I forget + You were so beautiful, and good, and true, + That you loved me so, Guenevere? O yet + + If even I go to hell, I cannot choose + But love you, Christ, yea, though I cannot keep + From loving Launcelot; O Christ! must I lose + My own heart's love? see, though I cannot weep, + + Yet am I very sorry for my sin; + Moreover, Christ, I cannot bear that hell, + I am most fain to love you, and to win + A place in heaven some time: I cannot tell: + + Speak to me, Christ! I kiss, kiss, kiss your feet; + Ah! now I weep!' The maid said, 'By the tomb + He waiteth for you, lady,' coming fleet, + Not knowing what woe filled up all the room. + + So Guenevere rose and went to meet him there, + He did not hear her coming, as he lay + On Arthur's head, till some of her long hair + Brush'd on the new-cut stone: 'Well done! to pray + + For Arthur, my dear Lord, the greatest king + That ever lived.' 'Guenevere! Guenevere! + Do you not know me, are you gone mad? fling + Your arms and hair about me, lest I fear + + You are not Guenevere, but some other thing.' + 'Pray you forgive me, fair lord Launcelot! + I am not mad, but I am sick; they cling, + God's curses, unto such as I am; not + + Ever again shall we twine arms and lips.' + 'Yea, she is mad: thy heavy law, O Lord, + Is very tight about her now, and grips + Her poor heart, so that no right word + + Can reach her mouth; so, Lord, forgive her now, + That she not knowing what she does, being mad, + Kills me in this way; Guenevere, bend low + And kiss me once! for God's love kiss me! sad + + Though your face is, you look much kinder now; + Yea once, once for the last time kiss me, lest I die.' + 'Christ! my hot lips are very near his brow, + Help me to save his soul! Yea, verily, + + Across my husband's head, fair Launcelot! + Fair serpent mark'd with V upon the head! + This thing we did while yet he was alive, + Why not, O twisting knight, now he is dead? + + Yea, shake! shake now and shiver! if you can + Remember anything for agony, + Pray you remember how when the wind ran + One cool spring evening through fair aspen-tree, + + And elm and oak about the palace there, + The king came back from battle, and I stood + To meet him, with my ladies, on the stair, + My face made beautiful with my young blood.' + + 'Will she lie now, Lord God?' 'Remember too, + Wrung heart, how first before the knights there came + A royal bier, hung round with green and blue, + About it shone great tapers with sick flame. + + And thereupon Lucius, the Emperor, + Lay royal-robed, but stone-cold now and dead, + Not able to hold sword or sceptre more, + But not quite grim; because his cloven head + + Bore no marks now of Launcelot's bitter sword, + Being by embalmers deftly solder'd up; + So still it seem'd the face of a great lord, + Being mended as a craftsman mends a cup. + + Also the heralds sung rejoicingly + To their long trumpets; Fallen under shield, + Here lieth Lucius, King of Italy, + Slain by Lord Launcelot in open field. + + Thereat the people shouted: Launcelot! + And through the spears I saw you drawing nigh, + You and Lord Arthur: nay, I saw you not, + But rather Arthur, God would not let die, + + I hoped, these many years; he should grow great, + And in his great arms still encircle me, + Kissing my face, half blinded with the heat + Of king's love for the queen I used to be. + + Launcelot, Launcelot, why did he take your hand, + When he had kissed me in his kingly way? + Saying: This is the knight whom all the land + Calls Arthur's banner, sword, and shield to-day; + + Cherish him, love. Why did your long lips cleave + In such strange way unto my fingers then? + So eagerly glad to kiss, so loath to leave + When you rose up? Why among helmed men + + Could I always tell you by your long strong arms, + And sway like an angel's in your saddle there? + Why sicken'd I so often with alarms + Over the tilt-yard? Why were you more fair + + Than aspens in the autumn at their best? + Why did you fill all lands with your great fame, + So that Breuse even, as he rode, fear'd lest + At turning of the way your shield should flame? + + Was it nought then, my agony and strife? + When as day passed by day, year after year, + I found I could not live a righteous life! + Didst ever think queens held their truth for dear? + + O, but your lips say: Yea, but she was cold + Sometimes, always uncertain as the spring; + When I was sad she would be overbold, + Longing for kisses. When war-bells did ring, + + The back-toll'd bells of noisy Camelot. + 'Now, Lord God, listen! listen, Guenevere, + Though I am weak just now, I think there's not + A man who dares to say: You hated her, + + And left her moaning while you fought your fill + In the daisied meadows! lo you her thin hand, + That on the carven stone can not keep still, + Because she loves me against God's command, + + Has often been quite wet with tear on tear, + Tears Launcelot keeps somewhere, surely not + In his own heart, perhaps in Heaven, where + He will not be these ages.' 'Launcelot! + + Loud lips, wrung heart! I say when the bells rang, + The noisy back-toll'd bells of Camelot, + There were two spots on earth, the thrushes sang + In the lonely gardens where my love was not, + + Where I was almost weeping; I dared not + Weep quite in those days, lest one maid should say, + In tittering whispers: Where is Launcelot + To wipe with some kerchief those tears away? + + Another answer sharply with brows knit, + And warning hand up, scarcely lower though: + You speak too loud, see you, she heareth it, + This tigress fair has claws, as I well know, + + As Launcelot knows too, the poor knight! well-a-day! + Why met he not with Iseult from the West, + Or better still, Iseult of Brittany? + Perchance indeed quite ladyless were best. + + Alas, my maids, you loved not overmuch + Queen Guenevere, uncertain as sunshine + In March; forgive me! for my sin being such, + About my whole life, all my deeds did twine, + + Made me quite wicked; as I found out then, + I think; in the lonely palace where each morn + We went, my maids and I, to say prayers when + They sang mass in the chapel on the lawn. + + And every morn I scarce could pray at all, + For Launcelot's red-golden hair would play, + Instead of sunlight, on the painted wall, + Mingled with dreams of what the priest did say; + + Grim curses out of Peter and of Paul; + Judging of strange sins in Leviticus; + Another sort of writing on the wall, + Scored deep across the painted heads of us. + + Christ sitting with the woman at the well, + And Mary Magdalen repenting there, + Her dimmed eyes scorch'd and red at sight of hell + So hardly 'scaped, no gold light on her hair. + + And if the priest said anything that seemed + To touch upon the sin they said we did, + (This in their teeth) they looked as if they deem'd + That I was spying what thoughts might be hid + + Under green-cover'd bosoms, heaving quick + Beneath quick thoughts; while they grew red with shame, + And gazed down at their feet: while I felt sick, + And almost shriek'd if one should call my name. + + The thrushes sang in the lone garden there: + But where you were the birds were scared I trow: + Clanging of arms about pavilions fair, + Mixed with the knights' laughs; there, as I well know, + + Rode Launcelot, the king of all the band, + And scowling Gauwaine, like the night in day, + And handsome Gareth, with his great white hand + Curl'd round the helm-crest, ere he join'd the fray; + + And merry Dinadan with sharp dark face, + All true knights loved to see; and in the fight + Great Tristram, and though helmed you could trace + In all his bearing the frank noble knight; + + And by him Palomydes, helmet off, + He fought, his face brush'd by his hair, + Red heavy swinging hair; he fear'd a scoff + So overmuch, though what true knight would dare + + To mock that face, fretted with useless care, + And bitter useless striving after love? + O Palomydes, with much honour bear + Beast Glatysaunt upon your shield, above + + Your helm that hides the swinging of your hair, + And think of Iseult, as your sword drives through + Much mail and plate: O God, let me be there + A little time, as I was long ago! + + Because stout Gareth lets his spear fall low, + Gauwaine and Launcelot, and Dinadan + Are helm'd and waiting; let the trumpets go! + Bend over, ladies, to see all you can! + + Clench teeth, dames, yea, clasp hands, for Gareth's spear + Throws Kay from out his saddle, like a stone + From a castle-window when the foe draws near: + Iseult! Sir Dinadan rolleth overthrown. + + Iseult! again: the pieces of each spear + Fly fathoms up, and both the great steeds reel; + Tristram for Iseult! Iseult! and Guenevere! + The ladies' names bite verily like steel. + + They bite: bite me, Lord God! I shall go mad, + Or else die kissing him, he is so pale, + He thinks me mad already, O bad! bad! + Let me lie down a little while and wail.' + + 'No longer so, rise up, I pray you, love, + And slay me really, then we shall be heal'd, + Perchance, in the aftertime by God above.' + 'Banner of Arthur, with black-bended shield + + Sinister-wise across the fair gold ground! + Here let me tell you what a knight you are, + O sword and shield of Arthur! you are found + A crooked sword, I think, that leaves a scar + + On the bearer's arm, so be he thinks it straight, + Twisted Malay's crease beautiful blue-grey, + Poison'd with sweet fruit; as he found too late, + My husband Arthur, on some bitter day! + + O sickle cutting hemlock the day long! + That the husbandman across his shoulder hangs, + And, going homeward about evensong, + Dies the next morning, struck through by the fangs! + + Banner, and sword, and shield, you dare not die, + Lest you meet Arthur in the other world, + And, knowing who you are, he pass you by, + Taking short turns that he may watch you curl'd, + + Body and face and limbs in agony, + Lest he weep presently and go away, + Saying: I loved him once, with a sad sigh, + Now I have slain him, Lord, let me go too, I pray. + [Launcelot _falls_. + + Alas! alas! I know not what to do, + If I run fast it is perchance that I + May fall and stun myself, much better so, + Never, never again! not even when I die.' + + LAUNCELOT, _on awaking_. + + 'I stretch'd my hands towards her and fell down, + How long I lay in swoon I cannot tell: + My head and hands were bleeding from the stone, + When I rose up, also I heard a bell.' + + + + +SIR GALAHAD, A CHRISTMAS MYSTERY + + + + +SIR GALAHAD, A CHRISTMAS MYSTERY + + + It is the longest night in all the year, + Near on the day when the Lord Christ was born; + Six hours ago I came and sat down here, + And ponder'd sadly, wearied and forlorn. + + The winter wind that pass'd the chapel door, + Sang out a moody tune, that went right well + With mine own thoughts: I look'd down on the floor, + Between my feet, until I heard a bell + + Sound a long way off through the forest deep, + And toll on steadily; a drowsiness + Came on me, so that I fell half asleep, + As I sat there not moving: less and less + + I saw the melted snow that hung in beads + Upon my steel-shoes; less and less I saw + Between the tiles the bunches of small weeds: + Heartless and stupid, with no touch of awe + + Upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ground, + I thought: O Galahad! the days go by, + Stop and cast up now that which you have found, + So sorely you have wrought and painfully. + + Night after night your horse treads down alone + The sere damp fern, night after night you sit + Holding the bridle like a man of stone, + Dismal, unfriended: what thing comes of it? + + And what if Palomydes also ride, + And over many a mountain and bare heath + Follow the questing beast with none beside? + Is he not able still to hold his breath + + With thoughts of Iseult? doth he not grow pale + With weary striving, to seem best of all + To her, 'as she is best,' he saith? to fail + Is nothing to him, he can never fall. + + For unto such a man love-sorrow is + So dear a thing unto his constant heart, + That even if he never win one kiss, + Or touch from Iseult, it will never part. + + And he will never know her to be worse + Than in his happiest dreams he thinks she is: + Good knight, and faithful, you have 'scaped the curse + In wonderful-wise; you have great store of bliss. + + Yea, what if Father Launcelot ride out, + Can he not think of Guenevere's arms, round + Warm and lithe, about his neck, and shout + Till all the place grows joyful with the sound? + + And when he lists can often see her face, + And think, 'Next month I kiss you, or next week, + And still you think of me': therefore the place + Grows very pleasant, whatsoever he seek. + + But me, who ride alone, some carle shall find + Dead in my arms in the half-melted snow, + When all unkindly with the shifting wind, + The thaw comes on at Candlemas: I know + + Indeed that they will say: 'This Galahad + If he had lived had been a right good knight; + Ah! poor chaste body!' but they will be glad, + Not most alone, but all, when in their sight + + That very evening in their scarlet sleeves + The gay-dress'd minstrels sing; no maid will talk + Of sitting on my tomb, until the leaves, + Grown big upon the bushes of the walk, + + East of the Palace-pleasaunce, make it hard + To see the minster therefrom: well-a-day! + Before the trees by autumn were well bared, + I saw a damozel with gentle play, + + Within that very walk say last farewell + To her dear knight, just riding out to find + (Why should I choke to say it?) the Sangreal, + And their last kisses sunk into my mind, + + Yea, for she stood lean'd forward on his breast, + Rather, scarce stood; the back of one dear hand, + That it might well be kiss'd, she held and press'd + Against his lips; long time they stood there, fann'd + + By gentle gusts of quiet frosty wind, + Till Mador de la porte a-going by, + And my own horsehoofs roused them; they untwined, + And parted like a dream. In this way I, + + With sleepy face bent to the chapel floor, + Kept musing half asleep, till suddenly + A sharp bell rang from close beside the door, + And I leapt up when something pass'd me by, + + Shrill ringing going with it, still half blind + I stagger'd after, a great sense of awe + At every step kept gathering on my mind, + Thereat I have no marvel, for I saw + + One sitting on the altar as a throne, + Whose face no man could say he did not know, + And though the bell still rang, he sat alone, + With raiment half blood-red, half white as snow. + + Right so I fell upon the floor and knelt, + Not as one kneels in church when mass is said, + But in a heap, quite nerveless, for I felt + The first time what a thing was perfect dread. + + But mightily the gentle voice came down: + 'Rise up, and look and listen, Galahad, + Good knight of God, for you will see no frown + Upon my face; I come to make you glad. + + For that you say that you are all alone, + I will be with you always, and fear not + You are uncared for, though no maiden moan + Above your empty tomb; for Launcelot, + + He in good time shall be my servant too, + Meantime, take note whose sword first made him knight, + And who has loved him alway, yea, and who + Still trusts him alway, though in all men's sight, + + He is just what you know, O Galahad, + This love is happy even as you say, + But would you for a little time be glad, + To make ME sorry long, day after day? + + Her warm arms round his neck half throttle ME, + The hot love-tears burn deep like spots of lead, + Yea, and the years pass quick: right dismally + Will Launcelot at one time hang his head; + + Yea, old and shrivell'd he shall win my love. + Poor Palomydes fretting out his soul! + Not always is he able, son, to move + His love, and do it honour: needs must roll + + The proudest destrier sometimes in the dust, + And then 'tis weary work; he strives beside + Seem better than he is, so that his trust + Is always on what chances may betide; + + And so he wears away, my servant, too, + When all these things are gone, and wretchedly + He sits and longs to moan for Iseult, who + Is no care now to Palomydes: see, + + O good son Galahad, upon this day, + Now even, all these things are on your side, + But these you fight not for; look up, I say, + And see how I can love you, for no pride + + Closes your eyes, no vain lust keeps them down. + See now you have ME always; following + That holy vision, Galahad, go on, + Until at last you come to ME to sing + + In Heaven always, and to walk around + The garden where I am.' He ceased, my face + And wretched body fell upon the ground; + And when I look'd again, the holy place + + Was empty; but right so the bell again + Came to the chapel-door, there entered + Two angels first, in white, without a stain, + And scarlet wings, then, after them, a bed + + Four ladies bore, and set it down beneath + The very altar-step, and while for fear + I scarcely dared to move or draw my breath, + Those holy ladies gently came a-near, + + And quite unarm'd me, saying: 'Galahad, + Rest here awhile and sleep, and take no thought + Of any other thing than being glad; + Hither the Sangreal will be shortly brought, + + Yet must you sleep the while it stayeth here.' + Right so they went away, and I, being weary, + Slept long and dream'd of Heaven: the bell comes near, + I doubt it grows to morning. Miserere! + + _Enter Two Angels in white, with scarlet wings; also, Four Ladies in + gowns of red and green; also an Angel, bearing in his hands a + surcoat of white, with a red cross._ + + AN ANGEL. + + O servant of the high God, Galahad! + Rise and be arm'd: the Sangreal is gone forth + Through the great forest, and you must be had + Unto the sea that lieth on the north: + + There shall you find the wondrous ship wherein + The spindles of King Solomon are laid, + And the sword that no man draweth without sin, + But if he be most pure: and there is stay'd, + + Hard by, Sir Launcelot, whom you will meet + In some short space upon that ship: first, though, + Will come here presently that lady sweet, + Sister of Percival, whom you well know, + + And with her Bors and Percival: stand now, + These ladies will to arm you. + + FIRST LADY, _putting on the hauberk_. + + Galahad, + That I may stand so close beneath your brow, + I, Margaret of Antioch, am glad. + + SECOND LADY, _girding him with the sword_. + + That I may stand and touch you with my hand, + O Galahad, I, Cecily, am glad. + + THIRD LADY, _buckling on the spurs_. + + That I may kneel while up above you stand, + And gaze at me, O holy Galahad, + + I, Lucy, am most glad. + + FOURTH LADY, _putting on the basnet_. + + O gentle knight, + That you bow down to us in reverence, + We are most glad, I, Katherine, with delight + Must needs fall trembling. + + ANGEL, _putting on the crossed surcoat_. + + Galahad, we go hence, + + For here, amid the straying of the snow, + Come Percival's sister, Bors, and Percival. + [_The Four Ladies carry out the bed, + and all go but_ Galahad. + + GALAHAD. + + How still and quiet everything seems now: + They come, too, for I hear the horsehoofs fall. + + _Enter_ Sir Bors, Sir Percival, _and_ his Sister. + + Fair friends and gentle lady, God you save! + A many marvels have been here to-night; + Tell me what news of Launcelot you have, + And has God's body ever been in sight? + + SIR BORS. + + Why, as for seeing that same holy thing, + As we were riding slowly side by side, + An hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing, + And through the bare twigs saw a great light glide, + + With many-colour'd raiment, but far off; + And so pass'd quickly: from the court nought good; + Poor merry Dinadan, that with jape and scoff + Kept us all merry, in a little wood + + Was found all hack'd and dead: Sir Lionel + And Gauwaine have come back from the great quest, + Just merely shamed; and Lauvaine, who loved well + Your father Launcelot, at the king's behest + + Went out to seek him, but was almost slain, + Perhaps is dead now; everywhere + The knights come foil'd from the great quest, in vain; + In vain they struggle for the vision fair. + + + + +THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS + + + + +THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS + + + SIR OZANA LE CURE HARDY. SIR GALAHAD. SIR BORS DE GANYS. + + SIR OZANA. + + All day long and every day, + From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday, + Within that Chapel-aisle I lay, + And no man came a-near. + + Naked to the waist was I, + And deep within my breast did lie, + Though no man any blood could spy, + The truncheon of a spear. + + No meat did ever pass my lips + Those days. Alas! the sunlight slips + From off the gilded parclose, dips, + And night comes on apace. + + My arms lay back behind my head; + Over my raised-up knees was spread + A samite cloth of white and red; + A rose lay on my face. + + Many a time I tried to shout; + But as in dream of battle-rout, + My frozen speech would not well out; + I could not even weep. + + With inward sigh I see the sun + Fade off the pillars one by one, + My heart faints when the day is done, + Because I cannot sleep. + + Sometimes strange thoughts pass through my head; + Not like a tomb is this my bed, + Yet oft I think that I am dead; + That round my tomb is writ, + + 'Ozana of the hardy heart, + Knight of the Table Round, + Pray for his soul, lords, of your part; + A true knight he was found.' + Ah! me, I cannot fathom it. [_He sleeps._ + + SIR GALAHAD. + + All day long and every day, + Till his madness pass'd away, + I watch'd Ozana as he lay + Within the gilded screen. + + All my singing moved him not; + As I sung my heart grew hot, + With the thought of Launcelot + Far away, I ween. + + So I went a little space + From out the chapel, bathed my face + In the stream that runs apace + By the churchyard wall. + + There I pluck'd a faint wild rose, + Hard by where the linden grows, + Sighing over silver rows + Of the lilies tall. + + I laid the flower across his mouth; + The sparkling drops seem'd good for drouth; + He smiled, turn'd round towards the south. + Held up a golden tress. + + The light smote on it from the west; + He drew the covering from his breast, + Against his heart that hair he prest; + Death him soon will bless. + + SIR BORS. + + I enter'd by the western door; + I saw a knight's helm lying there: + I raised my eyes from off the floor, + And caught the gleaming of his hair. + + I stept full softly up to him; + I laid my chin upon his head; + I felt him smile; my eyes did swim, + I was so glad he was not dead. + + I heard Ozana murmur low, + 'There comes no sleep nor any love.' + But Galahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow: + He shiver'd; I saw his pale lips move. + + SIR OZANA. + + There comes no sleep nor any love; + Ah me! I shiver with delight. + I am so weak I cannot move; + God move me to thee, dear, to-night! + Christ help! I have but little wit: + My life went wrong; I see it writ, + + 'Ozana of the hardy heart, + Knight of the Table Round, + Pray for his soul, lords, on your part; + A good knight he was found.' + + Now I begin to fathom it. [_He dies._ + + SIR BORS. + + Galahad sits dreamily; + What strange things may his eyes see, + Great blue eyes fix'd full on me? + On his soul, Lord, have mercy. + + SIR GALAHAD. + + Ozana, shall I pray for thee? + Her cheek is laid to thine; + No long time hence, also I see + Thy wasted fingers twine + + Within the tresses of her hair + That shineth gloriously, + Thinly outspread in the clear air + Against the jasper sea. + + + + +SIR PETER HARPDON'S END + + + + +SIR PETER HARPDON'S END + + + _In an English Castle in Poictou._ + + Sir Peter Harpdon, _a Gascon knight in the English service, and_ John + Curzon, _his lieutenant_. + + JOHN CURZON. + + Of those three prisoners, that before you came + We took down at St. John's hard by the mill, + Two are good masons; we have tools enough, + And you have skill to set them working. + + + SIR PETER. + + So: + What are their names? + + JOHN CURZON. + + Why, Jacques Aquadent, + And Peter Plombiere, but, + + SIR PETER. + + What colour'd hair + Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs? + + JOHN CURZON. + + Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques' hair, + Or Peter's legs to us? + + SIR PETER. + + O! John, John, John! + Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well, + Hang Peter up and Jacques; They're no good, + We shall not build, man. + + JOHN CURZON (_going_). + + Shall I call the guard + To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools, + We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well. + [_Muttering as he goes._ + What have I done that he should jape at me? + And why not build? the walls are weak enough, + And we've two masons and a heap of tools. + [_Goes, still muttering._ + + SIR PETER. + + To think a man should have a lump like that + For his lieutenant! I must call him back, + Or else, as surely as St. George is dead, + He'll hang our friends the masons: here, John! John! + + JOHN CURZON. + + At your good service, sir. + + SIR PETER. + + Come now, and talk + This weighty matter out; there, we've no stone + To mend our walls with, neither brick nor stone. + + JOHN CURZON. + + There is a quarry, sir, some ten miles off. + + SIR PETER. + + We are not strong enough to send ten men + Ten miles to fetch us stone enough to build. + In three hours' time they would be taken or slain, + The cursed Frenchmen ride abroad so thick. + + JOHN CURZON. + + But we can send some villaynes to get stone. + + SIR PETER. + + Alas! John, that we cannot bring them back, + They would go off to Clisson or Sanxere, + And tell them we were weak in walls and men, + Then down go we; for, look you, times are changed, + And now no longer does the country shake + At sound of English names; our captains fade + From off our muster-rolls. At Lusac bridge + I daresay you may even yet see the hole + That Chandos beat in dying; far in Spain + Pembroke is prisoner; Phelton prisoner here; + Manny lies buried in the Charterhouse; + Oliver Clisson turn'd these years agone; + The Captal died in prison; and, over all, + Edward the prince lies underneath the ground, + Edward the king is dead, at Westminster + The carvers smooth the curls of his long beard. + Everything goes to rack--eh! and we too. + Now, Curzon, listen; if they come, these French, + Whom have I got to lean on here, but you? + A man can die but once, will you die then, + Your brave sword in your hand, thoughts in your heart + Of all the deeds we have done here in France-- + And yet may do? So God will have your soul, + Whoever has your body. + + JOHN CURZON. + + Why, sir, I + Will fight till the last moment, until then + Will do whate'er you tell me. Now I see + We must e'en leave the walls; well, well, perhaps + They're stronger than I think for; pity, though! + For some few tons of stone, if Guesclin comes. + + SIR PETER. + + Farewell, John, pray you watch the Gascons well, + I doubt them. + + JOHN CURZON. + + Truly, sir, I will watch well. [_Goes._ + + SIR PETER. + + Farewell, good lump! and yet, when all is said, + 'Tis a good lump. Why then, if Guesclin comes; + Some dozen stones from his petrariae, + And, under shelter of his crossbows, just + An hour's steady work with pickaxes, + Then a great noise--some dozen swords and glaives + A-playing on my basnet all at once, + And little more cross purposes on earth + For me. + Now this is hard: a month ago, + And a few minutes' talk had set things right + 'Twixt me and Alice; if she had a doubt, + As, may Heaven bless her! I scarce think she had, + 'Twas but their hammer, hammer in her ears, + Of how Sir Peter fail'd at Lusac Bridge: + And how he was grown moody of late days; + And how Sir Lambert, think now! his dear friend, + His sweet, dear cousin, could not but confess + That Peter's talk tended towards the French, + Which he, for instance Lambert, was glad of, + Being, Lambert, you see, on the French side. + Well, + If I could but have seen her on that day, + Then, when they sent me off! + I like to think, + Although it hurts me, makes my head twist, what, + If I had seen her, what I should have said, + What she, my darling, would have said and done. + As thus perchance. + To find her sitting there, + In the window-seat, not looking well at all, + Crying perhaps, and I say quietly: + Alice! she looks up, chokes a sob, looks grave, + Changes from pale to red, but, ere she speaks, + Straightway I kneel down there on both my knees, + And say: O lady, have I sinn'd, your knight? + That still you ever let me walk alone + In the rose garden, that you sing no songs + When I am by, that ever in the dance + You quietly walk away when I come near? + Now that I have you, will you go, think you? + + Ere she could answer I would speak again, + Still kneeling there. + What! they have frighted you, + By hanging burs, and clumsily carven puppets, + Round my good name; but afterwards, my love, + I will say what this means; this moment, see! + Do I kneel here, and can you doubt me? Yea: + For she would put her hands upon my face: + Yea, that is best, yea feel, love, am I changed? + And she would say: Good knight, come, kiss my lips! + And afterwards as I sat there would say: + + Please a poor silly girl by telling me + What all those things they talk of really were, + For it is true you did not help Chandos, + And true, poor love! you could not come to me + When I was in such peril. + I should say: + I am like Balen, all things turn to blame. + I did not come to you? At Bergerath + The constable had held us close shut up, + If from the barriers I had made three steps, + I should have been but slain; at Lusac, too, + We struggled in a marish half the day, + And came too late at last: you know, my love, + How heavy men and horses are all arm'd. + All that Sir Lambert said was pure, unmix'd, + Quite groundless lies; as you can think, sweet love. + + She, holding tight my hand as we sat there, + Started a little at Sir Lambert's name, + But otherwise she listen'd scarce at all + To what I said. Then with moist, weeping eyes, + And quivering lips, that scarcely let her speak, + She said: I love you. + Other words were few, + The remnant of that hour; her hand smooth'd down + My foolish head; she kiss'd me all about + My face, and through the tangles of my beard + Her little fingers crept! + + O God, my Alice, + Not this good way: my lord but sent and said + That Lambert's sayings were taken at their worth, + Therefore that day I was to start, and keep + This hold against the French; and I am here: + [_Looks out of the window._ + A sprawling lonely garde with rotten walls, + And no one to bring aid if Guesclin comes, + Or any other. + There's a pennon now! + At last. + But not the constable's: whose arms, + I wonder, does it bear? Three golden rings + On a red ground; my cousin's by the rood! + Well, I should like to kill him, certainly, + But to be kill'd by him: [_A trumpet sounds._ + That's for a herald; + I doubt this does not mean assaulting yet. + + _Enter_ John Curzon. + + What says the herald of our cousin, sir? + + JOHN CURZON. + + So please you, sir, concerning your estate, + He has good will to talk with you. + + SIR PETER. + + Outside, + I'll talk with him, close by the gate St. Ives. + Is he unarm'd? + + JOHN CURZON. + + Yea, sir, in a long gown. + + SIR PETER. + + Then bid them bring me hither my furr'd gown + With the long sleeves, and under it I'll wear, + By Lambert's leave, a secret coat of mail; + And will you lend me, John, your little axe? + I mean the one with Paul wrought on the blade? + And I will carry it inside my sleeve, + Good to be ready always; you, John, go + And bid them set up many suits of arms, + Bows, archgays, lances, in the base-court, and + Yourself, from the south postern setting out, + With twenty men, be ready to break through + Their unguarded rear when I cry out, St. George! + + JOHN CURZON. + + How, sir! will you attack him unawares, + And slay him unarm'd? + + SIR PETER. + + Trust me, John, I know + The reason why he comes here with sleeved gown, + Fit to hide axes up. So, let us go. [_They go._ + + + _Outside the castle by the great gate;_ Sir Lambert _and_ Sir Peter + _seated; guards attending each, the rest of_ Sir Lambert's _men + drawn up about a furlong off._ + + SIR PETER. + + And if I choose to take the losing side + Still, does it hurt you? + + SIR LAMBERT. + + O! no hurt to me; + I see you sneering, Why take trouble then, + Seeing you love me not? Look you, our house + (Which, taken altogether, I love much) + Had better be upon the right side now, + If, once for all, it wishes to bear rule + As such a house should: cousin, you're too wise + To feed your hope up fat, that this fair France + Will ever draw two ways again; this side + The French, wrong-headed, all a-jar + With envious longings; and the other side + The order'd English, orderly led on + By those two Edwards through all wrong and right, + And muddling right and wrong to a thick broth + With that long stick, their strength. This is all changed, + The true French win, on either side you have + Cool-headed men, good at a tilting match, + And good at setting battles in array, + And good at squeezing taxes at due time; + Therefore by nature we French being here + Upon our own big land: [_Sir Peter laughs aloud._ + Well, Peter! well! + What makes you laugh? + + SIR PETER. + + Hearing you sweat to prove + All this I know so well; but you have read + The siege of Troy? + + SIR LAMBERT. + + O! yea, I know it well. + + SIR PETER. + + There! they were wrong, as wrong as men could be + For, as I think, they found it such delight + To see fair Helen going through their town; + Yea, any little common thing she did + (As stooping to pick a flower) seem'd so strange, + So new in its great beauty, that they said: + Here we will keep her living in this town, + Till all burns up together. And so, fought, + In a mad whirl of knowing they were wrong; + Yea, they fought well, and ever, like a man + That hangs legs off the ground by both his hands, + Over some great height, did they struggle sore, + Quite sure to slip at last; wherefore, take note + How almost all men, reading that sad siege, + Hold for the Trojans; as I did at least, + Thought Hector the best knight a long way: + Now + Why should I not do this thing that I think; + For even when I come to count the gains, + I have them my side: men will talk, you know + (We talk of Hector, dead so long agone,) + When I am dead, of how this Peter clung + To what he thought the right; of how he died, + Perchance, at last, doing some desperate deed + Few men would care do now, and this is gain + To me, as ease and money is to you. + Moreover, too, I like the straining game + Of striving well to hold up things that fall; + So one becomes great. See you! in good times + All men live well together, and you, too, + Live dull and happy: happy? not so quick, + Suppose sharp thoughts begin to burn you up? + Why then, but just to fight as I do now, + A halter round my neck, would be great bliss. + O! I am well off. [_Aside._ + Talk, and talk, and talk, + I know this man has come to murder me, + And yet I talk still. + + SIR LAMBERT. + + If your side were right, + You might be, though you lost; but if I said, + 'You are a traitor, being, as you are, + Born Frenchman.' What are Edwards unto you, + Or Richards? + + SIR PETER. + + Nay, hold there, my Lambert, hold! + For fear your zeal should bring you to some harm, + Don't call me traitor. + + SIR LAMBERT. + + Furthermore, my knight, + Men call you slippery on your losing side, + When at Bordeaux I was ambassador, + I heard them say so, and could scarce say: Nay. + [_He takes hold of something in + his sleeve, and rises._ + + SIR PETER, _rising_. + + They lied: and you lie, not for the first time. + What have you got there, fumbling up your sleeve, + A stolen purse? + + SIR LAMBERT. + + Nay, liar in your teeth! + Dead liar too; St. Denis and St. Lambert! + [_Strikes at_ Sir Peter _with a dagger_. + + SIR PETER, _striking him flatlings with his axe_. + + How thief! thief! thief! so there, fair thief, so there, + St. George Guienne! glaives for the castellan! + You French, you are but dead, unless you lay + Your spears upon the earth. St. George Guienne! + + Well done, John Curzon, how he has them now. + + + _In the Castle._ + + JOHN CURZON. + + What shall we do with all these prisoners, sir? + + SIR PETER. + + Why, put them all to ransom, those that can + Pay anything, but not too light though, John, + Seeing we have them on the hip: for those + That have no money, that being certified, + Why, turn them out of doors before they spy; + But bring Sir Lambert guarded unto me. + + JOHN CURZON. + + I will, fair sir. [_He goes._ + + SIR PETER. + + I do not wish to kill him, + Although I think I ought; he shall go mark'd, + By all the saints, though! + _Enter_ Lambert _guarded_. + Now, Sir Lambert, now! + What sort of death do you expect to get, + Being taken this way? + + SIR LAMBERT. + + Cousin! cousin! think! + I am your own blood; may God pardon me! + I am not fit to die; if you knew all, + All I have done since I was young and good. + O! you would give me yet another chance, + As God would, that I might wash all clear out, + By serving you and Him. Let me go now! + And I will pay you down more golden crowns + Of ransom than the king would! + + SIR PETER. + + Well, stand back, + And do not touch me! No, you shall not die, + Nor yet pay ransom. You, John Curzon, cause + Some carpenters to build a scaffold, high, + Outside the gate; when it is built, sound out + To all good folks, 'Come, see a traitor punish'd!' + Take me my knight, and set him up thereon, + And let the hangman shave his head quite clean, + And cut his ears off close up to the head; + And cause the minstrels all the while to play + Soft music, and good singing; for this day + Is my high day of triumph; is it not, + Sir Lambert? + + SIR LAMBERT. + + Ah! on your own blood, + Own name, you heap this foul disgrace? you dare, + With hands and fame thus sullied, to go back + And take the lady Alice? + + SIR PETER. + + Say her name + Again, and you are dead, slain here by me. + Why should I talk with you? I'm master here, + And do not want your schooling; is it not + My mercy that you are not dangling dead + There in the gateway with a broken neck? + + SIR LAMBERT. + + Such mercy! why not kill me then outright? + To die is nothing; but to live that all + May point their fingers! yea, I'd rather die. + + JOHN CURZON. + + Why, will it make you any uglier man + To lose your ears? they're much too big for you, + You ugly Judas! + + SIR PETER. + + Hold, John! [_To_ Lambert. + That's your choice, + To die, mind! Then you shall die: Lambert mine, + I thank you now for choosing this so well, + It saves me much perplexity and doubt; + Perchance an ill deed too, for half I count + This sparing traitors is an ill deed. + Well, + Lambert, die bravely, and we're almost friends. + + SIR LAMBERT, _grovelling_. + + O God! this is a fiend and not a man; + Will some one save me from him? help, help, help! + I will not die. + + SIR PETER. + + Why, what is this I see? + A man who is a knight, and bandied words + So well just now with me, is lying down, + Gone mad for fear like this! So, so, you thought + You knew the worst, and might say what you pleased. + I should have guess'd this from a man like you. + Eh! righteous Job would give up skin for skin, + Yea, all a man can have for simple life, + And we talk fine, yea, even a hound like this, + Who needs must know that when he dies, deep hell + Will hold him fast for ever, so fine we talk, + 'Would rather die,' all that. Now sir, get up! + And choose again: shall it be head sans ears, + Or trunk sans head? + John Curzon, pull him up! + What, life then? go and build the scaffold, John. + Lambert, I hope that never on this earth + We meet again; that you'll turn out a monk, + And mend the life I give you, so farewell, + I'm sorry you're a rascal. John, despatch. + + + _In the French camp before the Castle._ + + Sir Peter _prisoner_, Guesclin, Clisson, Sir Lambert. + + SIR PETER. + + So now is come the ending of my life; + If I could clear this sickening lump away + That sticks in my dry throat, and say a word, + Guesclin might listen. + + GUESCLIN. + + Tell me, fair sir knight, + If you have been clean liver before God, + And then you need not fear much; as for me, + I cannot say I hate you, yet my oath, + And cousin Lambert's ears here clench the thing. + + SIR PETER. + + I knew you could not hate me, therefore I + Am bold to pray for life; 'twill harm your cause + To hang knights of good name, harms here in France + I have small doubt, at any rate hereafter + Men will remember you another way + Than I should care to be remember'd, ah! + Although hot lead runs through me for my blood, + All this falls cold as though I said, Sweet lords, + Give back my falcon! + See how young I am, + Do you care altogether more for France, + Say rather one French faction, than for all + The state of Christendom? a gallant knight, + As (yea, by God!) I have been, is more worth + Than many castles; will you bring this death, + For a mere act of justice, on my head? + + Think how it ends all, death! all other things + Can somehow be retrieved, yea, send me forth + Naked and maimed, rather than slay me here; + Then somehow will I get me other clothes, + And somehow will I get me some poor horse, + And, somehow clad in poor old rusty arms, + Will ride and smite among the serried glaives, + Fear not death so; for I can tilt right well, + Let me not say I could; I know all tricks, + That sway the sharp sword cunningly; ah you, + You, my Lord Clisson, in the other days + Have seen me learning these, yea, call to mind, + How in the trodden corn by Chartres town, + When you were nearly swooning from the back + Of your black horse, those three blades slid at once + From off my sword's edge; pray for me, my lord! + + CLISSON. + + Nay, this is pitiful, to see him die. + My Lord the Constable, I pray you note + That you are losing some few thousand crowns + By slaying this man; also think: his lands + Along the Garonne river lie for leagues, + And are right rich, a many mills he has, + Three abbeys of grey monks do hold of him: + Though wishing well for Clement, as we do, + I know the next heir, his old uncle, well, + Who does not care two deniers for the knight + As things go now, but slay him, and then see, + How he will bristle up like any perch, + With curves of spears. What! do not doubt, my lord, + You'll get the money, this man saved my life, + And I will buy him for two thousand crowns; + Well, five then: eh! what! No again? well then, + Ten thousand crowns? + + GUESCLIN. + + My sweet lord, much I grieve + I cannot please you, yea, good sooth, I grieve + This knight must die, as verily he must; + For I have sworn it, so men take him out, + Use him not roughly. + + SIR LAMBERT, _coming forward_. + + Music, do you know, + Music will suit you well, I think, because + You look so mild, like Laurence being grill'd; + Or perhaps music soft and slow, because + This is high day of triumph unto me, + Is it not, Peter? + You are frighten'd, though, + Eh! you are pale, because this hurts you much, + Whose life was pleasant to you, not like mine, + You ruin'd wretch! Men mock me in the streets, + Only in whispers loud, because I am + Friend of the constable; will this please you, + Unhappy Peter? once a-going home, + Without my servants, and a little drunk, + At midnight through the lone dim lamp-lit streets. + A whore came up and spat into my eyes, + Rather to blind me than to make me see, + But she was very drunk, and tottering back, + Even in the middle of her laughter fell + And cut her head against the pointed stones, + While I lean'd on my staff, and look'd at her, + And cried, being drunk. + Girls would not spit at you. + You are so handsome, I think verily + Most ladies would be glad to kiss your eyes, + And yet you will be hung like a cur dog + Five minutes hence, and grow black in the face, + And curl your toes up. Therefore I am glad. + + Guess why I stand and talk this nonsense now, + With Guesclin getting ready to play chess, + And Clisson doing something with his sword, + I can't see what, talking to Guesclin though, + I don't know what about, perhaps of you. + But, cousin Peter, while I stroke your beard, + Let me say this, I'd like to tell you now + That your life hung upon a game of chess, + That if, say, my squire Robert here should beat, + Why you should live, but hang if I beat him; + Then guess, clever Peter, what I should do then: + Well, give it up? why, Peter, I should let + My squire Robert beat me, then you would think + That you were safe, you know; Eh? not at all, + But I should keep you three days in some hold, + Giving you salt to eat, which would be kind, + Considering the tax there is on salt; + And afterwards should let you go, perhaps? + No I should not, but I should hang you, sir, + With a red rope in lieu of mere grey rope. + + But I forgot, you have not told me yet + If you can guess why I talk nonsense thus, + Instead of drinking wine while you are hang'd? + You are not quick at guessing, give it up. + This is the reason; here I hold your hand, + And watch you growing paler, see you writhe + And this, my Peter, is a joy so dear, + I cannot by all striving tell you how + I love it, nor I think, good man, would you + Quite understand my great delight therein; + You, when you had me underneath you once, + Spat as it were, and said, 'Go take him out,' + That they might do that thing to me whereat, + E'en now this long time off I could well shriek, + And then you tried forget I ever lived, + And sunk your hating into other things; + While I: St. Denis! though, I think you'll faint, + Your lips are grey so; yes, you will, unless + You let it out and weep like a hurt child; + Hurrah! you do now. Do not go just yet, + For I am Alice, am right like her now, + Will you not kiss me on the lips, my love? + + CLISSON. + + You filthy beast, stand back and let him go, + Or by God's eyes I'll choke you! + [_Kneeling to_ Sir Peter. + Fair sir knight + I kneel upon my knees and pray to you + That you would pardon me for this your death; + God knows how much I wish you still alive, + Also how heartily I strove to save + Your life at this time; yea, he knows quite well, + (I swear it, so forgive me!) how I would, + If it were possible, give up my life + Upon this grass for yours; fair knight, although, + He knowing all things knows this thing too, well, + Yet when you see his face some short time hence, + Tell him I tried to save you. + + SIR PETER. + + O! my lord, + I cannot say this is as good as life, + But yet it makes me feel far happier now, + And if at all, after a thousand years, + I see God's face, I will speak loud and bold, + And tell Him you were kind, and like Himself; + Sir, may God bless you! + Did you note how I + Fell weeping just now? pray you, do not think + That Lambert's taunts did this, I hardly heard + The base things that he said, being deep in thought + Of all things that have happen'd since I was + A little child; and so at last I thought + Of my true lady: truly, sir, it seem'd + No longer gone than yesterday, that this + Was the sole reason God let me be born + Twenty-five years ago, that I might love + Her, my sweet lady, and be loved by her; + This seem'd so yesterday, to-day death comes, + And is so bitter strong, I cannot see + Why I was born. + But as a last request, + I pray you, O kind Clisson, send some man, + Some good man, mind you, to say how I died, + And take my last love to her: fare-you-well, + And may God keep you; I must go now, lest + I grow too sick with thinking on these things; + Likewise my feet are wearied of the earth, + From whence I shall be lifted upright soon. + [_As he goes._ + Ah me! shamed too, I wept at fear of death; + And yet not so, I only wept because + There was no beautiful lady to kiss me + Before I died, and sweetly wish good speed + From her dear lips. O for some lady, though + I saw her ne'er before; Alice, my love, + I do not ask for; Clisson was right kind, + If he had been a woman, I should die + Without this sickness: but I am all wrong, + So wrong, and hopelessly afraid to die. + There, I will go. + My God! how sick I am, + If only she could come and kiss me now. + + + _The Hotel de la Barde, Bordeaux._ + + _The_ Lady Alice de la Barde _looking out of a window into the street_. + + No news yet! surely, still he holds his own: + That garde stands well; I mind me passing it + Some months ago; God grant the walls are strong! + I heard some knights say something yestereve, + I tried hard to forget: words far apart + Struck on my heart something like this; one said: + What eh! a Gascon with an English name, + Harpdon? then nought, but afterwards: Poictou. + As one who answers to a question ask'd, + Then carelessly regretful came: No, no. + Whereto in answer loud and eagerly, + One said: Impossible? Christ, what foul play! + And went off angrily; and while thenceforth + I hurried gaspingly afraid, I heard: + Guesclin; Five thousand men-at-arms; Clisson. + My heart misgives me it is all in vain + I send these succours; and in good time there + Their trumpet sounds: ah! here they are; good knights, + God up in Heaven keep you. + If they come + And find him prisoner, for I can't believe + Guesclin will slay him, even though they storm. + The last horse turns the corner. + God in Heaven! + What have I got to thinking of at last! + That thief I will not name is with Guesclin, + Who loves him for his lands. My love! my love! + O, if I lose you after all the past, + What shall I do? + I cannot bear the noise + And light street out there, with this thought alive, + Like any curling snake within my brain; + Let me just hide my head within these soft + Deep cushions, there to try and think it out. + [_Lying in the window-seat._ + I cannot hear much noise now, and I think + That I shall go to sleep: it all sounds dim + And faint, and I shall soon forget most things; + Yea, almost that I am alive and here; + It goes slow, comes slow, like a big mill-wheel + On some broad stream, with long green weeds a-sway, + And soft and slow it rises and it falls, + Still going onward. + Lying so, one kiss, + And I should be in Avalon asleep, + Among the poppies, and the yellow flowers; + And they should brush my cheek, my hair being spread + Far out among the stems; soft mice and small + Eating and creeping all about my feet, + Red shod and tired; and the flies should come + Creeping o'er my broad eyelids unafraid; + And there should be a noise of water going, + Clear blue fresh water breaking on the slates, + Likewise the flies should creep: God's eyes! God help! + A trumpet? I will run fast, leap adown + The slippery sea-stairs, where the crabs fight. + Ah! + I was half dreaming, but the trumpet's true; + He stops here at our house. The Clisson arms? + Ah, now for news. But I must hold my heart, + And be quite gentle till he is gone out; + And afterwards: but he is still alive, + He must be still alive. + + _Enter a_ Squire _of_ Clisson's. + + Good day, fair sir, + I give you welcome, knowing whence you come. + + SQUIRE. + + My Lady Alice de la Barde, I come + From Oliver Clisson, knight and mighty lord, + Bringing you tidings: I make bold to hope + You will not count me villain, even if + They wring your heart, nor hold me still in hate; + For I am but a mouthpiece after all, + A mouthpiece, too, of one who wishes well + To you and your's. + + ALICE. + + Can you talk faster, sir, + Get over all this quicker? fix your eyes + On mine, I pray you, and whate'er you see, + Still go on talking fast, unless I fall, + Or bid you stop. + + SQUIRE. + + I pray your pardon then, + And, looking in your eyes, fair lady, say + I am unhappy that your knight is dead. + Take heart, and listen! let me tell you all. + We were five thousand goodly men-at-arms, + And scant five hundred had he in that hold: + His rotten sand-stone walls were wet with rain, + And fell in lumps wherever a stone hit; + Yet for three days about the barrier there + The deadly glaives were gather'd, laid across, + And push'd and pull'd; the fourth our engines came; + But still amid the crash of falling walls, + And roar of lombards, rattle of hard bolts, + The steady bow-strings flash'd, and still stream'd out + St. George's banner, and the seven swords, + And still they cried: St. George Guienne! until + Their walls were flat as Jericho's of old, + And our rush came, and cut them from the keep. + + ALICE. + + Stop, sir, and tell me if you slew him then, + And where he died, if you can really mean + That Peter Harpdon, the good knight, is dead? + + SQUIRE. + + Fair lady, in the base-court: + + ALICE. + + What base-court? + What do you talk of? Nay, go on, go on; + 'Twas only something gone within my head: + Do you not know, one turns one's head round quick, + And something cracks there with sore pain? go on, + And still look at my eyes. + + SQUIRE. + + Almost alone, + There in the base-court fought he with his sword, + Using his left hand much, more than the wont + Of most knights now-a-days; our men gave back, + For wheresoever he hit a downright blow, + Some one fell bleeding, for no plate could hold + Against the sway of body and great arm; + Till he grew tired, and some man (no! not I, + I swear not I, fair lady, as I live!) + Thrust at him with a glaive between the knees, + And threw him; down he fell, sword undermost; + Many fell on him, crying out their cries, + Tore his sword from him, tore his helm off, and: + + ALICE. + + Yea, slew him: I am much too young to live, + Fair God, so let me die! + You have done well, + Done all your message gently, pray you go, + Our knights will make you cheer; moreover, take + This bag of franks for your expenses. + [_The Squire kneels._ + But + You do not go; still looking at my face, + You kneel! what, squire, do you mock me then? + You need not tell me who has set you on, + But tell me only, 'tis a made-up tale. + You are some lover may-be or his friend; + Sir, if you loved me once, or your friend loved, + Think, is it not enough that I kneel down + And kiss your feet? your jest will be right good + If you give in now; carry it too far, + And 'twill be cruel: not yet? but you weep + Almost, as though you loved me; love me then, + And go to Heaven by telling all your sport, + And I will kiss you then with all my heart, + Upon the mouth: O! what can I do then + To move you? + + SQUIRE. + + Lady fair, forgive me still! + You know I am so sorry, but my tale + Is not yet finish'd: + So they bound his hands, + And brought him tall and pale to Guesclin's tent, + Who, seeing him, leant his head upon his hand, + And ponder'd somewhile, afterwards, looking up: + Fair dame, what shall I say? + + ALICE. + + Yea, I know now, + Good squire, you may go now with my thanks. + + SQUIRE. + + Yet, lady, for your own sake I say this, + Yea, for my own sake, too, and Clisson's sake. + When Guesclin told him he must be hanged soon, + Within a while he lifted up his head + And spoke for his own life; not crouching, though, + As abjectly afraid to die, nor yet + Sullenly brave as many a thief will die, + Nor yet as one that plays at japes with God: + Few words he spoke; not so much what he said + Moved us, I think, as, saying it, there played + Strange tenderness from that big soldier there + About his pleading; eagerness to live + Because folk loved him, and he loved them back, + And many gallant plans unfinish'd now + For ever. Clisson's heart, which may God bless! + Was moved to pray for him, but all in vain; + Wherefore I bring this message: + That he waits, + Still loving you, within the little church + Whose windows, with the one eye of the light + Over the altar, every night behold + The great dim broken walls he strove to keep! + + There my Lord Clisson did his burial well. + Now, lady, I will go: God give you rest! + + ALICE. + + Thank Clisson from me, squire, and farewell! + And now to keep myself from going mad. + Christ! I have been a many times to church, + And, ever since my mother taught me prayers, + Have used them daily, but to-day I wish + To pray another way; come face to face, + O Christ, that I may clasp your knees and pray + I know not what; at any rate come now + From one of many places where you are, + Either in Heaven amid thick angel wings, + Or sitting on the altar strange with gems, + Or high up in the duskness of the apse; + Let us go, You and I, a long way off, + To the little damp, dark, Poitevin church. + While you sit on the coffin in the dark, + Will I lie down, my face on the bare stone + Between your feet, and chatter anything + I have heard long ago. What matters it + So I may keep you there, your solemn face + And long hair even-flowing on each side, + Until you love me well enough to speak, + And give me comfort? yea, till o'er your chin, + And cloven red beard the great tears roll down + In pity for my misery, and I die, + Kissed over by you. + Eh Guesclin! if I were + Like Countess Mountfort now, that kiss'd the knight, + Across the salt sea come to fight for her: + Ah! just to go about with many knights, + Wherever you went, and somehow on one day, + In a thick wood to catch you off your guard, + Let you find, you and your some fifty friends, + Nothing but arrows wheresoe'er you turn'd, + Yea, and red crosses, great spears over them; + And so, between a lane of my true men, + To walk up pale and stern and tall, and with + My arms on my surcoat, and his therewith, + And then to make you kneel, O knight Guesclin; + And then: alas! alas! when all is said, + What could I do but let you go again, + Being pitiful woman? I get no revenge, + Whatever happens; and I get no comfort: + I am but weak, and cannot move my feet, + But as men bid me. + Strange I do not die. + Suppose this has not happen'd after all? + I will lean out again and watch for news. + + I wonder how long I can still feel thus, + As though I watch'd for news, feel as I did + Just half-an-hour ago, before this news. + How all the street is humming, some men sing, + And some men talk; some look up at the house, + Then lay their heads together and look grave: + Their laughter pains me sorely in the heart; + Their thoughtful talking makes my head turn round: + Yea, some men sing, what is it then they sing? + Eh? Launcelot, and love and fate and death: + They ought to sing of him who was as wight + As Launcelot or Wade, and yet avail'd + Just nothing, but to fail and fail and fail, + And so at last to die and leave me here, + Alone and wretched; yea, perhaps they will, + When many years are past, make songs of us: + God help me, though, truly I never thought + That I should make a story in this way, + A story that his eyes can never see. + + [_One sings from outside._] + + _Therefore be it believed + Whatsoever he grieved, + When his horse was relieved, + This Launcelot,_ + + _Beat down on his knee, + Right valiant was he + God's body to see, + Though he saw it not._ + + _Right valiant to move, + But for his sad love + The high God above + Stinted his praise._ + + _Yet so he was glad + That his son, Lord Galahad, + That high joyaunce had + All his life-days._ + + _Sing we therefore then + Launcelot's praise again, + For he wan crownes ten, + If he wan not twelve._ + + _To his death from his birth + He was mickle of worth, + Lay him in the cold earth, + A long grave ye may delve._ + + _Omnes homines benedicite! + This last fitte ye may see, + All men pray for me + Who made this history + Cunning and fairly._ + + + + +RAPUNZEL + + + + +RAPUNZEL + + + THE PRINCE, _being in the wood near the tower, in the + evening_. + + I could not even think + What made me weep that day, + When out of the council-hall + The courtiers pass'd away,-- + + THE WITCH. + + Rapunzel, Rapunzel, + Let down your hair! + + RAPUNZEL. + + Is it not true that every day + She climbeth up the same strange way, + Her scarlet cloak spread broad and gay, + Over my golden hair? + + THE PRINCE. + + And left me there alone, + To think on what they said: + 'Thou art a king's own son, + 'Tis fit that thou should'st wed.' + + THE WITCH. + + Rapunzel, Rapunzel, + Let down your hair! + + RAPUNZEL. + + When I undo the knotted mass, + Fathoms below the shadows pass + Over my hair along the grass. + O my golden hair! + + THE PRINCE. + + I put my armour on, + Thinking on what they said: + 'Thou art a king's own son, + 'Tis fit that thou should'st wed.' + + THE WITCH. + + Rapunzel, Rapunzel, + Let down your hair! + + RAPUNZEL. + + See on the marble parapet, + I lean my brow, strive to forget + That fathoms below my hair grows wet + With the dew, my golden hair. + + THE PRINCE. + + I rode throughout the town, + Men did not bow the head, + Though I was the king's own son: + He rides to dream, they said. + + THE WITCH. + + Rapunzel, Rapunzel, + Wind up your hair! + + RAPUNZEL. + + See on the marble parapet, + The faint red stains with tears are wet; + The long years pass, no help comes yet + To free my golden hair. + + THE PRINCE. + + For leagues and leagues I rode, + Till hot my armour grew, + Till underneath the leaves + I felt the evening dew. + + THE WITCH. + + Rapunzel, Rapunzel, + Weep through your hair! + + RAPUNZEL. + + And yet: but I am growing old, + For want of love my heart is cold; + Years pass, the while I loose and fold + The fathoms of my hair. + + + THE PRINCE, _in the morning_. + + I have heard tales of men, who in the night + Saw paths of stars let down to earth from heaven, + Who followed them until they reach'd the light + Wherein they dwell, whose sins are all forgiven; + + But who went backward when they saw the gate + Of diamond, nor dared to enter in; + All their life long they were content to wait, + Purging them patiently of every sin. + + I must have had a dream of some such thing, + And now am just awaking from that dream; + For even in grey dawn those strange words ring + Through heart and brain, and still I see that gleam. + + For in my dream at sunset-time I lay + Beneath these beeches, mail and helmet off, + Right full of joy that I had come away + From court; for I was patient of the scoff + + That met me always there from day to day, + From any knave or coward of them all: + I was content to live that wretched way; + For truly till I left the council-hall, + + And rode forth arm'd beneath the burning sun, + My gleams of happiness were faint and few, + But then I saw my real life had begun, + And that I should be strong quite well I knew. + + For I was riding out to look for love, + Therefore the birds within the thickets sung, + Even in hot noontide; as I pass'd, above + The elms o'ersway'd with longing towards me hung. + + Now some few fathoms from the place where I + Lay in the beech-wood, was a tower fair, + The marble corners faint against the sky; + And dreamily I wonder'd what lived there: + + Because it seem'd a dwelling for a queen, + No belfry for the swinging of great bells. + No bolt or stone had ever crush'd the green + Shafts, amber and rose walls, no soot that tells + + Of the Norse torches burning up the roofs, + On the flower-carven marble could I see; + But rather on all sides I saw the proofs + Of a great loneliness that sicken'd me; + + Making me feel a doubt that was not fear, + Whether my whole life long had been a dream, + And I should wake up soon in some place, where + The piled-up arms of the fighting angels gleam; + + Not born as yet, but going to be born, + No naked baby as I was at first, + But an armed knight, whom fire, hate and scorn + Could turn from nothing: my heart almost burst + + Beneath the beeches, as I lay a-dreaming, + I tried so hard to read this riddle through, + To catch some golden cord that I saw gleaming + Like gossamer against the autumn blue. + + But while I ponder'd these things, from the wood + There came a black-hair'd woman, tall and bold, + Who strode straight up to where the tower stood, + And cried out shrilly words, whereon behold-- + + THE WITCH, _from the tower_. + + Rapunzel, Rapunzel, + Let down your hair! + + THE PRINCE. + + Ah Christ! it was no dream then, but there stood + (She comes again) a maiden passing fair, + Against the roof, with face turn'd to the wood, + Bearing within her arms waves of her yellow hair. + + I read my riddle when I saw her stand, + Poor love! her face quite pale against her hair, + Praying to all the leagues of empty land + To save her from the woe she suffer'd there. + + To think! they trod upon her golden hair + In the witches' sabbaths; it was a delight + For these foul things, while she, with thin feet bare, + Stood on the roof upon the winter night, + + To plait her dear hair into many plaits, + And then, while God's eye look'd upon the thing, + In the very likenesses of Devil's bats, + Upon the ends of her long hair to swing. + + And now she stood above the parapet, + And, spreading out her arms, let her hair flow, + Beneath that veil her smooth white forehead set + Upon the marble, more I do not know; + + Because before my eyes a film of gold + Floated, as now it floats. O unknown love, + Would that I could thy yellow stair behold, + If still thou standest the lead roof above! + + THE WITCH, _as she passes_. + + Is there any who will dare + To climb up the yellow stair, + Glorious Rapunzel's golden hair? + + THE PRINCE. + + If it would please God make you sing again, + I think that I might very sweetly die, + My soul somehow reach heaven in joyous pain, + My heavy body on the beech-nuts lie. + + Now I remember what a most strange year, + Most strange and awful, in the beechen wood + I have pass'd now; I still have a faint fear + It is a kind of dream not understood. + + I have seen no one in this wood except + The witch and her; have heard no human tones, + But when the witches' revelry has crept + Between the very jointing of my bones. + + Ah! I know now; I could not go away, + But needs must stop to hear her sing that song + She always sings at dawning of the day. + I am not happy here, for I am strong, + + And every morning do I whet my sword, + Yet Rapunzel still weeps within the tower, + And still God ties me down to the green sward, + Because I cannot see the gold stair floating lower. + + RAPUNZEL _sings from the tower_. + + My mother taught me prayers + To say when I had need; + I have so many cares, + That I can take no heed + Of many words in them; + But I remember this: + _Christ, bring me to thy bliss. + Mary, maid withouten wem, + Keep me!_ I am lone, I wis, + Yet besides I have made this + By myself: _Give me a kiss, + Dear God dwelling up in heaven!_ + Also: _Send me a true knight, + Lord Christ, with a steel sword, bright, + Broad, and trenchant; yea, and seven + Spans from hilt to point, O Lord! + And let the handle of his sword + Be gold on silver, Lord in heaven! + Such a sword as I see gleam + Sometimes, when they let me dream._ + + Yea, besides, I have made this: + _Lord, give Mary a dear kiss, + And let gold Michael, who looked down, + When I was there, on Rouen town + From the spire, bring me that kiss + On a lily! Lord do this!_ + + These prayers on the dreadful nights, + When the witches plait my hair, + And the fearfullest of sights + On the earth and in the air, + Will not let me close my eyes, + I murmur often, mix'd with sighs, + That my weak heart will not hold + At some things that I behold. + Nay, not sighs, but quiet groans, + That swell out the little bones + Of my bosom; till a trance + God sends in middle of that dance, + And I behold the countenance + Of Michael, and can feel no more + The bitter east wind biting sore + My naked feet; can see no more + The crayfish on the leaden floor, + That mock with feeler and grim claw. + + Yea, often in that happy trance, + Beside the blessed countenance + Of golden Michael, on the spire + Glowing all crimson in the fire + Of sunset, I behold a face, + Which sometime, if God give me grace, + May kiss me in this very place. + + + _Evening in the tower._ + + RAPUNZEL. + + It grows half way between the dark and light; + Love, we have been six hours here alone: + I fear that she will come before the night, + And if she finds us thus we are undone. + + THE PRINCE. + + Nay, draw a little nearer, that your breath + May touch my lips, let my cheek feel your arm; + Now tell me, did you ever see a death, + Or ever see a man take mortal harm? + + RAPUNZEL. + + Once came two knights and fought with swords below, + And while they fought I scarce could look at all, + My head swam so; after, a moaning low + Drew my eyes down; I saw against the wall + + One knight lean dead, bleeding from head and breast, + Yet seem'd it like a line of poppies red + In the golden twilight, as he took his rest, + In the dusky time he scarcely seemed dead. + + But the other, on his face, six paces off, + Lay moaning, and the old familiar name + He mutter'd through the grass, seem'd like a scoff + Of some lost soul remembering his past fame. + + His helm all dinted lay beside him there, + The visor-bars were twisted towards the face, + The crest, which was a lady very fair, + Wrought wonderfully, was shifted from its place. + + The shower'd mail-rings on the speedwell lay, + Perhaps my eyes were dazzled with the light + That blazed in the west, yet surely on that day + Some crimson thing had changed the grass from bright + + Pure green I love so. But the knight who died + Lay there for days after the other went; + Until one day I heard a voice that cried: + Fair knight, I see Sir Robert we were sent + + To carry dead or living to the king. + So the knights came and bore him straight away + On their lance truncheons, such a batter'd thing, + His mother had not known him on that day, + + But for his helm-crest, a gold lady fair + Wrought wonderfully. + + THE PRINCE. + + Ah, they were brothers then, + And often rode together, doubtless where + The swords were thickest, and were loyal men, + + Until they fell in these same evil dreams. + + RAPUNZEL. + + Yea, love; but shall we not depart from hence? + The white moon groweth golden fast, and gleams + Between the aspens stems; I fear, and yet a sense + + Of fluttering victory comes over me, + That will not let me fear aright; my heart, + Feel how it beats, love, strives to get to thee; + I breathe so fast that my lips needs must part; + + Your breath swims round my mouth, but let us go. + + THE PRINCE. + + I, Sebald, also, pluck from off the staff + The crimson banner; let it lie below, + Above it in the wind let grasses laugh. + + Now let us go, love, down the winding stair, + With fingers intertwined: ay, feel my sword! + I wrought it long ago, with golden hair + Flowing about the hilts, because a word, + + Sung by a minstrel old, had set me dreaming + Of a sweet bow'd down face with yellow hair; + Betwixt green leaves I used to see it gleaming, + A half smile on the lips, though lines of care + + Had sunk the cheeks, and made the great eyes hollow; + What other work in all the world had I, + But through all turns of fate that face to follow? + But wars and business kept me there to die. + + O child, I should have slain my brother, too, + My brother, Love, lain moaning in the grass, + Had I not ridden out to look for you, + When I had watch'd the gilded courtiers pass + + From the golden hall. But it is strange your name + Is not the same the minstrel sung of yore; + You call'd it Rapunzel, 'tis not the name. + See, love, the stems shine through the open door. + + + _Morning in the woods._ + + RAPUNZEL. + + O love! me and my unknown name you have well won; + The witch's name was Rapunzel: eh! not so sweet? + No! but is this real grass, love, that I tread upon? + What call they these blue flowers that lean across my feet? + + THE PRINCE. + + Dip down your dear face in the dewy grass, O love! + And ever let the sweet slim harebells, tenderly hung, + Kiss both your parted lips; and I will hang above, + And try to sing that song the dreamy harper sung. + + _He sings._ + + 'Twixt the sunlight and the shade + Float up memories of my maid: + God, remember Guendolen! + + Gold or gems she did not wear, + But her yellow rippled hair, + Like a veil, hid Guendolen! + + 'Twixt the sunlight and the shade, + My rough hands so strangely made, + Folded Golden Guendolen. + + Hands used to grip the sword-hilt hard, + Framed her face, while on the sward + Tears fell down from Guendolen. + + Guendolen now speaks no word, + Hands fold round about the sword: + Now no more of Guendolen. + + Only 'twixt the light and shade + Floating memories of my maid + Make me pray for Guendolen. + + GUENDOLEN. + + I kiss thee, new-found name! but I will never go: + Your hands need never grip the hammer'd sword again, + But all my golden hair shall ever round you flow, + Between the light and shade from Golden Guendolen. + + + _Afterwards, in the Palace._ + + KING SEBALD. + + I took my armour off, + Put on king's robes of gold; + Over the kirtle green + The gold fell fold on fold. + + THE WITCH, _out of hell_. + + _Guendolen! Guendolen! + One lock of hair!_ + + GUENDOLEN. + + I am so glad, for every day + He kisses me much the same way + As in the tower: under the sway + Of all my golden hair. + + KING SEBALD. + + We rode throughout the town, + A gold crown on my head; + Through all the gold-hung streets, + Praise God! the people said. + + THE WITCH. + + _Gwendolen! Guendolen! + Lend me your hair!_ + + GUENDOLEN. + + Verily, I seem like one + Who, when day is almost done, + Through a thick wood meets the sun + That blazes in her hair. + + KING SEBALD. + + Yea, at the palace gates, + Praise God! the great knights said, + For Sebald the high king, + And the lady's golden head. + + THE WITCH. + + _Woe is me! Guendolen + Sweeps back her hair._ + + GUENDOLEN. + + Nothing wretched now, no screams; + I was unhappy once in dreams, + And even now a harsh voice seems + To hang about my hair. + + THE WITCH. + + WOE! THAT ANY MAN COULD DARE + TO CLIMB UP THE YELLOW STAIR, + GLORIOUS GUENDOLEN'S GOLDEN HAIR. + + + + +CONCERNING GEFFRAY TESTE NOIRE + + + + +CONCERNING GEFFRAY TESTE NOIRE + + + And if you meet the Canon of Chimay, + As going to Ortaise you well may do, + Greet him from John of Castel Neuf, and say + All that I tell you, for all this is true. + + This Geffray Teste Noire was a Gascon thief, + Who, under shadow of the English name, + Pilled all such towns and countries as were lief + To King Charles and St. Denis; thought it blame + + If anything escaped him; so my lord, + The Duke of Berry, sent Sir John Bonne Lance, + And other knights, good players with the sword, + To check this thief, and give the land a chance. + + Therefore we set our bastides round the tower + That Geffray held, the strong thief! like a king, + High perch'd upon the rock of Ventadour, + Hopelessly strong by Christ! It was mid spring, + + When first I joined the little army there + With ten good spears; Auvergne is hot, each day + We sweated armed before the barrier; + Good feats of arms were done there often. Eh? + + Your brother was slain there? I mind me now, + A right good man-at-arms, God pardon him! + I think 'twas Geffray smote him on the brow + With some spiked axe, and while he totter'd, dim + + About the eyes, the spear of Alleyne Roux + Slipped through his camaille and his throat; well, well! + Alleyne is paid now; your name Alleyne too? + Mary! how strange! but this tale I would tell: + + For spite of all our bastides, damned Blackhead + Would ride abroad whene'er he chose to ride, + We could not stop him; many a burgher bled + Dear gold all round his girdle; far and wide + + The villaynes dwelt in utter misery + 'Twixt us and thief Sir Geffray; hauled this way + By Sir Bonne Lance at one time; he gone by, + Down comes this Teste Noire on another day. + + And therefore they dig up the stone, grind corn, + Hew wood, draw water, yea, they lived, in short, + As I said just now, utterly forlorn, + Till this our knave and blackhead was out-fought. + + So Bonne Lance fretted, thinking of some trap + Day after day, till on a time he said: + John of Newcastle, if we have good hap, + We catch our thief in two days. How? I said. + + Why, Sir, to-day he rideth out again, + Hoping to take well certain sumpter mules + From Carcassonne, going with little train, + Because, forsooth, he thinketh us mere fools; + + But if we set an ambush in some wood, + He is but dead: so, Sir, take thirty spears + To Verville forest, if it seem you good. + Then felt I like the horse in Job, who hears + + The dancing trumpet sound, and we went forth; + And my red lion on the spear-head flapped, + As faster than the cool wind we rode north, + Towards the wood of Verville; thus it happed. + + We rode a soft pace on that day, while spies + Got news about Sir Geffray: the red wine + Under the road-side bush was clear; the flies, + The dragon-flies I mind me most, did shine + + In brighter arms than ever I put on; + So: Geffray, said our spies, would pass that way + Next day at sundown: then he must be won; + And so we enter'd Verville wood next day, + + In the afternoon; through it the highway runs, + 'Twixt copses of green hazel, very thick, + And underneath, with glimmering of suns, + The primroses are happy; the dews lick + + The soft green moss: 'Put cloths about your arms, + Lest they should glitter; surely they will go + In a long thin line, watchful for alarms, + With all their carriages of booty; so, + + Lay down my pennon in the grass: Lord God. + What have we lying here? will they be cold, + I wonder, being so bare, above the sod, + Instead of under? This was a knight too, fold + + Lying on fold of ancient rusted mail; + No plate at all, gold rowels to the spurs, + And see the quiet gleam of turquoise pale + Along the ceinture; but the long time blurs + + Even the tinder of his coat to nought, + Except these scraps of leather; see how white + The skull is, loose within the coif! He fought + A good fight, maybe, ere he was slain quite. + + No armour on the legs too; strange in faith! + A little skeleton for a knight, though: ah! + This one is bigger, truly without scathe + His enemies escaped not! ribs driven out far; + + That must have reach'd the heart, I doubt: how now, + What say you, Aldovrand, a woman? why?' + Under the coif a gold wreath on the brow, + Yea, see the hair not gone to powder, lie, + + Golden, no doubt, once: yea, and very small, + This for a knight; but for a dame, my lord, + These loose-hung bones seem shapely still, and tall. + Didst ever see a woman's bones, my Lord? + + Often, God help me! I remember when + I was a simple boy, fifteen years old, + The Jacquerie froze up the blood of men + With their fell deeds, not fit now to be told. + + God help again! we enter'd Beauvais town, + Slaying them fast, whereto I help'd, mere boy + As I was then; we gentles cut them down, + These burners and defilers, with great joy. + + Reason for that, too, in the great church there + These fiends had lit a fire, that soon went out, + The church at Beauvais being so great and fair: + My father, who was by me, gave a shout + + Between a beast's howl and a woman's scream, + Then, panting, chuckled to me: 'John, look! look! + Count the dames' skeletons!' From some bad dream + Like a man just awaked, my father shook; + + And I, being faint with smelling the burnt bones, + And very hot with fighting down the street, + And sick of such a life, fell down, with groans + My head went weakly nodding to my feet. + + --An arrow had gone through her tender throat, + And her right wrist was broken; then I saw + The reason why she had on that war-coat, + Their story came out clear without a flaw; + + For when he knew that they were being waylaid, + He threw it over her, yea, hood and all; + Whereby he was much hack'd, while they were stay'd + By those their murderers; many an one did fall + + Beneath his arm, no doubt, so that he clear'd + Their circle, bore his death-wound out of it; + But as they rode, some archer least afear'd + Drew a strong bow, and thereby she was hit. + + Still as he rode he knew not she was dead, + Thought her but fainted from her broken wrist, + He bound with his great leathern belt: she bled? + Who knows! he bled too, neither was there miss'd + + The beating of her heart, his heart beat well + For both of them, till here, within this wood, + He died scarce sorry; easy this to tell; + After these years the flowers forget their blood. + + How could it be? never before that day, + However much a soldier I might be, + Could I look on a skeleton and say + I care not for it, shudder not: now see, + + Over those bones I sat and pored for hours, + And thought, and dream'd, and still I scarce could see + The small white bones that lay upon the flowers, + But evermore I saw the lady; she + + With her dear gentle walking leading in, + By a chain of silver twined about her wrists, + Her loving knight, mounted and arm'd to win + Great honour for her, fighting in the lists. + + O most pale face, that brings such joy and sorrow + Into men's hearts (yea, too, so piercing sharp + That joy is, that it marcheth nigh to sorrow + For ever, like an overwinded harp). + + Your face must hurt me always: pray you now, + Doth it not hurt you too? seemeth some pain + To hold you always, pain to hold your brow + So smooth, unwrinkled ever; yea again, + + Your long eyes where the lids seem like to drop, + Would you not, lady, were they shut fast, feel + Far merrier? there so high they will not stop, + They are most sly to glide forth and to steal + + Into my heart; I kiss their soft lids there, + And in green gardens scarce can stop my lips + From wandering on your face, but that your hair + Falls down and tangles me, back my face slips. + + Or say your mouth, I saw you drink red wine + Once at a feast; how slowly it sank in, + As though you fear'd that some wild fate might twine + Within that cup, and slay you for a sin. + + And when you talk your lips do arch and move + In such wise that a language new I know + Besides their sound; they quiver, too, with love + When you are standing silent; know this, too, + + I saw you kissing once, like a curved sword + That bites with all its edge, did your lips lie, + Curled gently, slowly, long time could afford + For caught-up breathings: like a dying sigh + + They gather'd up their lines and went away, + And still kept twitching with a sort of smile, + As likely to be weeping presently; + Your hands too, how I watch'd them all the while! + + Cry out St. Peter now, quoth Aldovrand; + I cried, St. Peter! broke out from the wood + With all my spears; we met them hand to hand, + And shortly slew them; natheless, by the rood, + + We caught not Blackhead then, or any day; + Months after that he died at last in bed, + From a wound pick'd up at a barrier-fray; + That same year's end a steel bolt in the head, + + And much bad living killed Teste Noire at last; + John Froissart knoweth he is dead by now, + No doubt, but knoweth not this tale just past; + Perchance then you can tell him what I show. + + In my new castle, down beside the Eure, + There is a little chapel of squared stone, + Painted inside and out; in green nook pure + There did I lay them, every wearied bone; + + And over it they lay, with stone-white hands + Clasped fast together, hair made bright with gold; + This Jaques Picard, known through many lands, + Wrought cunningly; he's dead now: I am old. + + + + +A GOOD KNIGHT IN PRISON + + + SIR GUY, _being in the court of a Pagan castle_. + + This castle where I dwell, it stands + A long way off from Christian lands, + A long way off my lady's hands, + A long way off the aspen trees, + And murmur of the lime-tree bees. + + But down the Valley of the Rose + My lady often hawking goes, + Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind, + Leaning towards the western wind, + Because it bringeth to her mind + Sad whisperings of happy times, + The face of him who sings these rhymes. + + King Guilbert rides beside her there, + Bends low and calls her very fair, + And strives, by pulling down his hair, + To hide from my dear lady's ken + The grisly gash I gave him, when + I cut him down at Camelot; + However he strives, he hides it not, + That tourney will not be forgot, + Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot, + Whatever he says she answers not. + + Now tell me, you that are in love, + From the king's son to the wood-dove, + Which is the better, he or I? + + For this king means that I should die + In this lone Pagan castle, where + The flowers droop in the bad air + On the September evening. + + Look, now I take mine ease and sing, + Counting as but a little thing + The foolish spite of a bad king. + + For these vile things that hem me in, + These Pagan beasts who live in sin, + The sickly flowers pale and wan, + The grim blue-bearded castellan, + The stanchions half worn-out with rust, + Whereto their banner vile they trust: + Why, all these things I hold them just + As dragons in a missal book, + Wherein, whenever we may look, + We see no horror, yea delight + We have, the colours are so bright; + Likewise we note the specks of white, + And the great plates of burnish'd gold. + + Just so this Pagan castle old, + And everything I can see there, + Sick-pining in the marshland air, + I note: I will go over now, + Like one who paints with knitted brow, + The flowers and all things one by one, + From the snail on the wall to the setting sun. + + Four great walls, and a little one + That leads down to the barbican, + Which walls with many spears they man, + When news comes to the castellan + Of Launcelot being in the land. + + And as I sit here, close at hand + Four spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand; + The castellan with a long wand + Cuts down their leaves as he goes by, + Ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye, + And fingers twisted in his beard. + Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard? + I have a hope makes me afeard: + It cannot be, but if some dream + Just for a minute made me deem + I saw among the flowers there + My lady's face with long red hair, + Pale, ivory-colour'd dear face come, + As I was wont to see her some + Fading September afternoon, + And kiss me, saying nothing, soon + To leave me by myself again; + Could I get this by longing? vain! + + The castellan is gone: I see + On one broad yellow flower a bee + Drunk with much honey. + Christ! again, + Some distant knight's voice brings me pain, + I thought I had forgot to feel, + I never heard the blissful steel + These ten years past; year after year, + Through all my hopeless sojourn here, + No Christian pennon has been near. + Laus Deo! the dragging wind draws on + Over the marshes, battle won, + Knights' shouts, and axes hammering; + Yea, quicker now the dint and ring + Of flying hoofs; ah, castellan, + When they come back count man for man, + Say whom you miss. + + THE PAGANS, _from the battlements_. + + Mahound to aid! + Why flee ye so like men dismay'd? + + THE PAGANS, _from without_. + + Nay, haste! for here is Launcelot, + Who follows quick upon us, hot + And shouting with his men-at-arms. + + SIR GUY. + + Also the Pagans raise alarms, + And ring the bells for fear; at last + My prison walls will be well past. + + SIR LAUNCELOT, _from outside_. + + Ho! in the name of the Trinity, + Let down the drawbridge quick to me, + And open doors, that I may see + Guy the good knight! + + THE PAGANS, _from the battlements_. + + Nay, Launcelot, + With mere big words ye win us not. + + SIR LAUNCELOT. + + Bid Miles bring up la perriere, + And archers clear the vile walls there. + Bring back the notches to the ear, + Shoot well together! God to aid! + These miscreants will be well paid. + + Hurrah! all goes together; Miles + Is good to win my lady's smiles + For his good shooting: Launcelot! + On knights apace! this game is hot! + + SIR GUY _sayeth afterwards_. + + I said, I go to meet her now, + And saying so, I felt a blow + From some clench'd hand across my brow, + And fell down on the sunflowers + Just as a hammering smote my ears; + After which this I felt in sooth, + My bare hands throttling without ruth + The hairy-throated castellan; + Then a grim fight with those that ran + To slay me, while I shouted: God + For the Lady Mary! deep I trod + That evening in my own red blood; + Nevertheless so stiff I stood, + That when the knights burst the old wood + Of the castle-doors, I was not dead. + + I kiss the Lady Mary's head, + Her lips, and her hair golden red, + Because to-day we have been wed. + + + + +OLD LOVE + + + You must be very old, Sir Giles, + I said; he said: Yea, very old! + Whereat the mournfullest of smiles + Creased his dry skin with many a fold. + + They hammer'd out my basnet point + Into a round salade, he said, + The basnet being quite out of joint, + Natheless the salade rasps my head. + + He gazed at the great fire awhile: + And you are getting old, Sir John; + (He said this with that cunning smile + That was most sad) we both wear on; + + Knights come to court and look at me, + With eyebrows up; except my lord, + And my dear lady, none I see + That know the ways of my old sword. + + (My lady! at that word no pang + Stopp'd all my blood). But tell me, John, + Is it quite true that Pagans hang + So thick about the east, that on + + The eastern sea no Venice flag + Can fly unpaid for? True, I said, + And in such way the miscreants drag + Christ's cross upon the ground, I dread + + That Constantine must fall this year. + Within my heart, these things are small; + This is not small, that things outwear + I thought were made for ever, yea, all, + + All things go soon or late, I said. + I saw the duke in court next day; + Just as before, his grand great head + Above his gold robes dreaming lay, + + Only his face was paler; there + I saw his duchess sit by him; + And she, she was changed more; her hair + Before my eyes that used to swim, + + And make me dizzy with great bliss + Once, when I used to watch her sit, + Her hair is bright still, yet it is + As though some dust were thrown on it. + + Her eyes are shallower, as though + Some grey glass were behind; her brow + And cheeks the straining bones show through, + Are not so good for kissing now. + + Her lips are drier now she is + A great duke's wife these many years, + They will not shudder with a kiss + As once they did, being moist with tears. + + Also her hands have lost that way + Of clinging that they used to have; + They look'd quite easy, as they lay + Upon the silken cushions brave + + With broidery of the apples green + My Lord Duke bears upon his shield. + Her face, alas! that I have seen + Look fresher than an April field, + + This is all gone now; gone also + Her tender walking; when she walks + She is most queenly I well know, + And she is fair still. As the stalks + + Of faded summer-lilies are, + So is she grown now unto me + This spring-time, when the flowers star + The meadows, birds sing wonderfully. + + I warrant once she used to cling + About his neck, and kiss'd him so, + And then his coming step would ring + Joy-bells for her; some time ago. + + Ah! sometimes like an idle dream + That hinders true life overmuch, + Sometimes like a lost heaven, these seem. + This love is not so hard to smutch. + + + + +THE GILLIFLOWER OF GOLD + + + A golden gilliflower to-day + I wore upon my helm alway, + And won the prize of this tourney. + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + However well Sir Giles might sit, + His sun was weak to wither it, + Lord Miles's blood was dew on it: + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + Although my spear in splinters flew, + From John's steel-coat, my eye was true; + I wheel'd about, and cried for you, + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + Yea, do not doubt my heart was good, + Though my sword flew like rotten wood, + To shout, although I scarcely stood, + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + My hand was steady too, to take + My axe from round my neck, and break + John's steel-coat up for my love's sake. + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + When I stood in my tent again, + Arming afresh, I felt a pain + Take hold of me, I was so fain, + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + To hear: _Honneur aux fils des preux!_ + Right in my ears again, and shew + The gilliflower blossom'd new. + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + The Sieur Guillaume against me came, + His tabard bore three points of flame + From a red heart: with little blame, + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + Our tough spears crackled up like straw; + He was the first to turn and draw + His sword, that had nor speck nor flaw; + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + But I felt weaker than a maid, + And my brain, dizzied and afraid, + Within my helm a fierce tune play'd, + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + Until I thought of your dear head, + Bow'd to the gilliflower bed, + The yellow flowers stain'd with red; + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + Crash! how the swords met: _giroflee!_ + The fierce tune in my helm would play, + _La belle! la belle! jaune giroflee! + Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + Once more the great swords met again: + "_La belle! la belle!_" but who fell then? + Le Sieur Guillaume, who struck down ten; + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + And as with mazed and unarm'd face, + Toward my own crown and the Queen's place, + They led me at a gentle pace. + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + I almost saw your quiet head + Bow'd o'er the gilliflower bed, + The yellow flowers stain'd with red. + _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._ + + + + +SHAMEFUL DEATH + + + There were four of us about that bed; + The mass-priest knelt at the side, + I and his mother stood at the head, + Over his feet lay the bride; + We were quite sure that he was dead, + Though his eyes were open wide. + + He did not die in the night, + He did not die in the day, + But in the morning twilight + His spirit pass'd away, + When neither sun nor moon was bright, + And the trees were merely grey. + + He was not slain with the sword, + Knight's axe, or the knightly spear, + Yet spoke he never a word + After he came in here; + I cut away the cord + From the neck of my brother dear. + + He did not strike one blow, + For the recreants came behind, + In a place where the hornbeams grow, + A path right hard to find, + For the hornbeam boughs swing so, + That the twilight makes it blind. + + They lighted a great torch then, + When his arms were pinion'd fast, + Sir John the knight of the Fen, + Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast, + With knights threescore and ten, + Hung brave Lord Hugh at last. + + I am threescore and ten, + And my hair is all turn'd grey, + But I met Sir John of the Fen + Long ago on a summer day, + And am glad to think of the moment when + I took his life away. + + I am threescore and ten, + And my strength is mostly pass'd, + But long ago I and my men, + When the sky was overcast, + And the smoke roll'd over the reeds of the fen, + Slew Guy of the Dolorous Blast. + + And now, knights all of you, + I pray you pray for Sir Hugh, + A good knight and a true, + And for Alice, his wife, pray too. + + + + +THE EVE OF CRECY + + + Gold on her head, and gold on her feet, + And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet, + And a golden girdle round my sweet; + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ + + Margaret's maids are fair to see, + Freshly dress'd and pleasantly; + Margaret's hair falls down to her knee; + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ + + If I were rich I would kiss her feet; + I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet, + And the golden girdle round my sweet: + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ + + Ah me! I have never touch'd her hand; + When the arriere-ban goes through the land, + Six basnets under my pennon stand; + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ + + And many an one grins under his hood: + Sir Lambert du Bois, with all his men good, + Has neither food nor firewood; + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ + + If I were rich I would kiss her feet, + And the golden girdle of my sweet, + And thereabouts where the gold hems meet; + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ + + Yet even now it is good to think, + While my few poor varlets grumble and drink + In my desolate hall, where the fires sink, + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ + + Of Margaret sitting glorious there, + In glory of gold and glory of hair, + And glory of glorious face most fair; + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ + + Likewise to-night I make good cheer, + Because this battle draweth near: + For what have I to lose or fear? + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ + + For, look you, my horse is good to prance + A right fair measure in this war-dance, + Before the eyes of Philip of France; + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ + + And sometime it may hap, perdie, + While my new towers stand up three and three, + And my hall gets painted fair to see, + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ + + That folks may say: Times change, by the rood, + For Lambert, banneret of the wood, + Has heaps of food and firewood; + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite;_ + + And wonderful eyes, too, under the hood + Of a damsel of right noble blood. + St. Ives, for Lambert of the Wood! + _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._ + + + + +THE JUDGMENT OF GOD + + + Swerve to the left, son Roger, he said, + When you catch his eyes through the helmet-slit, + Swerve to the left, then out at his head, + And the Lord God give you joy of it! + + The blue owls on my father's hood + Were a little dimm'd as I turn'd away; + This giving up of blood for blood + Will finish here somehow to-day. + + So, when I walk'd out from the tent, + Their howling almost blinded me; + Yet for all that I was not bent + By any shame. Hard by, the sea + + Made a noise like the aspens where + We did that wrong, but now the place + Is very pleasant, and the air + Blows cool on any passer's face. + + And all the wrong is gather'd now + Into the circle of these lists: + Yea, howl out, butchers! tell me how + His hands were cut off at the wrists; + + And how Lord Roger bore his face + A league above his spear-point, high + Above the owls, to that strong place + Among the waters; yea, yea, cry: + + What a brave champion we have got! + Sir Oliver, the flower of all + The Hainault knights! The day being hot, + He sat beneath a broad white pall, + + White linen over all his steel; + What a good knight he look'd! his sword + Laid thwart his knees; he liked to feel + Its steadfast edge clear as his word. + + And he look'd solemn; how his love + Smiled whitely on him, sick with fear! + How all the ladies up above + Twisted their pretty hands! so near + + The fighting was: Ellayne! Ellayne! + They cannot love like you can, who + Would burn your hands off, if that pain + Could win a kiss; am I not true + + To you for ever? therefore I + Do not fear death or anything; + If I should limp home wounded, why, + While I lay sick you would but sing, + + And soothe me into quiet sleep. + If they spat on the recreant knight, + Threw stones at him, and cursed him deep, + Why then: what then? your hand would light + + So gently on his drawn-up face, + And you would kiss him, and in soft + Cool scented clothes would lap him, pace + The quiet room and weep oft, oft + + Would turn and smile, and brush his cheek + With your sweet chin and mouth; and in + The order'd garden you would seek + The biggest roses: any sin. + + And these say: No more now my knight, + Or God's knight any longer: you, + Being than they so much more white, + So much more pure and good and true, + + Will cling to me for ever; there, + Is not that wrong turn'd right at last + Through all these years, and I wash'd clean? + Say, yea, Ellayne; the time is past, + + Since on that Christmas-day last year + Up to your feet the fire crept, + And the smoke through the brown leaves sere + Blinded your dear eyes that you wept; + + Was it not I that caught you then, + And kiss'd you on the saddle-bow? + Did not the blue owl mark the men + Whose spears stood like the corn a-row? + + This Oliver is a right good knight, + And must needs beat me, as I fear, + Unless I catch him in the fight, + My father's crafty way: John, here! + + Bring up the men from the south gate, + To help me if I fall or win, + For even if I beat, their hate + Will grow to more than this mere grin. + + + + +THE LITTLE TOWER + + + Up and away through the drifting rain! + Let us ride to the Little Tower again, + + Up and away from the council board! + Do on the hauberk, gird on the sword. + + The king is blind with gnashing his teeth, + Change gilded scabbard to leather sheath: + + Though our arms are wet with the slanting rain, + This is joy to ride to my love again: + + I laugh in his face when he bids me yield; + Who knows one field from the other field, + + For the grey rain driveth all astray? + Which way through the floods, good carle, I pray + + The left side yet! the left side yet! + Till your hand strikes on the bridge parapet. + + Yea so: the causeway holdeth good + Under the water? Hard as wood, + + Right away to the uplands; speed, good knight! + Seven hours yet before the light. + + Shake the wet off on the upland road; + My tabard has grown a heavy load. + + What matter? up and down hill after hill; + Dead grey night for five hours still. + + The hill-road droppeth lower again, + Lower, down to the poplar plain. + + No furlong farther for us to-night, + The Little Tower draweth in sight; + + They are ringing the bells, and the torches glare, + Therefore the roofs of wet slate stare. + + There she stands, and her yellow hair slantingly + Drifts the same way that the rain goes by. + + Who will be faithful to us to-day, + With little but hard glaive-strokes for pay? + + The grim king fumes at the council-board: + Three more days, and then the sword; + + Three more days, and my sword through his head; + And above his white brows, pale and dead, + + A paper crown on the top of the spire; + And for her the stake and the witches' fire. + + Therefore though it be long ere day, + Take axe and pick and spade, I pray. + + Break the dams down all over the plain: + God send us three more days such rain! + + Block all the upland roads with trees; + The Little Tower with no great ease + + Is won, I warrant; bid them bring + Much sheep and oxen, everything + + The spits are wont to turn with; wine + And wheaten bread, that we may dine + + In plenty each day of the siege. + Good friends, ye know me no hard liege; + + My lady is right fair, see ye! + Pray God to keep you frank and free. + + Love Isabeau, keep goodly cheer; + The Little Tower will stand well here + + Many a year when we are dead, + And over it our green and red, + + Barred with the Lady's golden head, + From mere old age when we are dead. + + + + +THE SAILING OF THE SWORD + + + Across the empty garden-beds, + _When the Sword went out to sea,_ + I scarcely saw my sisters' heads + Bowed each beside a tree. + I could not see the castle leads, + _When the Sword went out to sea,_ + + Alicia wore a scarlet gown, + _When the Sword went out to sea,_ + But Ursula's was russet brown: + For the mist we could not see + The scarlet roofs of the good town, + _When the Sword went out to sea._ + + Green holly in Alicia's hand, + _When the Sword went out to sea;_ + With sere oak-leaves did Ursula stand; + O! yet alas for me! + I did but bear a peel'd white wand, + _When the Sword went out to sea._ + + O, russet brown and scarlet bright, + _When the Sword went out to sea,_ + My sisters wore; I wore but white: + Red, brown, and white, are three; + Three damozels; each had a knight, + _When the Sword went out to sea._ + + Sir Robert shouted loud, and said: + _When the Sword went out to sea,_ + Alicia, while I see thy head, + What shall I bring for thee? + O, my sweet Lord, a ruby red: + _The Sword went out to sea._ + + Sir Miles said, while the sails hung down, + _When the Sword went out to sea,_ + O, Ursula! while I see the town, + What shall I bring for thee? + Dear knight, bring back a falcon brown: + _The Sword went out to sea._ + + But my Roland, no word he said + _When the Sword went out to sea,_ + But only turn'd away his head; + A quick shriek came from me: + Come back, dear lord, to your white maid. + _The Sword went out to sea._ + + The hot sun bit the garden-beds + _When the Sword came back from sea;_ + Beneath an apple-tree our heads + Stretched out toward the sea; + Grey gleam'd the thirsty castle-leads, + _When the Sword came back from sea._ + + Lord Robert brought a ruby red, + _When the Sword came back from sea;_ + He kissed Alicia on the head: + I am come back to thee; + 'Tis time, sweet love, that we were wed, + _Now the Sword is back from sea!_ + + Sir Miles he bore a falcon brown, + _When the Sword came back from sea;_ + His arms went round tall Ursula's gown: + What joy, O love, but thee? + Let us be wed in the good town, + _Now the Sword is back from sea!_ + + My heart grew sick, no more afraid, + _When the Sword came back from sea;_ + Upon the deck a tall white maid + Sat on Lord Roland's knee; + His chin was press'd upon her head, + _When the Sword came back from sea!_ + + + + +SPELL-BOUND + + + How weary is it none can tell, + How dismally the days go by! + I hear the tinkling of the bell, + I see the cross against the sky. + + The year wears round to Autumn-tide, + Yet comes no reaper to the corn; + The golden land is like a bride + When first she knows herself forlorn; + + She sits and weeps with all her hair + Laid downward over tender hands; + For stained silk she hath no care, + No care for broken ivory wands; + + The silver cups beside her stand; + The golden stars on the blue roof + Yet glitter, though against her hand + His cold sword presses for a proof + + He is not dead, but gone away. + How many hours did she wait + For me, I wonder? Till the day + Had faded wholly, and the gate + + Clanged to behind returning knights? + I wonder did she raise her head + And go away, fleeing the lights; + And lay the samite on her bed, + + The wedding samite strewn with pearls: + Then sit with hands laid on her knees, + Shuddering at half-heard sound of girls + That chatter outside in the breeze? + + I wonder did her poor heart throb + At distant tramp of coming knight? + How often did the choking sob + Raise up her head and lips? The light, + + Did it come on her unawares, + And drag her sternly down before + People who loved her not? in prayers + Did she say one name and no more? + + And once, all songs they ever sung, + All tales they ever told to me, + This only burden through them rung: + _O golden love that waitest me!_ + + _The days pass on, pass on apace, + Sometimes I have a little rest + In fairest dreams, when on thy face + My lips lie, or thy hands are prest_ + + _About my forehead, and thy lips + Draw near and nearer to mine own; + But when the vision from me slips, + In colourless dawn I lie and moan,_ + + _And wander forth with fever'd blood, + That makes me start at little things, + The blackbird screaming from the wood, + The sudden whirr of pheasants' wings._ + + _O dearest, scarcely seen by me!_ + But when that wild time had gone by, + And in these arms I folded thee, + Who ever thought those days could die? + + Yet now I wait, and you wait too, + For what perchance may never come; + You think I have forgotten you, + That I grew tired and went home. + + But what if some day as I stood + Against the wall with strained hands, + And turn'd my face toward the wood, + Away from all the golden lands; + + And saw you come with tired feet, + And pale face thin and wan with care, + And stained raiment no more neat, + The white dust lying on your hair: + + Then I should say, I could not come; + This land was my wide prison, dear; + I could not choose but go; at home + There is a wizard whom I fear: + + He bound me round with silken chains + I could not break; he set me here + Above the golden-waving plains, + Where never reaper cometh near. + + And you have brought me my good sword, + Wherewith in happy days of old + I won you well from knight and lord; + My heart upswells and I grow bold. + + But I shall die unless you stand, + Half lying now, you are so weak, + Within my arms, unless your hand + Pass to and fro across my cheek. + + + + +THE WIND + + + Ah! no, no, it is nothing, surely nothing at all, + Only the wild-going wind round by the garden-wall, + For the dawn just now is breaking, the wind beginning to fall. + + _Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? + Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, + Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ + + So I will sit, and think and think of the days gone by, + Never moving my chair for fear the dogs should cry, + Making no noise at all while the flambeau burns awry. + + For my chair is heavy and carved, and with sweeping green behind + It is hung, and the dragons thereon grin out in the gusts of the wind; + On its folds an orange lies, with a deep gash cut in the rind. + + _Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? + Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, + still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ + + If I move my chair it will scream, and the orange will roll out afar, + And the faint yellow juice ooze out like blood from a wizard's jar; + And the dogs will howl for those who went last month to the war. + + _Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? + Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, + Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ + + So I will sit and think of love that is over and past, + O, so long ago! Yes, I will be quiet at last: + Whether I like it or not, a grim half-slumber is cast + + Over my worn old brains, that touches the roots of my heart, + And above my half-shut eyes, the blue roof 'gins to part, + And show the blue spring sky, till I am ready to start + + From out of the green-hung chair; but something keeps me still, + And I fall in a dream that I walk'd with her on the side of a hill, + Dotted, for was it not spring? with tufts of the daffodil. + + _Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? + Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, + Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ + + And Margaret as she walk'd held a painted book in her hand; + Her finger kept the place; I caught her, we both did stand + Face to face, on the top of the highest hill in the land. + + _Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? + Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, + Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ + + I held to her long bare arms, but she shudder'd away from me, + While the flush went out of her face as her head fell back on a tree, + And a spasm caught her mouth, fearful for me to see; + + And still I held to her arms till her shoulder touched my mail, + Weeping she totter'd forward, so glad that I should prevail, + And her hair went over my robe, like a gold flag over a sail. + + _Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? + Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, + Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ + + I kiss'd her hard by the ear, and she kiss'd me on the brow, + And then lay down on the grass, where the mark on the moss is now, + And spread her arms out wide while I went down below. + + _Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? + Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, + Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ + + And then I walk'd for a space to and fro on the side of the hill, + Till I gather'd and held in my arms great sheaves of the daffodil, + And when I came again my Margaret lay there still. + + I piled them high and high above her heaving breast, + How they were caught and held in her loose ungirded vest! + But one beneath her arm died, happy so to be prest! + + _Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? + Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, + Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ + + Again I turn'd my back and went away for an hour; + She said no word when I came again, so, flower by flower, + I counted the daffodils over, and cast them languidly lower. + + _Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? + Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, + Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ + + My dry hands shook and shook as the green gown show'd again, + Clear'd from the yellow flowers, and I grew hollow with pain, + And on to us both there fell from the sun-shower drops of rain. + + _Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? + Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, + Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ + + Alas! alas! there was blood on the very quiet breast, + Blood lay in the many folds of the loose ungirded vest, + Blood lay upon her arm where the flower had been prest. + + I shriek'd and leapt from my chair, and the orange roll'd out afar, + The faint yellow juice oozed out like blood from a wizard's jar; + And then in march'd the ghosts of those that had gone to the war. + + I knew them by the arms that I was used to paint + Upon their long thin shields; but the colours were all grown faint, + And faint upon their banner was Olaf, king and saint. + + _Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? + Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, + Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ + + + + +THE BLUE CLOSET + + + THE DAMOZELS. + + Lady Alice, lady Louise, + Between the wash of the tumbling seas + We are ready to sing, if so ye please; + So lay your long hands on the keys; + Sing, _Laudate pueri_. + + _And ever the great bell overhead + Boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead, + Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead._ + + LADY LOUISE. + + Sister, let the measure swell + Not too loud; for you sing not well + If you drown the faint boom of the bell; + He is weary, so am I. + + _And ever the chevron overhead + Flapped on the banner of the dead; + (Was he asleep, or was he dead?)_ + + LADY ALICE. + + Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen, + Two damozels wearing purple and green, + Four lone ladies dwelling here + From day to day and year to year; + And there is none to let us go; + To break the locks of the doors below, + Or shovel away the heaped-up snow; + And when we die no man will know + That we are dead; but they give us leave, + Once every year on Christmas-eve, + To sing in the Closet Blue one song; + And we should be so long, so long, + If we dared, in singing; for dream on dream, + They float on in a happy stream; + Float from the gold strings, float from the keys, + Float from the open'd lips of Louise; + But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through + The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue; + _And ever the great bell overhead + Booms in the wind a knell for the dead, + The wind plays on it a knell for the dead._ + + _They sing all together._ + + How long ago was it, how long ago, + He came to this tower with hands full of snow? + + Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down! he said, + And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head. + + He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair, + Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare. + + I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise, + For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas; + + In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears, + But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years; + + Yea, they grow grey with time, grow small and dry, + I am so feeble now, would I might die. + + _And in truth the great bell overhead + Left off his pealing for the dead, + Perchance, because the wind was dead._ + + Will he come back again, or is he dead? + O! is he sleeping, my scarf round his head? + + Or did they strangle him as he lay there, + With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear? + + Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here! + Both his soul and his body to me are most dear. + + Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive + Either body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve. + + _Through the floor shot up a lily red, + With a patch of earth from the land of the dead, + For he was strong in the land of the dead._ + + What matter that his cheeks were pale, + His kind kiss'd lips all grey? + O, love Louise, have you waited long? + O, my lord Arthur, yea. + + What if his hair that brush'd her cheek + Was stiff with frozen rime? + His eyes were grown quite blue again, + As in the happy time. + + O, love Louise, this is the key + Of the happy golden land! + O, sisters, cross the bridge with me, + My eyes are full of sand. + What matter that I cannot see, + If ye take me by the hand? + + _And ever the great bell overhead, + And the tumbling seas mourned for the dead; + For their song ceased, and they were dead._ + + + + +THE TUNE OF SEVEN TOWERS + + + No one goes there now: + For what is left to fetch away + From the desolate battlements all arow, + And the lead roof heavy and grey? + _Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers, + This is the tune of Seven Towers._ + + No one walks there now; + Except in the white moonlight + The white ghosts walk in a row; + If one could see it, an awful sight, + _Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers, + This is the tune of Seven Towers._ + + But none can see them now, + Though they sit by the side of the moat, + Feet half in the water, there in a row, + Long hair in the wind afloat. + _Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers, + This is the tune of Seven Towers._ + + If any will go to it now, + He must go to it all alone, + Its gates will not open to any row + Of glittering spears: will _you_ go alone? + _Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers, + This is the tune of Seven Towers._ + + By my love go there now, + To fetch me my coif away, + My coif and my kirtle, with pearls arow, + Oliver, go to-day! + _Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers, + This is the tune of Seven Towers._ + + I am unhappy now, + I cannot tell you why; + If you go, the priests and I in a row + Will pray that you may not die. + _Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers, + This is the tune of Seven Towers._ + + If you will go for me now, + I will kiss your mouth at last; + [_She sayeth inwardly._] + (_The graves stand grey in a row._) + Oliver, hold me fast! + _Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers, + This is the tune of Seven Towers._ + + + + +GOLDEN WINGS + + + Midways of a walled garden, + In the happy poplar land, + Did an ancient castle stand, + With an old knight for a warden. + + Many scarlet bricks there were + In its walls, and old grey stone; + Over which red apples shone + At the right time of the year. + + On the bricks the green moss grew. + Yellow lichen on the stone, + Over which red apples shone; + Little war that castle knew. + + Deep green water fill'd the moat, + Each side had a red-brick lip, + Green and mossy with the drip + Of dew and rain; there was a boat + + Of carven wood, with hangings green + About the stern; it was great bliss + For lovers to sit there and kiss + In the hot summer noons, not seen. + + Across the moat the fresh west wind + In very little ripples went; + The way the heavy aspens bent + Towards it, was a thing to mind. + + The painted drawbridge over it + Went up and down with gilded chains, + 'Twas pleasant in the summer rains + Within the bridge-house there to sit. + + There were five swans that ne'er did eat + The water-weeds, for ladies came + Each day, and young knights did the same, + And gave them cakes and bread for meat. + + They had a house of painted wood, + A red roof gold-spiked over it, + Wherein upon their eggs to sit + Week after week; no drop of blood, + + Drawn from men's bodies by sword-blows, + Came ever there, or any tear; + Most certainly from year to year + 'Twas pleasant as a Provence rose. + + The banners seem'd quite full of ease, + That over the turret-roofs hung down; + The battlements could get no frown + From the flower-moulded cornices. + + Who walked in that garden there? + Miles and Giles and Isabeau, + Tall Jehane du Castel beau, + Alice of the golden hair, + + Big Sir Gervaise, the good knight, + Fair Ellayne le Violet, + Mary, Constance fille de fay, + Many dames with footfall light. + + Whosoever wander'd there, + Whether it be dame or knight, + Half of scarlet, half of white + Their raiment was; of roses fair + + Each wore a garland on the head, + At Ladies' Gard the way was so: + Fair Jehane du Castel beau + Wore her wreath till it was dead. + + Little joy she had of it, + Of the raiment white and red, + Or the garland on her head, + She had none with whom to sit + + In the carven boat at noon; + None the more did Jehane weep, + She would only stand and keep + Saying: He will be here soon! + + Many times in the long day + Miles and Giles and Gervaise passed, + Holding each some white hand fast, + Every time they heard her say: + + Summer cometh to an end, + Undern cometh after noon; + Golden wings will be here soon, + What if I some token send? + + Wherefore that night within the hall, + With open mouth and open eyes, + Like some one listening with surprise, + She sat before the sight of all. + + Stoop'd down a little she sat there, + With neck stretch'd out and chin thrown up, + One hand around a golden cup; + And strangely with her fingers fair + + She beat some tune upon the gold; + The minstrels in the gallery + Sung: Arthur, who will never die, + In Avallon he groweth old. + + And when the song was ended, she + Rose and caught up her gown and ran; + None stopp'd her eager face and wan + Of all that pleasant company. + + Right so within her own chamber + Upon her bed she sat; and drew + Her breath in quick gasps; till she knew + That no man follow'd after her. + + She took the garland from her head, + Loosed all her hair, and let it lie + Upon the coverlet; thereby + She laid the gown of white and red; + + And she took off her scarlet shoon, + And bared her feet; still more and more + Her sweet face redden'd; evermore + She murmur'd: He will be here soon; + + Truly he cannot fail to know + My tender body waits him here; + And if he knows, I have no fear + For poor Jehane du Castel beau. + + She took a sword within her hand, + Whose hilts were silver, and she sung + Somehow like this, wild words that rung + A long way over the moonlit land: + + Gold wings across the sea! + Grey light from tree to tree, + Gold hair beside my knee, + I pray thee come to me, + Gold wings! + + The water slips, + The red-bill'd moorhen dips. + Sweet kisses on red lips; + Alas! the red rust grips, + And the blood-red dagger rips, + Yet, O knight, come to me! + + Are not my blue eyes sweet? + The west wind from the wheat + Blows cold across my feet; + Is it not time to meet + Gold wings across the sea? + + White swans on the green moat, + Small feathers left afloat + By the blue-painted boat; + Swift running of the stoat, + Sweet gurgling note by note + Of sweet music. + + O gold wings, + Listen how gold hair sings, + And the Ladies Castle rings, + Gold wings across the sea. + + I sit on a purple bed, + Outside, the wall is red, + Thereby the apple hangs, + And the wasp, caught by the fangs, + + Dies in the autumn night, + And the bat flits till light, + And the love-crazed knight + + Kisses the long wet grass: + The weary days pass, + Gold wings across the sea. + + Gold wings across the sea! + Moonlight from tree to tree, + Sweet hair laid on my knee, + O, sweet knight, come to me. + + Gold wings, the short night slips, + The white swan's long neck drips, + I pray thee kiss my lips, + Gold wings across the sea! + + No answer through the moonlit night; + No answer in the cold grey dawn; + No answer when the shaven lawn + Grew green, and all the roses bright. + + Her tired feet look'd cold and thin, + Her lips were twitch'd, and wretched tears, + Some, as she lay, roll'd past her ears, + Some fell from off her quivering chin. + + Her long throat, stretched to its full length, + Rose up and fell right brokenly; + As though the unhappy heart was nigh + Striving to break with all its strength. + + And when she slipp'd from off the bed, + Her cramp'd feet would not hold her; she + Sank down and crept on hand and knee, + On the window-sill she laid her head. + + There, with crooked arm upon the sill, + She look'd out, muttering dismally: + There is no sail upon the sea, + No pennon on the empty hill. + + I cannot stay here all alone, + Or meet their happy faces here, + And wretchedly I have no fear; + A little while, and I am gone. + + Therewith she rose upon her feet, + And totter'd; cold and misery + Still made the deep sobs come, till she + At last stretch'd out her fingers sweet, + + And caught the great sword in her hand; + And, stealing down the silent stair, + Barefooted in the morning air. + And only in her smock, did stand + + Upright upon the green lawn grass; + And hope grew in her as she said: + I have thrown off the white and red, + And pray God it may come to pass + + I meet him; if ten years go by + Before I meet him; if, indeed, + Meanwhile both soul and body bleed, + Yet there is end of misery, + + And I have hope. He could not come, + But I can go to him and show + These new things I have got to know, + And make him speak, who has been dumb. + + O Jehane! the red morning sun + Changed her white feet to glowing gold, + Upon her smock, on crease and fold, + Changed that to gold which had been dun. + + O Miles, and Giles, and Isabeau, + Fair Ellayne le Violet, + Mary, Constance fille de fay! + Where is Jehane du Castel beau? + + O big Gervaise ride apace! + Down to the hard yellow sand, + Where the water meets the land. + This is Jehane by her face. + + Why has she a broken sword? + Mary! she is slain outright; + Verily a piteous sight; + Take her up without a word! + + Giles and Miles and Gervaise there, + Ladies' Gard must meet the war; + Whatsoever knights these are, + Man the walls withouten fear! + + Axes to the apple-trees, + Axes to the aspens tall! + Barriers without the wall + May be lightly made of these. + + O poor shivering Isabeau; + Poor Ellayne le Violet, + Bent with fear! we miss to-day + Brave Jehane du Castel beau. + + O poor Mary, weeping so! + Wretched Constance fille de fay! + Verily we miss to-day + Fair Jehane du Castel beau. + + The apples now grow green and sour + Upon the mouldering castle-wall, + Before they ripen there they fall: + There are no banners on the tower, + + The draggled swans most eagerly eat + The green weeds trailing in the moat; + Inside the rotting leaky boat + You see a slain man's stiffen'd feet. + + + + +THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS + + + Had she come all the way for this, + To part at last without a kiss? + Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain + That her own eyes might see him slain + Beside the haystack in the floods? + + Along the dripping leafless woods, + The stirrup touching either shoe, + She rode astride as troopers do; + With kirtle kilted to her knee, + To which the mud splash'd wretchedly; + And the wet dripp'd from every tree + Upon her head and heavy hair, + And on her eyelids broad and fair; + The tears and rain ran down her face. + By fits and starts they rode apace, + And very often was his place + Far off from her; he had to ride + Ahead, to see what might betide + When the roads cross'd; and sometimes, when + There rose a murmuring from his men, + Had to turn back with promises. + Ah me! she had but little ease; + And often for pure doubt and dread + She sobb'd, made giddy in the head + By the swift riding; while, for cold, + Her slender fingers scarce could hold + The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too, + She felt the foot within her shoe + Against the stirrup: all for this, + To part at last without a kiss + Beside the haystack in the floods. + + For when they near'd that old soak'd hay, + They saw across the only way + That Judas, Godmar, and the three + Red running lions dismally + Grinn'd from his pennon, under which + In one straight line along the ditch, + They counted thirty heads. + + So then, + While Robert turn'd round to his men, + She saw at once the wretched end, + And, stooping down, tried hard to rend + Her coif the wrong way from her head, + And hid her eyes; while Robert said: + Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one, + At Poictiers where we made them run + So fast: why, sweet my love, good cheer, + The Gascon frontier is so near, + Nought after this. + + But: O! she said, + My God! my God! I have to tread + The long way back without you; then + The court at Paris; those six men; + The gratings of the Chatelet; + The swift Seine on some rainy day + Like this, and people standing by, + And laughing, while my weak hands try + To recollect how strong men swim. + All this, or else a life with him, + For which I should be damned at last, + Would God that this next hour were past! + + He answer'd not, but cried his cry, + St. George for Marny! cheerily; + And laid his hand upon her rein. + Alas! no man of all his train + Gave back that cheery cry again; + And, while for rage his thumb beat fast + Upon his sword-hilt, some one cast + About his neck a kerchief long, + And bound him. + + Then they went along + To Godmar; who said: Now, Jehane, + Your lover's life is on the wane + So fast, that, if this very hour + You yield not as my paramour, + He will not see the rain leave off: + Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff + Sir Robert, or I slay you now. + + She laid her hand upon her brow, + Then gazed upon the palm, as though + She thought her forehead bled, and: No! + She said, and turn'd her head away, + As there were nothing else to say, + And everything were settled: red + Grew Godmar's face from chin to head: + Jehane, on yonder hill there stands + My castle, guarding well my lands; + What hinders me from taking you, + And doing that I list to do + To your fair wilful body, while + Your knight lies dead? + + A wicked smile + Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, + A long way out she thrust her chin: + You know that I should strangle you + While you were sleeping; or bite through + Your throat, by God's help: ah! she said, + Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid! + For in such wise they hem me in, + I cannot choose but sin and sin, + Whatever happens: yet I think + They could not make me eat or drink, + And so should I just reach my rest. + Nay, if you do not my behest, + O Jehane! though I love you well, + Said Godmar, would I fail to tell + All that I know? Foul lies, she said. + Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God's head, + At Paris folks would deem them true! + Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you: + Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown! + Give us Jehane to burn or drown! + Eh! gag me Robert! Sweet my friend, + This were indeed a piteous end + For those long fingers, and long feet, + And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet; + An end that few men would forget + That saw it. So, an hour yet: + Consider, Jehane, which to take + Of life or death! + + So, scarce awake, + Dismounting, did she leave that place, + And totter some yards: with her face + Turn'd upward to the sky she lay, + Her head on a wet heap of hay, + And fell asleep: and while she slept, + And did not dream, the minutes crept + Round to the twelve again; but she, + Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly, + And strangely childlike came, and said: + I will not. Straightway Godmar's head, + As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd + Most sharply round, and his face burn'd. + + For Robert, both his eyes were dry, + He could not weep, but gloomily + He seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too, + His lips were firm; he tried once more + To touch her lips; she reached out, sore + And vain desire so tortured them, + The poor grey lips, and now the hem + Of his sleeve brush'd them. + + With a start + Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart; + From Robert's throat he loosed the bands + Of silk and mail; with empty hands + Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw, + The long bright blade without a flaw + Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand + In Robert's hair; she saw him bend + Back Robert's head; she saw him send + The thin steel down; the blow told well, + Right backward the knight Robert fell, + And moaned as dogs do, being half dead, + Unwitting, as I deem: so then + Godmar turn'd grinning to his men, + Who ran, some five or six, and beat + His head to pieces at their feet. + + Then Godmar turn'd again and said: + So, Jehane, the first fitte is read! + Take note, my lady, that your way + Lies backward to the Chatelet! + She shook her head and gazed awhile + At her cold hands with a rueful smile, + As though this thing had made her mad. + + This was the parting that they had + Beside the haystack in the floods. + + + + +TWO RED ROSES ACROSS THE MOON + + + There was a lady lived in a hall, + Large of her eyes, and slim and tall; + And ever she sung from noon to noon, + _Two red roses across the moon._ + + There was a knight came riding by + In early spring, when the roads were dry; + And he heard that lady sing at the noon, + _Two red roses across the moon._ + + Yet none the more he stopp'd at all, + But he rode a-gallop past the hall; + And left that lady singing at noon, + _Two red roses across the moon._ + + Because, forsooth, the battle was set, + And the scarlet and blue had got to be met, + He rode on the spur till the next warm noon: + _Two red roses across the moon._ + + But the battle was scatter'd from hill to hill, + From the windmill to the watermill; + And he said to himself, as it near'd the noon, + _Two red roses across the moon._ + + You scarce could see for the scarlet and blue, + A golden helm or a golden shoe: + So he cried, as the fight grew thick at the noon, + _Two red roses across the moon!_ + + Verily then the gold bore through + The huddled spears of the scarlet and blue; + And they cried, as they cut them down at the noon, + _Two red roses across the moon!_ + + I trow he stopp'd when he rode again + By the hall, though draggled sore with the rain; + And his lips were pinch'd to kiss at the noon + _Two red roses across the moon._ + + Under the may she stoop'd to the crown, + All was gold, there was nothing of brown; + And the horns blew up in the hall at noon, + _Two red roses across the moon._ + + + + +WELLAND RIVER + + + Fair Ellayne she walk'd by Welland river, + Across the lily lee: + O, gentle Sir Robert, ye are not kind + To stay so long at sea. + + Over the marshland none can see + Your scarlet pennon fair; + O, leave the Easterlings alone, + Because of my golden hair. + + The day when over Stamford bridge + That dear pennon I see + Go up toward the goodly street, + 'Twill be a fair day for me. + + O, let the bonny pennon bide + At Stamford, the good town, + And let the Easterlings go free, + And their ships go up and down. + + For every day that passes by + I wax both pale and green, + From gold to gold of my girdle + There is an inch between. + + I sew'd it up with scarlet silk + Last night upon my knee, + And my heart grew sad and sore to think + Thy face I'd never see. + + I sew'd it up with scarlet silk, + As I lay upon my bed: + Sorrow! the man I'll never see + That had my maidenhead. + + But as Ellayne sat on her window-seat + And comb'd her yellow hair, + She saw come over Stamford bridge + The scarlet pennon fair. + + As Ellayne lay and sicken'd sore, + The gold shoes on her feet, + She saw Sir Robert and his men + Ride up the Stamford street. + + He had a coat of fine red gold, + And a bascinet of steel; + Take note his goodly Collayne sword + Smote the spur upon his heel. + + And by his side, on a grey jennet, + There rode a fair lady, + For every ruby Ellayne wore, + I count she carried three. + + Say, was not Ellayne's gold hair fine, + That fell to her middle free? + But that lady's hair down in the street, + Fell lower than her knee. + + Fair Ellayne's face, from sorrow and grief, + Was waxen pale and green: + That lady's face was goodly red, + She had but little tene. + + But as he pass'd by her window + He grew a little wroth: + O, why does yon pale face look at me + From out the golden cloth? + + It is some burd, the fair dame said, + That aye rode him beside, + Has come to see your bonny face + This merry summer-tide. + + But Ellayne let a lily-flower + Light on his cap of steel: + O, I have gotten two hounds, fair knight, + The one has served me well; + + But the other, just an hour agone, + Has come from over sea, + And all his fell is sleek and fine, + But little he knows of me. + + Now, which shall I let go, fair knight, + And which shall bide with me? + O, lady, have no doubt to keep + The one that best loveth thee. + + O, Robert, see how sick I am! + Ye do not so by me. + Lie still, fair love, have ye gotten harm + While I was on the sea? + + Of one gift, Robert, that ye gave, + I sicken to the death, + I pray you nurse-tend me, my knight, + Whiles that I have my breath. + + Six fathoms from the Stamford bridge + He left that dame to stand, + And whiles she wept, and whiles she cursed + That she ever had taken land. + + He has kiss'd sweet Ellayne on the mouth, + And fair she fell asleep, + And long and long days after that + Sir Robert's house she did keep. + + + + +RIDING TOGETHER + + + For many, many days together + The wind blew steady from the East; + For many days hot grew the weather, + About the time of our Lady's Feast. + + For many days we rode together, + Yet met we neither friend nor foe; + Hotter and clearer grew the weather, + Steadily did the East wind blow. + + We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather, + Clear-cut, with shadows very black, + As freely we rode on together + With helms unlaced and bridles slack. + + And often as we rode together, + We, looking down the green-bank'd stream, + Saw flowers in the sunny weather, + And saw the bubble-making bream. + + And in the night lay down together, + And hung above our heads the rood, + Or watch'd night-long in the dewy weather, + The while the moon did watch the wood. + + Our spears stood bright and thick together, + Straight out the banners stream'd behind, + As we gallop'd on in the sunny weather, + With faces turn'd towards the wind. + + Down sank our threescore spears together, + As thick we saw the pagans ride; + His eager face in the clear fresh weather, + Shone out that last time by my side. + + Up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd together, + It rock'd to the crash of the meeting spears, + Down rain'd the buds of the dear spring weather, + The elm-tree flowers fell like tears. + + There, as we roll'd and writhed together, + I threw my arms above my head, + For close by my side, in the lovely weather, + I saw him reel and fall back dead. + + I and the slayer met together, + He waited the death-stroke there in his place, + With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather, + Gapingly mazed at my madden'd face. + + Madly I fought as we fought together; + In vain: the little Christian band + The pagans drown'd, as in stormy weather, + The river drowns low-lying land. + + They bound my blood-stain'd hands together, + They bound his corpse to nod by my side: + Then on we rode, in the bright March weather, + With clash of cymbals did we ride. + + We ride no more, no more together; + My prison-bars are thick and strong, + I take no heed of any weather, + The sweet Saints grant I live not long. + + + + +FATHER JOHN'S WAR-SONG + + + THE REAPERS. + + So many reapers, Father John, + So many reapers and no little son, + To meet you when the day is done, + With little stiff legs to waddle and run? + Pray you beg, borrow, or steal one son. + Hurrah for the corn-sheaves of Father John! + + FATHER JOHN. + + O maiden Mary, be wary, be wary! + And go not down to the river, + Lest the kingfisher, your evil wisher, + Lure you down to the river, + Lest your white feet grow muddy, + Your red hair too ruddy + With the river-mud so red; + But when you are wed + Go down to the river. + O maiden Mary, be very wary, + And dwell among the corn! + See, this dame Alice, maiden Mary, + Her hair is thin and white, + But she is a housewife good and wary, + And a great steel key hangs bright + From her gown, as red as the flowers in corn; + She is good and old like the autumn corn. + + MAIDEN MARY. + + This is knight Roland, Father John, + Stark in his arms from a field half-won; + Ask him if he has seen your son: + Roland, lay your sword on the corn, + The piled-up sheaves of the golden corn. + + KNIGHT ROLAND. + + Why does she kiss me, Father John? + She is my true love truly won! + Under my helm is room for one, + But the molten lead-streams trickle and run + From my roof-tree, burning under the sun; + No corn to burn, we had eaten the corn, + There was no waste of the golden corn. + + FATHER JOHN. + + Ho, you reapers, away from the corn, + To march with the banner of Father John! + + THE REAPERS. + + We will win a house for Roland his son, + And for maiden Mary with hair like corn, + As red as the reddest of golden corn. + + OMNES. + + Father John, you have got a son, + Seven feet high when his helm is on + Pennon of Roland, banner of John, + Star of Mary, march well on. + + + + +SIR GILES' WAR-SONG + + + _Ho! is there any will ride with me, + Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres?_ + + The clink of arms is good to hear, + The flap of pennons fair to see; + _Ho! is there any will ride with me, + Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres?_ + + The leopards and lilies are fair to see; + St. George Guienne! right good to hear: + _Ho! is there any will ride with me, + Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres?_ + + I stood by the barrier, + My coat being blazon'd fair to see; + _Ho! is there any will ride with me, + Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres?_ + + Clisson put out his head to see, + And lifted his basnet up to hear; + I pull'd him through the bars to ME, + _Sir Giles; le bon des barrieres._ + + + + +NEAR AVALON + + + A ship with shields before the sun, + Six maidens round the mast, + A red-gold crown on every one, + A green gown on the last. + + The fluttering green banners there + Are wrought with ladies' heads most fair, + And a portraiture of Guenevere + The middle of each sail doth bear. + + A ship which sails before the wind, + And round the helm six knights, + Their heaumes are on, whereby, half blind, + They pass by many sights. + + The tatter'd scarlet banners there, + Right soon will leave the spear-heads bare. + Those six knights sorrowfully bear, + In all their heaumes some yellow hair. + + + + +PRAISE OF MY LADY + + + My lady seems of ivory + Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be + Hollow'd a little mournfully. + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + Her forehead, overshadow'd much + By bows of hair, has a wave such + As God was good to make for me. + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + Not greatly long my lady's hair, + Nor yet with yellow colour fair, + But thick and crisped wonderfully: + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + Heavy to make the pale face sad, + And dark, but dead as though it had + Been forged by God most wonderfully + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + Of some strange metal, thread by thread, + To stand out from my lady's head, + Not moving much to tangle me. + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + Beneath her brows the lids fall slow. + The lashes a clear shadow throw + Where I would wish my lips to be. + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + Her great eyes, standing far apart, + Draw up some memory from her heart, + And gaze out very mournfully; + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + So beautiful and kind they are, + But most times looking out afar, + Waiting for something, not for me. + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + I wonder if the lashes long + Are those that do her bright eyes wrong, + For always half tears seem to be + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + Lurking below the underlid, + Darkening the place where they lie hid: + If they should rise and flow for me! + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + Her full lips being made to kiss, + Curl'd up and pensive each one is; + This makes me faint to stand and see. + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + Her lips are not contented now, + Because the hours pass so slow + Towards a sweet time: (pray for me), + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + Nay, hold thy peace! for who can tell? + But this at least I know full well, + Her lips are parted longingly, + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + So passionate and swift to move, + To pluck at any flying love, + That I grow faint to stand and see. + _Beata mea Domina_! + + Yea! there beneath them is her chin, + So fine and round, it were a sin + To feel no weaker when I see + _Beata mea Domina_! + + God's dealings; for with so much care + And troublous, faint lines wrought in there, + He finishes her face for me. + _Beata mea Domina_! + + Of her long neck what shall I say? + What things about her body's sway, + Like a knight's pennon or slim tree + _Beata mea Domina_! + + Set gently waving in the wind; + Or her long hands that I may find + On some day sweet to move o'er me? + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + God pity me though, if I miss'd + The telling, how along her wrist + The veins creep, dying languidly + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + Inside her tender palm and thin. + Now give me pardon, dear, wherein + My voice is weak and vexes thee. + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + All men that see her any time, + I charge you straightly in this rhyme, + What, and wherever you may be, + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + To kneel before her; as for me, + I choke and grow quite faint to see + My lady moving graciously. + _Beata mea Domina!_ + + + + +SUMMER DAWN + + + Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips; + Think but one thought of me up in the stars. + The summer night waneth, the morning light slips, + Faint and grey 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the + cloud-bars, + That are patiently waiting there for the dawn: + Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold + Waits to float through them along with the sun. + Far out in the meadows, above the young corn, + The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold + The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun; + They pray the long gloom through for daylight new born, + Round the lone house in the midst of the corn. + Speak but one word to me over the corn, + Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn. + + + + +IN PRISON + + + Wearily, drearily, + Half the day long, + Flap the great banners + High over the stone; + Strangely and eerily + Sounds the wind's song, + Bending the banner-poles. + + While, all alone, + Watching the loophole's spark, + Lie I, with life all dark, + Feet tether'd, hands fetter'd + Fast to the stone, + The grim walls, square letter'd + With prison'd men's groan. + + Still strain the banner-poles + Through the wind's song, + Westward the banner rolls + Over my wrong. + + + + +THE END + + + Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. + Edinburgh & London + + + + +Transcriber's Note + + Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without + note, whilst archaic spellings have been retained. + + Many single- and double-quotation marks were omitted in the original + publication. Logical corrections, made from this text alone, would + only compound any discrepancies and therefore such punctuation + remains as printed. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Defence of Guenevere and Other +Poems, by William Morris + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE *** + +***** This file should be named 22650.txt or 22650.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/6/5/22650/ + +Produced by Thierry Alberto, Stephen Blundell and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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