LOVE'S REWARD

It was a knight of the southern land Rode forth upon the way When the birds sang sweet on either hand About the middle of the May.

But when he came to the lily-close, Thereby so fair a maiden stood, That neither the lily nor the rose Seemed any longer fair nor good.

"All hail, thou rose and lily-bough! What dost thou weeping here, For the days of May are sweet enow, And the nights of May are dear?"

"Well may I weep and make my moan. Who am bond and captive here; Well may I weep who lie alone, Though May be waxen dear."

"And is there none shall ransom thee? Mayst thou no borrow find?" "Nay, what man may my borrow be, When all my wealth is left behind?"

"Perchance some ring is left with thee, Some belt that did thy body bind?" "Nay, no man may my borrow be, My rings and belt are left behind."

"The shoes that the May-blooms kissed on thee Might yet be things to some men's mind." "Nay, no man may my borrow be, My golden shoes are left behind."

"The milk-white sark that covered thee A dear-bought token some should find." "Nay, no man may my borrow be, My silken sark is left behind."

"The kiss of thy mouth and the love of thee Better than world's wealth should I find." "Nay, thou mayst not my borrow be, For all my love is left behind.

"A year agone come Midsummer-night I woke by the Northern sea; I lay and dreamed of my delight Till love no more would let me be.

"Seaward I went by night and cloud To hear the white swans sing; But though they sang both clear and loud, I hearkened a sweeter thing.

"O sweet and sweet as none may tell Was the speech so close 'twixt lip and lip: But fast, unseen, the black oars fell That drave to shore the rover's ship.

"My love lay bloody on the strand Ere stars were waxen wan: Naught lacketh graves the Northern land If to-day it lack a lovelier man.

"I sat and wept beside the mast When the stars were gone away. Naught lacketh the Northland joy gone past If it lack the night and day."



"Is there no place in any land Where thou wouldst rather be than here?" "Yea, a lone grave on a cold sea-strand My heart for a little holdeth dear."

"Of all the deeds that women do Is there none shall bring thee some delight?" "To lie down and die where lay we two Upon Midsummer night."

"I will bring thee there where thou wouldst be, A borrow shalt thou find." "Wherewith shall I reward it thee For wealth and good-hap left behind?"

"A kiss from lips that love not me, A good-night somewhat kind; A narrow house to share with thee When we leave the world behind."



They have taken ship and sailed away Across the Southland main; They have sailed by hills were green and gay, A land of goods and gain.

They have sailed by sea-cliffs stark and white And hillsides fair enow; They have sailed by lands of little night Where great the groves did grow.

They have sailed by islands in the sea That the clouds lay thick about; And into a main where few ships be Amidst of dread and doubt.

With broken mast and battered side They drave amidst the tempest's heart; But why should death to these betide Whom love did hold so well apart?

The flood it drave them toward the strand, The ebb it drew them fro; The swallowing seas that tore the land Cast them ashore and let them go.

"Is this the land? is this the land, Where life and I must part a-twain?" "Yea, this is e'en the sea-washed strand That made me yoke-fellow of pain.

"The strand is this, the sea is this, The grey bent and the mountains grey; But no mound here his grave-mound is; Where have they borne my love away?"

"What man is this with shield and spear Comes riding down the bent to us? A goodly man forsooth he were But for his visage piteous."

"Ghost of my love, so kind of yore, Art thou not somewhat gladder grown To feel my feet upon this shore? O love, thou shalt not long be lone."

"Ghost of my love, each day I come To see where God first wrought us wrong: Now kind thou com'st to call me home. Be sure I shall not tarry long."



"Come here, my love; come here for rest, So sore as my body longs for thee! My heart shall beat against thy breast, As arms of thine shall comfort me."

"Love, let thy lips depart no more From those same eyes they once did kiss, The very bosom wounded sore When sorrow clave the heart of bliss!"

O was it day, or was it night, As there they told their love again? The high-tide of the sun's delight, Or whirl of wind and drift of rain?

"Speak sweet, my love, of how it fell, And how thou cam'st across the sea, And what kind heart hath served thee well, And who thy borrow there might be?"

Naught but the wind and sea made moan As hastily she turned her round; From light clouds wept the morn alone, Not the dead corpse upon the ground.

"O look, my love, for here is he Who once of all the world was kind, And led my sad heart o'er the sea! And now must he be left behind."

She kissed his lips that yet did smile, She kissed his eyes that were not sad: "O thou who sorrow didst beguile, And now wouldst have me wholly glad!

"A little gift is this," she said, "Thou once hadst deemed great gift enow; Yet surely shalt thou rest thine head Where I one day shall lie alow.

"There shalt thou wake to think of me, And by thy face my face shall find; And I shall then thy borrow be When all the world is left behind."



THE FOLK-MOTE BY THE RIVER



It was up in the morn we rose betimes From the hall-floor hard by the row of limes.

It was but John the Red and I, And we were the brethren of Gregory;

And Gregory the Wright was one Of the valiant men beneath the sun,

And what he bade us that we did For ne'er he kept his counsel hid.

So out we went, and the clattering latch Woke up the swallows under the thatch.

It was dark in the porch, but our scythes we felt, And thrust the whetstone under the belt.

Through the cold garden boughs we went Where the tumbling roses shed their scent.

Then out a-gates and away we strode O'er the dewy straws on the dusty road,

And there was the mead by the town-reeve's close Where the hedge was sweet with the wilding rose.

Then into the mowing grass we went Ere the very last of the night was spent.

Young was the moon, and he was gone, So we whet our scythes by the stars alone:

But or ever the long blades felt the hay Afar in the East the dawn was grey.

Or ever we struck our earliest stroke The thrush in the hawthorn-bush awoke.

While yet the bloom of the swathe was dim The blackbird's bill had answered him.

Ere half of the road to the river was shorn The sunbeam smote the twisted thorn.



Now wide was the way 'twixt the standing grass For the townsfolk unto the mote to pass,

And so when all our work was done We sat to breakfast in the sun,

While down in the stream the dragon-fly 'Twixt the quivering rushes flickered by;

And though our knives shone sharp and white The swift bleak heeded not the sight.

So when the bread was done away We looked along the new-shorn hay,

And heard the voice of the gathering-horn Come over the garden and the corn;

For the wind was in the blossoming wheat And drave the bees in the lime-boughs sweet.

Then loud was the horn's voice drawing near, And it hid the talk of the prattling weir.

And now was the horn on the pathway wide That we had shorn to the river-side.

So up we stood, and wide around We sheared a space by the Elders' Mound;

And at the feet thereof it was That highest grew the June-tide grass;

And over all the mound it grew With clover blent, and dark of hue.

But never aught of the Elders' Hay To rick or barn was borne away.

But it was bound and burned to ash In the barren close by the reedy plash.

For 'neath that mound the valiant dead Lay hearkening words of valiance said

When wise men stood on the Elders' Mound, And the swords were shining bright around.



And now we saw the banners borne On the first of the way that we had shorn; So we laid the scythe upon the sward And girt us to the battle-sword.

For after the banners well we knew Were the Freemen wending two and two.

There then that highway of the scythe With many a hue was brave and blythe.

And first below the Silver Chief Upon the green was the golden sheaf.

And on the next that went by it The White Hart in the Park did sit.

Then on the red the White Wings flew, And on the White was the Cloud-fleck blue.

Last went the Anchor of the Wrights Beside the Ship of the Faring-Knights.

Then thronged the folk the June-tide field With naked sword and painted shield,

Till they came adown to the river-side, And there by the mound did they abide.

Now when the swords stood thick and white As the mace reeds stand in the streamless bight,

There rose a man on the mound alone And over his head was the grey mail done.

When over the new-shorn place of the field Was nought but the steel hood and the shield.

The face on the mound shone ruddy and hale, But the hoar hair showed from the hoary mail.

And there rose a hand by the ruddy face And shook a sword o'er the peopled place.

And there came a voice from the mound and said: "O sons, the days of my youth are dead,

And gone are the faces I have known In the street and the booths of the goodly town.

O sons, full many a flock have I seen Feed down this water-girdled green.

Full many a herd of long-horned neat Have I seen 'twixt water-side and wheat.

Here by this water-side full oft Have I heaved the flowery hay aloft.

And oft this water-side anigh Have I bowed adown the wheat-stalks high.

And yet meseems I live and learn And lore of younglings yet must earn.

For tell me, children, whose are these Fair meadows of the June's increase?

Whose are these flocks and whose the neat, And whose the acres of the wheat?"



Scarce did we hear his latest word, On the wide shield so rang the sword.

So rang the sword upon the shield That the lark was hushed above the field.

Then sank the shouts and again we heard The old voice come from the hoary beard:



"Yea, whose are yonder gables then, And whose the holy hearths of men? Whose are the prattling children there, And whose the sunburnt maids and fair?

Whose thralls are ye, hereby that stand, Bearing the freeman's sword in hand?"

As glitters the sun in the rain-washed grass, So in the tossing swords it was;

As the thunder rattles along and adown E'en so was the voice of the weaponed town.

And there was the steel of the old man's sword. And there was his hollow voice, and his word:



"Many men, many minds, the old saw saith, Though hereof ye be sure as death.

For what spake the herald yestermorn But this, that ye were thrall-folk born;

That the lord that owneth all and some Would send his men to fetch us home

Betwixt the haysel, and the tide When they shear the corn in the country-side?

O children, Who was the lord? ye say, What prayer to him did our fathers pray?

Did they hold out hands his gyves to bear? Did their knees his high hall's pavement wear?

Is his house built up in heaven aloft? Doth he make the sun rise oft and oft?

Doth he hold the rain in his hollow hand? Hath he cleft this water through the land?

Or doth he stay the summer-tide, And make the winter days abide?

O children, Who is the lord? ye say, Have we heard his name before to-day?

O children, if his name I know, He hight Earl Hugh of the Shivering Low:

For that herald bore on back and breast The Black Burg under the Eagle's Nest."



As the voice of the winter wind that tears At the eaves of the thatch and its emptied ears,

E'en so was the voice of laughter and scorn By the water-side in the mead new-shorn;

And over the garden and the wheat Went the voice of women shrilly-sweet.



But now by the hoary elder stood A carle in raiment red as blood.

Red was his weed and his glaive was white, And there stood Gregory the Wright.

So he spake in a voice was loud and strong: "Young is the day though the road is long;

There is time if we tarry nought at all For the kiss in the porch and the meat in the hall.

And safe shall our maidens sit at home For the foe by the way we wend must come.

Through the three Lavers shall we go And raise them all against the foe.

Then shall we wend the Downland ways, And all the shepherd spearmen raise.

To Cheaping Raynes shall we come adown And gather the bowmen of the town;

And Greenstead next we come unto Wherein are all folk good and true.

When we come our ways to the Outer Wood We shall be an host both great and good;

Yea when we come to the open field There shall be a many under shield.

And maybe Earl Hugh shall lie alow And yet to the house of Heaven shall go.

But we shall dwell in the land we love And grudge no hallow Heaven above.

Come ye, who think the time o'er long Till we have slain the word of wrong!

Come ye who deem the life of fear On this last day hath drawn o'er near!

Come after me upon the road That leadeth to the Erne's abode."



Down then he leapt from off the mound And back drew they that were around

Till he was foremost of all those Betwixt the river and the close.

And uprose shouts both glad and strong As followed after all the throng;

And overhead the banners flapped, As we went on our ways to all that happed.



The fields before the Shivering Low Of many a grief of manfolk know;

There may the autumn acres tell Of how men met, and what befell.

The Black Burg under the Eagle's nest Shall tell the tale as it liketh best.

And sooth it is that the River-land Lacks many an autumn-gathering hand.

And there are troth-plight maids unwed Shall deem awhile that love is dead;

And babes there are to men shall grow Nor ever the face of their fathers know.

And yet in the Land by the River-side Doth never a thrall or an earl's man bide;

For Hugh the Earl of might and mirth Hath left the merry days of Earth;

And we live on in the land we love, And grudge no hallow Heaven above.



THE VOICE OF TOIL

I heard men saying, Leave hope and praying, All days shall be as all have been; To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow, The never-ending toil between.

When Earth was younger mid toil and hunger, In hope we strove, and our hands were strong; Then great men led us, with words they fed us, And bade us right the earthly wrong.

Go read in story their deeds and glory, Their names amidst the nameless dead; Turn then from lying to us slow-dying In that good world to which they led;

Where fast and faster our iron master, The thing we made, for ever drives, Bids us grind treasure and fashion pleasure For other hopes and other lives.

Where home is a hovel and dull we grovel, Forgetting that the world is fair; Where no babe we cherish, lest its very soul perish; Where mirth is crime, and love a snare.

Who now shall lead us, what god shall heed us As we lie in the hell our hands have won? For us are no rulers but fools and befoolers, The great are fallen, the wise men gone.



I heard men saying, Leave tears and praying, The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep; Are we not stronger than the rich and the wronger, When day breaks over dreams and sleep?

Come, shoulder to shoulder ere the world grows older! Help lies in nought but thee and me; Hope is before us, the long years that bore us Bore leaders more than men may be.

Let dead hearts tarry and trade and marry, And trembling nurse their dreams of mirth, While we the living our lives are giving To bring the bright new world to birth.

Come, shoulder to shoulder ere earth grows older! The Cause spreads over land and sea; Now the world shaketh, and fear awaketh, And joy at last for thee and me.



GUNNAR'S HOWE ABOVE THE HOUSE AT LITHEND

Ye who have come o'er the sea to behold this grey minster of lands, Whose floor is the tomb of time past, and whose walls by the toil of dead hands Show pictures amidst of the ruin of deeds that have overpast death, Stay by this tomb in a tomb to ask of who lieth beneath. Ah! the world changeth too soon, that ye stand there with unbated breath, As I name him that Gunnar of old, who erst in the haymaking tide Felt all the land fragrant and fresh, as amidst of the edges he died. Too swiftly fame fadeth away, if ye tremble not lest once again The grey mound should open and show him glad-eyed without grudging or pain. Little labour methinks to behold him but the tale-teller laboured in vain. Little labour for ears that may hearken to hear his death-conquering song, Till the heart swells to think of the gladness undying that overcame wrong. O young is the world yet meseemeth and the hope of it flourishing green, When the words of a man unremembered so bridge all the days that have been, As we look round about on the land that these nine hundred years he hath seen.

Dusk is abroad on the grass of this valley amidst of the hill: Dusk that shall never be dark till the dawn hard on midnight shall fill The trench under Eyiafell's snow, and the grey plain the sea meeteth grey. White, high aloft hangs the moon that no dark night shall brighten ere day, For here day and night toileth the summer lest deedless his time pass away.



THE DAY IS COMING

Come hither, lads, and hearken, for a tale there is to tell, Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all shall be better than well.

And the tale shall be told of a country, a land in the midst of the sea, And folk shall call it England in the days that are going to be.

There more than one in a thousand in the days that are yet to come, Shall have some hope of the morrow, some joy of the ancient home.



For then, laugh not, but listen to this strange tale of mine, All folk that are in England shall be better lodged than swine.

Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds of his hand, Nor yet come home in the even too faint and weary to stand.

Men in that time a-coming shall work and have no fear For to-morrow's lack of earning and the hunger-wolf anear.

I tell you this for a wonder, that no man then shall be glad Of his fellow's fall and mishap to snatch at the work he had.

For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed, Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no seed.

O strange new wonderful justice! But for whom shall we gather the gain? For ourselves and for each of our fellows, and no hand shall labour in vain.

Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, and no more shall any man crave For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave.

And what wealth then shall be left us when none shall gather gold To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold?

Nay, what save the lovely city, and the little house on the hill, And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we till;

And the homes of ancient stories, the tombs of the mighty dead; And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poet's teeming head;

And the painter's hand of wonder; and the marvellous fiddle-bow, And the banded choirs of music: all those that do and know.

For all these shall be ours and all men's, nor shall any lack a share Of the toil and the gain of living in the days when the world grows fair.



Ah! such are the days that shall be! But what are the deeds of to-day In the days of the years we dwell in, that wear our lives away?

Why, then, and for what are we waiting? There are three words to speak; WE WILL IT, and what is the foeman but the dream-strong wakened and weak?

O why and for what are we waiting? while our brothers droop and die, And on every wind of the heavens a wasted life goes by.

How long shall they reproach us where crowd on crowd they dwell, Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the gold-crushed hungry hell?

Through squalid life they laboured, in sordid grief they died, Those sons of a mighty mother, those props of England's pride.

They are gone; there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the curse; But many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse?

It is we must answer and hasten, and open wide the door For the rich man's hurrying terror, and the slow-foot hope of the poor.

Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched, and their unlearned discontent, We must give it voice and wisdom till the waiting-tide be spent.



Come, then, since all things call us, the living and the dead, And o'er the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed.

Come, then, let us cast off fooling, and put by ease and rest, For the Cause alone is worthy till the good days bring the best.

Come, join in the only battle wherein no man can fail, Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his deed shall still prevail.

Ah! come, cast off all fooling, for this, at least, we know: That the Dawn and the Day is coming, and forth the Banners go.



EARTH THE HEALER, EARTH THE KEEPER

So swift the hours are moving Unto the time un-proved: Farewell my love unloving, Farewell my love beloved!

What! are we not glad-hearted? Is there no deed to do? Is not all fear departed And Spring-tide blossomed new?

The sails swell out above us, The sea-ridge lifts the keel; For They have called who love us, Who bear the gifts that heal:

A crown for him that winneth, A bed for him that fails, A glory that beginneth In never-dying tales.

Yet now the pain is ended And the glad hand grips the sword, Look on thy life amended And deal out due award.

Think of the thankless morning, The gifts of noon unused; Think of the eve of scorning, The night of prayer refused.

And yet. The life before it, Dost thou remember aught, What terrors shivered o'er it Born from the hell of thought?

And this that cometh after: How dost thou live, and dare To meet its empty laughter, To face its friendless care?

In fear didst thou desire, At peace dost thou regret, The wasting of the fire, The tangling of the net.

Love came and gat fair greeting; Love went; and left no shame. Shall both the twilights meeting The summer sunlight blame?

What! cometh love and goeth Like the dark night's empty wind, Because thy folly soweth The harvest of the blind?

Hast thou slain love with sorrow? Have thy tears quenched the sun? Nay even yet to-morrow Shall many a deed be done.

This twilight sea thou sailest, Has it grown dim and black For that wherein thou failest, And the story of thy lack?

Peace then! for thine old grieving Was born of Earth the kind, And the sad tale thou art leaving Earth shall not leave behind.

Peace! for that joy abiding Whereon thou layest hold Earth keepeth for a tiding For the day when this is old.

Thy soul and life shall perish, And thy name as last night's wind; But Earth the deed shall cherish That thou to-day shalt find.

And all thy joy and sorrow So great but yesterday, So light a thing to-morrow, Shall never pass away.

Lo! lo! the dawn-blink yonder, The sunrise draweth nigh, And men forget to wonder That they were born to die.

Then praise the deed that wendeth Through the daylight and the mirth! The tale that never endeth Whoso may dwell on earth.



ALL FOR THE CAUSE

Hear a word, a word in season, for the day is drawing nigh, When the Cause shall call upon us, some to live, and some to die!

He that dies shall not die lonely, many an one hath gone before; He that lives shall bear no burden heavier than the life they bore.

Nothing ancient is their story, e'en but yesterday they bled, Youngest they of earth's beloved, last of all the valiant dead.

E'en the tidings we are telling was the tale they had to tell, E'en the hope that our hearts cherish, was the hope for which they fell.

In the grave where tyrants thrust them, lies their labour and their pain, But undying from their sorrow springeth up the hope again.

Mourn not therefore, nor lament it, that the world outlives their life; Voice and vision yet they give us, making strong our hands for strife.

Some had name, and fame, and honour, learn'd they were, and wise and strong; Some were nameless, poor, unlettered, weak in all but grief and wrong.

Named and nameless all live in us; one and all they lead us yet Every pain to count for nothing, every sorrow to forget.

Hearken how they cry, "O happy, happy ye that ye were born In the sad slow night's departing, in the rising of the morn.

"Fair the crown the Cause hath for you, well to die or well to live Through the battle, through the tangle, peace to gain or peace to give."

Ah, it may be! Oft meseemeth, in the days that yet shall be, When no slave of gold abideth 'twixt the breadth of sea to sea,

Oft, when men and maids are merry, ere the sunlight leaves the earth, And they bless the day beloved, all too short for all their mirth,

Some shall pause awhile and ponder on the bitter days of old, Ere the toil of strife and battle overthrew the curse of gold;

Then 'twixt lips of loved and lover solemn thoughts of us shall rise; We who once were fools defeated, then shall be the brave and wise.

There amidst the world new-builded shall our earthly deeds abide, Though our names be all forgotten, and the tale of how we died.

Life or death then, who shall heed it, what we gain or what we lose? Fair flies life amid the struggle, and the Cause for each shall choose.

Hear a word, a word in season, for the day is drawing nigh, When the Cause shall call upon us, some to live, and some to die!



PAIN AND TIME STRIVE NOT

What part of the dread eternity Are those strange minutes that I gain, Mazed with the doubt of love and pain, When I thy delicate face may see, A little while before farewell?

What share of the world's yearning-tide That flash, when new day bare and white Blots out my half-dream's faint delight, And there is nothing by my side, And well remembered is farewell?

What drop in the grey flood of tears That time, when the long day toiled through, Worn out, shows nought for me to do, And nothing worth my labour bears The longing of that last farewell?

What pity from the heavens above, What heed from out eternity, What word from the swift world for me? Speak, heed, and pity, O tender love, Who knew'st the days before farewell!



DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT

Lo, when we wade the tangled wood, In haste and hurry to be there, Nought seem its leaves and blossoms good, For all that they be fashioned fair.

But looking up, at last we see The glimmer of the open light, From o'er the place where we would be: Then grow the very brambles bright.

So now, amidst our day of strife, With many a matter glad we play, When once we see the light of life Gleam through the tangle of to-day.



VERSES FOR PICTURES



DAY

I am Day; I bring again Life and glory, Love and pain: Awake, arise! from death to death Through me the World's tale quickeneth.

SPRING

Spring am I, too soft of heart Much to speak ere I depart: Ask the Summer-tide to prove The abundance of my love.

SUMMER

Summer looked for long am I; Much shall change or e'er I die. Prithee take it not amiss Though I weary thee with bliss.

AUTUMN

Laden Autumn here I stand Worn of heart, and weak of hand: Nought but rest seems good to me, Speak the word that sets me free.

WINTER

I am Winter, that do keep Longing safe amidst of sleep: Who shall say if I were dead What should be remembered?

NIGHT

I am Night: I bring again Hope of pleasure, rest from pain: Thoughts unsaid 'twixt Life and Death My fruitful silence quickeneth.



FOR THE BRIAR ROSE



THE BRIARWOOD

The fateful slumber floats and flows About the tangle of the rose; But lo! the fated hand and heart To rend the slumberous curse apart!

THE COUNCIL ROOM

The threat of war, the hope of peace, The Kingdom's peril and increase Sleep on, and bide the latter day, When Fate shall take her chain away.

THE GARDEN COURT

The maiden pleasance of the land Knoweth no stir of voice or hand, No cup the sleeping waters fill, The restless shuttle lieth still.

THE ROSEBOWER

Here lies the hoarded love, the key To all the treasure that shall be; Come fated hand the gift to take, And smite this sleeping world awake.



ANOTHER FOR THE BRIAR ROSE



O treacherous scent, O thorny sight, O tangle of world's wrong and right, What art thou 'gainst my armour's gleam But dusky cobwebs of a dream?

Beat down, deep sunk from every gleam Of hope, they lie and dully dream; Men once, but men no more, that Love Their waste defeated hearts should move.

Here sleeps the world that would not love! Let it sleep on, but if He move Their hearts in humble wise to wait On his new-wakened fair estate.

O won at last is never late! Thy silence was the voice of fate; Thy still hands conquered in the strife; Thine eyes were light; thy lips were life.



THE WOODPECKER



I once a King and chief Now am the tree-bark's thief, Ever 'twixt trunk and leaf Chasing the prey.



THE LION



The Beasts that be In wood and waste, Now sit and see, Nor ride nor haste.



THE FOREST



PEAR-TREE

By woodman's edge I faint and fail; By craftsman's edge I tell the tale.

CHESTNUT-TREE

High in the wood, high o'er the hall, Aloft I rise when low I fall.

OAK-TREE

Unmoved I stand what wind may blow. Swift, swift before the wind I go.



POMONA



I am the ancient Apple-Queen, As once I was so am I now. For evermore a hope unseen, Betwixt the blossom and the bough.

Ah, where's the river's hidden Gold! And where the windy grave of Troy? Yet come I as I came of old, From out the heart of Summer's joy.



FLORA



I am the handmaid of the earth, I broider fair her glorious gown, And deck her on her days of mirth With many a garland of renown.

And while Earth's little ones are fain And play about the Mother's hem, I scatter every gift I gain From sun and wind to gladden them.



THE ORCHARD



Midst bitten mead and acre shorn, The world without is waste and worn,

But here within our orchard-close, The guerdon of its labour shows.

O valiant Earth, O happy year That mocks the threat of winter near,

And hangs aloft from tree to tree The banners of the Spring to be.



TAPESTRY TREES



OAK

I am the Roof-tree and the Keel; I bridge the seas for woe and weal.

FIR

High o'er the lordly oak I stand, And drive him on from land to land.

ASH

I heft my brother's iron bane; I shaft the spear, and build the wain.

YEW

Dark down the windy dale I grow, The father of the fateful Bow.

POPLAR

The war-shaft and the milking-bowl I make, and keep the hay-wain whole.

OLIVE

The King I bless; the lamps I trim; In my warm wave do fishes swim.

APPLE-TREE

I bowed my head to Adam's will; The cups of toiling men I fill.

VINE

I draw the blood from out the earth; I store the sun for winter mirth.

ORANGE-TREE

Amidst the greenness of my night, My odorous lamps hang round and bright.

FIG-TREE

I who am little among trees In honey-making mate the bees.

MULBERRY-TREE

Love's lack hath dyed my berries red: For Love's attire my leaves are shed.

PEAR-TREE

High o'er the mead-flowers' hidden feet I bear aloft my burden sweet.

BAY

Look on my leafy boughs, the Crown Of living song and dead renown!



THE FLOWERING ORCHARD



SILK EMBROIDERY

Lo silken my garden, and silken my sky, And silken my apple-boughs hanging on high; All wrought by the Worm in the peasant carle's cot On the Mulberry leafage when summer was hot!



THE END OF MAY



How the wind howls this morn About the end of May, And drives June on apace To mock the world forlorn And the world's joy passed away And my unlonged-for face! The world's joy passed away; For no more may I deem That any folk are glad To see the dawn of day Sunder the tangled dream Wherein no grief they had. Ah, through the tangled dream Where others have no grief Ever it fares with me That fears and treasons stream And dumb sleep slays belief Whatso therein may be. Sleep slayeth all belief Until the hopeless light Wakes at the birth of June More lying tales to weave, More love in woe's despite, More hope to perish soon.



THE HALF OF LIFE GONE



The days have slain the days, and the seasons have gone by And brought me the summer again; and here on the grass I lie As erst I lay and was glad ere I meddled with right and with wrong. Wide lies the mead as of old, and the river is creeping along By the side of the elm-clad bank that turns its weedy stream; And grey o'er its hither lip the quivering rashes gleam. There is work in the mead as of old; they are eager at winning the hay, While every sun sets bright and begets a fairer day. The forks shine white in the sun round the yellow red-wheeled wain, Where the mountain of hay grows fast; and now from out of the lane Comes the ox-team drawing another, comes the bailiff and the beer, And thump, thump, goes the farmer's nag o'er the narrow bridge of the weir. High up and light are the clouds, and though the swallows flit So high o'er the sunlit earth, they are well a part of it, And so, though high over them, are the wings of the wandering herne; In measureless depths above him doth the fair sky quiver and burn; The dear sun floods the land as the morning falls toward noon, And a little wind is awake in the best of the latter June. They are busy winning the hay, and the life and the picture they make If I were as once I was, I should deem it made for my sake; For here if one need not work is a place for happy rest, While one's thought wends over the world north, south, and east and west.

There are the men and the maids, and the wives and the gaffers grey Of the fields I know so well, and but little changed are they Since I was a lad amongst them; and yet how great is the change! Strange are they grown unto me; yea I to myself am strange. Their talk and their laughter mingling with the music of the meads Has now no meaning to me to help or to hinder my needs, So far from them have I drifted. And yet amidst of them goes A part of myself, my boy, and of pleasure and pain he knows, And deems it something strange, when he is other than glad. Lo now! the woman that stoops and kisses the face of the lad, And puts a rake in his hand and laughs in his laughing face. Whose is the voice that laughs in the old familiar place? Whose should it be but my love's, if my love were yet on the earth? Could she refrain from the fields where my joy and her joy had birth, When I was there and her child, on the grass that knew her feet 'Mid the flowers that led her on when the summer eve was sweet?

No, no, it is she no longer; never again can she come And behold the hay-wains creeping o'er the meadows of her home; No more can she kiss her son or put the rake in his hand That she handled a while agone in the midst of the haymaking band. Her laughter is gone and her life; there is no such thing on the earth, No share for me then in the stir, no share in the hurry and mirth. Nay, let me look and believe that all these will vanish away, At least when the night has fallen, and that she will be there 'mid the hay, Happy and weary with work, waiting and longing for love. There will she be, as of old, when the great moon hung above, And lightless and dead was the village, and nought but the weir was awake; There will she rise to meet me, and my hands will she hasten to take, And thence shall we wander away, and over the ancient bridge By many a rose-hung hedgerow, till we reach the sun-burnt ridge And the great trench digged by the Romans: there then awhile shall we stand, To watch the dawn come creeping o'er the fragrant lovely land, Till all the world awaketh, and draws us down, we twain, To the deeds of the field and the fold and the merry summer's gain.

Ah thus, only thus shall I see her, in dreams of the day or the night, When my soul is beguiled of its sorrow to remember past delight. She is gone. She was and she is not; there is no such thing on the earth But e'en as a picture painted; and for me there is void and dearth That I cannot name or measure. Yet for me and all these she died, E'en as she lived for awhile, that the better day might betide. Therefore I live, and I shall live till the last day's work shall fail. Have patience now but a little and I will tell you the tale Of how and why she died, And why I am weak and worn, And have wandered away to the meadows and the place where I was born; But here and to-day I cannot; for ever my thought will stray To that hope fulfilled for a little and the bliss of the earlier day. Of the great world's hope and anguish to-day I scarce can think; Like a ghost, from the lives of the living and their earthly deeds I shrink. I will go adown by the water and over the ancient bridge, And wend in our footsteps of old till I come to the sun-burnt ridge, And the great trench digged by the Romans; and thence awhile will I gaze, And see three teeming counties stretch out till they fade in the haze; And in all the dwellings of man that thence mine eyes shall see, What man as hapless as I am beneath the sun shall be?

O fool, what words are these? Thou hast a sorrow to nurse, And thou hast been bold and happy; but these, if they utter a curse, No sting it has and no meaning, it is empty sound on the air. Thy life is full of mourning, and theirs so empty and bare, That they have no words of complaining; nor so happy have they been That they may measure sorrow or tell what grief may mean.

And thou; thou hast deeds to do, and toil to meet thee soon; Depart and ponder on these through the sun-worn afternoon.



MINE AND THINE

FROM A FLEMISH POEM OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY

Two words about the world we see, And nought but Mine and Thine they be. Ah! might we drive them forth and wide With us should rest and peace abide; All free, nought owned of goods and gear, By men and women though it were. Common to all all wheat and wine Over the seas and up the Rhine. No manslayer then the wide world o'er When Mine and Thine are known no more. Yea, God, well counselled for our health, Gave all this fleeting earthly wealth A common heritage to all, That men might feed them therewithal, And clothe their limbs and shoe their feet And live a simple life and sweet. But now so rageth greediness That each desireth nothing less Than all the world, and all his own; And all for him and him alone.



THE LAY OF CHRISTINE

TRANSLATED FROM THE ICELANDIC

Of silk my gear was shapen, Scarlet they did on me, Then to the sea-strand was I borne And laid in a bark of the sea. O well were I from the World away.

Befell it there I might not drown, For God to me was good; The billows bare me up a-land Where grew the fair green-wood. O well were I from the World away.

There came a Knight a-riding With three swains along the way, And he took me up, the little-one, On the sea-sand as I lay. O well were I from the World away.

He took me up, and bare me home To the house that was his own, And there bode I so long with him That I was his love alone. O well were I from the World away.

But the very first night we lay abed Befell his sorrow and harm, That thither came the King's ill men, And slew him on mine arm. O well were I from the World away.

There slew they Adalbright the King, Two of his swains slew they, But the third sailed swiftly from the land Sithence I saw him never a day. O well were I from the World away.

O wavering hope of this world's bliss, How shall men trow in thee? My Grove of Gems is gone away For mine eyes no more to see! O well were I from the World away.

Each hour the while my life shall last Remembereth him alone, Such heavy sorrow have I got From our meeting long agone. O well were I from the World away.

O, early in the morning-tide Men cry: "Christine the fair, Art thou well content with that true love Thou sittest loving there?" O well were I from the World away.

"Ah, yea, so well I love him, And so dear my love shall be, That the very God of Heaven aloft Worshippeth him and me. O well were I from the World away.

"Ah, all the red gold I have got Well would I give to-day, Only for this and nothing else From the world to win away." O well were I from the World away.

"Nay, midst all folk upon the earth Keep thou thy ruddy gold, And love withal the mighty lord That wedded thee of old." O well were I from the World away.



HILDEBRAND AND HELLELIL

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH

Hellelil sitteth in bower there, None knows my grief but God alone, And seweth at the seam so fair, I never wail my sorrow to any other one.

But there whereas the gold should be With silk upon the cloth sewed she.

Where she should sew with silken thread The gold upon the cloth she laid.

So to the Queen the word came in That Hellelil wild work doth win.

Then did the Queen do furs on her And went to Hellelil the fair.

"O swiftly sewest thou, Hellelil, Yet nought but mad is thy sewing still!"

"Well may my sewing be but mad Such evil hap as I have had.

My father was good king and lord, Knights fifteen served before his board.

He taught me sewing royally, Twelve knights had watch and ward of me.

Well served eleven day by day, To folly the twelfth did me bewray.

And this same was hight Hildebrand, The King's son of the English Land.

But in bower were we no sooner laid Than the truth thereof to my father was said.

Then loud he cried o'er garth and hall: 'Stand up, my men, and arm ye all!

'Yea draw on mail and dally not, Hard neck lord Hildebrand hath got!'

They stood by the door with glaive and spear; 'Hildebrand rise and hasten here!'

Lord Hildebrand stroked my white white cheek: 'O love, forbear my name to speak.

'Yea even if my blood thou see, Name me not, lest my death thou be.'

Out from the door lord Hildebrand leapt, And round about his good sword swept.

The first of all that he slew there Were my seven brethren with golden hair.

Then before him stood the youngest one, And dear he was in the days agone.

Then I cried out: 'O Hildebrand, In the name of God now stay thine hand.

'O let my youngest brother live Tidings hereof to my mother to give!'

No sooner was the word gone forth Than with eight wounds fell my love to earth.

My brother took me by the golden hair, And bound me to the saddle there.

There met me then no littlest root, But it tore off somewhat of my foot.

No littlest brake the wild-wood bore, But somewhat from my legs it tore.

No deepest dam we came unto But my brother's horse he swam it through

But when to the castle gate we came, There stood my mother in sorrow and shame.

My brother let raise a tower high, Bestrewn with sharp thorns inwardly.

He took me in my silk shirt bare And cast me into that tower there.

And wheresoe'er my legs I laid Torment of the thorns I had.

Wheresoe'er on feet I stood The prickles sharp drew forth my blood.

My youngest brother me would slay, But my mother would have me sold away.

A great new bell my price did buy In Mary's Church to hang on high.

But the first stroke that ever it strake My mother's heart asunder brake."

So soon as her sorrow and woe was said, None knows my grief but God alone, In the arm of the Queen she sat there dead, I never tell my sorrow to any other one.



THE SON'S SORROW

FROM THE ICELANDIC

The King has asked of his son so good, "Why art thou hushed and heavy of mood? O fair it is to ride abroad. Thou playest not, and thou laughest not; All thy good game is clean forgot."

"Sit thou beside me, father dear, And the tale of my sorrow shalt thou hear.

Thou sendedst me unto a far-off land, And gavest me into a good Earl's hand.

Now had this good Earl daughters seven, The fairest of maidens under heaven.

One brought me my meat when I should dine, One cut and sewed my raiment fine.

One washed and combed my yellow hair, And one I fell to loving there.

Befell it on so fair a day, We minded us to sport and play.

Down in a dale my horse bound I, Bound on my saddle speedily.

Bright red she was as the flickering flame When to my saddle-bow she came.

Beside my saddle-bow she stood, 'To flee with thee to my heart were good.'

Kind was my horse and good to aid, My love upon his back I laid.

We gat us from the garth away, And none was ware of us that day.

But as we rode along the sand Behold a barge lay by the land.

So in that boat did we depart, And rowed away right glad at heart.

When we came to the dark wood and the shade To raise the tent my true-love bade.

Three sons my true-love bore me there, And syne she died who was so dear.

A grave I wrought her with my sword, With my fair shield the mould I poured.

First in the mould I laid my love, Then all my sons her breast above.

And I without must lie alone; So from the place I gat me gone."

No man now shall stand on his feet To love that love, to woo that sweet: O fair it is to ride abroad.



AGNES AND THE HILL-MAN

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH

Agnes went through the meadows a-weeping, Fowl are a-singing. There stood the hill-man heed thereof keeping. Agnes, fair Agnes! "Come to the hill, fair Agnes, with me, The reddest of gold will I give unto thee!"

Twice went Agnes the hill round about, Then wended within, left the fair world without.

In the hillside bode Agnes, three years thrice told o'er, For the green earth sithence fell she longing full sore.

There she sat, and lullaby sang in her singing, And she heard how the bells of England were ringing.

Agnes before her true-love did stand: "May I wend to the church of the English Land?"

"To England's Church well mayst thou be gone, So that no hand thou lay the red gold upon.

"So that when thou art come the churchyard anear, Thou cast not abroad thy golden hair.

"So that when thou standest the church within, To thy mother on bench thou never win.

"So that when thou hearest the high God's name, No knee unto earth thou bow to the same."

Hand she laid on all gold that was there, And cast abroad her golden hair.

And when the church she stood within, To her mother on bench straight did she win.

And when she heard the high God's name, Knee unto earth she bowed to the same.

When all the mass was sung to its end, Home with her mother dear did she wend.

"Come, Agnes, into the hillside to me, For thy seven small sons greet sorely for thee!"

"Let them greet, let them greet, as they have will to do; For never again will I hearken thereto!"

Weird laid he on her, sore sickness he wrought, Fowl are a-singing. That self-same hour to death was she brought. Agnes, fair Agnes!



KNIGHT AAGEN AND MAIDEN ELSE

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH

It was the fair knight Aagen To an isle he went his way, And plighted troth to Else, Who was so fair a may.

He plighted troth to Else All with the ruddy gold, But or ere that day's moon came again Low he lay in the black, black mould.

It was the maiden Else, She was fulfilled of woe When she heard how the fair knight Aagen In the black mould lay alow.

Uprose the fair knight Aagen, Coffin on back took he, And he's away to her bower, Sore hard as the work might be.

With that same chest on door he smote, For the lack of flesh and skin; "O hearken, maiden Else, And let thy true-love in!"

Then answered maiden Else, "Never open I my door, But and if thou namest Jesu's name As thou hadst might before."

"O hearken, maiden Else, And open thou thy door, For Jesu's name I well may name As I had might before!"

Then uprose maiden Else, O'er her cheek the salt tears ran, Nor spared she into her very bower To welcome that dead man.

O, she's taken up her comb of gold And combed adown her hair, And for every hair she combed adown There fell a weary tear.

"Hearken thou, knight Aagen, Hearken, true-love, and tell, If down-adown in the black, black earth Thou farest ever well?"

"O whenso thou art joyous, And the heart is glad in thee, Then fares it with my coffin That red roses are with me.

"But whenso thou art sorrowful And weary is thy mood, Then all within my coffin Is it dreadful with dark blood.

"Now is the red cock a-crowing, To the earth adown must I; Down to the earth wend all dead folk, And I wend in company.

"Now is the black cock a-crowing, To the earth must I adown, For the gates of Heaven are opening now, Thereto must I begone."

Uprose the fair knight Aagen, Coffin on back took he, And he's away to the churchyard now, Sore hard as the work might be.

But so wrought maiden Else, Because of her weary mood, That she followed after own true love All through the mirk wild wood.

But when the wood was well passed through, And in the churchyard they were, Then was the fair knight Aagen Waxen wan of his golden hair.

And when therefrom they wended And were the church within, Then was the fair knight Aagen Waxen wan of cheek and chin.

"Hearken thou, maiden Else, Hearken, true-love, to me, Weep no more for thine own troth-plight, However it shall be!

"Look thou up to the heavens aloft, To the little stars and bright, And thou shalt see how sweetly It fareth with the night!"

She looked up to the heavens aloft, To the little stars bright above. The dead man sank into his grave, Ne'er again she saw her love.

Home then went maiden Else, Mid sorrow manifold, And ere that night's moon came again She lay alow in the mould.



HAFBUR AND SIGNY

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH.

King Hafbur and King Siward They needs must stir up strife, All about the sweetling Signy Who was so fair a wife. O wilt thou win me then, or as fair a maid as I be?

It was the King's son Hafbur Woke up amid the night, And 'gan to tell of a wondrous dream In swift words nowise light.

"Me-dreamed I was in heaven Amid that fair abode, And my true-love lay upon mine arm And we fell from cloud to cloud."

As there they sat, the dames and maids Of his words they took no keep, Only his mother well-beloved Heeded his dreamful sleep.

"Go get thee gone to the mountain, And make no long delay; To the elve's eldest daughter For thy dream's areding pray."

So the King's son, even Hafbur, Took his sword in his left hand, And he's away to the mountain To get speech of that Lily-wand.

He beat thereon with hand all bare, With fingers small and fine, And there she lay, the elve's daughter, And well wotted of that sign.

"Bide hail, Elve's sweetest daughter, As on skins thou liest fair, I pray thee by the God of Heaven My dream arede thou clear.

"Me-dreamed I was in heaven, Yea amid that fair abode, And my true-love lay upon mine arm And we fell from cloud to cloud."

"Whereas thou dreamed'st thou wert in heaven, So shalt thou win that may; Dreamed'st thou of falling through the clouds, So falls for her thy life away."

"And if it lieth in my luck To win to me that may, In no sorrow's stead it standeth me For her to cast my life away."

Lord Hafbur lets his hair wax long, And will have the gear of mays, And he rideth to King Siward's house And will well learn weaving ways.

Lord Hafbur all his clothes let shape In such wise as maidens do, And thus he rideth over the land King Siward's daughter to woo.

Now out amid the castle-garth He cast his cloak aside, And goeth forth to the high-bower Where the dames and damsels abide.



Hail, sit ye there, dames and damsels, Maids and queens kind and fair, And chiefest of all to the Dane-King's daughter If she abideth here!

"Hail, sittest thou, sweet King's daughter, A-spinning the silken twine, It is King Hafbur sends me hither To learn the sewing fine."

Hath Hafbur sent thee here to me? Then art thou a welcome guest, And all the sewing that I can Shall I learn thee at my best.

"And all the sewing that I can I shall learn thee lovingly, Out of one bowl shalt thou eat with me, And by my nurse shalt thou lie."

"King's children have I eaten with, And lain down by their side: Must I lie abed now with a very nurse? Then woe is me this tide!"

"Nay, let it pass, fair maiden! Of me gettest thou no harm, Out of one bowl shalt thou eat with me And sleep soft upon mine arm."

There sat they, all the damsels, And sewed full craftily; But ever the King's son Hafbur With nail in mouth sat he.

They sewed the hart, they sewed the hind, As they run through the wild-wood green, Never gat Hafbur so big a bowl But the bottom soon was seen.

In there came the evil nurse In the worst tide that might be: "Never saw I fair maiden Who could sew less craftily.

"Never saw I fair maiden Seam worse the linen fine, Never saw I noble maiden Who better drank the wine."

This withal spake the evil nurse, The nighest that she durst: "Never saw I yet fair maiden Of drink so sore athirst.

"So little a seam as ever she sews Goes the needle into her mouth, As big a bowl as ever she gets Out is it drunk forsooth.

"Ne'er saw I yet in maiden's head Two eyes so bright and bold, And those two hands of her withal Are hard as the iron cold."

"Hearken, sweet nurse, whereso thou art, Why wilt thou mock me still? Never cast I one word at thee, Went thy sewing well or ill.

"Still wilt thou mock, still wilt thou spy; Nought such thou hast of me, Whether mine eyes look out or look in Nought do they deal with thee."

O it was Hafbur the King's son Began to sew at last; He sowed the hart, and he sewed the hind, As they flee from the hound so fast.

He sewed the lily, and he sewed the rose, And the little fowls of the air; Then fell the damsels a-marvelling, For nought had they missed him there.

Day long they sewed till the evening, And till the long night was deep, Then up stood dames and maidens And were fain in their beds to sleep.

So fell on them the evening-tide, O'er the meads the dew drave down, And fain was Signy, that sweet thing, With her folk to bed to be gone.

Therewith asked the King's son Hafbur, "And whatten a bed for me?" "O thou shalt sleep in the bower aloft, And blue shall thy bolster be."

She went before, sweet Signy, O'er the high-bower's bridge aright, And after her went Hafbur Laughing from heart grown light.

Then kindled folk the waxlights, That were so closely twined, And after them the ill nurse went With an ill thought in her mind.

The lights were quenched, the nurse went forth, They deemed they were alone: Lord Hafbur drew off his kirtle red, Then first his sword outshone.

Lord Hafbur mid his longing sore Down on the bed he sat: I tell you of my soothfastness, His byrny clashed thereat.

Then spake the darling Signy, Out of her heart she said, "Never saw I so rough a shirt Upon so fair a maid."

She laid her hand on Hafbur's breast With the red gold all a-blaze: "Why wax thy breasts in no such wise As they wax in other mays?"

"The wont it is in my father's land For maids to ride to the Thing, Therefore my breasts are little of growth Beneath the byrny-ring."

And there they lay through the night so long, The King's son and the may, In talk full sweet, but little of sleep, So much on their minds there lay.

"Hearken, sweet maiden Signy, As here alone we lie, Who is thy dearest in the world, And lieth thine heart most nigh?"

"O there is none in all the world Who lieth so near to my heart As doth the bold King Hafbur: Ne'er in him shall I have a part.

"As doth the bold King Hafbur That mine eyes shall never know: Nought but the sound of his gold-wrought horn As he rides to the Thing and fro."

"O, is it Hafbur the King's son That thy loved heart holdeth dear? Turn hither, O my well-beloved, To thy side I lie so near."

"If thou art the King's son Hafbur, Why wilt thou shame me, love, Why ridest thou not to my father's garth With hound, and with hawk upon glove?"

"Once was I in thy father's garth, With hound and hawk and all; And with many mocks he said me nay, In such wise did our meeting fall."

All the while they talked together They deemed alone they were, But the false nurse ever stood close without, And nought thereof she failed to hear.

O shame befall that evil nurse, Ill tidings down she drew, She stole away his goodly sword, But and his byrny new.

She took to her his goodly sword, His byrny blue she had away, And she went her ways to the high bower Whereas King Siward lay.

"Wake up, wake up, King Siward! Over long thou sleepest there, The while the King's son Hafbur Lies abed by Signy the fair."

"No Hafbur is here, and no King's son, That thou shouldst speak this word; He is far away in the east-countries, Warring with knight and lord.

"Hold thou thy peace, thou evil nurse, And lay on her no lie, Or else tomorn ere the sun is up In the bale-fire shall ye die."

"O hearken to this, my lord and king, And trow me nought but true; Look here upon his bright white sword, But and his byrny blue!"

Then mad of mind waxed Siward, Over all the house 'gan he cry, "Rise up, O mighty men of mine, For a hardy knight is anigh:

"Take ye sword and shield in hand, And look that they be true; For Hafbur the King hath guested with us; Stiffnecked he is, great deeds to do."

So there anigh the high-bower door They stood with spear and glaive "Rise up, rise up, Young Hafbur, Out here we would thee have!"

That heard the goodly Signy, And she wrang her hands full sore: "Hearken and heed, O Hafbur, Who stand without by the door!"

Thank and praise to the King's son Hafbur, Manly he played and stout! None might lay hand upon him While the bed-post yet held out.

But they took him, the King's son Hafbur, And set him in bolts new wrought; Then lightly he rent them asunder, As though they were leaden and nought.

Out and spake the ancient nurse, And she gave a rede of ill; "Bind ye him but in Signy's hair. So shall hand and foot lie still.

"Take ye but one of Signy's hairs Hafbur's hands to bind, Ne'er shall he rend them asunder, His heart to her is so kind."

Then took they two of Signy's hairs Bonds for his hands to be, Nor might he rive them asunder, So dear to his heart was she.

Then spake the sweetling Signy As the tears fast down her cheek did fall: "O rend it asunder, Hafbur, That gift to thee I give withal."

Now sat the-King's son Hafbur Amidst the castle-hall, And thronged to behold him man and maid, But the damsels chiefest of all.

They took him, the King's son Hafbur, Laid bolts upon him in that place, And ever went Signy to and fro, The weary tears fell down apace.

She speaketh to him in sorrowful mood: "This will I, Hafbur, for thee, Piteous prayer for thee shall make My mother's sisters three.

"For my father's mind stands fast in this, To do thee to hang upon the bough On the topmost oak in the morning-tide While the sun is yet but low."

But answered thereto young Hafbur Out of a wrathful mind: "Of all heeds I heeded, this was the last, To be prayed for by womankind.

"But hearken, true-love Signy, Good heart to my asking turn, When thou seest me swing on oaken-bough Then let thy high-bower burn."

Then answered the noble Signy, So sore as she must moan, "God to aid, King's son Hafbur, Well will I grant thy boon."

They followed him, King Hafbur, Thick thronging from the castle-bent: And all who saw him needs must greet And in full piteous wise they went.

But when they came to the fair green mead Where Hafbur was to die, He prayed them hold a little while: For his true-love would he try.

"O hang me up my cloak of red, That sight or my ending let me see. Perchance yet may King Siward rue My hanging on the gallows tree."

Now of the cloak was Signy ware And sorely sorrow her heart did rive, She thought: "The ill tale all is told, No longer is there need to live."

Straightway her damsels did she call As weary as she was of mind: "Come, let us go to the bower aloft Game and glee for a while to find."

Yea and withal spake Signy, She spake a word of price: "To-day shall I do myself to death And meet Hafbur in Paradise.

"And whoso there be in this our house Lord Hafbur's death that wrought, Good reward I give them now To red embers to be brought.

"So many there are in the King's garth Of Hafbur's death shall be glad; Good reward for them to lose The trothplight mays they had."

She set alight to the bower aloft And it burned up speedily, And her good love and her great heart Might all with eyen see.

It was the King's son Hafbur O'er his shoulder cast his eye, And beheld how Signy's house of maids On a red low stood on high.

"Now take ye down my cloak of red. Let it lie on the earth a-cold; Had I ten lives of the world for one, Nought of them all would I hold."

King Siward looked out of his window fair In fearful mood enow, For he saw Hafbur hanging on oak And Signy's bower on a low.

Out then spake a little page Was clad in kirtle red: "Sweet Signy burns in her bower aloft, With all her mays unwed."

Therewithal spake King Siward From rueful heart unfain; "Ne'er saw I two King's children erst Such piteous ending gain.

"But had I wist or heard it told That love so strong should be, Ne'er had I held those twain apart For all Denmark given me.

"O hasten and run to Signy's bower For the life of that sweet thing; Hasten and run to the gallows high, No thief is Hafbur the King."

But when they came to Signy's bower Low it lay in embers red; And when they came to the gallows tree, Hafbur was stark and dead.

They took him the King's son Hafbur, Swathed him in linen white, And laid him in the earth of Christ By Signy his delight. O wilt thou win me then, or as fair a maid as I be?



GOLDILOCKS AND GOLDILOCKS

It was Goldilocks woke up in the morn At the first of the shearing of the corn.

There stood his mother on the hearth And of new-leased wheat was little dearth.

There stood his sisters by the quern, For the high-noon cakes they needs must earn.

"O tell me Goldilocks my son, Why hast thou coloured raiment on?"

"Why should I wear the hodden grey When I am light of heart to-day?"

"O tell us, brother, why ye wear In reaping-tide the scarlet gear?

Why hangeth the sharp sword at thy side When through the land 'tis the hook goes wide?"

"Gay-clad am I that men may know The freeman's son where'er I go.

The grinded sword at side I bear Lest I the dastard's word should hear."

"O tell me Goldilocks my son, Of whither away thou wilt be gone?"

"The morn is fair and the world is wide, And here no more will I abide."

"O Brother, when wilt thou come again?" "The autumn drought, and the winter rain,

The frost and the snow, and St. David's wind, All these that were time out of mind,

All these a many times shall be Ere the Upland Town again I see."

"O Goldilocks my son, farewell, As thou wendest the world 'twixt home and hell!"

"O brother Goldilocks, farewell, Come back with a tale for men to tell!"



So 'tis wellaway for Goldilocks, As he left the land of the wheaten shocks.

He's gotten him far from the Upland Town, And he's gone by Dale and he's gone by Down.

He's come to the wild-wood dark and drear, Where never the bird's song doth he hear.

He has slept in the moonless wood and dim With never a voice to comfort him.

He has risen up under the little light Where the noon is as dark as the summer night.

Six days therein has he walked alone Till his scrip was bare and his meat was done.

On the seventh morn in the mirk, mirk wood, He saw sight that he deemed was good.

It was as one sees a flower a-bloom In the dusky heat of a shuttered room.

He deemed the fair thing far aloof, And would go and put it to the proof.

But the very first step he made from the place He met a maiden face to face.

Face to face, and so close was she That their lips met soft and lovingly.

Sweet-mouthed she was, and fair he wist; And again in the darksome wood they kissed.

Then first in the wood her voice he heard, As sweet as the song of the summer bird.

"O thou fair man with the golden head. What is the name of thee?" she said.

"My name is Goldilocks," said he; "O sweet-breathed, what is the name of thee?"

"O Goldilocks the Swain," she said, "My name is Goldilocks the Maid."

He spake, "Love me as I love thee, And Goldilocks one flesh shall be."

She said, "Fair man, I wot not how Thou lovest, but I love thee now.

But come a little hence away, That I may see thee in the day.

For hereby is a wood-lawn clear And good for awhile for us it were."

Therewith she took him by the hand And led him into the lighter land.



There on the grass they sat adown. Clad she was in a kirtle brown.

In all the world was never maid So fair, so evilly arrayed.

No shoes upon her feet she had, And scantly were her shoulders clad;

Through her brown kirtle's rents full wide Shone out the sleekness of her side.

An old scrip hung about her neck, Nought of her raiment did she reck.

No shame of all her rents had she; She gazed upon him eagerly.

She leaned across the grassy space And put her hands about his face.

She said: "O hunger-pale art thou, Yet shalt thou eat though I hunger now."

She took him apples from her scrip, She kissed him, cheek and chin and lip.

She took him cakes of woodland bread: "Whiles am I hunger-pinched," she said.

She had a gourd and a pilgrim shell; She took him water from the well.

She stroked his breast and his scarlet gear; She spake, "How brave thou art and dear!"

Her arms about him did she wind; He felt her body dear and kind.



"O love," she said, "now two are one, And whither hence shall we be gone?"

"Shall we fare further than this wood," Quoth he, "I deem it dear and good?"

She shook her head, and laughed, and spake; "Rise up! For thee, not me, I quake.

Had she been minded me to slay Sure she had done it ere to-day.

But thou: this hour the crone shall know That thou art come, her very foe.

No minute more on tidings wait, Lest e'en this minute be too late."

She led him from the sunlit green, Going sweet-stately as a queen.

There in the dusky wood, and dim, As forth they went, she spake to him:

"Fair man, few people have I seen Amidst this world of woodland green:

But I would have thee tell me now If there be many such as thou."

"Betwixt the mountains and the sea, O Sweet, be many such," said he.

Athwart the glimmering air and dim With wistful eyes she looked on him.

"But ne'er an one so shapely made Mine eyes have looked upon," she said.

He kissed her face, and cried in mirth: "Where hast thou dwelt then on the earth?"

"Ever," she said, "I dwell alone With a hard-handed cruel crone.

And of this crone am I the thrall To serve her still in bower and hall;

And fetch and carry in the wood, And do whate'er she deemeth good.

But whiles a sort of folk there come And seek my mistress at her home;

But such-like are they to behold As make my very blood run cold.

Oft have I thought, if there be none On earth save these, would all were done!

Forsooth, I knew it was not so, But that fairer folk on earth did grow.

But fain and full is the heart in me To know that folk are like to thee."

Then hand in hand they stood awhile Till her tears rose up beneath his smile.

And he must fold her to his breast To give her heart a while of rest.

Till sundered she and gazed about, And bent her brows as one in doubt.

She spake: "The wood is growing thin, Into the full light soon shall we win.

Now crouch we that we be not seen, Under yon bramble-bushes green."

Under the bramble-bush they lay Betwixt the dusk and the open day.



"O Goldilocks my love, look forth And let me know what thou seest of worth."

He said: "I see a house of stone, A castle excellently done."

"Yea," quoth she, "There doth the mistress dwell. What next thou seest shalt thou tell."

"What lookest thou to see come forth?" "Maybe a white bear of the North."

"Then shall my sharp sword lock his mouth." "Nay," she said, "or a worm of the South."

"Then shall my sword his hot blood cool." "Nay, or a whelming poison-pool."

"The trees its swelling flood shall stay, And thrust its venomed lip away."

"Nay, it may be a wild-fire flash To burn thy lovely limbs to ash."

"On mine own hallows shall I call, And dead its flickering flame shall fall."

"O Goldilocks my love, I fear That ugly death shall seek us here.

Look forth, O Goldilocks my love. That I thine hardy heart may prove.

What cometh down the stone-wrought stair That leadeth up to the castle fair?"

"Adown the doorward stair of stone There cometh a woman all alone."

"Yea, that forsooth shall my mistress be: O Goldilocks, what like is she?"

"O fair she is of her array, As hitherward she wends her way."

"Unlike her wont is that indeed: Is she not foul beneath her weed?"

"O nay, nay! But most wondrous fair Of all the women earth doth bear."

"O Goldilocks, my heart, my heart! Woe, woe! for now we drift apart."

But up he sprang from the bramble-side, And "O thou fairest one!" he cried:

And forth he ran that Queen to meet, And fell before her gold-clad feet.

About his neck her arms she cast, And into the fair-built house they passed.

And under the bramble-bushes lay Unholpen, Goldilocks the may.



Thenceforth a while of time there wore, And Goldilocks came forth no more.

Throughout that house he wandered wide, Both up and down, from side to side.

But never he saw an evil crone, But a full fair Queen on a golden throne.

Never a barefoot maid did he see, But a gay and gallant company.

He sat upon the golden throne, And beside him sat the Queen alone.

Kind she was, as she loved him well, And many a merry tale did tell.

But nought he laughed, nor spake again, For all his life was waste and vain.

Cold was his heart, and all afraid To think on Goldilocks the Maid.



Withal now was the wedding dight When he should wed that lady bright.

The night was gone, and the day was up When they should drink the bridal cup.

And he sat at the board beside the Queen, Amidst of a guest-folk well beseen.

But scarce was midmorn on the hall, When down did the mirk of midnight fall.

Then up and down from the board they ran, And man laid angry hand on man.

There was the cry, and the laughter shrill, And every manner word of ill.

Whoso of men had hearkened it, Had deemed he had woke up over the Pit.

Then spake the Queen o'er all the crowd, And grim was her speech, and harsh, and loud:

"Hold now your peace, ye routing swine, While I sit with mine own love over the wine!

For this dusk is the very deed of a foe, Or under the sun no man I know."

And hard she spake, and loud she cried Till the noise of the bickering guests had died.

Then again she spake amidst of the mirk, In a voice like an unoiled wheel at work:

"Whoso would have a goodly gift, Let him bring aback the sun to the lift.

Let him bring aback the light and the day, And rich and in peace he shall go his way."

Out spake a voice was clean and clear: "Lo, I am she to dight your gear;

But I for the deed a gift shall gain, To sit by Goldilocks the Swain.

I shall sit at the board by the bridegroom's side, And be betwixt him and the bride.

I shall eat of his dish, and drink of his cup, Until for the bride-bed ye rise up."

Then was the Queen's word wailing-wild: "E'en so must it be, thou Angel's child.

Thou shalt sit by my groom till the dawn of night, And then shalt thou wend thy ways aright."

Said the voice, "Yet shalt thou swear an oath That free I shall go though ye be loth."

"How shall I swear?" the false Queen spake: "Wherewith the sure oath shall I make?"

"Thou shalt swear by the one eye left in thine head, And the throng of the ghosts of the evil dead."

She swore the oath, and then she spake: "Now let the second dawn awake."

And e'en therewith the thing was done; There was peace in the hall, and the light of the sun.

And again the Queen was calm and fair, And courteous sat the guest-folk there.

Yet unto Goldilocks it seemed As if amidst the night he dreamed;

As if he sat in a grassy place, While slim hands framed his hungry face;

As if in the clearing of the wood One gave him bread and apples good;

And nought he saw of the guest-folk gay, And nought of all the Queen's array.

Yet saw he betwixt board and door, A slim maid tread the chequered floor.

Her gown of green so fair was wrought, That clad her body seemed with nought

But blossoms of the summer-tide, That wreathed her, limbs and breast and side.

And, stepping towards him daintily, A basket in her hand had she.

And as she went, from head to feet, Surely was she most dainty-sweet.

Love floated round her, and her eyes Gazed from her fairness glad and wise;

But babbling-loud the guests were grown; Unnoted was she and unknown.



Now Goldilocks she sat beside, But nothing changed was the Queenly bride;

Yea too, and Goldilocks the Swain Was grown but dull and dazed again.

The Queen smiled o'er the guest-rich board, Although his wine the Maiden poured;

Though from his dish the Maiden ate, The Queen sat happy and sedate.

But now the Maiden fell to speak From lips that well-nigh touched his cheek:

"O Goldilocks, dost thou forget? Or mindest thou the mirk-wood yet?

Forgettest thou the hunger-pain And all thy young life made but vain?

How there was nought to help or aid, But for poor Goldilocks the Maid?"

She murmured, "Each to each we two, Our faces from the wood-mirk grew.

Hast thou forgot the grassy place, And love betwixt us face to face?

Hast thou forgot how fair I deemed Thy face? How fair thy garment seemed?

Thy kisses on my shoulders bare, Through rents of the poor raiment there?

My arms that loved thee nought unkissed All o'er from shoulder unto wrist?

Hast thou forgot how brave thou wert, Thou with thy fathers' weapon girt;

When underneath the bramble-bush I quaked like river-shaken rash,

Wondering what new-wrought shape of death Should quench my new love-quickened breath?

Or else: forget'st thou, Goldilocks, Thine own land of the wheaten shocks?

Thy mother and thy sisters dear, Thou said'st would bide thy true-love there?

Hast thou forgot? Hast thou forgot? O love, my love, I move thee not."



Silent the fair Queen sat and smiled, And heeded nought the Angel's child,

For like an image fashioned fair Still sat the Swain with empty stare.

These words seemed spoken not, but writ As foolish tales through night-dreams flit.

Vague pictures passed before his sight, As in the first dream of the night.



But the Maiden opened her basket fair, And set two doves on the table there.

And soft they cooed, and sweet they billed Like man and maid with love fulfilled.

Therewith the Maiden reached a hand To a dish that on the board did stand;

And she crumbled a share of the spice-loaf brown, And the Swain upon her hand looked down;

Then unto the fowl his eyes he turned; And as in a dream his bowels yearned

For somewhat that he could not name; And into his heart a hope there came.

And still he looked on the hands of the Maid, As before the fowl the crumbs she laid.

And he murmured low, "O Goldilocks! Were we but amid the wheaten shocks!"

Then the false Queen knit her brows and laid A fair white hand by the hand of the Maid.

He turned his eyes away thereat, And closer to the Maiden sat.



But the queen-bird now the carle-bird fed Till all was gone of the sugared bread.

Then with wheedling voice for more he craved, And the Maid a share from the spice-loaf shaved;

And the crumbs within her hollow hand She held where the creeping doves did stand.

But Goldilocks, he looked and longed, And saw how the carle the queen-bird wronged.

For when she came to the hand to eat The hungry queen-bird thence he beat.

Then Goldilocks the Swain spake low: "Foul fall thee, bird, thou doest now

As I to Goldilocks, my sweet, Who gave my hungry mouth to eat."

He felt her hand as he did speak, He felt her face against his cheek.

He turned and stood in the evil hall, And swept her up in arms withal.

Then was there hubbub wild and strange, And swiftly all things there 'gan change.

The fair Queen into a troll was grown, A one-eyed, bow-backed, haggard crone.

And though the hall was yet full fair, And bright the sunshine streamed in there,

On evil shapes it fell forsooth: Swine-heads; small red eyes void of ruth;

And bare-boned bodies of vile things, And evil-feathered bat-felled wings.

And all these mopped and mowed and grinned, And sent strange noises down the wind.

There stood those twain unchanged alone To face the horror of the crone;

She crouched against them by the board; And cried the Maid: "Thy sword, thy sword!

Thy sword, O Goldilocks! For see She will not keep her oath to me."

Out flashed the blade therewith. He saw The foul thing sidelong toward them draw,

Holding within her hand a cup Wherein some dreadful drink seethed up.

Then Goldilocks cried out and smote, And the sharp blade sheared the evil throat.

The head fell noseling to the floor; The liquor from the cup did pour,

And ran along a sparkling flame That nigh unto their footsoles came.

Then empty straightway was the hall, Save for those twain, and she withal.

So fled away the Maid and Man, And down the stony stairway ran.



Fast fled they o'er the sunny grass, Yet but a little way did pass

Ere cried the Maid: "Now cometh forth The snow-white ice-bear of the North;

Turn, Goldilocks, and heave up sword!" Then fast he stood upon the sward,

And faced the beast, that whined and cried, And shook his head from side to side.

But round him the Swain danced and leaped, And soon the grisly head he reaped.

And then the ancient blade he sheathed, And ran unto his love sweet-breathed;

And caught her in his arms and ran Fast from that house, the bane of man.



Yet therewithal he spake her soft And kissed her over oft and oft,

Until from kissed and trembling mouth She cried: "The Dragon of the South!"

He set her down and turned about, And drew the eager edges out.

And therewith scaly coil on coil Reared 'gainst his face the mouth aboil:

The gaping jaw and teeth of dread Was dark 'twixt heaven and his head.

But with no fear, no thought, no word, He thrust the thin-edged ancient sword.

And the hot blood ran from the hairy throat, And set the summer grass afloat.

Then back he turned and caught her hand, And never a minute did they stand.

But as they ran on toward the wood, He deemed her swift feet fair and good.



She looked back o'er her shoulder fair: "The whelming poison-pool is here;

And now availeth nought the blade: O if my cherished trees might aid!

But now my feet fail. Leave me then! And hold my memory dear of men."

He caught her in his arms again; Of her dear side was he full fain.

Her body in his arms was dear: "Sweet art thou, though we perish here!"

Like quicksilver came on the flood: But lo, the borders of the wood!

She slid from out his arms and stayed; Round a great oak her arms she laid.

"If e'er I saved thee, lovely tree, From axe and saw, now succour me:

Look how the venom creeps anigh, Help! lest thou see me writhe and die."

She crouched beside the upheaved root, The bubbling venom touched her foot;

Then with a sucking gasping sound It ebbed back o'er the blighted ground.



Up then she rose and took his hand And never a moment did they stand.

"Come, love," she cried, "the ways I know, How thick soe'er the thickets grow.

O love, I love thee! O thine heart! How mighty and how kind thou art!"

Therewith they saw the tree-dusk lit, Bright grey the great boles gleamed on it.

"O flee," she said, "the sword is nought Against the flickering fire-flaught."

"But this availeth yet," said he, "That Hallows All our love may see."

He turned about and faced the glare: "O Mother, help us, kind and fair!

Now help me, true St. Nicholas, If ever truly thine I was!"

Therewith the wild-fire waned and paled, And in the wood the light nigh failed;

And all about 'twas as the night. He said: "Now won is all our fight,

And now meseems all were but good If thou mightst bring us from the wood."

She fawned upon him, face and breast; She said: "It hangs 'twixt worst and best.

And yet, O love, if thou be true, One thing alone thou hast to do."

Sweetly he kissed her, cheek and chin: "What work thou biddest will I win."

"O love, my love, I needs must sleep; Wilt thou my slumbering body keep,

And, toiling sorely, still bear on The love thou seemest to have won?"

"O easy toil," he said, "to bless Mine arms with all thy loveliness."

She smiled; "Yea, easy it may seem, But harder is it than ye deem.

For hearken! Whatso thou mayst see, Piteous as it may seem to thee,

Heed not nor hearken! bear me forth, As though nought else were aught of worth.

For all earth's wealth that may be found Lay me not sleeping on the ground,

To help, to hinder, or to save! Or there for me thou diggest a grave."



He took her body on his arm, Her slumbering head lay on his barm.

Then glad he bore her on the way, And the wood grew lighter with the day.

All still it was, till suddenly He heard a bitter wail near by.

Yet on he went until he heard The cry become a shapen word:

"Help me, O help, thou passer by! Turn from the path, let me not die!

I am a woman; bound and left To perish; of all help bereft."

Then died the voice out in a moan; He looked upon his love, his own,

And minding all she spake to him Strode onward through the wild-wood dim.

But lighter grew the woodland green Till clear the shapes of things were seen.

And therewith wild halloos he heard, And shrieks, and cries of one afeard.

Nigher it grew and yet more nigh Till burst from out a brake near by

A woman bare of breast and limb, Who turned a piteous face to him

E'en as she ran: for hard at heel Followed a man with brandished steel,

And yelling mouth. Then the Swain stood One moment in the glimmering wood

Trembling, ashamed: Yet now grown wise Deemed all a snare for ears and eyes.

So onward swiftlier still he strode And cast all thought on his fair load.

And yet in but a little space Back came the yelling shrieking chase,

And well-nigh gripped now by the man, Straight unto him the woman ran;

And underneath the gleaming steel E'en at his very feet did kneel.

She looked up; sobs were all her speech, Yet sorely did her face beseech.

While o'er her head the chaser stared, Shaking aloft the edges bared.

Doubted the Swain, and a while did stand As she took his coat-lap in her hand.

Upon his hand he felt her breath Hot with the dread of present death.

Sleek was her arm on his scarlet coat, The sobbing passion rose in his throat.

But e'en therewith he looked aside And saw the face of the sleeping bride.

Then he tore his coat from the woman's hand, And never a moment there did stand.

But swiftly thence away he strode Along the dusky forest road.

And there rose behind him laughter shrill, And then was the windless wood all still,

He looked around o'er all the place, But saw no image of the chase.

And as he looked the night-mirk now O'er all the tangled wood 'gan flow.

Then stirred the sweetling that he bore, And she slid adown from his arms once more.

Nought might he see her well-loved face; But he felt her lips in the mirky place.

"'Tis night," she said, "and the false day's gone, And we twain in the wild-wood all alone.

Night o'er the earth; so rest we here Until to-morrow's sun is clear.

For overcome is every foe And home to-morrow shall we go."

So 'neath the trees they lay, those twain, And to them the darksome night was gain.

But when the morrow's dawn was grey They woke and kissed whereas they lay.

And when on their feet they came to stand Swain Goldilocks stretched out his hand.

And he spake: "O love, my love indeed, Where now is gone thy goodly weed?

For again thy naked feet I see, And thy sweet sleek arms so kind to me.

Through thy rent kirtle once again Thy shining shoulder showeth plain."

She blushed as red as the sun-sweet rose: "My garments gay were e'en of those

That the false Queen dight to slay my heart; And sore indeed was their fleshly smart.

Yet must I bear them, well-beloved, Until thy truth and troth was proved

And this tattered coat is now for a sign That thou hast won me to be thine.

Now wilt thou lead along thy maid To meet thy kindred unafraid."

As stoops the falcon on the dove He cast himself about her love.

He kissed her over, cheek and chin, He kissed the sweetness of her skin.

Then hand in hand they went their way Till the wood grew light with the outer day.

At last behind them lies the wood, And before are the Upland Acres good.

On the hill's brow awhile they stay At midmorn of the merry day.

He sheareth a deal from his kirtle meet, To make her sandals for her feet.

He windeth a wreath of the beechen tree, Lest men her shining shoulders see.

And a wreath of woodbine sweet, to hide The rended raiment of her side;

And a crown of poppies red as wine, Lest on her head the hot sun shine.

She kissed her love withal and smiled: "Lead forth, O love, the Woodland Child!

Most meet and right meseems it now That I am clad with the woodland bough.

For betwixt the oak-tree and the thorn Meseemeth erewhile was I born.

And if my mother aught I knew, It was of the woodland folk she grew.

And O that thou art well at ease To wed the daughter of the trees!"

Now Goldilocks and Goldilocks Go down amidst the wheaten shocks,

But when anigh to the town they come, Lo there is the wain a-wending home,

And many a man and maid beside, Who tossed the sickles up, and cried:

"O Goldilocks, now whither away? And what wilt thou with the woodland may?"

"O this is Goldilocks my bride, And we come adown from the wild-wood side,

And unto the Fathers' House we wend To dwell therein till life shall end."

"Up then on the wain, that ye may see From afar how thy mother bideth thee.

That ye may see how kith and kin Abide thee, bridal brave to win."

So Goldilocks and Goldilocks Sit high aloft on the wheaten shocks,

And fair maids sing before the wain, For all of Goldilocks are fain.



But when they came to the Fathers' door, There stood his mother old and hoar.

Yet was her hair with grey but blent, When forth from the Upland Town he went.

There by the door his sisters stood: Full fair they were and fresh of blood;

Little they were when he went away; Now each is meet for a young man's may.

"O tell me, Goldilocks, my son, What are the deeds that thou hast done?"

"I have wooed me a wife in the forest wild, And home I bring the Woodland Child."

"A little deed to do, O son, So long a while as thou wert gone."

"O mother, yet is the summer here Now I bring aback my true-love dear.

And therewith an Evil Thing have I slain; Yet I come with the first-come harvest-wain."

"O Goldilocks, my son, my son! How good is the deed that thou hast done?

But how long the time that is worn away! Lo! white is my hair that was but grey.

And lo these sisters here, thine own, How tall, how meet for men-folk grown!

Come, see thy kin in the feasting-hall, And tell me if thou knowest them all!

O son, O son, we are blithe and fain; But the autumn drought, and the winter rain,

The frost and the snow, and St. David's wind, All these that were, time out of mind,

All these a many times have been Since thou the Upland Town hast seen."



Then never a word spake Goldilocks Till they came adown from the wheaten shocks.

And there beside his love he stood And he saw her body sweet and good.

Then round her love his arms he cast: "The years are as a tale gone past.

But many the years that yet shall be Of the merry tale of thee and me.