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.