The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems

Chapter III: Part 3

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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.