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 us.'
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
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 was nothing else to say, And everything was 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
"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
Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God's head, At Paris folks would deeni 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,
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 reach'd out, sore And vain desire so tortured them, The poor gray 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,
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
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
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. 1858.
SIR GILES' WAR-SONG1 Ho! is there any will ride with me, Sir Giles, le bon des barrières ? 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 barrières ?
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 barrières ?
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 barrières ? 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 barrières. 1858.
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,
1 Browning wrote to Morris, on the appearance of the Earthly Paradise: "It is a double delight to me to read such poetry, and know you, of all the world, wrote it,-you whose songs I used to sing while galloping by Fiesole in old days. 'Ho, is there any will ride with me?' "— (J. W. Mackail's Life of William Morris, Vol. I., p. 133.).
O BITTER sea, tumultuous sea, Full many an ill is wrought by thee !Unto the wasters of the land
Thou holdest out thy wrinkled hand ; And when they leave the conquered town,
Whose black smoke makes thy surges brown,
Driven betwixt thee and the sun, As the long day of blood is done, From many a league of glittering waves Thou smilest on them and their slaves.
The thin bright-eyed Phoenician Thou drawest to thy waters wan, With ruddy eve and golden morn Thou temptest him, until, forlorn, Unburied, under alien skies Cast up ashore his body lies.
Yea, whoso sees thee from his door, Must ever long for more and more; Nor will the beechen bowl suffice,
Or homespun robe of little price, Or hood well-woven from the fleece Undyed, or unspiced wine of Greece; So sore his heart is set upon Purple, and gold, and cinnamon; For as thou cravest, so he craves, Until he rolls beneath thy waves, Nor in some landlocked, unknown bay; Can satiate thee for one day.
Now, therefore, O thou bitter sea, With no long words we pray to thee, But ask thee, hast thou felt before Such strokes of the long ashen oar? And hast thou yet seen such a prow Thy rich and niggard waters plough?
Nor yet, O sea, shalt thou be cursed, If at thy hands we gain the worst, And, wrapt in water, roll about Blind-eyed, unheeding song or shout, Within thine eddies far from shore, Warmed by no sunlight any more.
Therefore, indeed, we joy in thee, And praise thy greatness, and will we Take at thy hands both good and ill, Yea, what thou wilt, and praise thee still, Enduring not to sit at home,
And wait until the last days come, When we no more may care to hold White bosoms under crowns of gold, And our dulled hearts no longer are Stirred by the clangorous noise of war, And hope within our souls is dead, And no joy is remembered.
So, if thou hast a mind to slay, Fair prize thou hast of us to-day; And if thou hast a mind to save, Great praise and honor shalt thou have; But whatso thou wilt do with us, Our end shall not be piteous,
Because our memories shall live When folk forget the way to drive The black keel through the heaped-up
And half dried up thy waters be. 1867.
THE NYMPH'S SONG TO HYLAS1
I know a little garden close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.
And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there,
1 This song reappears under the title A Garden by the Sea in "Poems by the Way," 1891, with slight variations in the text, the most important of which is noted below.
And though the apple boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God, Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before.
There comes a murmur from the shore, And in the place two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar. Drawn down unto the restless sea; The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee, The shore no ship has ever seen, Still beaten by the billows green,' Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry.
For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, That maketh me both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskilled to find, And quick to lose what all men seek. Yet tottering as I am, and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place,
To seek the unforgotten face
Once seen, once kissed, once reft from
Passed our to-day upon the sea, Or in a poisonous unknown land, With fear and death on either hand, And listless when the day was done Have scarcely hoped to see the sun Dawn on the morrow of the earth, Nor in our hearts have thought of mirth.
And while the world lasts, scarce again Shall any sons of men bear pain Like we have borne, yet be alive.
So surely not in vain we strive Like other men for our reward; Sweet peace and deep, the checkered
Beneath the ancient mulberry trees, The smooth-paved gilded palaces,
1 In A Garden by the Sea, these three lines read:
Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee, Dark shore no ship has ever seen,
Tormented by the billows green.
Where the shy thin-clad damsels sweet Make music with their gold-ringed feet. The fountain court amidst of it, Where the short-haired slave-muidens sit,
While on the veinèd pavement lie The honied things and spicery
Their arms have borne from out the town.
The dancers on the thymy down In summer twilight, when the earth Is still of all things but their mirth, And echoes borne upon the wind Of others in like way entwined.
The merchant-town's fair market
Where over many a changing face The pigeons of the temple flit, And still the outland merchants sit Like kings above their merchandise, Lying to foolish men and wise.
Ah! if they heard that we were come Into the bay, and bringing home That which all men have talked about, Some men with rage, and some with doubt,
Some with desire, and some with praise; Then would the people throng the ways, Nor heed the outland merchandise, Nor any talk, from fools or wise, But tales of our accomplished quest.
What soul within the house shall rest When we come home? The wily king Shall leave his throne to see the thing; No man shall keep the landward gate, The hurried traveller shall wait Until our bulwarks graze the quay ; Unslain the milk-white bull shall be Beside the quivering altar-flame; Scarce shall the maiden clasp for shame Over her breast the raiment thin The morn that Argo cometh in.
Then cometh happy life again That payeth well our toil and pain In that sweet hour, when all our woe But as a pensive tale we know, Nor yet remember deadly fear; For surely now if death be near, Unthought-of is it, and unseen When sweet is, that hath bitter been.
SONGS OF ORPHEUS AND THE SIRENS
O HAPPY Seafarers are ye, And surely all your ills are past, And toil upon the land and sea,
Since ye are brought to us at last.
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