Poems By the Way Part 3

Across the hearth a tie-beam lay Unmoved a weary while.

The flame that clomb the ashlar gray Had burned it red as tile.

The sparrows bickering on the floor Fled at his entering in; The swift flew past the empty door His winged meat to win.

Red apples from the tall old tree O'er the wall's rent were shed.

Thence oft, a little lad, would he Look down upon the lead.

There turned the cheeping chaffinch now And feared no birding child; Through the shot-window thrust a bough Of garden-rose run wild.

He looked to right, he looked to left, And down to the cold gray hearth, Where lay an axe with half burned heft Amidst the ashen dearth.

He caught it up and cast it wide Against the gable wall; Then to the dais did he stride, O'er beam and bench and all.

Amidst there yet the high-seat stood, Where erst his sires had sat; And the mighty board of oaken wood, The fire had stayed thereat.

Then through the red wrath of his eyne He saw a sheathed sword, Laid thwart that wasted field of wine, Amidmost of the board.

And by the hilts a slug-horn lay, And therebeside a scroll, He caught it up and turned away From the lea-land of the bowl.

Then with the sobbing grief he strove, For he saw his name thereon; And the heart within his breast uphove As the pen's tale now he won.

"O Rafe, my love of long ago!

Draw forth thy father's blade, And blow the horn for friend and foe, And the good green-wood to aid!"

He turned and took the slug-horn up, And set it to his mouth, And o'er that meadow of the cup Blew east and west and south.

He drew the sword from out the sheath And shook the fallow brand; And there a while with bated breath, And hearkening ear did stand.

Him-seemed the horn's voice he might hear-- Or the wind that blew o'er all.

Him-seemed that footsteps drew anear-- Or the boughs shook round the hall.

Him-seemed he heard a voice he knew-- Or a dream of while agone.

Him-seemed bright raiment towards him drew-- Or bright the sun-set shone.

She stood before him face to face, With the sun-beam thwart her hand, As on the gold of the Holy Place The painted angels stand.

With many a kiss she closed his eyes; She kissed him cheek and chin: E'en so in the painted Paradise Are Earth's folk welcomed in.

There in the door the green-coats stood, O'er the bows went up the cry, "O welcome, Rafe, to the free green-wood, With us to live and die."

It was bill and bow by the high-seat stood, And they cried above the bows, "Now welcome, Rafe, to the good green-wood, And welcome Kate the Rose!"

White, white in the moon is the woodland plash, White is the woodland glade, Forth wend those twain, from oak to ash, With light hearts unafraid.

The summer moon high o'er the hill, All silver-white is she, And Sir Rafe's good men with bow and bill, They go by two and three.

In the fair green-wood where lurks no fear, Where the King's writ runneth not, There dwell they, friends and fellows dear, While summer days are hot,

And when the leaf from the oak-tree falls, And winds blow rough and strong, With the carles of the woodland thorps and halls They dwell, and fear no wrong.

And there the merry yule they make, And see the winter wane, And fain are they for true-love's sake, And the folk thereby are fain.

For the ploughing carle and the straying herd Flee never for Sir Rafe: No barefoot maiden wends afeard, And she deems the thicket safe.

But sore adread do the chapmen ride; Wide round the wood they go; And the judge and the sergeants wander wide, Lest they plead before the bow.

Well learned and wise is Sir Rafe's good sword, And straight the arrows fly, And they find the coat of many a lord, And the crest that rideth high.

THE DAY OF DAYS.

Each eve earth falleth down the dark, As though its hope were o'er; Yet lurks the sun when day is done Behind to-morrow's door.

Grey grows the dawn while men-folk sleep, Unseen spreads on the light, Till the thrush sings to the coloured things, And earth forgets the night.

No otherwise wends on our Hope: E'en as a tale that's told Are fair lives lost, and all the cost Of wise and true and bold.

We've toiled and failed; we spake the word; None hearkened; dumb we lie; Our Hope is dead, the seed we spread Fell o'er the earth to die.

What's this? For joy our hearts stand still, And life is loved and dear, The lost and found the Cause hath crowned, The Day of Days is here.

TO THE MUSE OF THE NORTH.

O muse that swayest the sad Northern Song, Thy right hand full of smiting & of wrong, Thy left hand holding pity; & thy breast Heaving with hope of that so certain rest: Thou, with the grey eyes kind and unafraid, The soft lips trembling not, though they have said The doom of the World and those that dwell therein.

The lips that smile not though thy children win The fated Love that draws the fated Death.

O, borne adown the fresh stream of thy breath, Let some word reach my ears and touch my heart, That, if it may be, I may have a part In that great sorrow of thy children dead That vexed the brow, and bowed adown the head, Whitened the hair, made life a wondrous dream, And death the murmur of a restful stream, But left no stain upon those souls of thine Whose greatness through the tangled world doth s.h.i.+ne.

O Mother, and Love and Sister all in one, Come thou; for sure I am enough alone That thou thine arms about my heart shouldst throw, And wrap me in the grief of long ago.

OF THE THREE SEEKERS.

There met three knights on the woodland way, And the first was clad in silk array: The second was dight in iron and steel, But the third was rags from head to heel.

"Lo, now is the year and the day come round When we must tell what we have found."