Chapter 4

Son, sorrow and wisdom he taught me, and sore I grieved and learned As we twain grew into one; and the heart within me burned With the very hopes of his heart. Ah, son, it is piteous, But never again in my life shall I dare to speak to thee thus; So may these lonely words about thee creep and cling, These words of the lonely night in the days of our wayfaring. Many a child of woman to-night is born in the town, The desert of folly and wrong; and of what and whence are they grown? Many and many an one of wont and use is born; For a husband is taken to bed as a hat or a ribbon is worn. Prudence begets her thousands; "good is a housekeeper's life, So shall I sell my body that I may be matron and wife." "And I shall endure foul wedlock and bear the children of need." Some are there born of hate, many the children of greed. "I, I too can be wedded, though thou my love hast got." "I am fair and hard of heart, and riches shall be my lot." And all these are the good and the happy, on whom the world dawns fair. O son, when wilt thou learn of those that are born of despair, As the fabled mud of the Nile that quickens under the sun With a growth of creeping things, half dead when just begun? E'en such is the care of Nature that man should never die, Though she breed of the fools of the earth, and the dregs of the city sty.

But thou, O son, O son, of very love wert born, When our hope fulfilled bred hope, and fear was a folly outworn. On the eve of the toil and the battle all sorrow and grief we weighed, We hoped and we were not ashamed, we knew and we were not afraid.

Now waneth the night and the moon; ah, son, it is piteous That never again in my life shall I dare to speak to thee thus. But sure from the wise and the simple shall the mighty come to birth; And fair were my fate, beloved, if I be yet on the earth When the world is awaken at last, and from mouth to mouth they tell Of thy love and thy deeds and thy valour, and thy hope that nought can quell.

THUNDER IN THE GARDEN

When the boughs of the garden hang heavy with rain And the blackbird reneweth his song, And the thunder departing yet rolleth again, I remember the ending of wrong.

When the day that was dusk while his death was aloof Is ending wide-gleaming and strange For the clearness of all things beneath the world's roof, I call back the wild chance and the change.

For once we twain sat through the hot afternoon While the rain held aloof for a while, Till she, the soft-clad, for the glory of June Changed all with the change of her smile.

For her smile was of longing, no longer of glee, And her fingers, entwined with mine own, With caresses unquiet sought kindness of me For the gift that I never had known.

Then down rushed the rain, and the voice of the thunder Smote dumb all the sound of the street, And I to myself was grown nought but a wonder, As she leaned down my kisses to meet.

That she craved for my lips that had craved her so often, And the hand that had trembled to touch, That the tears filled her eyes I had hoped not to soften In this world was a marvel too much.

It was dusk 'mid the thunder, dusk e'en as the night, When first brake out our love like the storm, But no night-hour was it, and back came the light While our hands with each other were warm.

And her smile killed with kisses, came back as at first As she rose up and led me along, And out to the garden, where nought was athirst, And the blackbird renewing his song.

Earth's fragrance went with her, as in the wet grass, Her feet little hidden were set; She bent down her head, 'neath the roses to pass, And her arm with the lily was wet.

In the garden we wandered while day waned apace And the thunder was dying aloof; Till the moon o'er the minster-wall lifted his face, And grey gleamed out the lead of the roof.

Then we turned from the blossoms, and cold were they grown: In the trees the wind westering moved; Till over the threshold back fluttered her gown, And in the dark house was I loved.

THE GOD OF THE POOR

There was a lord that hight Maltete, Among great lords he was right great, On poor folk trod he like the dirt, None but God might do him hurt. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

With a grace of prayers sung loud and late Many a widow's house he ate; Many a poor knight at his hands Lost his house and narrow lands. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

He burnt the harvests many a time, He made fair houses heaps of lime; Whatso man loved wife or maid Of Evil-head was sore afraid. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

He slew good men and spared the bad; Too long a day the foul dog had, E'en as all dogs will have their day; But God is as strong as man, I say. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

For a valiant knight, men called Boncoeur, Had hope he should not long endure, And gathered to him much good folk, Hardy hearts to break the yoke. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

But Boncoeur deemed it would be vain To strive his guarded house to gain; Therefore, within a little while, He set himself to work by guile. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

He knew that Maltete loved right well Red gold and heavy. If from hell The Devil had cried, "Take this gold cup," Down had he gone to fetch it up. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

Twenty poor men's lives were nought To him, beside a ring well wrought. The pommel of his hunting-knife Was worth ten times a poor man's life. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

A squire new-come from over-sea Boncoeur called to him privily, And when he knew his lord's intent, Clad like a churl therefrom he went _Deus est Deus pauperum._

But when he came where dwelt Maltete, With few words did he pass the gate, For Maltete built him walls anew, And, wageless, folk from field he drew. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

Now passed the squire through this and that, Till he came to where Sir Maltete sat, And over red wine wagged his beard: Then spoke the squire as one afeard. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"Lord, give me grace, for privily I have a little word for thee." "Speak out," said Maltete, "have no fear, For how can thy life to thee be dear?" _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"Such an one I know," he said, "Who hideth store of money red." Maltete grinned at him cruelly: "Thou florin-maker, come anigh." _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"E'en such as thou once preached of gold, And showed me lies in books full old, Nought gat I but evil brass, Therefore came he to the worser pass." _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"Hast thou will to see his skin? I keep my heaviest marks therein, For since nought else of wealth had he, I deemed full well he owed it me." _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"Nought know I of philosophy," The other said, "nor do I lie. Before the moon begins to shine, May all this heap of gold be thine." _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"Ten leagues from this a man there is, Who seemeth to know but little bliss, And yet full many a pound of gold A dry well nigh his house doth hold." _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"John-a-Wood is he called, fair lord, Nor know I whence he hath this hoard." Then Maltete said, "As God made me, A wizard over-bold is he!" _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"It were a good deed, as I am a knight, To burn him in a fire bright; This John-a-Wood shall surely die, And his gold in my strong chest shall lie." _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"This very night, I make mine avow. The truth of this mine eyes shall know." Then spoke an old knight in the hall, "Who knoweth what things may befall?" _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"I rede thee go with a great rout, For thy foes they ride thick about." "Thou and the devil may keep my foes, Thou redest me this gold to lose." _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"I shall go with but some four or five, So shall I take my thief alive. For if a great rout he shall see, Will he not hide his wealth from me?" _Deus est Deus pauperum._

The old knight muttered under his breath, "Then mayhap ye shall but ride to death." But Maltete turned him quickly round, "Bind me this grey-beard under ground!" _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"Because ye are old, ye think to jape. Take heed, ye shall not long escape. When I come back safe, old carle, perdie, Thine head shall brush the linden-tree." _Deus est Deus pauperum._

Therewith he rode with his five men, And Boncoeur's spy, for good leagues ten, Until they left the beaten way, And dusk it grew at end of day. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

There, in a clearing of the wood, Was John's house, neither fair nor good. In a ragged plot his house anigh, Thin coleworts grew but wretchedly. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

John-a-Wood in his doorway sat, Turning over this and that, And chiefly how he best might thrive, For he had will enough to live. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

Green coleworts from a wooden bowl He ate; but careful was his soul, For if he saw another day, Thenceforth was he in Boncoeur's pay. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

So when he saw how Maltete came, He said, "Beginneth now the game!" And in the doorway did he stand Trembling, with hand joined fast to hand. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

When Maltete did this carle behold Somewhat he doubted of his gold, But cried out, "Where is now thy store Thou hast through books of wicked lore?" _Deus est Deus pauperum._

Then said the poor man, right humbly, "Fair lord, this was not made by me, I found it in mine own dry well, And had a mind thy grace to tell. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"Therefrom, my lord, a cup I took This day, that thou thereon mightst look, And know me to be leal and true," And from his coat the cup he drew. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

Then Maltete took it in his hand, Nor knew he aught that it used to stand On Boncoeur's cupboard many a day. "Go on," he said, "and show the way. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"Give me thy gold, and thou shalt live, Yea, in my house thou well mayst thrive." John turned about and 'gan to go Unto the wood with footsteps slow. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

But as they passed by John's woodstack, Growled Maltete, "Nothing now doth lack Wherewith to light a merry fire, And give my wizard all his hire." _Deus est Deus pauperum._

The western sky was red as blood, Darker grew the oaken-wood; "Thief and carle, where are ye gone? Why are we in the wood alone? _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"What is the sound of this mighty horn? Ah, God! that ever I was born! The basnets flash from tree to tree; Show me, thou Christ, the way to flee!" _Deus est Deus pauperum._

Boncoeur it was with fifty men; Maltete was but one to ten, And his own folk prayed for grace, With empty hands in that lone place. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"Grace shall ye have," Boncoeur said, "All of you but Evil-head." Lowly could that great lord be, Who could pray so well as he? _Deus est Deus pauperum._

Then could Maltete howl and cry, Little will he had to die. Soft was his speech, now it was late, But who had will to save Maltete? _Deus est Deus pauperum._

They brought him to the house again, And toward the road he looked in vain. Lonely and bare was the great highway, Under the gathering moonlight grey. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

They took off his gilt basnet, That he should die there was no let; They took off his coat of steel, A damned man he well might feel. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"Will ye all be rich as kings, Lacking naught of all good things?" "Nothing do we lack this eve; When thou art dead, how can we grieve?" _Deus est Deus pauperum._

"Let me drink water ere I die, None henceforth comes my lips anigh." They brought it him in that bowl of wood. He said, "This is but poor men's blood!" _Deus est Deus pauperum._

They brought it him in the cup of gold. He said, "The women I have sold Have wept it full of salt for me; I shall die gaping thirstily." _Deus est Deus pauperum._

On the threshold of that poor homestead They smote off his evil head; They set it high on a great spear, And rode away with merry cheer. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

At the dawn, in lordly state, They rode to Maltete's castle-gate. "Whoso willeth laud to win, Make haste to let your masters in!" _Deus est Deus pauperum._

Forthwith opened they the gate, No man was sorry for Maltete. Boncoeur conquered all his lands, A good knight was he of his hands. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

Good men he loved, and hated bad; Joyful days and sweet he had; Good deeds did he plenteously; Beneath him folk lived frank and free. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

He lived long, with merry days; None said aught of him but praise. God on him have full mercy; A good knight merciful was he. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

The great lord, called Maltete, is dead; Grass grows above his feet and head, And a holly-bush grows up between His rib-bones gotten white and clean. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

A carle's sheep-dog certainly Is a mightier thing than he. Till London-bridge shall cross the Nen, Take we heed of such-like men. _Deus est Deus pauperum._

LOVE'S REWARD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FOLK-MOTE BY THE RIVER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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