Poems

by Frederic Manning

HELGI OF LITHEND

TO ALFRED FOWLER

What are ye women doing? Get ye hence, Nor weary God with prayers. But when I die, Lay me not there among the peaceful graves Where sleep your puny saints. I would go hence, Over the loud ways of the sea again, In my black ship, with all the war-shields out, Nor, beaten, crawl unto the knees of God, To whine there a whipped hound. Yea, send me forth As when I sought rich lands, and glittering gold, And warm, white-breasted women, and red wine, And all the splendour and the lust of war.

Your Eden lies among soft-slipping streams, Green meadows, orchards of o'er-laden boughs, Red with ripe apples. It hath lofty walls Beyond our scaling, that the peaceful folk May sleep each night securely: white-faced priests, And convent women, such as wail all day Before lit candles, in the idle fume Of incense rising. I would go where sit Tall Odin, and his golden-mailéd sons, Thor, Hermod, Tyr and Heimdail, Frey and Niord, With the blue-vestured Mother of the Gods, And saffron-snooded Freya, and Idun, And Brage, harping. There the heroes are, Whose armour rusts in ocean; and young men Who fared with me adventuring, and lie Now in an alien earth, or derelict drift Upon the washings of the eternal tides. But they still live in Asgard, drinking joy Of battle, and of music, and of love. Only I, I grow old, and bowed in head, While the dark hour approaches and the night, Exploring mine own soul, and lost therein. I too would go and eat of Idun's apples, The golden fruit, whereof the taste gives youth Perpetual, and strength of hands renewed; Be praised by Brage, and see Freya there, The saffron-snooded, whose deep eyes are lit With all love's perilous pleasures. I would ride Over the glittering Bifrost bridge with Thor And the great host of heroes; with the wind Playing upon our banners, and the dawn Leaping as flame from all the lifted swords, And press of spears: and some day we shall come Battering at the crystal walls of Heaven, With brazen clangour of arms, and burn the towers To be our torches, and make all the streets Of jasper, and chalcedony, and pearl, Slippery with the bloodshed. Will your saints Pray back the onslaught of our lusting swords With any prayers? I would not lie in earth Under the sheep; but send me once again Out through the storms, and though I lie there cold, And stiff in my bronze harness, I shall hear The exultation of the waves, the might Of Aegir, and the creaking of the helm, And dream the helm is in mine hands again, While my long ship leaps up, like a live thing, Against the engulphing waters, and triumphing rides, Through thunder of turbulent surges and streaming seas, Lifting and swaying, from trough to crest and trough, With tense and grinding timbers, while the wind Screams in the cordage and the splitten sail.

Ye have loved women, some of ye, and know Therefore how I have loved the fickle sea, Blue in the sunlight, sometimes, as the eyes Of laughing children, wanton as a girl, And then all hunger for us men, all fierce Passionate longing, and then gray with rain, Sullen. A very harlot is the sea, A thing for men to master, full of moods, Treacherous, as you see it when it crawls Snakily over sunken rocks, or slinks Furtively by, and snarls to show its teeth Like a starved wolf. Many a goodly man Women have loved and slain, but more the sea! Though I forget, they are meeker women here, Submissive to their master. They are not The wild things that men warred with in my youth, Haggards to gentle! These soft-bosomed doves Who flutter round our footsteps, croon and coo Amorous music through the languorous nights, Low laughter stifled by close kisses shut Hot on the laughing lips, love being a game Now of your tamer men-folk with soft speech. But love to me was no light laughter heard Under a sickle moon, when blossoming brakes Thrill with the nightingales, and eve is hushed Like a blind maid, whose eyes are shut, and seem To shut within herself her secret thoughts Lest men should know them, and be ware of love, And waken, eager. Eager! Love to me Pulsed in the fingers and would clasp what seems So aerial a vision: to have, to hold, To drink of: and I knew how flesh could bound Spirit; so that we lay drowsed, close to sleep, Near as our bodies might, yet sundered thus With how irreparable loss! All time, Unborn or buried, meeting with our mouths In a swift marriage, and the sacred night Sweet with the song of arrowy desires Shot from the bow of life into our quick, And rooted there. Yea, life in one full pulse, And then the glory darkened, withered, dead, With lips dissevered, and with sundered limbs, And two, where had been one, in the gray dawn.

Sigurd, my son, look where thy mother sits, In the round archway, on her carven chair, And gazes over the unquiet waves Toward the horizon's calm, as if there lay Peace, and the heart's desire, after much pain, Fulfilled at last. Quietly sitting there, She peoples all the blue of sea and skies With golden hopes of youth, giving them life From her own yearning, though they are long dead And havened where dead years are. Such still eyes She hath; and that strange patience women have Whose dreams are broken. Love, with a keen sword, Smote me; I saw the blue flame leap and fall, When first I saw her eyes: and dim the earth, And warfare, and seafaring, and the life Which sang, and went with joyful colours clad, Became until they were as frail as dreams; While, as they died in dusk, her face grew fair Swimming upon tired senses, as there swims Up from the wreck of day the night's first star Quickening through the silence. So, in her, The music and the colour of the world, The splendours of the earth and sky and sea, Were shadowed: all of life was in her eyes.

Her house a shambles; and I, standing there, A beast all red with slaughter. One white face Like a white star! Was it not kingly spoil? What man had not felt hunger in his hands To flutter over the smooth flesh, and know The wonder breathing? So even I must grasp That winged, brief, fragile beauty, with rude strength Fierce from the haste of hunger, ere I knew What God had breathed his fire into my clay.

Yea! ere I knew, while yet I thought the gold Mere dross for traffic in the market-place, Such ware as I had dealt in. Mine eyes now See her, as she was then: the tall, slim grace, The golden head upon its silver stalk, As frail as April's dewy lilies are, Upon some wakening lawn; or as she lay With long, smooth, supple thighs and little breasts Bared, while mine eyes drank all the beauty in, As earth drinks dawn with gladness: but her eyes Veiled suddenly, and quick red stained her cheeks, Flickering, and the bright soul fled from sight To its obscure recesses, while my heart Filled, drop by drop, with that strange wine of joy Which raced like fire through me, until each sense Ached, for the joy it gave, and thirsted more, In plundering such pleasure. But her soul Fled beyond reach of hands, remote, and veiled. She lay there as if dead, and all my love Was no more to her than the idle strength Which breaks upon the beaches. I could feel, Sometimes, she breathed beside me, and her breath Came soft, and warm, through the red parted lips, Fragrant upon my face. That night was filled With myriad voices, myriad stars, and dews, All choric! Yea, the very darkness glowed With secret heat, as if the night were quick By Love's own lord, and pregnant with a flame.

So was she mine, by the sword's right, whose heart Went dreaming out over the unquiet sea To Bergthorsknoll; and Sigurd, Olaf's son, Such an one as the hearts of maids desire, Being tall, and straight, and comely: never a man Made such a friend or foe, on land or sea His hands were skilful. I can love such men In friendship or in fighting. He had come To Swinefell in his fighting-ship, when Spring Was white and ruddy in the fields and woods; And they, perchance, had bent down o'er the fire As day was closing, and had spoken low In the dim light; and he had sailed in June Southward for prey, descending toward the Seine With help from Thrain the White in ships and men. And I had come in autumn with my swords For vengeance of a wrong, and left Thrain's stead And town a heap of ash, being in wrath: Though it were shame to burn so tall a town, As men said; but the heart of me was grieved For some slight he had put on me, and black Is a man's anger; so I gave his stead A prey to the red flames; and fighting died Thrain, a man's death! But when I throned her here Men came and said, "Lo, now will Sigurd come For love of her, to take her hence again And burn Lithend for vengeance." But I said, Running my fingers down the smooth, keen blade, "Sigurd will come! Why then, let Sigurd come."

But they all feared him, and again one spoke, Saying, "Thy love will burn us, and our town. Are there not many women in the world To mate with, but the one he loves?" I struck The craven fool a damned blow in the face, Whereat they kept their counsel, and were still. But one man, riding over a wild moor When the black night was blacker with a storm Saw in the play of lightnings from the clouds Twelve armoured women riding, and they swooped Eagle-wise on the earth, and riding came To a lone house; and, spying through a chink, He saw them weave a scarlet web of war, With swords for shuttles, and men's heads for weights, And they sang at their weaving. In those days We sowed our corn with axes in our belts, And each man armoured, and my people went Fearfully, gazing out with anxious eyes Over the seas for an unfriendly sail, While I sat silent, eating mine own heart, Until one ran with speed to me, as night Came, dropping silence on the shining sea, A man with lucky eyes, who cried, "They come!" Pointing toward the rim of ocean, red With the sun's blood; and that sight gladdened me, To see their slack sails, idle, in a gore Of dying glories, while their oars dripped fire, Labouring up against the ebbing tide. "They will come weary," said I, "and, perchance, Lack water." And I set an ambush, there Where Rangriver turns bitter with the sea, If thirst should lure them; and they came with skins To fill; and there we played a little while With knives and axes, while they ran, and tripped Over gnarled roots and boulders in the dark, Calling their friends, and knew not where they ran, For we would call the names we heard them call In feigning, and thus lure them from the path. Twenty tall fellows slew we in this wise, Making the odds more even, and that night They watched their ships, and lit the beach with fires So that they might not fight an unseen foe, Who struck them through the darkness. But I went Homeward, and to the chamber where she lay Sleeping, with tears upon her face; but sleep Had stilled her troubles. As I looked on her, Her breath came softly, like a child's. I watched, Wondering if death might hold as fair a thing, Hungering, though I would not break her dreams. All night I watched her, that mine heart might keep One face to dream of through the dark of death If he should slay me. Then a sense of dawn Stole gradually through the blue, wet air; Cool dawn, with dew and silence, fair and fresh! In the white light she lay there, and I looked Long on her: and I left her then, and went, Calling my men, and led them thence afield To a smooth level sward, for fighting made, Between the gray bents and the leafy woods, A dancing-ground for maidens. Such a stir Came from the beached black ships, as April, hears About the populous hives, when the blown scents Lure, to their garnering, the frugal bees, And they swarm forth: so swarmed upon the shore Sigurd's well-armoured men: some by the fires Eating, some buckling on their gleaming arms, Shouting their war-songs, beating on their shields Full of rude jests; and I saw Sigurd there, Standing apart, long-haired, and great of limb, With a soft silken kirtle, and his helm, Winged, flaming in the sunlight. Then my men Halted, for vantage of the broken ground, While I strode out upon the sward, and called To Sigurd; but blind rage gat hold of him, And he came at me, whirling his bright axe. And I leapt out to meet him, so men say, Laughing, and ran upon him, and his blow Broke down my guard, and bit the shoulder-bone, But mine axe clove clean through the angry face, Right to the brain; and, as I drew it back, He swayed, and fell, and his bronze armour rang Loudly; and from both armies came a shout Crying, "Sigurd is slain! Sigurd is slain!" One mourning and one joyous, while my men Stood round him prone, and marvelled at his strength, And no one feared him now. But they came on Avenging, and the crashing of their shock Broke round us; and the ringing blows, and shouts, And screams of dying men were born aloft With dust of battle; and lightening axes whirled, Lifting and falling: keen, and bright, and blue They fell, but they were lifted dull and red, While we rolled backward and forward in waves of fight, And fluctuating chance, and those who fell, Drowned there, amid the press of trampling feet.