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 road 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 this." 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 scoff, 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 were nothing else to say, And everything were 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 said, "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 said. "Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God's head, At Paris folks would deem 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, And fell asleep: and while she slept, And did not dream, the minutes crept Round to the twelve again; but she, Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly, And strangely childlike came, and said: "I will not." Straightway Godmar's head, As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd Most sharply round, and his face burn'd. 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 grey 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 moan'd as dogs do, being half dead, Unwitting, as I deem: so then Godmar turn'd grinning to his men, Who ran, some five or six, and beat His head to pieces at their feet. Then Godmar turn'd again and said: "So, Jehane, the first fitte is read! Take note, my lady, that your way Lies backward to the Chatelet!" She shook her head and gazed awhile At her cold hands with a rueful smile, As though this thing had made her mad. This was the parting that they had Beside the haystack in the floods.
RIDING TOGETHER.
For many, many days together The wind blew steady from the East; For many days hot grew the weather, About the time of our Lady's Feast. For many days we rode together, Yet met we neither friend nor foe; Hotter and clearer grew the weather, Steadily did the East wind blow. We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather, Clear-cut, with shadows very black, As freely we rode on together With helms unlaced and bridles slack. And often as we rode together, We, looking down the green-bank'd stream, Saw flowers in the sunny weather, And saw the bubble-making bream. And in the night lay down together, And hung above our heads the rood, Or watch'd night-long in the dewy weather, The while the moon did watch the wood. Our spears stood bright and thick together, Straight out the banners stream'd behind, As we gallop'd on in the sunny weather, With faces turn'd towards the wind. Down sank our threescore spears together, As thick we saw the Pagans ride; His eager face in the clear fresh weather, Shone out that last time by my side. Up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd together, It rock'd to the crash of the meeting spears, Down rain'd the buds of the dear spring weather, The elm-tree flowers fell like tears. There, as we roll'd and writhed together, I threw my arms above my head, For close by my side, in the lovely weather, I saw him reel and fall back dead. I and the slayer met together, He waited the death-stroke there in his place, With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather, Gapingly mazed at my madden'd face. Madly I fought as we fought together; In vain: the little Christian band The pagans drowned, as in stormy weather, The river drowns low-lying land. They bound my blood-stain'd hands together, They bound his corpse to nod by my side: Then on we rode, in the bright-March weather, With clash of cymbals did we ride. We ride no more, no more together; My prison-bars are thick and strong, I take no heed of any weather, The sweet Saints grant I live not long.
SUMMER DAWN.
Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, Think but one thought of me up in the stars. The summer night waneth, the morning light slips, Faint and grey 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars, That are patiently waiting there for the dawn: Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold Waits to float through them along with the sun. Far out in the meadows, above the young corn, The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun; Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn, Round the lone house in the midst of the corn. Speak but one word to me over the corn, Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn.
FROM
"THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON."
BOOK XIV.
The Sirens—The Garden of the Hesperides —The Heroes do Sacrifice at Malea.
Across the open sea they drew their wake For three long days, and when the fourth 'gan break Their eyes beheld the fair Trinacrian shore, And there-along they coasted two days more. Then first Medea warned them to take heed, Lest they should end all memory of their deed Where dwell the Sirens on the yellow sand, And folk should think some tangled poisonous land Had buried them, or some tumultuous sea O'er their white bones was tossing angrily; Or that some muddy river, far from Greece, Drove seaward o'er the ringlets of the Fleece. But when the Minyæ hearkened to this word, With many a thought their wearied hearts were stirred, And longing for the near-gained Grecian land, Where in a little while their feet should stand; Yet none the less like to a happy dream, Now, when they neared it, did their own home seem, And like a dream the glory of their quest, And therewithal some thought of present rest Stole over them, and they were fain to sigh, Hearkening the sighing restless wind go by. But hard on even of the second day, As o'er the gentle waves they took their way, The orange-scented land-breeze seemed to bear Some other sounds unto the listening ear Than all day long they had been hearkening, The land-born signs of many a well-known thing. Thereat Medea trembled, for she knew That nigh the dreadful sands at last they drew, For certainly the Sirens' song she heard, Though yet her ear could shape it to no word, And by their faces could the queen behold How sweet it was, although no tale it told, To those worn toilers o'er the bitter sea. Now, as they sped along, they presently, Rounding a headland, reached a little bay Walled from the sea by splintered cliffs and grey, Capped by the thymy hills' green wind-beat head, Where 'mid the whin the burrowing rabbits fed. And 'neath the cliff they saw a belt of sand, 'Twixt Nereus' pasture and the high scarped land, Whereon, yet far off, could their eyes behold White bodies moving, crowned and girt with gold, Wherefrom it seemed that lovely music welled. So when all this the grey-eyed queen beheld, She said: "O Jason, I have made thee wise In this and other things; turn then thine eyes Seaward, and note the ripple of the sea, Where there is hope as well as fear for thee. Nor look upon the death that lurketh there 'Neath the grey cliff, though sweet it seems and fair; For thou art young upon this day to die. Take then the helm, and gazing steadily Upon the road to Greece, make strong thine hand, And steer us toward the lion-haunted land, And thou, O Thracian! if thou e'er hast moved Men's hearts with stories of the Gods who loved, And men who suffered, move them on this day, Taking the deadly love of death away, That even now is stealing over them, While still they gaze upon the ocean's hem, Where their undoing is if they but knew." But while she spake, still nigher Argo drew Unto the yellow edges of the shore, And little help she had of ashen oar, For as her shielded side rolled through the sea, Silent with glittering eyes the Minyæ Gazed o'er the surge, for they were nigh enow To see the gusty wind of evening blow Long locks of hair across those bodies white, With golden spray hiding some dear delight; Yea, nigh enow to see their red lips smile, Wherefrom all song had ceased now for a while, As though they deemed the prey was in the net, And they no more had need a bait to set, But their own bodies, fair beyond man's thought, Under the grey cliff, hidden not of aught But of such mist of tears as in the eyes Of those seafaring men might chance to rise. A moment Jason gazed, then through the waist Ran swiftly, and with trembling hands made haste To trim the sail, then to the tiller ran, And thrust aside the skilled Milesian man, Who with half-open mouth, and dreamy eyes, Stood steering Argo to that land of lies; But as he staggered forward, Jason's hand Hard on the tiller steered away from land, And as her head a little now fell off Unto the wide sea, did he shout this scoff To Thracian Orpheus: "Minstrel, shall we die, Because thou hast forgotten utterly What things she taught thee whom men call divine? Or will thy measures but lead folk to wine, And scented beds, and not to noble deeds? Or will they fail as fail the shepherd's reeds Before the trumpet, when these sea-witches Pipe shrilly to the washing of the seas? I am a man, and these but beasts, but thou Giving these souls, that all were men ere now, Shalt be a very God and not a man!" So spake he; but his fingers Orpheus ran Over the strings, and sighing turned away From that fair ending of the sunny bay; But as his well-skilled hands were preluding What his heart swelled with, they began to sing With pleading voices from the yellow sands, Clustered together, with appealing hands Reached out to Argo as the great sail drew, While o'er their white limbs sharp the spray-shower flew, Since they spared not to set white feet among The cold waves heedless of their honied song. Sweetly they sang, and still the answer came Piercing and clear from him, as bursts the flame From out the furnace in the moonless night; Yet, as their words are no more known aright Through lapse of many ages, and no man Can any more across the waters wan Behold those singing women of the sea, Once more I pray you all to pardon me, If with my feeble voice and harsh I sing From what dim memories yet may chance to cling About men's hearts, of lovely things once sung Beside the sea, while yet the world was young.