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.