THE TUNE OF SEVEN TOWERS

[1858.]

NO ONE goes there now:

For what is left to fetch away From the desolate battlements all arow, And the lead roof heavy and grey? 'Therefore,' said fair Yoland of the flowers, 'This is the tune of Seven Towers.' No one walks there now;

Except in the white moonlight The white ghosts walk in a row;

If one could see it, an awful sight, 'Listen!' said fair Yoland of the flowers, 'This is the tune of Seven Towers.' But none can see them now,

Though they sit by the side of the moat, Feet half in the water, there in a row, Long hair in the wind afloat.

'Therefore,' said fair Yoland of the flowers,
'This is the tune of Seven Towers.'
If any will go to it now,

He must go to it all alone,
Its gates will not open to any row

Of glittering spears will you go alone? 'Listen!' said fair Yoland of the flowers, 'This is the tuwe of Seven Towers.' By my love go there now,

To fetch me my coif away,

My coif and my kirtle, with pearls arow, Oliver, go to-day!

'Therefore,' said fair Yoland of the flowers, 'This is the tune of Seven Towers.'

I am unhappy now,

I cannot tell you why;

If you go, the priests and I in a row Will pray that you may not die. 'Listen!' said fair Yoland of the flowers, 'This is the tune of Seven Towers.'

If you will go for me now,

I will kiss your mouth at last;
[She sayeth inwardly.]

(The graves stand grey in a row,)
Oliver, hold me fast!

'Therefore,' said fair Yoland of the flowers, 'This is the tune of Seven Towers.'

THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS [1858.]

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 roads 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-hilts, 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.

TWO RED ROSES ACROSS THE
MOON
[1858.]

THERE was a lady lived in a hall,
Large in the eyes, and slim and tall;
And ever she sung from noon to noon,
Two red roses across the moon.

There was a knight came riding by

In early spring, when the roads were dry;
And he heard that lady sing at the noon,
Two red roses across the moon.

Yet none the more he stopp'd at all,
But he rode a-gallop past the hall;
And left that lady singing at noon,
Two red roses across the moon.

Because, forsooth, the battle was set,
And the scarlet and blue had got to be
met,

He rode on the spur till the next warm

noon:

Two red roses across the moon.

But the battle was scatter'd from hill to hill,

From the windmill to the watermill;

And he said to himself, as it near'd the noon,

Two red roses across the moon.

You scarce could see for the scarlet and blue,

A golden helm or a golden shoe;

So he cried, as the fight grew thick at the

noon,

Two red roses across the moon!

Verily then the gold bore through

The huddled spears of the scarlet and blue;

And they cried, as they cut them down at the noon,

Two red roses across the moon!

I trow he stopp'd when he rode again By the hall, though draggled sore with the rain;

And his lips were pinch'd to kiss at the

noon

Two red roses across the moon.

Under the may she stoop'd to the crown, All was gold, there was nothing of brown; And the horns blew up in the hall at

noon,

Two red roses across the moon.

PRAISE OF MY LADY
[1858.]

My lady seems of ivory

Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be Hollow'd a little mournfully.

Beata mea Domina!

Her forehead, overshadow'd much
By bows of hair, has a wave such
As God was good to make for me.
Beata mea Domina!

Not greatly long my lady's hair,
Nor yet with yellow colour fair,
But thick and crisped wonderfully:
Beata mea Domina!

Heavy to make the pale face sad,
And dark, but dead as though it had
Been forged by God most wonderfully
- Beata mea Domina!·

Of some strange metal, thread by thread,
To stand out from my lady's head,
Not moving much to tangle me.

Beata mea Domina!

Beneath her brows the lids fall slow, The lashes a clear shadow throw Where I would wish my lips to be. Beata mea Domina!

THE EARTHLY PARADISE
[1868-1870.]
PROLOGUE

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,

I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,

Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day.

But rather, when aweary of your mirth, From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,

Remember me a little then, I pray,

The idle singer of an empty day.

The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our bread,

These idle verses have no power to bear; So let me sing of names remembered, Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead, Or long time take their memory quite away From us poor singers of an empty day.

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,

Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?

Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme
Beats with light wing against the ivory gate,
Telling a tale not too importunate

To those who in the sleepy region stay,
Lulled by the singer of an empty day.

Folk say, a wizard to a northern king
At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did
show,

That through one window men beheld the spring,

And through another saw the summer glow, And through a third the fruited vines arow, While still, unheard, but in its wonted way, Piped the drear wind of that December day.

So with this Earthly Paradise it is,

If ye will read aright and pardon me, Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss

Midmost the beating of the steely sea, Where tossed about all hearts of men must be;

Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay,

Not the poor singer of an empty day.

INTRODUCTION

FORGET six counties overhung with smoke, Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke, Forget the spreading of the hideous town; Think rather of the pack-horse on the down,

And dream of London, small, and white, and clean,

The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green;

Think that below bridge the green lapping

waves

Smite some few keels that bear Levantine staves

Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill,

And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill,

From dusk to dawn kept many a lord awake,

For fear of him did many a great man quake.

Young was he when he first sat on the throne,

And he was wedded to a noble wife,
But at the dais must he sit alone,

Nor durst a man speak to him for his life, Except with leave: naught knew he change or strife,

But that the years passed silently away, And in his black beard gathered specks of gray.

Now so it chanced, upon a May morning, Wakeful he lay when yet low was the sun, Looking distraught at many a royal thing, And counting up his titles one by one, And thinking much of things that he had done;

For full of life he felt, and hale and strong, And knew that none durst say when he

did wrong.

For no man now could give him dread or doubt,

The land was 'neath his sceptre far and wide,

And at his beck would well-armed myriads shout.

Then swelled his vain, unthinking heart with pride,

Until at last he raised him up and cried, 'What need have I for temple or for priest? Am I not God, whiles that I live at least?'

And yet withal that dead his fathers were, He needs must think that quick the years pass by;

But he, who seldom yet had seen Death

near

Or heard his name, said, 'Still I may not die,

Though underneath the earth my fathers lie;

My sire indeed was called a mighty king, Yet, in regard of mine, a little thing

'His kingdom was; moreover his grandsire To him was but a prince of narrow lands, Whose father, though to things he did aspire Beyond most men, a great knight of his hands,

Yet ruled some little town where now there stands

The kennel of my dogs; then may not I Rise higher yet, nor like poor wretches die?

'Since up the ladder ever we have gone Step after step, nor fallen back again; And there are tales of people who have

ease;

And many a strong, deep-chested hound they led

Over the dewy grass betwixt the trees, And fair white horses fit for the white knees

Of her the ancients fabled rides anights Betwixt the setting and the rising lights.

Now following up a mighty hart and swift The king rode long upon that morningtide;

And since his horse was worth a kingdom's gift,

It chanced him all his servants to outride,
Until unto a shaded river-side
He came alone at hottest of the sun,
When all the freshness of the day was done